fair, and that year I'm talkin' about it was a t'u'nament. All the
Goshen folks that went to town the last County Court day before the
fair come back with the news that there was goin' to be a t'u'nament
the third day o' the fair. Everybody was sayin', 'What's that?' and
nobody could answer 'em till Sam Crawford went to town one Saturday
jest before the fair, and come back with the whole thing at his
tongue's end. Sam heard that they was practisin' for the t'u'nament
that evenin', and as he passed the fair grounds on his way home, he
made a p'int of goin' in and seein' what they was about. He said there
was twelve young men, and they was called knights; and they had a lot
o' iron rings hung from the posts of the amp'itheater, and they'd tear
around the ring like mad and try to stick a pole through every ring
and carry it off with 'em, and the one that got the most rings got the
blue ribbon. Sam said it took a good eye and a steady arm and a good
seat to manage the thing, and he enjoyed watchin' 'em. 'But,' says he,
'why they call the thing a t'u'nament is more'n I could make out. I
stayed there a plumb hour, and I couldn't hear nor see anything that
sounded or looked like a tune.'
"Well, the third day o' the fair come, and we was all on hand to see
the t'u'nament. It went off jest like Sam said. There was twelve
knights, all dressed in black velvet, with gold and silver spangles,
and they galloped around and tried to take off the rings on their long
poles. When they got through with that, the knights they rode up to
the judges with a wreath o' flowers on the ends o' their
poles--lances, they called 'em--and every knight called out the name
o' the lady that he thought the most of; and she come up to the stand,
and they put the wreath on her head, and there was twelve pretty
gyirls with flowers on their heads, and they was 'Queens of Love and
Beauty.' It was a mighty pretty sight, I tell you; and the band was
playin' 'Old Kentucky Home,' and everybody was hollerin' and throwin'
up their hats. Then the knights galloped around the ring once and went
out at the big gate, and come up and promenaded around the
amp'itheater with the gyirls they had crowned. The knight that got the
blue ribbon took off ten rings out o' the fifteen. He rode a mighty
fine horse, and Sam Amos, he says, 'I believe in my soul if I'd 'a'
been on that horse I could 'a' taken off every one o' them rings.' Sam
was a mighty good rider, and Milly used to say that the only thing
that'd make Sam enjoy ridin' more'n he did was for somebody to put up
lookin'-glasses so he could see himself all along the road.
"Well, the next thing on the program was the gentleman riders' ring.
The premium was five dollars in gold for the best gentleman rider. We
was waitin' for that to commence, when Uncle Jim Matthews come up, and
says he, 'Sam, there's only one entry in this ring, and it's about to
fall through.'
"You see they had made a rule that year that there shouldn't be any
premiums given unless there was some competition. And Uncle Jim says,
'There's a young feller from Simpson County out there mighty anxious
to ride. He come up here on purpose to git that premium. Suppose you
ride ag'inst him and show him that Simpson can't beat Warren.' Sam
laughed like he was mightily pleased, and says he, 'I don't care a rap
for the premium, Uncle Jim, but, jest to oblige the man from Simpson,
I'll ride. But,' says he, 'I ought to 'a' known it this mornin' so I
could 'a' put on my Sunday clothes.' And Uncle Jim says, 'Never mind
that; you set your horse straight and carry yourself jest so, and the
judges won't look at your clothes.' 'How about the horse?' says Sam.
'Why,' says Uncle Jim, 'there's a dozen or more good-lookin'
saddle-horses out yonder outside the big gate, and you can have your
pick.' So Sam started off, and the next thing him and the man from
Simpson was trottin' around the ring. Us Goshen people kind o' kept
together when we set down in the amp'itheater. Every time Sam'd go
past us, we'd all holler 'hurrah!' for him. The Simpson man appeared
to have a lot o' friends on the other side o' the amp'itheater, and
they'd holler for him, and the town folks was divided up about even.
"Both o' the men rode mighty well. They put their horses through all
the gaits, rackin' and pacin' and lopin', and it looked like it was
goin' to be a tie, when all at once the band struck up 'Dixie,' and
Sam's horse broke into a gallop. Sam didn't mind that; he jest pushed
his hat down on his head and took a firm seat, and seemed to enjoy it
as much as anybody. But after he'd galloped around the ring two or
three times, he tried to rein the horse in and get him down to a nice
steady trot like the Simpson man was doin'. But, no, sir. That horse
hadn't any idea of stoppin'. The harder the band played the faster he
galloped; and Uncle Jim Matthews says, 'I reckon Sam's horse thinks
it's another t'u'nament.' And Abram says, 'Goes like he'd been paid to
gallop jest that way; don't he, Uncle Jim?'
"But horses has a heap o' sense, child; and it looked to me like the
horse knew he had Sam Amos, one o' the best riders in the county, on
his back and he was jest playin' a little joke on him.
"Well, of course when the judges seen that Sam'd lost control of his
horse, they called the Simpson man up and tied the blue ribbon on him.
And he took off his hat and waved it around, and then he trotted
around the ring, and the Simpson folks hollered and threw up their
hats. And all that time Sam's horse was tearin' around the ring jest
as hard as he could go. Sam's hat was off, and I ricollect jest how
his hair looked, blowin' back in the wind--Milly hadn't trimmed it for
some time--and him gittin' madder and madder every minute. Of course
us Goshen folks was mad, too, because Sam didn't git the blue ribbon;
but we had to laugh, and the town folks and the Simpson folks they
looked like they'd split their sides. Old Man Bob Crawford jest laid
back on the benches and hollered and laughed till he got right purple
in the face. And says he, 'This beats the Kittle Creek babtizin' all
to pieces.'
"Well, nobody knows how long that horse would 'a' kept on gallopin',
for Sam couldn't stop him; but finally two o' the judges they stepped
out and headed him off and took hold o' the bridle and led him out o'
the ring. And Uncle Jim Matthews he jumps up, and says he, 'Let me out
o' here. I want to see Sam when he gits off o' that horse.' Milly was
settin' on the top seat considerably higher'n I was. And says she, 'I
wouldn't care if I didn't see Sam for a week to come. Sam don't git
mad often,' says she, 'but when he does, folks'd better keep out o'
his way.'
"Well, Uncle Jim started off, and the rest of us set still and waited;
and pretty soon here come Sam lookin' mad enough to fight all
creation, sure enough. Everybody was still laughin', but nobody said
anything to Sam till up comes Old Man Bob Crawford with about two
yards o' blue ribbon. He'd jumped over into the ring and got it from
the judges as soon as he could quit laughin'. And says he, 'Sam, I
have seen gracefuler riders, and riders that had more control over
their horses, but,' says he, 'I never seen one yet that stuck on a
horse faithfuler'n you did in that little t'u'nament o' yours jest
now; and I'm goin' to tie this ribbon on you jest as a premium for
stickin' on, when you might jest as easy 'a' fell off.' Well,
everybody looked for Sam to double up his fist and knock Old Man Bob
down, and he might 'a' done it, but Milly saw how things was goin',
and she come hurryin' up. Milly was a mighty pretty woman, and always
dressed herself neat and trim, but she'd been goin' around with little
Sam in her arms, and her hair was fallin' down, and she looked like
any woman'd look that'd carried a heavy baby all day and dragged her
dress over a dusty floor. She come up, and says she, 'Well, Sam, ain't
you goin' to crown me "Queen o' Love and Beauty"?' Folks used to say
that Sam never was so mad that Milly couldn't make him laugh, and says
he, 'You look like a queen o' love and beauty, don't you?' Of course
that turned the laugh on Milly, and then Sam come around all right.
And says he, 'Well, neighbors, I've made a fool o' myself, and no
mistake; and you all can laugh as much as you want to;' and he took
Old Man Bob's blue ribbon and tied it on little Sam's arm, and him and
Milly walked off together as pleasant as you please. And that's how
Sam Amos rode in the t'u'nament," said Aunt Jane conclusively, as she
arose from her chair and shook a lapful of bean pods into a willow
basket near by.
"Is Sam Amos living yet?" I asked, in the hope of prolonging an
o'er-short tale. A softened look came over Aunt Jane's face.
"No, child," she said quietly, "Sam's oldest son is livin' yet, and
his three daughters. They all moved out o' the Goshen neighborhood
long ago. But Sam's been in his grave twenty years or more, and here I
set laughin' about that ride o' his. Somehow or other I've outlived
nearly all of 'em. And now when I git to callin' up old times, no
matter where I start out, I'm pretty certain to end over in the old
buryin'-ground yonder. But then," and she smiled brightly, "there's a
plenty more to be told over on the other side."
[Illustration]
VIII
MARY ANDREWS' DINNER-PARTY
[Illustration]
"Well!" exclaimed Aunt Jane, as she surveyed her dinner-table, "looks
like Mary Andrews' dinner-party, don't it? However, there's a plenty
of it such as it is, and good enough what there is of it, as the old
man said; so set down, child, and help yourself."
A loaf of Aunt Jane's salt-rising bread, a plate of golden butter, a
pitcher of Jersey milk, and a bowl of honey in the comb,--who would
ask for more? And as I sat down I blessed the friendly rain that had
kept me from going home.
"But who was Mary Andrews? and what about her dinner-party?" I asked,
as I buttered my bread.
"Eat your dinner, child, and then we'll talk about Mary Andrews,"
laughed Aunt Jane. "If I'd 'a' thought before I spoke, which I hardly
ever do, I wouldn't 'a' mentioned Mary Andrews, for I know you won't
let me see any rest till you know all about her."
And Aunt Jane was quite right. A summer rain, and a story, too!
"I reckon there's mighty few livin' that ricollect about Mary Andrews
and her dinner-party," she said meditatively an hour later, when the
dishes had been washed and we were seated in the old-fashioned parlor.
"Mary Andrews' maiden name was Crawford. A first cousin of Sam
Crawford she was. Her father was Jerry Crawford, a brother of Old Man
Bob, and her mother was a Simpson. People used to say that the
Crawfords and the Simpsons was like two mud-puddles with a ditch
between, always runnin' together. I ricollect one year three Crawford
sisters married three Simpson brothers. Mary was about my age, and
she married Harvey Andrews a little over a year after me and Abram
married, and there's few women I ever knew better and liked more than
I did Mary Andrews.
"I ricollect her weddin' nearly as well as I do my own. My Jane was
jest a month old, and I had to ask mother to come over and stay with
the baby while I went to the weddin'. I hadn't thought much about what
I'd wear--I'd been so taken up with the baby--and I ricollect I went
to the big chest o' drawers in the spare room and jerked out my
weddin' dress, and says I to mother, 'There'll be two brides at the
weddin'!'
"But, bless your life, when I tried to make it meet around my waist,
why, it lacked four or five inches of comin' together; and mother set
and laughed fit to kill, and, says she, 'Jane, that dress was made for
a young girl, and you'll never be a young girl again!' And I says,
'Well, I may never fasten this dress around my waist again, but I
don't know what's to hinder me from bein' a young girl all my life.'
"I wish to goodness," she went on, "that I could ricollect what I wore
to Mary Andrews' weddin'. I know I didn't wear my weddin' dress, and I
know I went, but to save my life I can't call up the dress I had on.
It ain't like me to forgit the clothes I used to wear, but I can't
call it up. However, what I wore to Mary Andrews' weddin' ain't got
anything to do with Mary Andrews' dinner-party."
Aunt Jane paused and scratched her head reflectively with a knitting
needle. Evidently she was loath to go on with her story till the
memory of that wedding garment should return to her.
"I was readin' the other day," she continued, "about somethin' they've
got off yonder in Washington, some sort of bureau that tells folks
what the weather'll be, and warns the ships about settin' off on a
voyage when there's a storm ahead. And says I to myself, 'Do you
reckon they'll ever git so smart that they can tell what sort o'
weather there is ahead o' two people jest married and settin' out on
the voyage that won't end till death parts 'em? and what sort o'
weather they're goin' to have six months from the weddin' day?' The
world's gittin' wiser every day, child, but there ain't nobody wise
enough to tell what sort of a husband a man's goin' to make, nor what
sort of a wife a woman's goin' to make, nor how a weddin' is goin' to
turn out. I've watched folks marryin' for more'n seventy years, and I
don't know much more about it than I did when I was a ten-year-old
child. I've seen folks marry when it looked like certain destruction
for both of 'em, and all at once they'd take a turn that'd surprise
everybody, and things would come out all right with 'em. There was
Wick Harris and Virginia Matthews. Wick was jest such a boy as Dick
Elrod, and Virginia was another Annie Crawford. She'd never done a
stitch o' sewin' nor cooked a meal o' victuals in her life, and I
ricollect her mother sayin' she didn't know which she felt sorriest
for, Wick or Virginia, and she wished to goodness there was a law to
keep such folks from marryin'. But, bless your life! instead o' comin'
to shipwreck like Dick and Annie, they settled down as steady as any
old married couple you ever saw. Wick quit his drinkin' and gamblin',
and Virginia, why, there wasn't a better housekeeper in the state nor
a better mother'n she got to be.
"And then I've seen 'em marry when everything looked bright ahead and
everybody was certain it was a good thing for both of 'em, and it
turned out that everybody was wrong. That's the way it was with Mary
Andrews and Harvey. Nobody had a misgivin' about it. Mary was as happy
as a lark, and Harvey looked like he couldn't wait for the weddin'
day, and everybody said they was made for each other. To be sure,
Harvey was 'most a stranger in the neighborhood, havin' moved in about
a year and a half before, and we couldn't know him like we did the
Goshen boys that'd been born and brought up there. But nobody could
say a word against him. His family down in Tennessee, jest beyond the
state line, was as good people as ever lived, and Harvey himself was
industrious and steady, and as fine lookin' a man as you'd see in a
week's journey. Everybody said they never saw a handsomer couple than
Harvey and Mary Andrews.
"Mary was a tall, proud-lookin' girl, always carried herself like a
queen, and hadn't a favor to ask of anybody; and Harvey was half a
head taller, and jest her opposite in color. She was dark and he was
light. They was a fine sight standin' up before the preacher that day,
and everybody was wishin' 'em good luck, though it looked like they
had enough already; both of 'em young and healthy and happy and
good-lookin', and Harvey didn't owe a cent on his farm, and Mary's
father had furnished the house complete for her. The weddin' come off
at four o'clock in the evenin', and we all stayed to supper, and after
supper Harvey and Mary drove over to their new home. I ricollect how
Mary looked back over her shoulder and laughed at us standin' on the
steps and wavin' at her and hollerin' 'good-bye.'
"It was the fashion in that day for all the neighbors to entertain a
newly married couple. Some would invite 'em to dinner, and some to
supper, and then the bride and groom would have to do the same for the
neighbors, and then the honeymoon'd be over, and they'd settle down
and go to work like ordinary folks. We had Harvey and Mary over to
dinner, and they asked us to supper. I ricollect how nice the table
looked with Mary's new blue and white china and some o' the
old-fashioned silver that'd been in the family for generations. And
the supper matched the table, for Mary wasn't the kind that expects
company to satisfy their hunger by lookin' at china and silver. She
was a fine cook like her mother before her. Amos and Marthy Matthews
had been invited, too, and we had a real pleasant time laughin' and
jokin' like folks always do about young married people. After supper
we all went out on the porch, and Mary whispered to me and Marthy to
come and see her china closet and pantry. You know how proud a young
housekeeper is of such things. She showed us all through the back part
o' the house, and we praised everything and told her it looked like
old experienced housekeepin' instead of a bride's.
"Well, when we went back to the dinin'-room on our way to the porch,
if there wasn't Harvey bendin' over the table countin' the silver
teaspoons! A man always looks out o' place doin' such things, and I
saw Mary's face turn red to the roots of her hair. But nobody said
anything, and we passed on through and left Harvey still countin'. It
was a little thing, but I couldn't help thinkin' how queer it was for
a man that hadn't been married two weeks to leave his company and go
back to the table to count spoons, and I asked myself how I'd 'a' felt
if I'd found Abram countin' spoons durin' the honeymoon.
"Did you ever take a walk, child, some cloudy night when everything's
covered up by the darkness, and all at once there'll be a flash o'
lightnin' showin' up everything jest for a second? Well, that's the
way it is with people's lives. Near as Harvey and Mary lived to me,
and friendly as we were, I couldn't tell what was happenin' between
'em. But every now and then, as the months went by, and the years, I'd
see or hear somethin' that was like a flash of light in a dark place.
Sometimes it was jest a look, but there's mighty little a look can't
tell; and as for actions, you know they speak louder than words. I
ricollect one Sunday Harvey and Mary was walkin' ahead o' me and
Abram. There was a rough piece o' road jest in front of the church,
and I heard Harvey say: 'Don't walk there, come over on the side where
it's smooth.'
"I reckon Mary thought that Harvey was thinkin' of her feet, for she
stepped over to the side of the road right at once and says he, 'Don't
you know them stones'll wear out your shoes quicker'n anything?' And,
bless your life, if Mary didn't go right back to the middle of the
road, and she took particular pains to walk on the stones as far as
they went. It was a little thing, to be sure, but it showed that
Harvey was thinkin' more of his wife's shoes than he was of her feet,
and that ain't a little thing to a woman.
"Then, again, there was the time when me and Abram was passin'
Harvey's place one evenin', and a storm was comin' up, and we stopped
in to keep from gittin' wet. Mary had been to town that day, and she
had on her best dress. She was a woman that looked well in anything
she put on. Plain clothes couldn't make her look plain, and she set
off fine clothes as much as they set her off. Me and Abram took seats
on the porch, and Mary went into the hall to git another chair. I
heard the back hall door open and somebody come in, and then I heard
Harvey's voice. Says he, 'Go up-stairs and take off that dress.' Says
he, 'What's the use of wearin' out your best clothes here at home?'
But before he got the last words out, Mary was on the porch with the
chair in her hand, talkin' to us about her trip to town, and lookin'
as unconcerned as if she hadn't heard or seen Harvey. That night I
says to Abram, says I, 'Abram, did you ever have any cause to think
that Harvey Andrews was a close man?'
"Abram thought a minute, and, says he, 'Why, no; I can't say I ever
did. What put such a notion into your head, Jane? Harvey looks after
his own interests in a trade, but he's as liberal a giver as there is
in Goshen church. Besides,' says Abram, 'who ever heard of a tall,
personable man like Harvey bein' close? Stingy people's always dried
up and shriveled lookin'.'
"But I'd made up my mind what the trouble was between Harvey and Mary,
and nothin' that Abram said could change it. I don't reckon any man
knows how women feel about stinginess and closeness in their husbands.
I believe most women'd rather live with a man that'd killed somebody
than one that was stingy. And then Mary never was used to anything of
that kind, for her father, old man Jerry Crawford, was one o' the
freest-handed men in the county. It was 'Come in and make yourself at
home' with everybody that darkened his door, and for a woman, raised
like Mary was, havin' to live with a man like Harvey was about the
hardest thing that could 'a' happened to her. However, she had the
Crawford pride, and she carried her head high and laughed and smiled
as much as ever; but there's a look that tells plain enough whether a
woman's married to a man or whether she's jest tied to him and stayin'
with him because she can't get free; and when Mary wasn't laughin' or
smilin' I could tell by her face that she wasn't as happy as we all
thought she was goin' to be the day she married Harvey."
Aunt Jane paused a moment to pick up a dropped stitch.
"It's a good thing you had your dinner, honey, before I started this
yarn," she said, looking at me quizzically over her glasses, "for I'll
be a long time bringin' you to the dinner-party. But I've got to tell
you all this rigmarole first, so you'll understand what's comin'. If I
was to tell you about the dinner-party first you'd get a wrong idea
about Mary. That's how folks misjudges one another. They see people
doin' things that ain't right, and they up and conclude they're bad
people, when if they only knew somethin' about their lives, they'd
understand how to make allowance for 'em. You've got to know a heap
about people's lives, child, before you can judge 'em.
"Well, along about this time, somewhere in the '60's, I reckon it must
'a' been, there was a big excitement about politics. I can't somehow
ricollect what it was all about, but they had speakin's everywhere,
and the men couldn't talk about anything but politics from mornin'
till night. Abram was goin' in to town every week to some meetin' or
speakin'; and finally they had a big rally and a barbecue at Goshen.
One of the speakers was Judge McGowan, from Tennessee, and he was a
cousin of Harvey Andrews on his mother's side."
Here Aunt Jane paused again.
"I wish I could ricollect what it was all about," she said musingly.
"Must 'a' been something mighty important, but it's slipped my memory,
sure. I do ricollect, though, hearin' Sam Amos say to old Squire
Bentham, 'What's the matter, anyhow? Ain't Kentucky politicians got
enough gift o' gab, without sendin' down to Tennessee to git somebody
to help you out?'
"And the old Squire laughed fit to kill; and says he, 'It's all on
your account, Sam. We heard you was against us, and we knew there
wasn't an orator in Kentucky that could make you change your mind. So
we've sent down to Tennessee for Judge McGowan, and we're relyin' on
him to bring you over to our side.' And that like to 'a' tickled Sam
to death.
"Well, when Harvey heard his cousin was to be one o' the big men at
the speakin', he was mighty proud, as anybody would 'a' been, and
nothin' would do but he must have Judge McGowan to eat dinner at his
house.
"Some of the men objected to this, and said the speakers ought to eat
at the barbecue. But Harvey said that blood was thicker than water
with him, and no cousin o' his could come to Goshen and go away
without eatin' a meal at his house. So it was fixed up that everybody
else was to eat at the barbecue, and Harvey was to take Judge McGowan
over to his house to a family dinner-party.
"I dropped in to see Mary two or three days before the speakin', and
when I was leavin', I said, 'Mary, if there's anything I can do to
help you about your dinner-party, jest let me know.' And she said,
'There ain't a thing to do; Harvey's been to town and bought
everything he could think of in the way of groceries, and Jane Ann's
comin' over to cook the dinner; but thank you, all the same.'
"I thought Mary looked pleased and satisfied, and I says, 'Well, with
everything to cook and Jane Ann to cook it, there won't be anything
lackin' about that dinner.' And Mary laughed, and says she, 'You know
I'm my father's own child.'
"Old Jerry used to say, ''Tain't no visit unless you waller a bed and
empty a plate.' They used tell it that Aunt Maria, the cook, never had
a chance to clean up the kitchen between meals, and the neighbors all
called Jerry's house the free tavern. I've heard folks laugh many a
time over the children recitin' the Ten Commandments Sunday evenin's,
and Jerry would holler at 'em when they got through and say: