harvest of the story-telling was over; but sometimes there was an
aftermath to Aunt Jane's tale, and for this I waited. I looked at the
field opposite where the long, verdant rows gave promise of the autumn
reaping, and my thoughts were busy tracing backward every link in the
chain of circumstance that stretched between Milly Baker's boy of
forty years ago and the handsome, prosperous man I had seen that
morning. Ah, a goodly tale and a goodly ending! Aunt Jane spoke at
last, and her words were an echo of my thought.
"There's lots of satisfactory things in this world, child," she said,
beaming at me over her spectacles with the smile of the optimist who
is born, not made. "There's a satisfaction in roundin' off the toe of
a stockin', like I'm doin' now, and knowin' that your work's goin' to
keep somebody's feet warm next winter. There's a satisfaction in
bakin' a nice, light batch o' bread for the children to eat up.
There's a satisfaction in settin' on the porch in the cool o' the
evenin' and thinkin' o' the good day's work behind you, and another
good day that's comin' to-morrow. This world ain't a vale o' tears
unless you make it so on purpose. But of all the satisfactions I ever
experienced, the most satisfyin' is to see people git their just
deserts right here in this world. I don't blame David for bein' out o'
patience when he saw the wicked flourishin' like a green bay tree.
"I never was any hand for puttin' things off, whether it's work or
punishment; and I've never got my own consent to this way o' skeerin'
people with a hell and wheedlin' 'em with a heaven way off yonder in
the next world. I ain't as old as Methuselah, but I've lived long
enough to find out a few things; and one of 'em is that if people
don't die before their time, they'll git their heaven and their hell
right here in this world. And whenever I feel like doubtin' the
justice o' the Lord, I think o' Milly Baker's boy, and how he got
everything that belonged to him, and he didn't have to die and go to
heaven to git it either."
"'Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds
He all.'"
I quoted the lines musingly, watching meanwhile their effect on Aunt
Jane. Her eyes sparkled as her quick brain took in the meaning of the
poet's words.
"That's it!" she exclaimed,--"that's it! I don't mind waitin' myself
and seein' other folks wait, too, a reasonable time, but I do like to
see everybody, sooner or later, git the grist that rightly belongs to
'em."
[Illustration]
VI
THE BAPTIZING AT KITTLE CREEK
[Illustration]
"There's a heap o' reasons for folks marryin'," said Aunt Jane,
reflectively. "Some marries for love, some for money, some for a home;
some marries jest to spite somebody else, and some, it looks like,
marries for nothin' on earth but to have somebody always around to
quarrel with about religion. That's the way it was with Marthy and
Amos Matthews. I don't reckon you ever heard o' Marthy and Amos, did
you, child? It's been many a year since I thought of 'em myself. But
last Sunday evenin' I was over at Elnora Simpson's, and old Uncle Sam
Simpson was there visitin'. Uncle Sam used to live in the neighborhood
o' Goshen, but he moved up to Edmonson County way back yonder, I can't
tell when, and every now and then he comes back to see his
grandchildren. He's gittin' well on towards ninety, and I'm thinkin'
this is about the last trip the old man'll make till he goes on his
long journey. I was mighty glad to see him, and me and him set and
talked about old times till the sun went down. What he didn't remember
I did, and what I didn't remember he did; and when we got through
talkin', Elnora--that's his grandson's wife--says, 'Well, Uncle Sam,
if I could jest take down everything you and Aunt Jane said to-day,
I'd have a pretty good history of everybody that ever lived in this
county.'
"Uncle Sam was the one that started the talk about Marthy and Amos.
He'd been leanin' on his cane lookin' out o' the door at Elnora's
twins playin' on the grass, and all at once he says, says he, 'Jane,
do you ricollect the time they had the big babtizin' down at Kittle
Creek?' And he got to laughin', and I got to laughin', and we set
there and cackled like a pair o' old fools, and nobody but us two
seein' anything funny about it."
Aunt Jane's ready laugh began again at the mere remembrance of her
former mirth. I kept discreetly silent, fearing to break the flow of
reminiscence by some ill-timed question.
"Nobody ever could see," she continued, "how it was that Amos Matthews
and Marthy Crawford ever come to marry, unless it was jest as I said,
to have somebody always handy to quarrel with about their religion;
and I used to think sometimes that Marthy and Amos got more pleasure
that way than most folks git out o' prayin' and singin' and listenin'
to preachin'. Amos was the strictest sort of a Presbyterian, and
Marthy was a Babtist, and to hear them two jawin' and arguin' and
bringin' up Scripture texts about predestination and infant babtism
and close communion and immersion was enough to make a person wish
there wasn't such a thing as churches and doctrines. Brother Rice
asked Sam Amos once if Marthy and Amos Matthews was Christians.
Brother Rice had come to help Parson Page carry on a meetin', and he
was tryin' to find out who was the sinners and who was the
Christians. And Sam says, 'No; my Lord! It takes all o' Marthy's time
to be a Babtist and all o' Amos' to be a Presbyterian. They ain't got
time to be Christians.'
"Some folks wondered how they ever got time to do any courtin', they
was so busy wranglin' over babtism and election. And after Marthy had
her weddin' clothes all made they come to a dead stop. Amos said he
wouldn't feel like they was rightly married if they didn't have a
Presbyterian minister to marry 'em, and Marthy said it wouldn't be
marryin' to her if they didn't have a Babtist. I was over at Hannah
Crawford's one day, and she says, says she, 'Jane, I've been savin' up
my eggs and butter for a month to make Marthy's weddin' cake, and if
her and Amos don't come to an understandin' soon, it'll all be a dead
loss.' And Marthy says, 'Well, mother, I may not have any cake at my
weddin', and I may not have any weddin', but one thing is certain: I'm
not goin' to give up my principles.'
"And Hannah sort o' groaned--she hadn't had any easy time with Miles
Crawford--and says she, 'You pore foolish child! Principles ain't the
only thing a woman has to give up when she gits married.'
"I don't know whether they ever would 'a' come to an agreement if it
hadn't been for Brother Morris. He was the Presidin' Elder from town,
and a powerful hand for jokin' with folks. He happened to meet Amos
one day about this time, and says he, 'Amos, I hear you and Miss
Marthy can't decide betwixt Brother Page and Brother Gyardner. It'd be
a pity,' says he, 'to have a good match sp'iled for such a little
matter, and s'pose you compromise and have me to marry you.'
"And Amos says, 'I don't know but what that's the best thing that
could be done. I'll see Marthy and let you know.' And, bless your
life, they was married a week from that day. I went over and helped
Hannah with the cake, and Brother Morris said as pretty a ceremony
over 'em as any Presbyterian or Babtist could 'a' said.
"Well, the next Sunday everybody was on the lookout to see which
church the bride and groom'd go to. Bush Elrod bet a dollar that
Marthy'd have her way, and Sam Amos bet a dollar that they'd be at the
Presbyterian church. Sam won the bet, and we was all right glad that
Marthy'd had the grace to give up that one time, anyhow. Amos was
powerful pleased havin' Marthy with him, and they sung out of the same
hymn-book and looked real happy. It looked like they was startin' out
right, and I thought to myself, 'Well, here's a good beginnin',
anyhow.' But it happened to be communion Sunday, and of all the
unlucky things that could 'a' happened for Marthy and Amos, that was
about the unluckiest. I said then that if Parson Page had been a
woman, he'd 'a' postponed that communion. But a man couldn't be
expected to have much sense about such matters, so he goes ahead and
gives out the hymn,
''Twas on that dark and dreadful day;'
and everybody in church was lookin' at Amos and Marthy and watchin' to
see what she was goin' to do. While they was singin' the hymn the
church-members got up and went forward to the front seats, and Amos
went with 'em. That left Marthy all alone in the pew, and I couldn't
help feelin' sorry for her. She tried to look unconcerned, but anybody
could see she felt sort o' forsaken and left out, and folks all
lookin', and some of 'em whisperin' and nudgin' each other. I knew
jest exactly how Marthy felt. Abram said to me when we was on the way
home that day, 'Jane, if I'd 'a' been in Amos' place, I believe I'd
'a' set still with Marthy. Marthy'd come with him and it looks like
he ought to 'a' stayed with her.' I reckon, though, that Amos thought
he was doin' right, and maybe it's foolish in women to care about
things like that. Sam Amos used to say that nobody but God Almighty,
that made her, ever could tell what a woman wanted and what she didn't
want; and I've thought many a time that since He made women, it's a
pity He couldn't 'a' made men with a better understandin' o' women's
ways.
"Maybe if Amos'd set still that day, things would 'a' been different
with him and Marthy all their lives, and then again, maybe it didn't
make any difference. It's hard to tell jest what makes things go wrong
in this world and what makes 'em go right. It's a mighty little thing
for a man to git up and leave his wife settin' alone in a pew for a
few minutes, but then there's mighty few things in this life that
ain't little, till you git to follerin' 'em up and seein' what they
come to."
I thought of Pippa's song:
"Say not a small event! Why 'small'?
Costs it more pain that this, ye call
A great event, should come to pass,
Than that? Untwine me from the mass
Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in or exceed!"
And Aunt Jane went serenely on:
"Anyhow, it wasn't long till Amos was goin' to his church and Marthy
to hers, and they kept that up the rest of their lives. Still, they
might 'a' got along well enough this way, for married folks don't have
to think alike about everything, but they was eternally arguin' about
their church doctrines. If Amos grumbled about the weather, Marthy'd
say, 'Ain't everything predestined? Warn't this drought app'inted
before the foundation of the world? What's the sense in grumblin' over
the decrees of God?' And it got so that if Amos wanted to grumble over
anything, he had to git away from home first, and that must 'a' been
mighty wearin' on him; for, as a rule, a man never does any grumblin'
except at home; but pore Amos didn't have that privilege. Sam Amos
used to say---Sam wasn't a church-member himself--that there was some
advantages about bein' a Babtist after all; you did have to go under
the water, but then you had the right to grumble. But if a man
believed that everything was predestined before the foundations of the
world, there wasn't any sense or reason in findin' fault with anything
that happened. And he believed that he'd ruther jine the Babtist
church than the Presbyterian, for he didn't see how he could carry on
his farm without complainin' about the weather and the crops and
things in general.
"If Marthy and Amos'd been divided on anything but their churches, the
children might 'a' brought 'em together; but every time a child was
born matters got worse. Amos, of course, wanted 'em all babtized in
infancy, and Marthy wanted 'em immersed when they j'ined the church,
and so it went. Amos had his way about the first one, and I never
shall forgit the day it was born. I went over to help wait on Marthy
and the baby, and as soon as I got the little thing dressed, we called
Amos in to see it. Now, Amos always took his religion mighty hard. It
didn't seem to bring him any comfort or peace o' mind. I've heard
people say they didn't see how Presbyterians ever could be happy; but
la, child, it's jest as easy to be happy in one church as in another.
It all depends on what doctrines you think the most about. Now you
take election and justification and sanctification, and you can git
plenty o' comfort out o' them. But Amos never seemed to think of
anything but reprobation and eternal damnation. Them doctrines jest
seemed to weigh on him night and day. He used to say many a time that
he didn't know whether he had made his callin' and election sure or
not, and I don't believe he thought that anybody else had made theirs
sure, either. Abram used to say that Amos looked like he was carryin'
the sins o' the world on his shoulders.
"That day the baby was born I thought to myself, 'Well, here's
somethin' that'll make Amos forgit about his callin' and election for
once, anyhow;' and I wrapped the little feller up in his blanket and
held him to the light, so his father could see him; and Amos looked at
him like he was skeered, for a minute, and then he says, 'O Lord! I
hope it ain't a reprobate.'
"Now jest think of a man lookin' down into a little new-born baby's
face and talkin' about reprobates!
"Marthy heard what he said, and says she, 'Amos, are you goin' to have
him babtized in infancy?'
"'Why, yes,' says Amos, 'of course I am.'
"And Marthy says, 'Well, hadn't you better wait until you find out
whether he's a reprobate or not? If he's a reprobate, babtizin' ain't
goin' to do him any good, and if he's elected he don't need to be
babtized.'
"And I says, 'For goodness' sake, Marthy, you and Amos let the
doctrines alone, or you'll throw yourself into a fever.' And I pushed
a rockin'-chair up by the bed and I says, 'Here, Amos, you set here by
your wife, and both of you thank the Lord for givin' you such a fine
child;' and I laid the baby in Amos' arms, and went out in the gyarden
to look around and git some fresh air. I gethered a bunch o'
honeysuckles to put on Marthy's table, and when I got back, Marthy and
the baby was both asleep, and Amos looked as if he was beginnin' to
have some little hopes of the child's salvation.
"Marthy named him John; and Sam Amos said he reckoned it was for John
the Babtist. But it wasn't; it was for Marthy's twin brother that died
when he was jest three months old. Twins run in the Crawford family.
Amos had him babtized in infancy jest like he said he would, and such
a hollerin' and squallin' never was heard in Goshen church. The next
day Sally Ann says to me, says she, 'That child must 'a' been a
Babtist, Jane; for he didn't appear to favor infant babtism.'
"Well, Marthy had her say-so about the next child--that one was a boy,
too, and they named him Amos for his father--and young Amos wasn't
babtized in infancy; he was 'laid aside for immersion,' as Sam Amos
said. Then it was Amos' time to have his way, and so they went on till
young Amos was about fifteen years old and Marthy got him converted
and ready to be immersed. The Babtists had a big meetin' that spring,
and there was a dozen or more converts to be babtized when it was
over. We'd been havin' mighty pleasant weather that March; I ricollect
me and Abram planted our potatoes the first week in March, and I would
put in some peas. Abram said it was too early, and sure enough the
frost got 'em when they was about two inches high. It turned off real
cold about the last o' March; and when the day for the babtizin' come,
there was a pretty keen east wind, and Kittle Creek was mighty high
and muddy, owin' to the rains they'd had further up. There was some
talk o' puttin' off the babtizin' till better weather, but Brother
Gyardner, he says: 'The colder the water, the warmer your faith,
brethren; Christ never put off any babtizin' on account of the
weather.'
"Sam Amos asked him if he didn't reckon there was some difference
between the climate o' Kentucky and the climate o' Palestine. Sam was
always a great hand to joke with the preachers. But the way things
went that day the weather didn't make much difference anyhow to young
Sam.
"The whole neighborhood turned out Sunday evenin' and went over to
Kittle Creek to see the big babtizin'. Marthy and Amos and all the
children was there, and Marthy looked like she'd had a big streak o'
good luck. Sam Amos says to me, 'Well, Aunt Jane, Marthy's waited a
long time, but she'll have her innin's now.'
"Bush Elrod was the first one to go under the water; and when two or
three more had been babtized, it was young Amos' time. I saw Marthy
pushin' him forward and beckonin' to Brother Gyardner like she
couldn't wait any longer.
"Nobody never did know exactly how it happened. Some folks said that
young Amos wasn't overly anxious to go under the water that cold day,
and he kind o' slipped behind his father when he saw Brother Gyardner
comin' towards him; and some went so fur as to say that Brother
Gyardner was in the habit o' takin' a little spirits after a babtizin'
to keep from takin' cold, and that time he'd taken it beforehand, and
didn't know exactly what he was about. Anyhow, the first thing we knew
Brother Gyardner had hold o' Amos himself, leadin' him towards the
water. Amos was a timid sort o' man, easy flustered, and it looked
like he lost his wits and his tongue too. He was kind o' pullin' back
and lookin' round in a skeered way, and Brother Gyardner he hollered
out, 'Come right along, brother! I know jest how it is myself; the
spirit is willin', but the flesh is weak.' The Babtists was shoutin'
'Glory Hallelujah' and Uncle Jim Matthews begun to sing, 'On Jordan's
stormy banks I stand,' and pretty near everybody j'ined in till you
couldn't hear your ears. The rest of us was about as flustered as
Amos. We knew in reason that Brother Gyardner was makin' a big
mistake, but we jest stood there and let things go on, and no tellin'
what might 'a' happened if it hadn't been for Sam Amos. Sam was a
cool-headed man, and nothin' ever flustered him. As soon as he saw how
things was goin' he set down on the bank and pulled off his boots; and
jest as Brother Gyardner got into the middle o' the creek, here come
Sam wadin' up behind 'em, and grabbed Amos by the shoulder and
hollered out, 'You got the wrong man, parson! Here, Amos, take hold o'
me.' And he give Amos a jerk that nearly made Brother Gyardner lose
his footin', and him and Amos waded up to the shore and left Brother
Gyardner standin' there in the middle o' the creek lookin' like he'd
lost his job.
"Well, that put a stop to the singin' and the shoutin', and the way
folks laughed was scandalous. They had to walk Amos home in a hurry
to git his wet clothes off, and Uncle Jim Matthews and Old Man Bob
Crawford went with him to rub him down. Amos was subject to
bronchitis, anyhow. Marthy went on ahead of 'em in the wagon to have
hot water and blankets ready. I'll give Marthy that credit; she
appeared to forgit all about the babtizin' when Amos come up so wet
and shiverin'. Sam couldn't git his boots on over his wet socks, and
as he'd walked over to the creek, Silas Petty had to take him home in
his spring wagon. Brother Gyardner all this time was lookin' round for
young Amos, but he wasn't to be found high nor low, and that set folks
to laughin' again, and so many havin' to leave, the babtizin' was
clean broke up. Milly come up jest as Sam was gittin' into Old Man
Bob's wagon, and says she, 'Well, Sam, you've ruined your Sunday pants
this time.' And Sam says, 'Pants nothin'. The rest o' you all can save
your Sunday pants if you want to, but this here's a free country, and
I ain't goin' to stand by and see a man babtized against his will
while I'm able to save him.' And if Sam'd saved Amos' life, instead o'
jest savin' him from babtism, Amos couldn't 'a' been gratefuler. When
Sam broke his arm the follerin' summer, Amos went over and set up
with him at night, and let his own wheat stand while he harvested
Sam's.
"Well, the next time the 'Sociation met, the Babtists had somethin'
new to talk about. Old Brother Gyardner got up, and says he,
'Brethren, there's a question that's been botherin' me for some time,
and I'd like to hear it discussed and git it settled, if possible;'
and says he, 'If a man should be babtized accidentally, and against
his will, would he be a Babtist? or would he not?' And they begun to
argue it, and they had it up and down, and some was of one opinion and
some of another. Brother Gyardner said he was inclined to think that
babtism made a man a Babtist, but old Brother Bascom said if a man
wasn't a Babtist in his heart, all the water in the sea wouldn't make
him one. And Brother Gyardner said that was knockin' the props clean
from under the Babtist faith. 'For,' says he, 'if bein' a Babtist in
the heart makes a man a Babtist, then babtism ain't necessary to
salvation, and if babtism ain't necessary, what becomes o' the Babtist
church?'
"Somebody told Amos about the dispute they was havin' over his case,
and Amos says, 'If them fool Babtists want that question settled, let
'em come to me.' Says he, 'My father and mother was Presbyterians,
and my grandfather and grandmother and great-grandfather and
great-grandmother on both sides; I was sprinkled in infancy, and I
j'ined the Presbyterian church as soon as I come to the age of
accountability, and if you was to carry me over to Jerusalem and
babtize me in the river Jordan itself, I'd still be a Presbyterian.'"
Here Aunt Jane paused to laugh again. "There's some things, child,"
she said, as she wiped her glasses, "that people'll laugh over and
then forgit; and there's some things they never git over laughin'
about. The Kittle Creek babtizin' was one o' that kind. Old Man Bob
Crawford used to say he wouldn't 'a' took five hundred dollars for
that babtizin'. Old Man Bob was the biggest laugher in the country;
you could hear him for pretty near half a mile when he got in a
laughin' way; and he used to say that whenever he felt like havin' a
good laugh, all he had to do was to think of Amos and how he looked
with Brother Gyardner leadin' him into the water, and the Babtists
a-singin' over him. Bush Elrod was another one that never got over it.
Every time he'd see Amos he'd begin to sing, 'On Jordan's stormy banks
I stand,' and Amos couldn't git out o' the way quick enough.
"Well, that's what made me and old Uncle Sam Simpson laugh so last
Sunday. I don't reckon there's anything funny in it to folks that
never seen it; but when old people git together and call up old times,
they can see jest how folks looked and acted, and it's like livin' it
all over again."
"I don't believe you can see it any plainer than I do, Aunt Jane," I
hastened to assure her. "It is all as clear to me as any picture I
ever saw. It was in March, you say, and the wind was cool, but the sun
was warm; and if you sat in a sheltered place you might almost think
it was the last of April."
"That's so, child. I remember me and Abram set under the bank on a
rock that kind o' cut off the north wind, and it was real pleasant."
"Then there must have been a purple haze on the hills; and, while the
trees were still bare, there was a look about them as if the coming
leaves were casting their shadows before. There were heaps of brown
leaves from last year's autumn in the fence corners, and as you and
Uncle Abram walked home, you looked under them to see if the violets
were coming up, and found some tiny wood ferns."
Aunt Jane dropped her knitting and leaned back in the high
old-fashioned chair.
"Why, child," she said in an awe-struck tone, "are you a
fortune-teller?"
"Not at all, Aunt Jane," I said, laughing at the dear old lady's
consternation. "I am only a good guesser; and I wanted you to know
that I not only see the things that you see and tell me, but some of
the things that you see and don't tell me. Did Marthy ever get young
Amos baptized?" I asked.
"La, yes," laughed Aunt Jane. "They finished up the babtizin' two
weeks after that. It was a nice, pleasant day, and young Amos went
under the water all right; but mighty little good it did him after
all. For as soon as he come of age, he married Matildy Harris (Matildy
was a Methodist), and he got to goin' to church with his wife, and
that was the last of his Babtist raisin'."
Then we both were silent for a while, and I watched the gathering
thunder-clouds in the west. A low rumble of thunder broke the
stillness of the August afternoon. Aunt Jane looked up apprehensively.
"There's goin' to be a storm betwixt now and sundown," she said, "but
I reckon them young turkeys'll be safe under their mother's wings by
that time."
"Don't you think a wife ought to join her husband's church, Aunt
Jane?" I asked with idle irrelevance to her remark.