Not long ago I wandered back to the scenes of my boyhood, on my
father's old plantation on the bank of the river, in the beautiful land
of my native mountains. I rambled again in the pathless woods with my
rifle on my shoulder. I sat on the old familiar logs amid the falling
leaves of autumn and heard the squirrels bark and shake the branches
as they jumped from tree to tree. I heard the katydid sing, and the
whip-poor-will, and the deep basso-profundo of the bullfrog on the bank
of the pond. I heard the drumming of a pheasant and the hoot of a wise
old owl away over in "Sleepy Hollow." I heard the tinkling of bells on
the distant hills, sweetly mingling with the happy chorus of the song
birds in their evening serenade. Every living creature seemed to be
chanting a hymn of praise to its God; and as I sat there and listened
to the weird, wild harmonies, a vision of the past opened before me.
I thought I was a boy again, and played around the cabins of the old
time darkies, and heard them laugh and sing and tell their stories as
they used to long ago. My hair stood on ends again (I was afflicted with
hair when I was a boy), and the chills played up and down my back when I
remembered old Uncle Rufus' story of the panthers. He said: "Many years
ago, Mas. Jeems was a-gwine along de path by de graveyard late in de
evenin', an' bless de Lo'd, all of a sudden he looked up, an' dar was a
painter crouchin' down befo' 'im, a-pattin' de ground wid his tail, an'
ready to spring. Mas. Jeems wheeled to run, an' bless de Lo'd, dar was
annudder painter, crouchin' an' pattin' de groun' wid his tail, in de
path behind him, an' ready to spring. An' boaf ov dem painters sprung at
de same time, right toards Mas. Jeemses head; Mas. Jeems jumped to one
side. An' dem painters come to-gedder in de air. An' da was a-gwine so
fast, an' da struck each udder wid sitch turble ambition dat instid ov
comin' down, da went up. An' bless de Lo'd, Mas. Jeems stood dar an'
watched dem painters go on up, an' up, an' up, till da went clean out
o' sight a-fightin'. An' bless de Lo'd, de hair was a-fallin' for three
days. Which fulfills de words ob de scripchah whar it reads, 'De young
men shall dream dreams, an' de ol' men shall see visions.'"
[Illustration: THE MUSIC OF THE OLD PLANTATION.]
I remembered the tale Uncle Solomon used to tell about the first
convention that was ever held in the world. He said: "It wuz a
convenchun ov de animils. Bruder Fox wuz dar, an' Brudder Wolf, an'
Brudder Rabbit, an' all de rest ov de animil kingdom wuz geddered
togedder fur to settle some questions concarnin' de happiness ov de
animil kingdom. De first question dat riz befo' de convenchun wuz,
how da should vote. Brudder Coon, he took de floah an' moved dat de
convenchun vote by raisin' der tails; whereupon Brudder Possum riz wid
a grin ov disgust, an' said: 'Mr. Chaiahman, I's unanimous opposed to
dat motion: Brudder Coon wants dis couvenchun to vote by raisin' der
tails, kase Brudder Coon's got a ring striped an' streaked tail, an'
wants to show it befo' de convenchun. Brudder Coon knows dat de 'possum
is afflicted wid an ole black rusty tail, an I consider dat moshun an
insult to de 'possum race; an' besides dat, Mr. Chaiahman, if you passes
dis moshun for to vote by raisin yo' tails, de Billy-Goat's already
voted!'"
I sometimes think that Uncle Solomon's homely story of the goat would
be a splendid illustration of some of our modern politicians. It is
difficult to tell which side of the question they are on.
[Illustration: THE HAPPY LONG AGO.]
I remembered the yarn Uncle Yaddie once spun at the expense of
Uncle Rastus. Rastus looked sour and said: "You bettah not go too fur;
I'll tell about dem watermillions what disappeared frum Mas. Landon's
watermillion patch." But Uncle Yaddie was undismayed by the threatened
attack upon his own record, and said: "Some time ago Rastus concluded to
go into de egg bizness, an' he prayed to de Lo'd to send him some hens,
but somehow or nudder de hens never come; an' den he prayed to de Lo'd
to send him after de hens, an' lo! an' behold! nex' mornin' his lot wus
full ov chickens. Rastus fixed de nestiz, an' waited, an' waited fur de
hens to lay, but somehow or nudder de hens wouldn't lay dat summer at
all; an' Rastus kep git'n madder an' madder, till one day de ole rooster
hopped up on de porch an begun to flop his wings an' crow. Rastus looked
at him sideways, an' muttered, 'Yes! floppin' yo' wings an' crowin'
aroun' heah like an ole fool, an' you caint lay a egg to save yo' life!'"
The darkies fell over in the floor, and every body laughed except
Rastus. But to appease his wrath, Uncle Yaddie rolled out a big
"watermillion" from under the bed, which lighted up the face of the
frowning old Rastus with smiles, and as the luscious red pulp melted
away in his mouth, he cut the "pigeon wing" in the middle of the floor,
and sang like a mocking bird:
"Oh, de honeymoon am sweet,
De chicken am good,
De 'possum, it am very very fine,
But give me, O, give me,
Oh, how I wish you would!
Dat watermillion hanging' on de vine!"
Then old Uncle Newt rosined his bow, and the welkin rang with the music
of the fiddle.
There I sat in the old familiar woods and dreamed of the happy long ago,
until a gang of blackbirds, spluttering in a neighboring treetop woke
me. And when I rose from the log and threw myself into the shape of an
interrogation point, and touched the trigger, at the crack of my rifle
old bullfrogg shot into the pond; the hoot-owl "scooted" into his castle
in the trunk of an old hollow tree; the blackbirds cut the "asymptote of
a hyperbolical curve" in the air; the squirrel fell to the ground at my
feet, with a bullet through his brain, and there was silence--silence in
the frog pond; silence in the trees; silence in "Sleepy Hollow;" silence
all around me.
I shouldered my rifle and wended my way back to the old homestead on the
bank of the river and silence was there. The voices of the happy long
ago were hushed. The old time darkies were sleeping on the hill, close
by the spot where my father sleeps. The moss-covered bucket was gone
from the well. The old barn sheds had "creeled." The old house where
I was born was silent and deserted.
As I looked upon these scenes of my earliest recollection, I was
softened and subdued into a sweet pensive sorrow, which only the
happiest and holiest associations of by-gone years can call into being.
There are times in our lives when grief lies heaviest on the soul; when
memory weeps; when gathering clouds of mournful melancholy pour out
their floods and drown the heart in tears.
Oh, beautiful isle of memory, lighted by the morning star of life! where
the roses bloom by the door, where the robins sing among the apple
blossoms, where bright waters ripple in eternal melody! There are echoes
of songs that are sung no more; tender words spoken by lips that are
dust; blessings from hearts that are still. There's a useless cradle,
and a broken doll; a sunny tress, and an empty garment folded away;
there's a lock of silvered hair, and an unforgotten prayer, and _mother_
is sleeping there!