oracularly. "There ain't any rule about it. Everybody's got to be
their own judge about such matters. If I'd 'a' been in Marthy's place,
I wouldn't 'a' j'ined Amos' church, and if I'd been in Amos' place I
wouldn't 'a' j'ined Marthy's church. So there it is."
"But didn't you join Uncle Abram's church?" I asked, in a laudable
endeavor to get at the root of the matter.
"Yes, I did," said Aunt Jane stoutly; "but that's a mighty different
thing. Of course, I went with Abram, and if I had it to do over again,
I'd do it. You see the way of it was this: my folks was Campbellites,
or Christians they'd ruther be called. It's curious how they don't
like to be called Campbellites. Methodists don't mind bein' called
Wesleyans, and Presbyterians don't git mad if you call 'em Calvinists,
and I reckon Alexander Campbell was jest as good a man as Wesley and a
sight better'n Calvin, but you can't make a Campbellite madder than to
call him a Campbellite. However, as I was sayin', Alexander Campbell
himself babtized my father and mother out here in Drake's Creek, and
I was brought up to think that my church was _the_ Christian church,
sure enough. But when me and Abram married, neither one of us was
thinkin' much about churches. I used to tell Marthy that if a man'd
come talkin' church to me, when he ought to been courtin' me, I'd 'a'
told him to go on and marry a hymn-book or a catechism. I believe in
religion jest as much as anybody, but a man that can't forgit his
religion while he's courtin' a woman ain't worth havin'. That's my
opinion. But as I was sayin', me and Abram had the church question to
settle after we was married, and I don't believe either one of us
thought about it till Sunday mornin' come. I ricollect it jest like it
was yesterday. We was married in June, and you know how things always
look about then. I've thought many a day, when I've been out in the
gyarden workin' with my vegetables and getherin' my honeysuckles and
roses, that if folks could jest live on and never git old and it'd
stay June forever, that this world'd be heaven enough for anybody. And
that's the way it was that Sunday mornin'. I ricollect I had on my
'second-day' dress, the prettiest sort of a changeable silk, kind 'o
dove color and pink, and I had a leghorn bonnet on with pink roses
inside the brim, and black lace mitts on my hands. I stood up before
the glass jest before I went out to the gate where Abram was, waitin'
for me, and I looked as pretty as a pink, if I do say it. 'Self-praise
goes but a little ways,' my mother used to tell me, when I was a
gyirl; but I reckon there ain't any harm in an old woman like me
tellin' how she looked when she was a bride more'n sixty years ago."
And a faint color came into the wrinkled cheeks, while her clear, high
laugh rang out. The outward symbols of youth and beauty were gone, but
their unquenchable spirit lay warm under the ashes of nearly eight
decades.
"Well, I went out, and Abram helped me into the buggy and, instead o'
goin' straight on to Goshen church, he turned around and drove out to
my church. When we walked in I could see folks nudgin' each other and
laughin', and when meetin' broke and we was fixin' to go home, Aunt
Maria Taylor grabbed hold o' me and pulled me off to one side and says
she, 'That's right, Jane, you're beginnin' in time. Jest break a man
in at the start, and you won't have no trouble afterwards.' And I jest
laughed in her face and went on to where Abram was waitin' for me. I
was too happy to git mad that day. Well, the next Sunday, when we got
into the buggy and Abram started to turn round, I took hold o' the
reins and says I, 'It's my time to drive, Abram; you had your way last
Sunday, and now I'm goin' to have mine.' And I snapped the whip over
old Nell's back and drove right on to Goshen, and Abram jest set back
and laughed fit to kill.
"We went on that way for two or three months, folks sayin' that Abram
and Jane Parrish couldn't go to the same church two Sundays straight
along to save their lives, and everybody wonderin' which of us'd have
their way in the long run. And me and Abram jest laughed in our
sleeves and paid no attention to 'em; for there never was but one way
for us, anyhow, and that wasn't Abram's way nor my way; it was jest
_our_ way. There's lots of married folks, honey, and one of 'em's here
and one of 'em's gone over yonder, and there's a long, deep grave
between 'em; but they're a heap nearer to each other than two livin'
people that stay in the same house, and eat at the same table, and
sleep in the same bed, and all the time there's two great thick church
walls between 'em and growin' thicker and higher every day. Sam Amos
used to say that if religion made folks act like Marthy and Amos did,
he believed he'd ruther have less religion or none at all. But, honey,
when you see married folks quarrelin' over their churches, it ain't
too much religion that's the cause o' the trouble, it's too little
love. Jest ricollect that; if folks love each other right, religion
ain't goin' to come between 'em.
"Well, as soon as cold weather set in they started up a big revival at
Goshen church. After the meetin' had been goin' on for three or four
weeks, Parson Page give out one Sunday that the session would meet on
the follerin' Thursday to examine all that had experienced a change o'
heart and wanted to unite with the church. I never said a word to
Abram, but Thursday evenin' while he was out on the farm mendin' some
fences that the cattle had broke down, I harnessed old Nell to the
buggy and drove out to Goshen. All the converts was there, and the
session was questionin' and examinin' when I got in. When it come my
turn, Parson Page begun askin' me if I'd made my callin' and election
sure, and I come right out, and says I, 'I don't know much about
callin' and election, Brother Page; I reckon I'm a Christian,' says I,
'for I've been tryin' to do right by everybody ever since I was old
enough to know the difference betwixt right and wrong; but, if the
plain truth was told, I'm j'inin' this church jest because it's
Abram's church, and I want to please him. And that's all the testimony
I've got to give.' And Parson Page put his hand over his mouth to keep
from laughin'--he was a young man then and hadn't been married long
himself--and says he, 'That'll do, Sister Parrish; brethren, we'll
pass on to the next candidate.' I left 'em examinin' Sam Crawford
about his callin' and election, and I got home before Abram come to
the house, and the next day when I walked up with the rest of 'em
Abram was the only person in the church that was surprised. When
they'd got through givin' us the right hand o' fellowship, and I went
back to our pew, Abram took hold o' my hand and held on to it like he
never would let go, and I knew I'd done the right thing and I never
would regret it."
There was a light on the old woman's face that made me turn my eyes
away. Here was a personal revelation that should have satisfied the
most exacting, but my vulgar curiosity cried out for further light on
the past.
"What would you have done," I asked, "if Uncle Abram hadn't turned the
horse that Sunday morning--if he had gone straight on to Goshen?"
Aunt Jane regarded me for a moment with a look of pitying allowance,
such as one bestows on a child who doesn't know any better than to ask
stupid questions.
"Shuh, child," she said with careless brevity, "Abram couldn't 'a'
done such a thing as that."
[Illustration]
VII
HOW SAM AMOS RODE IN THE
TOURNAMENT
[Illustration]
"There's one thing I'd like mighty well to see again before I die,"
said Aunt Jane, "and that is a good, old-fashioned fair. The apostle
says we must 'press forward, forgetting the things that are behind,'
but there's some things I've left behind that I can't never forget,
and the fairs we had in my day is one of 'em."
It was the quietest hour of an August afternoon--that time when one
seems to have reached "the land where it is always afternoon"--and
Aunt Jane and I were sitting on the back porch, shelling butter-beans
for the next day's market. Before us lay the garden in the splendid
fulness of late summer. Concord and Catawba grapes loaded the vines on
the rickety old arbor; tomatoes were ripening in reckless plenty, to
be given to the neighbors, or to lie in tempting rows on the
window-sill of the kitchen and the shelves of the back porch; the
second planting of cucumber vines ran in flowery luxuriance over the
space allotted to them, and even encroached on the territory of the
squashes and melons. Damsons hung purpling over the eaves of the
house, and wasps and bees kept up a lively buzzing as they feasted on
the windfalls of the old yellow peach tree near the garden gate.
Nature had distributed her sunshine and showers with wise generosity
that year, and neither in field nor in garden was there lack of any
good thing. Perhaps it was this gracious abundance, presaging fine
exhibits at the coming fair, that turned Aunt Jane's thoughts towards
the fairs of her youth.
"Folks nowadays don't seem to think much about fairs," she continued;
"but when I was young a fair was something that the grown folks looked
forward to jest like children look for Christmas. The women and the
men, too, was gittin' ready for the fair all the year round, the women
piecin' quilts and knittin' socks and weavin' carpets and puttin' up
preserves and pickles, and the men raisin' fine stock; and when the
fair come, it was worth goin' to, child, and worth rememberin' after
you'd gone to it.
"I hear folks talkin' about the fair every year, and I laugh to myself
and I say, 'You folks don't know what a fair is.' And I set out there
on my porch fair week and watch the buggies and wagons goin' by in the
mornin' and comin' home at night, and I git right happy, thinkin'
about the time when me and Abram and the children used to go over the
same road to the fair, but a mighty different sort of fair from what
they have nowadays. One thing is, honey, they have the fairs too soon.
It never was intended for folks to go to fairs in hot weather, and
here they've got to havin' 'em the first week in September, about the
hottest, driest, dustiest time of the whole year. Nothin' looks pretty
then, and it always makes me think o' folks when they've been wearin'
their summer clothes for three months, and everything's all faded and
dusty and drabbled. That's the way it generally is in September. But
jest wait till two or three good rains come, and everything's washed
clean and sweet, and the trees look like they'd got a new set o'
leaves, and the grass comes out green and fresh like it does in the
spring, and the nights and the mornin's feel cool, though it's hot
enough in the middle o' the day; and maybe there'll come a touch of
early frost, jest enough to turn the top leaves on the sugar maples.
That's October, child, and that's the time for a fair.
"Lord, the good times I've seen in them days! Startin' early and
comin' home late, with the sun settin' in front of you, and by and by
the moon comin' up behind you, and the wind blowin' cool out o' the
woods on the side o' the road; the baby fast asleep in my arms, and
the other children talkin' with each other about what they'd seen, and
Abram drivin' slow over the rough places, and lookin' back every once
in a while to see if we was all there. It's a curious thing, honey; I
liked fairs as well as anybody, and I reckon I saw all there was to be
seen, and heard everything there was to be heard every time I went to
one. But now, when I git to callin' 'em up, it appears to me that the
best part of it all, and the part I ricollect the plainest, was jest
the goin' there and the comin' back home.
"Abram knew I liked to stay till everything was over, and he'd git
somebody to water and feed the stock, and then I never had any hot
suppers to git while the fair lasted; so there wasn't anything to
hurry me and Abram. I ricollect Maria Petty come up one day about
five o'clock, jest as we was lookin' at the last race, and says she,
'I'm about to drop, Jane; but I believe I'd ruther stay here and sleep
on the floor o' the amp'itheater than to go home and cook a hot
supper.' And I says, 'Don't cook a hot supper, then.' And says she,
'Why, Silas wouldn't eat a piece o' cold bread at home to save his
life or mine either.'
"There's a heap o' women to be pitied, child," said Aunt Jane,
dropping a handful of shelled beans into my pan with a cheerful
clatter, "but, of all things, deliver me from livin' with a man that
has to have hot bread three times a day. Milly Amos used to say that
when she died she wanted a hot biscuit carved on her tombstone; and
that if it wasn't for hot biscuits, there'd be a mighty small crop of
widowers. Sam, you see, was another man that couldn't eat cold bread.
But Sam had a right to his hot biscuits; for if Milly didn't feel like
goin' into the kitchen, Sam'd go out and mix up his biscuits and bake
'em himself. Sam's soda biscuits was as good as mine; and when it come
to beaten biscuits, why nobody could equal Sam. Milly'd make up the
dough as stiff as she could handle it, and Sam'd beat it till it was
soft enough to roll out; and such biscuits I never expect to eat
again--white and light as snow inside, and crisp as a cracker
outside. Folks nowadays makes beaten biscuits by machinery, but they
don't taste like the old-fashioned kind that was beat by hand.
"And talkin' about biscuits, child, reminds me of the cookin' I used
to do for the fairs. I don't reckon many women likes to remember the
cookin' they've done. When folks git to rememberin', it looks like the
only thing they want to call up is the pleasure they've had, the
picnics and the weddin's and the tea-parties. But somehow the work
I've done in my day is jest as precious to me as the play I've had. I
hear young folks complainin' about havin' to work so hard, and I say
to 'em, 'Child, when you git to be as old as I am, and can't work all
you want to, you'll know there ain't any pleasure like good hard
work.'
"There's one thing that bothers me, child," and Aunt Jane's voice sank
to a confidential key: "I've had a plenty o' fears in my life, but
they've all passed over me; and now there's jest one thing I'm afraid
of: that I'll live to be too old to work. It appears to me like I
could stand anything but that. And if the time ever comes when I can't
help myself, nor other folks either, I trust the Lord'll see fit to
call me hence and give me a new body, and start me to work again
right away.
"But, as I was sayin', I always enjoyed cookin', and it's a pleasure
to me to set and think about the hams I've b'iled and the salt-risin'
bread I've baked and the old-fashioned pound-cake and sponge-cake and
all the rest o' the things I used to take to the fair. Abram was
always mighty proud o' my cookin', and we generally had a half a dozen
or more o' the town folks to eat dinner with us every day o' the fair.
Old Judge Grace and Dr. Brigham never failed to eat with us. The old
judge'd say something about my salt-risin' bread every time I'd meet
him in town. The first year my bread took the premium, Abram sent the
premium loaf to him with the blue ribbon tied around it. After Abram
died I stopped goin' to the fairs, and I don't know how many years
it'd been since I set foot on the grounds. I hadn't an idea how
things'd changed since my day till, year before last, Henrietta and
her husband come down here from Danville. He'd come to show some
blooded stock, and she come along with him to see me. And says she,
'Grandma, you've got to go to the fair with me one day, anyhow;' and I
went more to please her than to please myself.
"I'm always contendin', child, that this world's growin' better and
better all the time; but, Lord! Lord! that fair come pretty near
upsettin' my faith. Why, in my day folks could take their children to
the fair and turn 'em loose; and, if they had sense enough to keep
from under the horses' feet, they was jest as safe at the fair as they
was at a May meetin'. But, la! the sights I saw that day Henrietta
took me to the fair! Every which way you'd look there was some sort of
a trap for temptin' boys and leadin' 'em astray. Whisky and beer and
all sorts o' gamblin' machines and pool sellin', and little boys no
higher'n that smokin' little white cigyars, and offerin' to bet with
each other on the races. And I says to Henrietta, 'Child, I don't call
this a fair; why, it's jest nothin' but a gamblin' den and a whisky
saloon. And,' says I, 'I know now what old Uncle Henry Matthews
meant.' I'd asked the old man if he was goin' to show anything at the
fair that year, and he said, 'No, Jane. Unless you've got somethin'
for the town folks to bet on, it ain't worth while.'
"But there was one thing I did enjoy that day, and that was the races.
There's some folks thinks that racin' horses is a terrible sin; but I
don't. It's the bettin' and the swearin' that goes with the racin'
that's the sin. If folks'd behave as well as the horses behaves, a
race'd be jest as religious as a Sunday-school picnic. There ain't a
finer sight to me than a blooded horse goin' at a two-forty gait round
a smooth track, and the sun a-shinin' and the flags a-wavin' and the
wind blowin' and the folks cheerin' and hollerin'. So, when Henrietta
said the races was goin' to begin, I says, says I, 'Here, child, take
hold o' my arm and help me down these steps; I'm goin' to see one more
race before I die.' And Henrietta helped me down, and we went over to
the grand stand and got a good seat where I could see the horses when
they come to the finish. I tell you, honey, it made me feel young
again jest to see them horses coverin' the ground like they did. My
father used to raise fine horses, and Abram used to say that when it
come to knowin' a horse's p'ints, he'd back me against any man in
Kentucky. I'll have to be a heap older'n I am now before I see the day
when I wouldn't turn around and walk a good piece to look at a fine
horse."
And the old lady gave a laugh at this confession of weakness.
"It was like old times to see the way them horses run. And when they
come to the finish I was laughin' and hollerin' as much as anybody.
And jest then somebody right behind me give a yell, and says he:
"'Hurrah for old Kentucky! When it comes to fine horses and fine
whisky and fine women, she can't be beat.'
"Everybody begun to laugh, and a man right in front o' me says, 'It's
that young feller from Lexin'ton. His father's one o' the biggest
horsemen in the state. That's his horse that's jest won the race.' And
I turned around to see, and there was a boy about the size o' my
youngest grandchild up at Danville. His hat was set on the back of his
head, and his hair was combed down over his eyes till he looked like
he'd come out of a feeble-minded school. He had a little white cigyar
in his mouth, and you could tell by his breath that he'd been
drinkin'.
"Now I ain't much of a hand for meddlin' with other folks' business,
but I'd been readin' about the Salvation Army, and how they preach on
the street; and it come into my head that here was a time for some
Salvation work. And I says to him, says I, 'Son, there's another thing
that Kentucky used to be hard to beat on, and that was fine men. But,'
says I, 'betwixt the fine horses and the fine women and the fine
whisky, some o' the men has got to be a mighty common lot.' Says I,
'Holler as much as you please for that horse out there; he's worth
hollerin' for. But,' says I, 'when a state's got to raisin' a better
breed o' horses than she raises men, it ain't no time to be hollerin'
"hurrah" for her.' Says I, 'You're your father's son, and yonder's
your father's horse; now which do you reckon your father's proudest of
to-day, his horse or his son?'
"Well, folks begun to laugh again, and the boy looked like he wanted
to say somethin' sassy, but he couldn't git his wits together enough
to think up anything. And I says, says I, 'That horse never touched
whisky or tobacco in his life; he's clean-blooded and clean-lived, and
he'll live to a good old age; and, maybe, when he dies they'll bury
him like a Christian, and put a monument up over him like they did
over Ten Broeck. But you, why, you ain't hardly out o' your short
pants, and you're fifty years old if you're a day. You'll bring your
father's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, and you'll go to your own
grave a heap sooner'n you ought to, and nobody'll ever build a
monument over you.'
"There was three or four boys along with the Lexin'ton boy, and one of
'em that appeared to have less whisky in him than the rest, he says,
'Well, grandma, I reckon you're about right; we're a pretty bad lot.'
And says he, 'Come on, boys, and let's git out o' this.' And off they
went; and whether my preachin' ever did 'em any good I don't know, but
I couldn't help sayin' what I did, and that's the last time I ever
went to these new-fashioned fairs they're havin' nowadays. Fair time
used to mean a heap to me, but now it don't mean anything but jest to
put me in mind o' old times."
Just then there was a sound of galloping hoofs on the pike, and loud
"whoas" from a rider in distress. We started up with the eagerness of
those whose lives have flowed too long in the channels of stillness
and peace. Here was a possibility of adventure not to be lost for any
consideration. Aunt Jane dropped her pan with a sharp clang; I
gathered up my skirt with its measure of unshelled beans, and together
we rushed to the front of the house.
It was a "solitary horseman," wholly and ludicrously at the mercy of
his steed, a mischievous young horse that had never felt the bridle
and bit of a trainer.
"It's that red-headed boy of Joe Crofton's," chuckled Aunt Jane.
"Nobody'd ever think he was born in Kentucky; now, would they? Old Man
Bob Crawford used to say that every country boy in this state was a
sort o' half-brother to a horse. But that boy yonder ain't no kin to
the filly he's tryin' to ride. There's good blood in that filly as
sure's you're born. I can tell by the way she throws her head and uses
her feet. She'll make a fine saddle-mare, if her master ever gets hold
of her. Jest look yonder, will you?"
The horse had come to a stand; she gave a sudden backward leap, raised
herself on her hind legs, came down on all fours with a great clatter
of hoofs, and began a circular dance over the smooth road. Round she
went, stepping as daintily as a maiden at a May-day dance, while the
rider clung to the reins, dug his bare heels into the glossy sides of
his steed, and yelled "whoa," as if his salvation lay in that word.
Then, as if just awakened to a sense of duty, the filly ceased her
antics, tossed her head with a determined air, and broke into a brisk,
clean gallop that would have delighted a skilled rider, but seemed to
bring only fresh dismay to the soul of Joe Crofton's boy. His arms
flapped dismally and hopelessly up and down; a gust of wind seized his
ragged cap and tossed it impishly on one of the topmost boughs of the
Osage-orange hedge; his protesting "whoa" voiced the hopelessness of
one who resigns himself to the power of a dire fate, and he
disappeared ingloriously in a cloud of summer dust. Whereupon we
returned to the prosaic work of bean-shelling, with the feeling of
those who have watched the curtain go down on the last scene of the
comedy.
"I declare to goodness," sighed Aunt Jane breathlessly, as she stooped
to recover her pan, "I ain't laughed so much in I don't know when. It
reminds me o' the time Sam Amos rode in the t'u'nament." And she began
laughing again at some recollection in which I had no part.
"Now, that's right curious, ain't it? When I set here talkin' about
fairs, that boy comes by and makes me think o' how Sam rode at the
fair that year they had the t'u'nament. I don't know how long it's
been since I thought o' that ride, and maybe I never would 'a' thought
of it again if that boy of Joe Crofton's hadn't put me in mind of it."
I dropped my butter-beans for a moment and assumed a listening
attitude, and without any further solicitation, and in the natural
course of events, the story began.