BY
COLLINS SHACKELFORD.
When my husband, Micah Pyncheon, died he left me alone with our baby
girl, the farm, an' the grasshoppers. It happened in Kansas, in '76.
You don't mind my crying now, do you? 't seems as though I'd never get
the tears all out of me. The time ain't so far away, nor me so old,
but that those days spread out before me like a panorama, nat'ral as
life. I can feel that hot summer sun, not a cloud in the sky, an' the
smell of the bakin' earth movin' all the time in waves of heat until
you got dizzy with the motion an' the scent. An' the grasshoppers! You
can't know how they came a-flyin' by day an' by night in great brown
clouds; how they crept an' crawled an' squirmed through the wheat an'
the corn an' the grass, bitin' an' chewin' every green thing, leavin'
nothin' but black an' dry shreds, an' the earth more desolate than if
a fire had swept over it. They were everywhere out-of-doors; they came
into the house--down the chimney when they couldn't get in through the
door--an' I've picked their bony bodies out of my pockets many a time,
an' knocked 'em off the table so as I might put down a dish. If you
killed one, a thousand came to the funeral. All day an' all night you
heard the click, click, click of their bodies as they walked about,
jumped here an' there, or rubbed against one another. An' poor Micah's
body under the blanket--they were all about it, an' I havin' to brush
'em away. Anybody would 'a' cried if they'd been in my place, such a
dreary day was that--me an' baby all alone, with the village ten miles
off, an' not a soul nearer than neighbor King, three miles away.
Seems to me I don't know how Micah died, it was all so sudden like.
All day he'd been out in the sun a-fightin' the hoppers, an' tryin' to
work when he wasn't fightin'; an' he came in with his head a hangin'
forward an' not a smile on his lips as he put up his hat an' rolled
down his sleeves.
"I'm downright discouraged, Miranda," he said at last, lookin' out of
the window. "There's no use in standin' up agin natur an' the hoppers.
They eat faster'n I can kill 'em, an' in a week the crops 'ull be
about all gone. It looks as though when winter comes we won't have
anythin' to eat. I b'lieve I've killed ten thousand of those creatures
to-day, an' yet they came faster'n drops in a rain-storm."
Then he picked up little Hannah an' lay down on the bed with her in
his arms, sayin' no more. I bustled 'round--speakin' nothing, an' as
quiet as possible, knowin' how tired in mind an' body the poor man
was--an' fixed up a nice supper. When the table was all set, an' the
food on it, an' everything as cheerful an' encouragin' as the hoppers
would let me make it, I called Micah. But he didn't answer; so I
stepped across the room an' put my hand on his face, so as to wake him
gently, as I was used to doin'.
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The loved face was cold and white, an' I give one
scream an' fell beside him, knowin' nothin'. Yes, Micah was
dead--gone to sleep never to waken, passed from life with little
Hannah snuggled in his arms.
No wonder I cry when I remember that lonesome night, holdin' the
little one in my arms an' watchin' the still face on the bed, knowin'
that nevermore those eyes would look into mine, nevermore those cold
lips would speak to me. An' when the mornin' came, gray an' hopeless,
there was no one but me an' the baby an' poor Micah's body; an' the
hoppers a-creepin' an' a-crawlin' all through the house as if they
were a-buyin' of it at auction, a-rustlin' their wings an' a-hustlin'
their bodies until I thought theie was a cool wind instead of a hot,
breathless mornin'. I covered up the dear face, an', kneelin' by his
side, prayed an' cried, an' cried an' prayed. It was all I could do
for my husband of three years. I don't know what else I did, what else
I thought. I saw nothin', heard nothin', until somebody's hand fell
upon my shoulder.
"Why, Mrs. Pyncheon!" was the cry, an' lookin' up through my tears I
saw neighbor King a-standin' by me. "I was goin' up the road," he
said, "an' thought I'd stop an' say good-mornin'. Where's Micah? In
the field, an' you a-cryin' for lonesomeness?"
I answered nothin'; but put up my hand an' pulled back the sheet from
the dear dead face.
"My God!" was all he said, an' he staggered back to a chair an' sat in
it for five minutes without a word, his face in his hands.
"Madam, forgive me! I never dreamed of such a thing," he cried at
last, recoverin' himself; "an' when an' how did it happen?"
I told him the story between sobs, breakin' down every few words.
Thank Heaven! it wasn't a long story, or I should have gone crazy
before it was told. He was silent for quite a spell, as if he was
a-meditatin' over the situation, lookin' mostly at poor Micah as if
drawin' ideas from the cold lips.
"Now, Mrs. Pyncheon!" he said finally, in his solemn voice an' grave,
slow way of talkin',--"now, Mrs. Pyncheon, you must trust everythin'
to me. You're beat out. I've no women folks in my house, as you know;
but I'll ride to town an' get an old lady, a friend of mine, to come
out an' help you through. I'll see, too, that poor Micah has a coffin
an' a minister. Be the brave little woman, Mrs. Pyncheon, that Micah
would tell you to be, if he could speak. By sun-down I'll have
somebody you can talk to an' who'll cheer you up better than I can.
To-morrow--to-morrow we'll bury the poor man!"
When he said this it set me to cryin'. Then it was so still that I
looked up an' found myself alone. A-down the road was a line of dust,
an' I heard the muffled footfalls of neighbor King's horse on his way
to the village.
An' "to-morrow we'll bury him" were words that all that long,
lonesome, hot day kept soundin' in my ears as if some one was callin'
'em out with the tickin' of the clock. "Bury him"--an' Micah dead only
a few hours! I couldn't believe it, an' would stop an' listen for his
whistle at the barn, his talk to the horses, his rattle at the pump,
his footfall at the door, until, crazy with waitin,' I'd go over to
the bed, pull back the sheet, an' in the still face read why I should
never hear those happy sounds again--never again.
Ah, well! The sun went down at last; the long, dreary day was ended,
an' in the twilight came back my good neighbor with motherly Mrs.
Challen--an'--an'--it hurts me even now to tell it--the coffin for.
Micah. In it those two good people softly placed him, an' all that
night I watched its shape between me an' the window.
[Illustration: "MRS. CHALLEN HELD ME IN HER ARMS."]
The next day, in the mornin', under the trees in the little grove
across from the house, my Micah was laid to rest forever--placed so
that when I looked out of the window or the door I could see the mound
of earth between the fence of tree limbs woven around it, an' seem'
it, know that in that spot was buried one who in my young life was
more to me than earth or heaven. I never understood how I got through
those two terrible days. I can't remember distinctly. It's all
dream-like, as if in a thin, grayish fog. I know that Mrs. Challen
held me in her arms--for I was a fragile, girlish thing--like a
mother; that the minister said words I never heard; that the strange
faces of a few farm people from miles away looked at me; that the
grasshoppers were under foot an' in the air an' even on the coffin;
but, above all else, I recall, movin' among the other people like
somebody from another world, the tall, straight form and sad face of
neighbor King. It was neighbor King who managed everything from the
minute his hand fell upon my shoulder that mornin' until the last limb
was knit into the rough fence around the lonely grave. What would have
happened to me without him?
I'm only a woman--one of the weak ones, I s'pose--for I broke down
entirely the night after poor Micah was buried, Mrs. Challen said I
went crazy; that I'd kneel down at the side of the bed an' cry as if
my heart would break; that again an' again I went to the front door
an' looked up an' down the lonely, treeless road, an' then to the back
door, where I would call "Micah!" "Micah!"--just as I'd been used to
callin' him to his meals, an' I'd listen, with my hand to my ear, to
hear him answer. Last of all, worst of all, she said, I went
staggerin' across the street, an', pushin' through the rough fence,
threw myself upon the grave an' begged of the Great Father to give me
back the dead that had been so much to me when he was living. I don't
wonder at my losing my head. Micah an' I were both so young, an' we
had loved each other so much, as common folks often do, that to lose
him was robbin' my life of all its brightness an' sweetness.
The mornin' after the funeral neighbor King was round bright an'
early, findin' me red-eyed an' weakly.
"Well! well! Mrs. Pyncheon," he began, in what was for him a cheery
voice, "what are we a-goin' to do now besides summin' up a little? Are
we goin' to our relations?"
"No, Mr. King," I answered, havin' thought over the matter a little,
"no, I'm goin' to stay here. I have no relation I want to bother.
Here's the place for me an' Hannah. The farm is paid for, an' all I
have is here an'--an' over there," turnin' my face to the spot where
Micah lay. "If the grasshoppers 'ull let me, I stay."
[Illustration: "THE MORNIN' AFTER THE FUNERAL NEIGHBOR KING WAS ROUND
BRIGHT AN' EARLY."]
"Quite right, madam. Very sensible. But, of course, while you can do a
good deal, you can't work the farm all alone. That's impossible. I've
been givin' the matter some thought, an' intend to help you out, if
you'll let me. Suppose we work it on shares? You name my share, ma'am,
an' I'll take care that my men look after the hard work for you. The
hoppers won't leave much for this year; but what there is you shall
have, an' I'll get my share for this year out of next year's crops.
I'm glad that suits you. Now, you must not live here alone. One of my
men has a sister in the village, a stout, healthy, willin' girl, who
wants a home. She'll be glad to come here. I'll try to superintend
affairs for you, if you're willin', an' make the best of everything.
Oh, we'll keep you in good shape, never fear; but you mustn't mind my
askin' questions, so that I can get a knowledge of affairs. Now, don't
thank me. I'd rather you wouldn't. Just keep cheerful, an' as long as
we've got to live, let's make the best of life."
[Illustration: "THERE WAS HARDLY A DAY HE DID NOT RIDE OVER THE LITTLE
FARM TO SEE HOW THINGS WERE GOIN'."]
This was very good from neighbor King--somethin' you wouldn't expect
from such a sad or solemn-lookin' man, a man so quiet, so reserved,
appearin' always as if he had some grief of his own, so that he could
sympathize with others in misery. He must have been forty years old,
for his dark brown hair was showin' gray around the temples, an' there
were deep wrinkles around the corners of his mouth, an' lots of little
ones around his deep, sunken brown eyes. It always seemed to me as if
he'd been constructed for a minister or a lawyer, an' stopped half way
as a farmer. He was no half-acre farmer, but a worker of hundreds of
acres; an' my little homestead was only a potato patch alongside of
his. The queerest thing about his place was that there wasn't a woman
on it. All the work, cookin' an' everything was done by men. Well,
girls was scarce in those days an' those parts, an' perhaps that was
the reason. Maybe, again, he was afraid of women, an' didn't want 'em
bossin' around his work. I didn't know an' didn't care. It was no
concern of mine. I only knew he was mighty good to me in my
affliction--the truest, steadiest, most unselfish friend a forlorn
woman could have; an' every night I prayed for that same neighbor
King, askin' the Lord to bless him for the goodness an' kindness he
had shown to me.
True enough, the grasshoppers didn't leave me much that year, just
enough to keep soul and body together, with economy. The pesky things
eat everything from pussly to leaves. I b'lieve they'd 'a' eaten the
green out of the sky if they could 'a' got at it. Why, the earth
looked as if the devil had gone over it with a brush of brown paint,
missin' a spot here an' there that come up green after the critters
had got away. There was only one thing they didn't eat, an' that was
themselves--more's the pity!
Neighbor King (his other name was Horace, I found out afterwards)
watched my farm matters pretty closely the second year. He tended to
my interests before his own, because, as he said, I was a widow an'
must not suffer. There was hardly a day he did not ride over the
little farm to see how things were goin', always stopping at the door
to have a cheerful talk, or to give me, when comin' from the village,
a crumb or two of news of the big world so far away; an' often he left
a newspaper, that I might read myself what was a-goin' on. This man
did everything, in his grave, soothin' way, to smooth down my
sorrow--not to lead me to forget, for that was impossible--an' make
the roadway of my life as pleasant as a country lane hedged in with
sweet-smellin' flowers an' alive with birds nestlin' and twitterin'
among the buds and blossoms. In this quiet, restful, peaceful way
neighbor King came, in three years, to build his life into mine,
until, thinkin' matters over, I realized that he was necessary to make
that life pleasant. I didn't forget poor Micah--how could I? At the
same time I felt that I could not go on alone the balance of my life
with the hunger in my heart for some one to love an' to love me. An'
he? Well, not a word out of line had been spoken; but I read the
change in his eyes, his looks, his manners, in the tones of his voice.
Women read where there's neither print nor writin'. I couldn't tell
why he should love me, though as women go I was young--fifteen years
younger than he, an' fair lookin', an' a worker. I was companionable
an' in sympathy with him. Put yourself in my place an' be the
lonesome, forlorn creature I was, an' see if you wouldn't love the man
who put aside the dark clouds an' gave you sunshine to drown despair,
an' a cheerful voice instead of silence. Neither of us spoke. It
wasn't necessary. We understood. An' because of that to me the skies
were brighter, an' the earth more beautiful, the days fuller of
nature's music, an' there was hope an' quiet joy everywhere.
[Illustration: "HE DIDN'T STOP, AS WAS HIS HABIT, BUT CANTERED BY,
HEAD DOWN AND REINS LOOSE."]
Ah, me! I didn't know it; but behind this sunny life, back of this bit
of heaven that came down all around me, was a big, black cloud full of
storm. I remember well the evenin' it first began to show itself. I
saw neighbor King comin' down the road from the village, on his pony.
He didn't stop, as was his habit, but cantered by, head down and reins
loose. Then, as if he'd forgotten somethin', he wheeled the horse
sharp around, trotted back, threw the bridle over a fence-post, an'
came in. I saw somethin' was the matter from the absent-minded way he
talked an' by his lookin' mostly at the floor.
Strange, too, he began about crops an' prices; then he had somethin'
to say about the village, and from that to livin' in big cities, an'
how such places changes people's natures, makin' women different
creatures--more bold, more forgetful of friends, less kindly to their
sex, than those of the country; an' he said it all as slowly an'
softly an' solemnly as those ministers pray who don't think the Lord's
deaf. He seemed to be tryin' to get at somethin' by goin' round it;
an' I thought that somethin' was me.
"Neighbor King," I said finally, "you always speak so kindly of women
folks that it seems odd to me that you never have a woman on your
farm; an' odder still that you've never married."
"Mrs. Pyncheon," his face lightin' up like the sky just before
sunrise, "you an' I are old an' tried friends, an' I know you'll
respect an' keep secret what I'm going to tell you, an' what, to be
plain, I came to tell you. I knew, an' I didn't wonder, that you
thought it strange I'd never married. The Lord only knows how I hunger
for a woman's love, a woman's talk, a woman's presence where I can see
her. I would give all I am worth if I could take a good woman by the
hand as my wife, an' go forth even to begin life over again. Hunger
an' thirst are terrible; but they are easily borne in comparison with
the hunger an' thirst for a woman's love that I have endured for
years. No one can realize my lonesomeness, Mrs. Pyncheon;" an'
reachin' out he caught my hands in his. "I've been your friend for
years. You know it. I believe you've been mine. Will you continue such
when I keep from you a truth I dare not tell, an' give you in its
place a fact that you must know? I know you to be brave an' strong.
You'll be so now, an' secret, too--for no one here knows what I'm
goin' to tell you. Mrs. Pyncheon, I am a married man."
I couldn't help it; but the news was so sudden an' so startlin' that
my hands came away from his with a wrench, an' I drew away, feelin'
hurt an' shamed, if not guilty; an' I felt a flush of anger burnin' my
cheeks.
"There! there! don't misjudge me, Mrs. Pyncheon. Pity me, instead.
I've made no attempt to deceive you. I've been silent, because I could
not talk about a matter that was sad an' sacred. Yes, I'm married;
but"--an' great tears came into his eyes--"my wife has been hopelessly
insane for ten years. You buried Micah an' mourned for him, knowin' he
was dead; I buried my wife alive, God knows whether I've grieved for
her. She is in an insane asylum. For years I could not break away an'
leave her; it seemed so heartless to desert one who had been the joy
an' pride of my youth. But the doctor told me that it was death for me
if I stayed; that I could not last more than a year goin' on as I'd
been livin'. Now you can understand why I am here, solitary an'
hopeless, without a friend--unless I can call you one?"
"You never had a truer one, neighbor King," my heart speakin' out its
gratitude. "When I think of what you've done for me, an' how you've
thought of me, all when the world was the darkest,--why, it seems as
if my life was too short in which to say all my prayers for you."
Perhaps I spoke particularly quick an' spirited, an' perhaps my eyes
showed more'n I spoke; for he looked very queerly at me for a minute,
his face lightin' up in a way it was unused to, an' then he said,
"Thank you, Mrs. Pyncheon; I think I understand. I shall not forget
this meetin'. Good-by." An', before I knew what he meant to do, he
stooped an' kissed my forehead, an' was out of the house before I
could speak.
I wasn't angry; I wasn't hurt. If the truth was given, I was
delighted; for I, too, was hungry an' thirsty for a little love. I was
woman enough to know what that kiss meant. At the same time I grieved
for the poor man, chained, so to speak, to a crazy person, bearin' his
unseen burden so uncomplainingly, an' doin' God-like work all the
year round. But the more I thought over that kiss, the more I realized
that between neighbor King an' myself had been suddenly put up a high
wall, he on one side, I on the other; an' that in the future I should
see him very seldom.
It happened as I thought. Days passed, an' neighbor King came not. The
thumpety-thump of his pony no longer sounded along the road. Mornin's
and evenin's came an' went, an' not a "howdy-do" in his pleasant
voice. I wasn't surprised; I expected as much for a time. Finally, one
of the hired men said he'd gone away. Then I put my lips together in a
dogged way an' settled down to a lonesome life, cheered a little by
the prattle of little Hannah, an' kept from rustin' by the farm work.
I was lonesome, very lonesome, when the evenin' shadows crept over the
ground, an' the crickets began to sing, the katydids to scold, an' the
hoot owl to give his mournful cry over in the grove where Micah lay.
[Illustration: "ONE OF HIS MEN BROUGHT ME A LETTER--THE FIRST I'D HAD
FOR YEARS"]
There was daybreak at last, though nearly a month after neighbor King
had gone. One of his men brought me a letter--the first I'd had for
years--an' I looked at it a long time before I opened it, wondering
what strange news it had for me to know, why I should have it, an'
what I should do with it now it had come. I knew the writin'. It was
neighbor King's. Was it good news, or news to shrivel my heart up as
with fire? I tore off an end an' pulled out the sheet. It didn't take
long to read it.