The house was situated on a hill near the river. From one of its
windows the crystal stream could be seen. Every surrounding was
attractive to a lover of nature. The house was built of logs and
contained two rooms. In one of the rooms there was a great fireplace.
It did not take the new occupants long to arrange their scanty
collection of furniture. The girl, woman-like, regretted that no better
show was made, but the men declared that the house contained everything
that was strictly necessary. The third day after their arrival Potter,
upon getting up from the breakfast-table (he and John ate at one large
box and Alf and his daughter ate at another one of exact pattern),
turned to his friends and remarked: "I am going over to Sunset to-day
(a village about twenty-five miles distant), to get a Winchester
rifle--saw one in a store as I came through the other day--and the
books necessary for the beginning of our educational course. I have
a few dollars, not many, it is true, but quite enough. John, you and
Alf get as much work done as you can. Of course, the season is so far
advanced that we can not get in much of a crop, but we must try to
raise enough corn to run us during the winter."
Never before had John gone to work with such enjoyment. He sang as he
turned over the soil. Encouragement had put a song in his mouth. Alf
was delighted, and Jule was so light-hearted and so improved that she
sometimes ventured out without her crutch. There was much work to be
done, but they all regarded its accomplishment as a pleasure.
Potter did not return until late at night, but his friends had sat up
waiting to receive him. He brought the Winchester rifle and a supply
of cartridges; he brought the books, some needed dishes, a pair of
shoes for John, a Sunday hat for Alf, and a calico dress for Jule.
"Oh, it's de putties thing I eber seed in my life," the girl exclaimed.
"W'y dady, jes' look yere at de flowers."
"Grasshoppers, aint da?" said Alf, slyly winking at Potter.
"You know da aint. Whut you come talk dat way fur, say?" She took hold
of his ears with a tender pretense of anger, and shook his head. "I'll
l'arn you how ter talk dater way 'bout deze flowers. W'y da's so much
like sho nuff flowers dat I ken almos' smell de 'fume. Look yere dady,
we mus' git Mr. Potter suthin' ter eat."
"Aint I dun heatin' de skillet?" Alf replied. "Cose I is." He went to a
box, which, nailed up against the wall, served as a "cubbard," and took
out several pieces of white-looking meat.
"What sort of meat do you call that?" Potter asked.
"Dis, sah," Alf rejoined, as he began to dip the meat into a tin plate
containing flour, "is some slices offen de breast o' one o' de fines'
turkey gobblers I eber seed. John ken tell you how it got here."
"I wuz plowin' 'long jest before dinner," said John, "an' I hearn the
gentleman gobblin' out in the woods. I wuz sorter 'stonished, too, fur
it's gittin' putty late in the season fur turkeys ter be struttin'
erbout. I slipped to the house an' got my rifle an' went into the woods
airter him. He wuz so high up in er tree that he didn't pay no 'tention
ter me, not b'lievin' I could reach him, I reckon, but I drawed a bead
on his head an' down he come."
"I am glad you got him," Potter replied. "You are an excellent shot, I
suppose?"
"Wall, I mout not hit er pin-head, but I reckon I could hit er steer."
"Mr. Potter," said Alf, as he stood over the fire frying the turkey
breast, "wush I had axed you ter fetch de ole man some fiddle strings."
"Well, if I didn't bring you some I hope, as John's aunt would say, 'I
may never stir agin.' Here they are."
"Wall, fo' greshus, ef you ain't de thoughtfules' white man I eber
seed. Thankee, sah, thankee. Man mus' almos' be 'spired ter think
erbout ever'thing diser way. Now, sah, we gwine ter hab some music in
dis yere house. Bible say er man kaint lib by meat an' bread by itse'f;
means dat folks aughter hab er little music. Ole Mars David uster play
on er harp, an' I lay he done it well, too."
"The fiddle is your favorite instrument, I suppose?"
"You shoutin' now. De ho'n is er mule an' brays; de banger is er
chicken dat clucks; de 'cordeon is er dog dat whines; de flute is er
sheep dat blates, but de fiddle is er man dat praises de Lawd. De
fiddle, sah, is de human bein' o' instrumen's. Now, set up yere ter de
table, fur yo' supper's ready."
"Is that rain?" Potter remarked, as he drew his chair up to the box.
"Yas, sah, an' we'se needin' it, too. Look at John, how he's handlin'
dem books. Gwine read 'em atter while, ain't you, John?"
"Yes, an' I hope befo' long, too. Ef stickin' to it counts for
anything, I know I will. I'd ruther have er good education, than ter
have money, an' horses, an' fine clothes."
"You shall have it, my dear boy," Potter replied. "The truest friends
of this life are books. With them every man is a king; without them
every man is a slave. The mind is God-given, and every good book bears
the stamp of divinity. Books are the poor man's riches--the tramp's
magnificent coach. I would rather live in a prison where there are
books, than in a palace destitute of them."
"Dat's all mighty well, Mr. Potter," Alf interposed, "but yo' vidults
gettin' cold. Books ain' gwine keep er man's supper warm. Look at John.
He b'l'ebes ever' word you say, an' I doan' know but you'se right
myse'f, but books ain't all. Er good heart is better den er book. Look,
my little gal is settin' dar fas' ersleep, wid dat caliker coat in
her arms. I mus' put her ter bed. Ah, little angel," he added, as he
took her up in his arms, "you is de only book dat yo' po' daddy reads.
Ter him you is de book o' dis life. All yo' leaves is got love an'
tenderness writ on 'em. God bless you." He went into the other room,
and closed the door.
A heavy rain fell during the remainder of the night, and at morning, as
the soil was too wet to be worked, Potter suggested the advisability of
a fishing expedition.
"Jule, you ain't erfeerd ter stay by yo'se'f, air you?" John asked,
when all the arrangements had been made.
"Cose I ain't; an' 'sides dat, de Lawd ain't gwine let nobody hurt er
po' crippled up chile ez I is."
"Your simple faith is beautiful," said Potter.
"Dar ain't no true faith, sah, dat ain't simple," Alf rejoined.
"You are right," Potter responded, "for when faith ceases to be simple,
it becomes a showy pretense. Well, is everything ready?"
"Yes, sah. We'll go erbout er mile up de riber, whar dar is er good
hole, an' den feesh up de stream."
The clouds had rolled away, and the day was as bright as a Christian's
smile. The mocking-bird, influenced to sportive capers, flew high in
the air, poured out an impulsive rhapsody, and then pretended to fall.
Down the gullies, spider webs, catching the glare of the sun, shone
like mirrors.
They soon reached the "hole" of which Alf had spoken, but the fish
would not bite.
"I'll tell you de reason," said the old negro. "Dis water is still
risin'. You kaint 'suade er feesh ter bite while de water's risin', but
soon ez it 'gins ter fall, w'y da'll grab deze hooks like er chicken
pickin' up co'n. Hol' him, John, hol' him. Fo' greshus, dat boy dun
hung er whale. Play him roun' diser way. Doan pull him too hard, you'll
break yo' line. Swing co'ners wid him; dat's right. Wait; lemme git
hold de line. Yere he is. Monst'ous channel cat. Uh, whut er beauty.
Weigh ten pounds ef he'll weigh er ounce."
"Good for you, John," said Potter.
"Good fur us all," replied Alf, "fur I gwine ter put dat feesh on ter
cook ez soon ez I ken make er fire an' git him ready."
"It is a pity we forgot to bring a frying pan," Potter remarked.
"Doan need one, sah."
"How are you going to cook him, then?"
"You jest wait," said Alf, as he begun preparations for building a fire.
When he had made the fire, he killed the fish and dressed it.
"Are you not going to skin it?" Potter asked.
"You jest wait erwhile, now. Neber seeb sech eatin' in yo' life ez
we'se gwine ter hab."
He dug some clay from a bank, poured water upon it, and begun to knead
it. Then he took a piece of paper, wrapped the fish in it, and then
put on a thick coating of clay.
"See; now I gwine ter put him right yere in de fire, an' let him cook
erbout two hours, an' den we'll crack his shell."
They threw out their lines again, but the fish would not bite.
"It ain't no use tryin," Alf declared. "Da ain't gwine ter bite till de
water ginter fall."
"Why did one of them bite?" Potter asked.
"Caze he didn' hab ernuff sense ter know dat de water want fallin',
sah. You mer jest put it down fur er fack dat when er feesh bites when
de water's risin', he ain't got no sense."
"We don't kere whuther they've got any sense or not, so long as they
bite," John remarked.
"You're right dar; plum right. I'd ruther know dat er feesh no longer
den my han' would bite, den ter know dat one ez big ez me wuz smart
ernuff ter preach. Wall, ef dat boy ain't dun fotch dat book wid him."
"A good idea, John," said Potter. "We'll sit up there under that rock,
and while the fish is cooking we will study our lesson."
So intent was the boy in this, his initiative step in the pursuit of
knowledge, that time seemed to take the wings of the sparrow-hawk and
swiftly sail away.
Alf called them to dinner. "See," said the negro, "all I had ter do wuz
ter crack his shell. You axed me ef I want gwine ter skin him. See, de
skin peels right off wid de paper. Openin' yo' eyes in 'stonishment, is
you? Jest wait till you taste him. Set down on de rock, an' lemme he'p
you ter er monst'ous piece. Sprinkle er little salt on him, dis way.
Now, how do he go?"
"Best fish I ever tasted, I must say."
"Cose he is. All de flaber kep' in by dat clay."
"If we had brought our guns along, we might have had some squirrels."
"Not lessen we'd fotch de dog ter tree 'em."
"Well, we might have brought the dog."
"No, fur it's bad luck ter take er dog wid you er feeshin'. Dat's de
reason I driv Ole Pete back. Tuck er dog feeshin' wid me wunst an' it
want mo' den er week airter dat till I tuck de dew pizen in one o' my
feet."
"Not because you took the dog, Alf, but because you went in the dew."
"Dar mout be suthin in dat fack, sah, but I know dat airterwards I went
feeshin' widout takin' de dog an' soon got well o' de pizen. Tell you
whut we better do airter we git done eatin'. Better go 'bout er mile
up de riber ter er place whar de bass will bite like er settin' hen.
De water will be fallin' by dat time. Dar's er bend in the riber right
up yander, an' we ken cut off er good many steps by goin' through de
bottom."
They started immediately after dinner, and had gone but a short
distance into the "bottom", when old Alf stopped, took off his hat,
and said:
"Dar now, dat do settle it, sho."
"What is the matter?" Potter asked.
"Doan you yere dem wolves? My greshus, whut er pack it is, too. Lissen."
"I hear them now," said Potter. "Do you hear them, John?"
"Yes, sir. I have been hearin' em fur some time, but didn't zackly know
whut they was. It ain't common that they come inter this neighborhood."
"No," Alf rejoined; "an' it won't be common dat we'll go anywhar airter
dis day lessen we make some mighty fast preparations. 'Tain't no use'n
us tryin' ter run erway, Mr. Potter, fur da'd ketch us 'fo' we got ha'f
er mile. We'll hatter climb up er tree an' wait till da goes erway. De
only trouble is da mout keep us yere till we starve ter death. Da's
gittin' yere. Hop up in er tree."
Potter and Alf climbed one tree; John sought refuge in another one a
short distance away. The howling grew louder and louder. Alf declared
that the wolves must be nearly starved or they would not cut up such
"shines" in daylight. A small open space that lay between the two trees
was soon alive with the howling, snarling, and snapping "varmints," as
Alf termed them. Occasionally some bold leader would leap high in the
air and snap at the men; others busied themselves with gnawing at the
trees.
"Did'n' I tell you it wuz bad luck ter bring er dog er feeshin'?" said
Alf.
"Yes," Potter replied; "but what new fact has caused you to speak of it
again? The dog did not come with us, yet we have the bad luck of being
treed by wolves."
"Yas, sah, yas; but if dat dog wuz yere deze wolves would eat him up,
an' dat would be monst'ous bad luck fur him. How I do wush I had my
gun. I wouldn' ax fur nuthin' sweeter den ter set up yere an' blow de
life outen deze raskils. How you gittin' long ober dar, John?"
"Fust rate; but I'd be enjoyin' myse'f er good deal better ef I had my
rifle. How I'd like ter draw er bead on that whopper; that old shaggy
feller."
"Laws er massy, how I would. He's er ole pollertician, he is, an' I lay
he gits ever' vote in de croud. Bet he ain't been de sheriff o' de den
no less 'en er dozen times. I--whut de matter wid 'em?"
Suddenly the wolves with one impulse ceased their howling, "tucked"
their tails, and ran away.
"A very gentlemanly act," Potter exclaimed. "Now we can get down from
these uncomfortable perches."
"Hol' on," cried Alf. "Set right whar you is, fur dar's suthen wus den
wolves round yere now. Look dar! Lawd an' de mussyful hebens proteck
us!"
Two enormous panthers bounded into the open space. They cast quick
glances in the direction which the wolves had taken, and then, turning
about, bent their fiery gaze on Potter and the old negro. Potter turned
pale, and, addressing Alf, said: "Old man, we are doomed. They will
never leave us until their awful mouths are stained with our blood."
"Oh, Lawd," the old negro cried, "look down yere an' see de awful fix
yo' po' servant dun got inter. Lawd, da gwine ter chaw de life outen
yo' po' servant. Lawd, de bigges' one got his eyes dead set on yo' po'
servant. Where'll I be dis time ter mor'. Oh, Mr. Potter, how I wush
I wuz at de house drinkin' butter milk. Lawd, yo' ole servant wushes
you'd strike deze pant'ers wid lightnin'. Oh, Lawd, I'd ruther die den
ter be killed by er pant'er."
The panthers stood gazing at them.
Potter's pallor was gone, and on his face there rested an expression
of resignation. "If they intend to do anything," said he, "I wish they
would not put it off any longer. This delay is awful."
"Oh, doan say dat, Mr. Potter; oh, sweet Mr. Potter, doan say dat. Doan
make no sich subjestions ter 'em, fur doan you see da's jes' waitin'
fur dar mines ter git made up. My greshus, I ken feel dat monster's
eyes. Da burns inter my flesh. Da ain't payin' no 'tention ter John.
Look yere, dat boy ain't in de tree!"
"That's a fact," Potter cried. "What do you suppose has become of him?"
"God bless him, he's slipped down an' is gone home airter er gun. Oh,
Lawd, gib de rabbit's mobement ter his legs. Let him leap ober rocks
an' gullies like er fox. Dar ain't much hope fur us, though, Mr.
Potter, fur by de time he gits back dem May-apple stalks down dar will
be stained wid our blood. Da won't wait no longer den sundown, nohow,
an' see, de sun ain't high. Ef John--mussyful hebens!"
One of the panthers had run forward, but he only sniffed the air at the
root of the tree and then returned to his companion.
"Dat's right, good Lawd, hold de monster back, an' please doan let him
stick his nose ergin dis tree no mo'. Look at 'em watchin' de sun. Da's
sorter skittish o' de bright blaze, but when de blaze goes out an'
de red glow comes, den suthen' redder will be poured on de groun'. It
will be our blood. Oh, Lawd, dat raskil is lookin' harder an' harder
at yo' po' servant. Wush I had er went ter er camp meetin' summers
'stead o' cumin' yere ter day, but, Lawd, it's allus de way wid er po'
weak man. He's allus treadin' de path dat leads ter 'struckshun. Wush
I wuz plowin' right now, eben ef de groun' is too wet. I'd ruther be
anywhar--anything. Wush I wuz er 'oman er takin' in washin' fur er
livin'. Wush I wuz er gal er patchin' geans britches."
"I hope John will bring my Winchester rifle," said Potter.
"He'll do dat, sah; he'll do dat."
"But do you suppose he knows how to use it?"
"Yes, sah; he's seed 'em befo'. Oh, Lawd, doan furgit whut er awful
fix yo' po' servant is in. Dat sun goin' down mighty fas'. Look how da
watchin' it."
It did seem as if the panthers stole an occasional and anxious glance
at the sun.
"De fust pant'ers I'se seed in dis yere 'munity fur er mighty long
time," old Alf went on, in his prayerful way, "an' I wushes, Lawd, dat
I neber had seed deze. Wush I wuz er boy in er swimin' under some shady
tree. Oh, Lawd, de raskil dun looked at de sun ergin."
He kept up a ceaseless flow of supplication. The sun seemed to sink
rapidly. The shadows of the May-apple stalks were getting longer and
longer. The panthers became restless. The old negro's prayer increased
in earnestness. One of the panthers, the male, ran back a short
distance, then coming forward with mighty bounds, sprang high in the
air and caught the body of the tree.
_Bang!_
The panther fell to the ground. The other one ran forward, touched,
with her bristly lips, her dead companion's blood, and then springing
up, caught the body of the tree.
_Bang!_
"Thank de Lawd; thank de Lawd!" cried Alf, as he began to scramble
down; "thank de Lawd."
He seized John in his arms. "Oh, de Lawd ain't gwine ter let his
chillun suffer long. Yas, Mr. Potter, take holter dis young pussun.
Dat's right, hug him, but look out, for you'se monst'ous strong. Bless
us, de chile come back on er hoss. Sheddin' tears, too. Huh, I comin'
back yere termor' an' skin deze genermen. Frien's, jes' wait er minit
till I git down on my knees an' pray."
John and Potter removed their hats. The old negro sank down upon his
knees, raised his clasped hands, and delivered in these words his
simple prayer: "Lawd, whuteber happens un'er yo' count'nance is right,
but we do thank thee fur dis ack o' hebenly mussy. Amen."