On the second day of February, the ground-hog, true to his traditions,
emerged from his hole, and looked about him cautiously for his shadow.
Fortunately, it was not in attendance. And by this token the spring was
early, and all the chill rains, and late frosts, and unpropitious winds,
and concomitant calamities, that might have ensued had he found his
ill-omened shadow awaiting him, were escaped. It was not long afterward
that small protuberances appeared on every twig and wand and branch,
although the trees had not budded save in these promissory intimations.
The sap was stirring. The dead world was quickened again. That beautiful
symbolism of the miracle of resurrection was daily presented in the
reawakening, in the rising anew of the spring. So pensively gladsome it
was, so gently approaching, with such soft and subtle languors! The sky
was blue; the clouds how light, how closely akin to the fleecy mists!
Sheep-bells were tinkling—for what! the pastures were already green! And
here and there a peach-tree beside a rail-fence burst forth in a cloud of
blossoms so exquisitely petaled, so delicately roseate, that only some
fine ethereal vagary of the sunset might rival the tint. Sometimes among
the still leafless mountains these pink graces of color would appear,
betokening the peach orchard of some hidden little hut, its existence
only thus attested. The Scolacutta River was affluent with the spring
floods: a wild, errant stream this, with many a wanton freak, with a
weakness for carrying off its neighbor’s rails; for snatching huge
slices of land from the banks; for breaking off trees and bushes, and
whirling them helplessly down its current, tossing and teetering in a
frantic, unwilling dance. Many a joke had it played before and since the
disaster to old Griff’s mill. The sunbeams might seem the strings of a
harp; whenever touched by a wing they were quivering and thrilling with
songs. Slow wreathing blue smoke curled in fields here and there where
the fires of rubbish blazed; sometimes a stump would burn sullenly all
night and char slowly, and with a puff of wind burst anew into flames.
The soft lustres of the Pleiades and the fiery Aldebaran were resplendent
in the heavens, and the moon was the paschal moon. A vernal thrill had
blessed the wild cherry, and it gave out its glad incense. For miles and
miles the exquisite fragrance from its vast growths on the mountain-side
pervaded the air. And presently the mountain-side wore the tender verdure
of budding leaves, and even the gloomy pines were tipped with new tufts
of vivid green, unlike their sombre hue; and here and there crags
flaunted a bourgeoning vine, and the wild ivy crept on the ground where
the wood violet bloomed. All day the ploughs turned the furrow, and the
air echoed with the calls “gee, haw” to the slow oxen.
And Mrs. Purvine was greatly distraught in the effort to remember exactly
where she had stowed away certain bags of seed necessary, in view of
their best interests, to be sown in the light of the moon.
Her sun-bonnet was all awry, her face wrinkled and anxious with the
cares of the spring-tide “gyarden spot,” her gestures laborious and
weary, as she sat on her porch, the lap of her ample apron filled with
small calico bags, each of which seemed to have a constitutional defect
in its draw-string; for when found closed it would not open, and if by
chance open it would not close. There was a sort of shelf in lieu of
balustrade against the posts of the porch, and on this were placed two or
three pieces of old crockery,—providentially broken into shapes that the
ingenious could utilize,—in which seeds were immersed in water, that they
might swell in the night, and thus enter the ground prepared to swiftly
germinate. One of these broken dishes stood on the floor at her feet, and
a graceless young rooster, that had the air of loafing about the steps,
approached by unperceived degrees, picked up several of the seed, and
was quenching his thirst, when spied by Mrs. Purvine, who was viciously
pulling the strings of a recalcitrant bag.
“In the name o’ Moses!” she adjured him so solemnly that the rooster
stopped and looked at her expectantly. “I’m in an’ about minded ter cut
them dish-rag-gourd seed out’n yer craw, ye great, big, ten-toed sinner,
you! Ye needn’t turn yer head up ’twixt every sup,—so thankful ter the
Lord fur water. Ye’ll find mo’ water in the pot ’n that. A-swallerin’
them few dish-rag-gourd seed ez nimble an’ onconsarned, an’ me jes’
a-chasin’ an’ a-racin’ an’ wore ter the bone ter find some mo’! Ye’d
better leave ’em be.”
The rooster, hardly comprehending the words, was about to again sample
the delicacy, when aunt Dely, stamping to startle him, inadvertently
overturned the dish and the seed on the floor. The fowl scuttled off,
looking askance at the ruin, and the water dripped through the cracks of
the puncheon floor.
So absorbed had she been that she had not observed an approach, and
Alethea was at the foot of the steps when she lifted her eyes.
“Hyar I be, aunt Dely,” said the girl, noticing Mrs. Purvine’s occupation
with a surprise that seemed hardly warranted, and speaking in a
breathless, eager way. “Air you-uns feelin’ enny better?”
For once in her life the crafty Mrs. Purvine was embarrassed; to conceal
her confusion, she engaged in a strenuous struggle with one of the bags
of seed.
“I feel toler’ble well,” she said at last, gruffly.
“Waal!” exclaimed Alethea, in amazement. “From the word Ben Doaks brung
ter Wild-Cat Hollow, ez he war drivin’ up some steers ter the bald o’ the
mounting, we-uns ’lowed ez ye hed been tuk awful sick, an’ war like ter
die.”
“I sent ye that word,” said Mrs. Purvine with admirable effrontery. “I
knowed thar warn’t no other way ter git ye down hyar. When hev ye hed the
perliteness ter fetch them bones o’ yourn hyar afore?” She looked over
her spectacles with angry reproach at the girl.
“Waal, aunt Dely,” said Alethea in her dulcet, mollifying drawl, sitting
down on the step as she talked, “ye know I hev hed ter do so much o’ the
ploughin’ an’ sech, a-puttin’ in o’ our craps. We-uns hev got sech a lot
o’ folks up ter our house. An’ I dunno when Jacob Jessup hev done less
work ’n he hev this spring.”
“Thought ye be always ’lowin’ ye ain’t layin’ off ter do his work,” said
the elder tartly.
“Waal,” rejoined Alethea wearily, “I don’t ’pear ter hev the grit ter
hold out an’ quar’l over it, like I used ter do. I reckon my sperit’s
a-gittin’ bruk; but I don’t mind workin’ off in the field, ’thout no
jawin’, whar I kin keep comp’ny with my thoughts.”
“I wouldn’t want ter keep comp’ny with ’em,” said aunt Dely cavalierly.
“I’ll be bound they air heavier ter foller ’n the plough. Mighty solemn,
low-sperited thoughts fur a spry young gal like you-uns! Ef yer head
could be turned inside out, thar ain’t nobody ez wouldn’t ’low it mus’
outside be gray. They’d say, ‘In the name o’ Moses! old ez this inside,
an’ yaller outside! ’Tain’t natur’!’”
The girl had taken off her bonnet. Her beauty was undimmed, despite
a pensive pallor on her delicate cheek. She fanned herself with her
sun-bonnet, and the heavy, undulating folds of her lustrous yellow hair
stirred softly. “I’m powerful glad ter find ye hevin’ yer health same ez
common,” she said.
“I’m s’prised ter hear ye say so,” declared Mrs. Purvine, tart from her
renewed conflicts with the bag. “I ain’t sick, bless the Lord, but I
wanted ye ter kem down hyar an’ bide with me, an’ I knowed I couldn’t
tole ye out’n that thar Eden, ez ye call Wild-Cat Hollow, ’thout
purtendin’ ter be nigh dead. So I jes’ held my han’ ter my side an’ tied
up my head, an’ hollered ter Ben Doaks ez he went by. He looked mighty
sorry fur me!” A faint smile flickered across her broad face. “I hed laid
off ter go ter bed afore you-uns kem, though. I will say fur ye ez ye
travel toler’ble fas’. Yes, sir!” she went on, after a momentary pause.
“I live in a ongrateful worl’. I hev ter gin out I’m dyin’ ter git my
own niece ter kem ter see me. An’ thar’s that thar Jerry Price, ez I
hev raised from a ill-convenient infant ez won’t do nuthin’ I say, nor
marry nobody I picks out fur him. I’ll be boun’ he wouldn’t hev no say-so
’bout’n it ef his aunt Melindy Jane hed hed the raisin’ of him. An’ Bluff
ez good ez ’lowed this mornin’ ez he’d hook me ef I didn’t quit foolin’
in his bucket o’ bran,—’kase I ’lowed ez mebbe the saaft-soap gourd war
drapped in it, bein’ ez I couldn’t find it nowhar, an’ I war afear’d
’twouldn’t agree with the critter’s insides. An’ thar’s that rooster,”—he
was now out among the weeds,—“he war a aig ez got by accident inter a
tur-r-key’s nest, an’ when he war hatched she wouldn’t hev him; an’ ez
I hed no hen ez war kerryin’ o’ chickens his size, _I_ hed ter care fur
him. I useter git up in my bare feet in the middle o’ a winter night ter
kiver up that thar rooster in a bat o’ cotton, fur he war easy ter git
cold, an’ he could holler ez loud ez a baby. An’ arter all, he kem hyar
an’ eat up ’bout haffen my dish-rag-gourd seed! I dunno what in Moses’
name is kem o’ the other bags. Never mind!”—she shook her head as she
addressed the jaunty and unprescient fowl,—“I’ll git up the heart ter
kill ye some day; an’ ef I can’t eat ye, bein’ so well acquainted with
ye, I’ll be boun’ Jerry kin.”
Alethea, apprised how precious the seeds were, began to gather them up as
she sat on the step.
“Listen ter Jerry, now!” exclaimed Mrs. Purvine, with whom the world had
evidently gone much amiss to-day. “Needn’t tell me he don’t hurt Bluff’s
feelins, callin’ him names whilst ploughing an’ yellin’ at him like a
plumb catamount. Ef Bluff hedn’t treated me like he done this mornin’,
I’d go thar an’ make Jerry shet up.”
Now and then the ox and the man at the plough-tail came into view at
the end of the field that sloped down to the road. One of aunt Dely’s
boys was dropping corn in the furrow, and the other followed with a hoe
and covered the grain in. Alethea watched them with the interest of a
practical farmer.