O winds of the sea, that whisper,
Will you not whisper to me
What the marvellous strange visions
Of a little child may be?
O wild rose, stirred and shaken,
By the wind that ripples the stream,
Why are the children dreaming,
And what are the dreams they dream?
--_Beverly's Attitudes and Platitudes: A Drama._
"Them that slip out'n dreams an' stay with us!" said Mr. Sanders to
himself, as they went along. "Be jiggered ef that ain't a new one on me!
I'll take it home an' chew on it when I'm lonesome."
Adelaide had just cause of complaint, she thought. "Now we can't have
any fumerl, with strange folks tip-toeing about the place, and carriages
at the door, with horses snorting and pawing the ground."
"It's jest as well," remarked Mr. Sanders. "All that sort of thing will
come along lot's quicker than we want it to."
"They come'd twice to our house--two times!" said Adelaide, in the tone
of one who has a proprietary interest in such matters. "They come'd and
come'd," she went on, with the air of imparting important secret
information, "and they peeped in all the rooms, and in the closets, and
behind the doors, and pulled out all the booro draws; yes, and some of
'em looked in the safe where mother keeps her vittles!"
There was something pitiful about the child's brief recital. She had
seen and noted everything, and the report she had inadvertently made to
Mr. Sanders rang true to life, and almost humorously true to the results
of Mr. Sanders's observation. His lips twitched, as they had a way of
doing when he was in doubt whether to laugh or cry, which was often the
case.
"Well, honey," he replied, making what excuse he could for poor
humanity, "ef folks is ever gwine for to find out anything in this world
they've got to stick the'r noses in ev'ry nook an' cranny."
"That's why I wanted to put the Boogerman in the grave-yard. Lucindy is
his mother, and we could go and look under her bed, and peep in her
cubberd, and find out everything she's got, and more too."
What reply Mr. Sanders would have made to this will never be known, for
they were just going in the side gate that let them into old Jonas's
back-yard. Old Jonas himself had come out of the house, and was now
walking about in the yard with his hat pulled well down to his ears. The
opening and shutting of the gate attracted his attention, and he turned
to see who could be trespassing on his premises. When he saw Mr. Sanders
fantastically arrayed, his coat turned inside out, and his hat upside
down, old Jonas flung both hands over his head in a gesture of
amazement.
"Why, what foolery is this? Good Lord, Sanders! have you turned lunatic?
Why--why--if this kind of thing goes on much longer, I'll sue out a
writ, and have you sent to the asylum; I'll do it as sure as my name is
Whipple!"
"Please, sir, Nunky-Punky, let me off this time, and I'll never play wi'
Miss Adelaide any more. An' the Boogerman may git you for all I keer!
An' ol' Raw-Head-an'-Bloody-Bones'll crawl out from under the house whar
he lives at, an' snap his jaws an' wink his green eyes at you; an' he'll
ketch you an' put you in his wallet, an' chaw you up bone by bone--mark
my words!"
"Sanders!" said old Jonas, with less anger and more earnestness, "what
in the name of all that's sensible, is the matter with you?"
"Not a thing in the world but pyore joy, Jonas! Climb up in the waggon
and let's all take a ride. I'm dead in love wi' this little gal here;
won't you j'ine me? Nan Dorrin'ton used to be my beau-lover, but Nan's
too old, an' now Adelaide's done took her place! Slap yourself on the
hams an' crow like a rooster! Jump up an' crack your heels together
twice before you come to earth ag'in. We've ketched the Boogerman, an'
was gittin' ready for to fetch him home bekaze we had him whar he could
nuther back nor squall, but jest about that time, here come Lucindy. She
wa'n't gallopin', but she give us ez purty a sample of the ginnywine
buzzard-lope as you ever laid eyes on. She grabbed the Boogerman an'
give him the Putmon county witch-hug. Arter she'd smivelled an'
smovelled him mighty nigh to death, she helt him off from her an'
claimed him as her long-lost son; she know'd it bekaze he had a
swaller-fork in one y'ear, an' a under-bit in the other, an' a wind-gall
on the back of his neck. Her son, mind you! Well, when I know'd her son
the first letter of his name was Randall Bowden, bekaze Bowden was the
name of the man he belonged to--you remember him, Jonas?"
"He admitted me to the bar and came within one of frightening me to
death," responded old Jonas.
"Well, you're a lawyer, an' you know mighty well that a man an' a
citizen can't change his name wi'out a special law passed by the
legislatur'. Now, ef the Boogerman was a plain nigger, it wouldn't make
a bit of difference what he called hisse'f. But thar ain't no plain
niggers any more; they're all sufferin' citizens. An' here he is callin'
hisself Randall Holden. What do you think of that?"
Randall shifted from one foot to the other and looked, first, at Mr.
Sanders, and then at all of the others in turn. "Well, suh, Mr. Sanders,
I call myse'f Holden bekaze they ain't no Bowdens fer me ter be named
after. Marster's dead, Mistiss is dead, an' Miss Betty is done gone an'
changed her name by--er--gittin' married. De Holdens ain't all dead yit,
an' my mistiss wuz a Holden proceedin' the day she married marster. I
felt like I want ter be named after somebody that wuz alive."
"What have you been doing all this time?" old Jonas asked in his
sharpest and curtest tone.
"Workin' hard all day, an' studyin' hard at night, suh. I laid off ter
be a preacher. In four years, I reckon I has been to school about one
year. I can read a little, an' write a little, an' maybe do some easy
figgerin'. It looks like that books git harder the more you fool with
'em. That's what I find about 'em. I jest come ter see my mammy, suh,
an' she come up on me while I was playin' Boogerman with the little
mistiss there."
"Doing what?" snapped old Jonas; and then Mr. Sanders had to relate the
wonderful adventures that befell Adelaide and him in the Whish-Whish
Woods. How he did it must be imagined, but old Jonas listened patiently
to the end, without uttering so much as the habitual "pish-tush."
"Sanders," said old Jonas, when the narrative of the expedition was
concluded, "do you mean to stand there and tell me that you, a man old
enough to be a grandfather, got in that rig, and went trampling about in
my garden, just to give that child a little pleasure?"
"Why, no, Jonas, I can't say that I did; I sorter had the idee that I
mought git my name in your will, seein' as how you're so abominably fond
of Adelaide. That's why I come!"
It was at this point that Jonas's "pish-tush" did execution; he fired it
at Mr. Sanders with as much energy as indignation could give.
Randall, the Boogerman, was evidently somewhat in doubt of old Jonas's
disposition in regard to him, and so he said, with every appearance of
embarrassment: "I can't stay here long, suh, bekaze they's people in
this county that would Ku-Kluck me ef they know'd I was anywheres
around. I'm the one, suh, that knocked Mr. Tuttle in the head with my
hoe-handle when he was marster's overseer. I didn't go ter do it, suh,
but he pecked on me an' pecked on me twel I didn't have the sense I was
born with. It looked like somebody had flung a red cloth over my head;
ev'rything got red, an' when I come ter myse'f Mr. Tuttle was layin'
there on the ground jest as still as ef he'd a' been a log of wood. I
know'd mighty well that ef they cotch me I'd be hung, bekaze that was
the law in them times; Miss Betty tol' me so. I got away from there, an'
run home; but before I got there, I could hear white folks a-hollerin',
an' then I know'd they was after me. I run right in the big house, an'
went up stairs the back way, an' before I could stop myse'f I run right
in Miss Betty's room. She was in there combing her hair; she'd been
having a party, the first one after she come back frum college."
"Wasn't she frightened?" old Jonas inquired. "Didn't she scream and
raise a row?"
"No, suh," replied Randall, the Boogerman; "she wa'n't no more skeer'd
than what you is right now. She say, 'How dast you ter come in here?'
But by ther time she seed the blood runnin' down my face where Mr.
Tuttle had hit me, an' time she looked ag'in, I was down on my knees,
sayin' a prayer to her. I tol' her that the white folks was after me,
an' begged her not ter let 'em git me. I know'd that the way to the top
of the house led through her room, an' that was the reason I run in
there--I thought she was down stairs lookin' after her party. I begged
an' prayed so hard that she went to the door leadin' to the plunder room
under the roof, an' flung it open with, 'Go up there, an' keep still;
don't you dast to make any fuss!' Well, suh, up I went, an' I stayed
there twel I could git away. Ef any of you-all know where Miss Betty is,
an' will tell me, I'll go right whar she is an' work fer her twel she
gits tired of bein' worked fer."
"All dat's de naked trufe," exclaimed Lucindy, "kaze Miss Betty come out
ter de kitchen an' tol' me whar Randall wuz, an' gi' me de key er de
do', an' I tuck him vittles an' clean cloze plum twel he got away. I'd
'a' gone wid Miss Betty, but I know'd dat boy would come back here ef he
wa'n't dead, an' I stayed an' waited fer 'im twel des now. You may have
de idee dat I'm quare, but Randall is my own chile."
By this time, Mr. Sanders had righted his coat and hat, and was now
regarding the negro with some curiosity. "Lucindy ain't the only one
that's been a-waitin' fer you," he said. "I reckon that old Tuttle and
his crowd have been doin' some waitin' the'rselves; an' I know mighty
well that I'm one of the waiters. How much do you charge me for knockin'
ol' Tuttle in sight of the Promised Land, and how much will you charge
me for hittin' him another side-wipe?"
"No, suh, Mr. Sanders! Not me! I ain't never lost my senses sence that
day in the cotton-patch; no matter what you do, I'll never see red any
more; I've done tried myself an' know. No more red fer me--not in dis
world!"
"Old Tuttle!" snapped Mr. Jonas Whipple. "I wish the buzzards had him!"
Then he turned to Randall. "Stay, if you want to stay. I've plenty of
work for you to do. Sanders, can't you find a job for him at a pinch?"
"Mercy, yes!" replied Mr. Sanders; "I've got jobs that have grown gray
waitin' for some un to do 'em."
"Stay! stay!" cried old Jonas, in his harsh voice, "and if old Tuttle
bothers you, come to me or go to Mr. Sanders there, and we'll see who
has the longest arm!"
"Tooby shore!" assented Mr. Sanders, "an' likewise who's got the longest
money-purse. But what's betwixt you an' Tuttle?"
"Why," said old Jonas, "he borrowed a thousand dollars from me the
second year of the war, and after the surrender crawled under the
exemption act. Now if he had come to me like a man--I'll not say like a
gentleman, for that is beyond him--if he had come to me and said that he
found it impossible to pay the money I had loaned him to keep the
sheriff out of his yard, I'd have told him plainly to go on about his
business, and pay me when he could. Now, I propose to make it as hot as
pepper for him, especially since he has developed into a scalawag. The
latest report is, that he is one of the officials of the Union League."
Old Jonas paused, and his bead-like eyes glittered maliciously.
"Sanders," he went on, "it isn't often I ask a man to do me a favour,
but I'm going to ask one of you. It will pay you to do it," he added,
observing the shadow of a doubt on Mr. Sanders's face.
Adelaide's Bishop seemed to be very serious, but there was a twinkle in
his eye. He passed his hand over his mouth, in order to drive away a
smile that threatened to become insubordinate. "Would it be troublin'
you too much, Jonas," he said, "ef I was to ax you to pay me in
advance?"
"Pish-tush!" exclaimed old Jonas, with a scowl; "you should get you a
fiddle, Sanders, or a hurdy-gurdy! What I want you to do, the first
opportunity you have, is to tell old Tuttle that the nigger that laid
him low in Judge Bowden's cotton-patch is at my house. He hates me for
doing him a favour, and he hates the nigger for striking him when
striking a white man was a hanging offence. He pretends to be a
nigger-lover now because he wants office; but when you tell him that
this boy is at my house, one of two things will happen: he'll get
together a gang of men of his own kidney and try the Ku-Klux game, or
he'll have him arrested for assault with intent to murder."
"Bishop," said Adelaide, who had only a dim idea of the meaning of what
she had heard, "please don't let them get my Boogerman. I killed him,
you know, and he belongs to me."
"No, suh! no, suh!" protested the Boogerman. "I don't want Mr. Tuttle to
lay eyes on me. I jest wanted to see my mammy, an' find out where 'bouts
Miss Betty is, an' then I'll git out'n folks' way. I might stand up an'
tell Mr. Tuttle the truth frum now twel next year an' he wouldn't
b'lieve a word I said. Me see Mr. Tuttle? No, suh! When Mr. Tuttle calls
on me, I'll be gone--done gone!"
"Yasser!" cried Lucindy; "he's tellin' you de naked trufe! You reckin
I'd let my chile see ol' Tuttle? Well, not me! Maybe somebody else'd do
it, but not me! not ol' Lucindy! Don't you never b'lieve dat."
"You say you can read and write?" said old Jonas to the Boogerman.
"Well, come into the house here, and black my shoes. Then, after that
you may preach me a sermon."
"Yes!" exclaimed Adelaide, "Cally-Lou is awake now; I saw her at the
window; come in, Boogerman, and let her see you. She is seven years old,
and has never seen the Boogerman."
"First, let Lucindy give you something to eat," said old Jonas, "but
don't fail to come in and black my shoes!"
Old Jonas, Bishop Sanders, and Adelaide went into the house, while the
Boogerman went into the kitchen with his mother, where, seated by the
window, and as far away from the fireplace as ever, he told the tale of
his adventures--a tale which we are not concerned with here. Mr. Sanders
and old Jonas were soon absorbed in a game of checkers, but they were
not so completely lost in their surroundings that they failed to pay
heed to Adelaide as she went from room to room calling Cally-Lou.
Presently she seemed to find her in the parlour.
"You are pouting," she said, "or you'd never be sitting in this room
where nobody ever comes. Why, they don't have any fires in here, and
nothing to eat. Nunky-Punky says if the sun was to shine in here, the
carpet would curl up and get singed. You don't know what it is to be
singed, do you? Well, it's the way Mammy Lucindy does the chicken after
all the feathers are picked off. She kindles the fire until it blazes,
and then holds the chicken in it until all its whiskers are burnt off.
You didn't know chickens had whiskers, did you? Well, they have. You'll
never find out anything if you mope in the house and pout like this. I
didn't know any child could be so hard-headed."
[Illustration: "'You are pouting,' she said, 'or you'd never be sitting
in this room where nobody ever comes'"]
Old Jonas reached out his hand to make a move, and held it suspended in
the air while Adelaide was talking to Cally-Lou. "Sanders," he said,
after awhile, "do you suppose the child really thinks she's talking to
some one. Can she see Cally-Lou?"
"Why not?" replied Mr. Sanders placidly. "Folks ain't half as smart when
they grow up as they is when they're little children. They shet the'r
eyes to one whole side of life. Kin you fling your mind back to the time
when your heart was soft, an' your eyes sharp enough for to see what
grown people never seed? Tell me that, Jonas."
Old Jonas paused over a contemplated move, hesitated and sighed. "Did
you ever have little things happen to you," Mr. Sanders went on,
frowning a little, "that you never told to anybody? Did you ever dream
dreams when you was young that kinder rattled you for the longest, they
was so purty and true?"
"I think you have me beat, Sanders," responded old Jonas; and no one
ever knew whether he referred to the game, or to the dreams.
"You think so, maybe, but it's more; I'm a-gwine to make two more moves
and wipe you off the face of the earth!" And it happened just as Mr.
Sanders said it would; two more moves, and he captured four men, and
swept into the royal line where they crown kings. Old Jonas frowned and
pushed the men into the box where they were kept, with "I can't play
to-day, Sanders; my mind isn't on the game."
"Well," said Mr. Sanders, "that's diffunt an' I don't blame you much,
for ef that little gal was loose in my house, what games I played would
be with her."
"Sanders," said old Jonas, with some asperity, "you don't mean to say
that a little bit of a child like that would worry you!"
"Worry me!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, with as scornful a look as he could
on his bland and benevolent face. "Worry me! why, what on earth do you
suppose I'm a-doin' in this house?"
"I thought you came to play checkers with me," old Jonas responded.
"Well," Mr. Sanders retorted, "ef you'd put your thoughts in a bag and
shake 'em up, an' then pour 'em out, you couldn't tell 'em from these
flyin' ants that was swarmin' from under your front steps awhile ago.
No, Jonas! Don't le' me shatter any fond dream you've got about me, but
sence Nan Dorrin'ton come into the state of Georgy by the Santy Claus
route, this little gal is the only human bein' that I ever wanted to
pick up an' smother wi' huggin' an' kissin'."
"Is that so, Sanders?" old Jonas inquired, straightening up, with a
queer sparkle in his little eyes. "Why, I never thought----"
"Tooby shore you didn't," Mr. Sanders interrupted. "Nobody ever thought
that you had any sech thoughts. Ef it was a crime to think 'em, an' you
was to git took up on sech a charge, the case'd be non-prosecuted by the
time it got in the courthouse. When it comes to that you've got the
majority of folks wi' you. You'll hear 'em talk an' brag how fond they
are of children, from morning tell night, but jest let one of the
youngsters make a big fuss, an' you'll see 'em flinch like the'r
feelin's is hurt. No Jonas, don't fool yourself. This world, an' not
only this world, but this town is full of children so lonesome that when
I think about it I feel right damp; an' thar's times when I set an'
think of these little things runnin' about wi' not a soul on top of the
yeth for to reely understand 'em, my heart gits so full that ef some un
was to slip up behind me an' put salt on my back, I reely believe I'd
melt an' turn to water like one of these gyarden snails. It's the honest
fact. Now, that child in thar--Adelaide--has allers had some un to
understand her an' know what she was thinkin' about; allers tell she
come here. Ef I hadn't know'd her mother, I could tell jest by lookin'
at Adelaide an' hearin' her talk, that she was one 'oman amongst ten
thousan'."
"You put me in the wrong, Sanders, indeed you do; you may not intend it,
but you certainly do me wrong."
Mr. Sanders regarded him with unfeigned astonishment: "Why, what have I
said, Jonas? Think it over! Is it doin' you wrong for me to say that
more than nine-tenths of the little children in the world is lonesome?
Does it hurt you when I say that Cordelia, your sister, was a 'oman
among ten thousand? If these sayin's hurt you, Jonas, you must have a
mortal tender conscience or a mighty thin skin. I've allers had the idee
that you ain't a bit wuss than you look to be; do you want me to change
my mind? Was thar ever under the blue sky a lonesomer gal than Cordelia,
or one easier to love? Did you love her as you ought? Did you treat her
right ever' day in the year? Did she ever have a good time of your
makin'? An' in spite of it, didn't she keep on gittin' nicer and nicer,
an' purtier an' purtier, tell bimeby, along come a young feller--as good
a man as ever trod shoe leather--an' snatched her right from under your
wing? An' didn't William H. Sanders, late of said county, show the young
fellow how, an' when, an' whar to snatch her?"
"Did--did you do that, Sanders? Well, I'm glad I didn't know it at the
time, for I am afraid I'd have shot you."
"Shot me!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, his blue eyes beaming innocently.
"Well, I've seed a good many quare things in my day an' time, but I've
yit to see the gun that could go off ahead of mine--not when thar was
any needcessity. You say you'd 'a' shot me; an' what did I do? I holp
Cordelia to the fust an' last taste of happiness she ever had in this
world. Did you ever do that much for her? You give her her vittles an'
cloze--sech as they was--but do plain vittles an' plain cloze make
anybody happy? Ef they do, then this old ball we 're walkin' on--when we
ain't fallin' down--must be runnin' over wi' happiness. Why, Jonas, you
wouldn't let the gal have no kind of company, male or female; she
couldn't go out, bekaze she had nobody for to take her; one little
picnic was all the gwine out she done arter she fell in your hands. I
tuck her to that an' I never was as glad of anything in my life as I was
when she an' Dick Lumsden made up the'r little misunderstandin' that you
had been the occasion of, an' had connived at, an' nursed like it was a
baby.
"Well, they run away an' got married, an' went to housekeepin' not forty
yards from your door--an' you seen 'em ever' day of the world, an' yit
you done like you didn't know they was in town. An' wuss 'n that," Mr.
Sanders continued, his anger rising as he stirred the embers of
recollection--"wuss'n that, you never spoke a word to Cordelia from that
day tell the day she died--an' she your own sister! It's a mighty good
thing that Lumsden was well off while the war lasted. When it ended, he
was as poor as I was. He had land, but who kin eat land? Thar wa'n't but
one reely rich man in the community, Jonas, an' that man was you.
You had bought up all the gold for a hundred mile aroun', but not so
much as a thrip did Cordelia ever git out'n you.
"What I'm a-tellin' you, Jonas, you know as well as I do; but I jest
want to let you know that we-all ain't been asleep all this time.
Lumsden got a good job in Atlanta, an' took his wife an' baby thar. Him
an' his wife was so well suited to one another that when one died, the
other thought the best thing she could do was to go an' jine him. Both
on 'em know'd mighty well that the Lord would look arter the little gal.
Oh, I know what you want to say: you want to tell me that you was
afear'd Lumsden would turn out to be no 'count, bekaze he was wild when
a boy--an' would have his fling now an' then; but that don't go wi' me,
Jonas. You know what he turned out to be; you know what Cordelia had to
go through; you know that one kind word from you would 'a' been wuth
more to her than all the money you've got in the world; an' yit, your
pride, or your venom--you kin name it an' keep it--hender'd you from
makin' that poor child as happy as she mought 'a' been. An' I'll tell
you, Jonas, jest as shore as the Lord lives an' the sun shines on a
troubled world, you'll have to pay for it."
Several times during this remarkable tirade--remarkable because it was
delivered with some vehemence, right in old Jonas's teeth--he made an
effort to interrupt Mr. Sanders, but the latter had put him down with a
gesture that a novel writer would call imperious. Imperious or not, it
gave pause to whatever old Jonas had to say in his own behalf; and it
must have all been true, too, for the old fellow finally turned away,
pulled his hat down over his eyes, and pretended to be looking at
something interesting that he saw from the window. Mr. Sanders, when he
had concluded, was surprised to find that old Jonas seemed to be more
hurt than angry; and he would have gone into the parlour where Adelaide
was still playing with Cally-Lou, but old Jonas turned around and faced
him.
"You've said a great many things, Sanders, that nobody else would have
said, and I gather that you consider me to be a pretty mean fellow; but
did it ever occur to you that perhaps I'm not as mean as I seem to be?
Did it ever occur to you that a man could be so shy and suspicious that
he was compelled to close his mind against what you call love and
affection; and, that, with his mind thus closed, he could cease to
believe in such things? I don't suppose you follow me; but it's the
simple truth. That child in there won't be put to bed at night until she
kisses me good-night, and, even then she wont go until I kiss her. Think
of that, Sanders! No matter what you and other people may think, the
child doesn't believe that I am a mean man."
"I could tell you, Jonas, that Adelaide ain't old enough for to tell a
mean man ef she met him in the road. But I'll not do that, bekaze I know
mighty well that you ain't as mean as you try to make out. Thar never
was a man on this green globe that didn't have a tender spot in his
gizzard for them that know'd jest when an' whar to tetch it. Ef I took
you at your face value, Jonas, not only would I never put my foot in
your house, but I wouldn't speak to you on the street. I tell you that
flat an' plain."
The conversation of the two men had been carried on in a tone something
louder than was absolutely necessary, especially on the part of Mr.
Sanders. Indeed, finical folk would have said that the rosy-faced
Georgian was actually rude; but he had found an opportunity to deliver
himself of a burden that had long been a weight on his mind, and he did
it in no uncertain terms. He fully expected either to find himself in
the midst of a row, or to be ordered from old Jonas's house, and he had
prepared himself for both emergencies. But instead of offending the
lonely old money-lender, he had merely set him to thinking; and his
thoughts were not very pleasant ones. He heard every word that Mr.
Sanders said, and it was true, but even as he listened, the whole
panorama of his past life moved before him, and he could see himself in
a narrow perspective, living his cheerless childhood, his almost
friendless youth, and his lonely manhood. In those days, long gone, he
had had his dreams, even as now Adelaide had hers, but their existence
was brief, and their date inconsiderable. He pitied the child, the
youth, and the young man, but strange to say, he had no pity for the
grown man to whom Mr. Sanders was reading one of his cornfield lectures.
He knew that what he was, was the direct outgrowth and development of
all that had gone before.
His sister had never understood him, and was afraid of him. He, silent
and self-contained, never sought her confidence nor gave her his. A word
from her, a word from him, would have made clear everything that was
dark, or doubtful, or suspicious in their attitude toward each other. He
thought that her silence spelled contempt of a certain kind, and she was
sure that she had his hearty dislike. And so it went, as such matters do
in this world where no one save a chosen few see more than an inch
beyond their noses.
I could fetch Adelaide on the scene just by waving my hand, but there is
no need to, for the tone in which Mr. Sanders pitched his lecture was
quite sufficient. Her quick, firm steps sounded on the floor with such
emphasis, that any one acquainted with the lady would have known that
she was indignant. But her careful training told even here, for
composure held her irritation in check, and her refinement showed in her
attitude and gestures, giving her small person a cuteness and prettiness
quite out of the common.
"Why, good gracious me, Bishop! You don't know how many noises you're
making. How can Cally-Lou sleep in the house? She sleeps a good deal
lately, and I'm afraid she'll be sick, poor little thing, if she wakes
up quicker than she ought."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, in a loud and an excited whisper. "Now,
don't tell me that Cally-Lou has gone and drapped off to sleep ag'in!
Why, at this rate, she'll turn night into day, an' vicy-versy, an' Time,
old an' settled as he is, will git turned wrong-sud-out'erds, an'
ever'thing'll git so tangled up that you can't tell howdy from good-bye,
ner ef the clock's tickin' backerds or forrerds; we'll git so turned
around that we can't tell grasshoppers from turkey-buzzards. I'm reely
sorry she didn't see you shoot the Boogerman, be jigger'd ef I ain't.
The sight of that would 'a' made her open her eyes wider than they've
been sence I fust know'd her."
In reply to this, Adelaide said she was afraid Cally-Lou wasn't very
well. "Won't you come in and see her, Bishop? The truly-ann Bishop used
to come to see my mother before they sent her where my papa was--the
place where people get well when they're sick. Yes! and he used to bring
things in his pocket--all sorts of goodies--gum-drops and candy kisses,
and he said that if I ate them, all by myself, he wouldn't be hoarse in
his throat any more when he had to holler loud at the sinners to keep
them from goin' to the Bad Place; and once when I ate a whole heap of
them at once, he cleared his throat, the truly-ann Bishop did, and said
he was almost cured."
"I'll shorely try that trick ef it'll he'p me for to be a truly-ann
Bishop, bekaze I've been so hoarse lately that I can't see my own voice
in the lookin'-glass, no matter how I holler. Nothin' shows up in the
glass but a little muddly mist, an' I have to wipe that off wi' my red
silk han'kcher. Speakin' of Cally-Lou, when had I oughter pay my party
call?"
"She doesn't like for anybody to see her because she isn't right white,"
Adelaide explained, "but she's asleep now, and you might come in to see
her now if you'll walk easy."
Talk about burglars! Talk about thieves in the night! Talk about wild
animals with padded feet creeping and stealing on their prey! All of
them could have taken lessons in their craftiness from Adelaide and Mr.
Sanders. Yes, and for a brief moment or two from old Jonas, for he
joined the creeping procession, impelled by some mysterious motive. They
stole into the darkened parlour, Adelaide in advance, and paused when
she waved her hand. Then she pointed to the darkest corner.
Mr. Sanders will tell you to this day that he thought he saw something
dim and dark huddled there--some wavering shape that had no outlines;
but just at the critical moment, just when they were all about to see
Cally-Lou, what should old Jonas do but stumble against a chair, as he
craned his neck forward? Well, of course, with such awkwardness as this
on the part of a man old enough to be Adelaide's grandfather, their
scheme was ruined. Cally-Lou heard the noise, opened her eyes, and fled
from the room so nimbly and with such dispatch that none of them could
see her. Even Adelaide only caught the faintest glimpse of her as she
whisked out of the room, and all she could say, was, "Did you ever see
any one so foolish?" Then she ran after Cally-Lou, pursuing her into the
sitting-room and then into the library, where she seemed to have caught
her, for the others heard her upbraiding and scolding her in the style
approved by all parents who are strict disciplinarians.
"Jonas," said Mr. Sanders, "did you see anything? Didn't you notice
somethin' in the corner--it mought 'a' been nothin' an' then, ag'in, it
mought 'a' been the biggest thing mortual eyes ever gazed on--didn't you
see somethin' like a shadder?"
Old Jonas's reply was very prompt. He smacked his lips as though he
tasted something nice. "No, Sanders! I didn't see anything, and what's
more, I didn't expect to see anything."
Mr. Sanders opened wide his eyes and stared at old Jonas as hard as if
he had been some rare kind of curiosity placed on exhibition for the
first time.
"I hope you'll know me next time you see me!" exclaimed old Jonas,
somewhat snappishly. "Do you want me to tell you I saw something, when
in fact I saw nothing?"
Mr. Sanders passed his hand over his face, as though the gesture would
better enable him to contemplate the sorrowful condition of his
companion. "Jonas," he said with a sigh as heavy as if he had been a
sleepy cow in a big pasture, "ef you'd 'a' had your two eyes put out a
quarter of an hour arter you were born, you couldn't talk any more like
a blind man than you did jest then. You said you seed nothin,'an' a
blind man could say the same, day or night."
The reply that old Jonas made was characteristic; he pulled his hat a
little further down over his ears, and said nothing. Fortunately for him
perhaps, there was a timely diversion at that moment. Some one raised
the big knocker on the door and let it fall again. Such a bang had not
been heard in the house for many a long day; it set the frightened
echoes flying. Adelaide heard them, and they must have been following
her pretty close, for she ran into the sitting-room, crying:
"Good gracious, Bishop! Gracious goodness, Nunky-Punky! what was that?
Did some one shoot at my Boogerman? He's already been kill'ded once, and
he ought not to be kill'ded again."
Neither of the men could give her any satisfaction, and so she ran into
the parlour and peeped through the blinds of a window that commanded a
view of the piazza. Almost instantly she came running back again,
pretended amazement in her eyes.
"I know who it is!" she said in a tragic whisper. "It's my wild
Injun-rubber man, and, oh, my goodness! he looks vigorous and vexified!
Where shall we hide?"
As a matter of fact, it had been such a long time since the knocker had
been used that a big fat spider had spun a silken arbour there. Old
Jonas hesitated so long about responding that Lucindy, who had heard the
noise in the kitchen, put her head in the back door, with the query:
"Did any er you-all turn loose a gun in dar? Seem like I sho heern a gun
go off!"
Lucindy's voice seemed to have a reassuring effect on old Jonas, for he
brushed some dust specks from the front of his coat, straightened
himself, and started for the front door which was the centre of the
disturbance. As he made his way along the hall, Mr. Sanders, in
obedience to an imperious gesture from Adelaide, disappeared behind a
huge rocker, while the child concealed herself behind the door. Mr.
Sanders took off his hat, whipped out his red silk handkerchief, threw
it over his head and tied it under his chin. Adelaide had a partial view
of her Bishop, and the sight she saw seemed to be too much for her: she
gave a gasp, and sank to the floor as though in great pain.
They heard old Jonas urging the visitor to come in, while the other
protested that he only wanted to say a word to Mr. Sanders, which could
be said at the door as well, if not better, than anywhere else. Old
Jonas called Mr. Sanders, but no one answered him. Then Adelaide and her
Bishop heard old Jonas and the visitor coming along the hallway. "I
don't want to trouble you at all, Mr. Whipple. They told me at the
tavern that Mr. Sanders was here, and I just wanted to put a flea in his
ear about a little matter."
"Well, just come right in," responded old Jonas, cordially. "Sanders!"
he called.
Adelaide ventured to glance at Mr. Sanders again, and this time she
could not restrain herself. She gave utterance to an ear-piercing
shriek, which was more than sustained by a blood-curdling yell from Mr.
Sanders!