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Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller · English · Gutenberg #2799 · 481,592 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

Author: Irving Bacheller


        
Release date: September 1, 2001 [eBook #2799]
                Most recently updated: March 12, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2799

Credits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, Martin Robb, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EBEN HOLDEN: A TALE OF THE NORTH COUNTRY ***




Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, Martin Robb, and David Widger








EBEN HOLDEN A TALE OF THE NORTH COUNTRY

By Irving Bacheller






PREFACE

Early in the last century the hardy wood-choppers began to come west,
out of Vermont. They founded their homes in the Adirondack wildernesses
and cleared their rough acres with the axe and the charcoal pit. After
years of toil in a rigorous climate they left their sons little besides
a stumpy farm and a coon-skin overcoat. Far from the centres of life
their amusements, their humours, their religion, their folk lore,
their views of things had in them the flavour of the timber lands, the
simplicity of childhood. Every son was nurtured in the love of honour
and of industry, and the hope of sometime being president. It is to be
feared this latter thing and the love of right living, for its own sake,
were more in their thoughts than the immortal crown that had been the
inspiration of their fathers. Leaving the farm for the more promising
life of the big city they were as men born anew, and their second
infancy was like that of Hercules. They had the strength of manhood,
the tireless energy of children and some hope of the highest things.
The pageant of the big town--its novelty, its promise, its art, its
activity--quickened their highest powers, put them to their best effort.
And in all great enterprises they became the pathfinders, like their
fathers in the primeval forest.

This book has grown out of such enforced leisure as one may find in a
busy life. Chapters begun in the publicity of a Pullman car have been
finished in the cheerless solitude of a hotel chamber. Some have
had their beginning in a sleepless night and their end in a day of
bronchitis. A certain pious farmer in the north country when, like
Agricola, he was about to die, requested the doubtful glory of this
epitaph: 'He was a poor sinner, but he done his best' Save for the fact
that I am an excellent sinner, in a literary sense, the words may stand
for all the apology I have to make.

The characters were mostly men and women I have known and who left
with me a love of my kind that even a wide experience with knavery and
misfortune has never dissipated. For my knowledge of Mr Greeley I
am chiefly indebted to David P. Rhoades, his publisher, to Philip
Fitzpatrick, his pressman, to the files of the Tribune and to many
books.

IRVING BACHELLER New York City, 7 April 1900






BOOK ONE




Chapter I

If all the people that ever went west that expedition was the most
remarkable.

A small boy in a big basket on the back of a jolly old man, who carried
a cane in one hand, a rifle in the other; a black dog serving as scout,
skirmisher and rear guard--that was the size of it. They were the
survivors of a ruined home in the north of Vermont, and were travelling
far into the valley of the St Lawrence, but with no particular
destination.

Midsummer had passed them in their journey; their clothes were covered
with dust; their faces browning in the hot sun. It was a very small boy
that sat inside the basket and clung to the rim, his tow head shaking as
the old man walked. He saw wonderful things, day after day, looking down
at the green fields or peering into the gloomy reaches of the wood; and
he talked about them.

'Uncle Eb--is that where the swifts are?' he would ask often; and the
old man would answer, 'No; they ain't real sassy this time o' year. They
lay 'round in the deep dingles every day.'

Then the small voice would sing idly or prattle with an imaginary being
that had a habit of peeking over the edge of the basket or would shout a
greeting to some bird or butterfly and ask finally: 'Tired, Uncle Eb?'

Sometimes the old gentleman would say 'not very', and keep on, looking
thoughtfully at the ground. Then, again, he would stop and mop his bald
head with a big red handkerchief and say, a little tremor of irritation
in his voice: 'Tired! who wouldn't be tired with a big elephant like you
on his back all day? I'd be 'shamed o' myself t' set there an' let an
old man carry me from Dan to Beersheba. Git out now an' shake yer legs.'

I was the small boy and I remember it was always a great relief to get
out of the basket, and having run ahead, to lie in the grass among the
wild flowers, and jump up at him as he came along.

Uncle Eb had been working for my father five years before I was born. He
was not a strong man and had never been able to carry the wide swath of
the other help in the fields, but we all loved him for his kindness and
his knack of story-telling. He was a bachelor who came over the mountain
from Pleasant Valley, a little bundle of clothes on his shoulder, and
bringing a name that enriched the nomenclature of our neighbourhood. It
was Eben Holden.

He had a cheerful temper and an imagination that was a very wilderness
of oddities. Bears and panthers growled and were very terrible in that
strange country. He had invented an animal more treacherous than any
in the woods, and he called it a swift. 'Sumthin' like a panther', he
described the look of it: a fearsome creature that lay in the edge of
the woods at sundown and made a noise like a woman crying, to lure the
unwary. It would light one's eye with fear to hear Uncle Eb lift his
voice in the cry of the swift. Many a time in the twilight when the bay
of a hound or some far cry came faintly through the wooded hills, I
have seen him lift his hand and bid us hark. And when we had listened
a moment, our eyes wide with wonder, he would turn and say in a low,
half-whispered tone: ''S a swift' I suppose we needed more the fear of
God, but the young children of the pioneer needed also the fear of the
woods or they would have strayed to their death in them.

A big bass viol, taller than himself, had long been the solace of his
Sundays. After he had shaved--a ceremony so solemn that it seemed a rite
of his religion--that sacred viol was uncovered. He carried it sometimes
to the back piazza and sometimes to the barn, where the horses shook and
trembled at the roaring thunder of the strings. When he began playing
we children had to get well out of the way, and keep our distance. I
remember now the look of him, then--his thin face, his soft black eyes,
his long nose, the suit of broadcloth, the stock and standing collar
and, above all, the solemnity in his manner when that big devil of a
thing was leaning on his breast.

As to his playing I have never heard a more fearful sound in any time of
peace or one less creditable to a Christian. Weekdays he was addicted to
the milder sin of the flute and, after chores, if there were no one to
talk with him, he would sit long and pour his soul into that magic bar
of boxwood.

Uncle Eb had another great accomplishment. He was what they call in the
north country 'a natural cooner'. After nightfall, when the corn was
ripening, he spoke in a whisper and had his ear cocked for coons. But he
loved all kinds of good fun.

So this man had a boy in his heart and a boy in his basket that evening
we left the old house. My father and mother and older brother had been
drowned in the lake, where they had gone for a day of pleasure. I had
then a small understanding of my loss, hat I have learned since that
the farm was not worth the mortgage and that everything had to be sold.
Uncle Eb and I--a little lad, a very little lad of six--were all that
was left of what had been in that home. Some were for sending me to the
county house; but they decided, finally, to turn me over to a dissolute
uncle, with some allowance for my keep. Therein Uncle Eb was to
be reckoned with. He had set his heart on keeping me, but he was a
farm-hand without any home or visible property and not, therefore, in
the mind of the authorities, a proper guardian. He had me with him in
the old house, and the very night he heard they were coming after me in
the morning, we started on our journey. I remember he was a long time
tying packages of bread and butter and tea and boiled eggs to the rim
of the basket, so that they hung on the outside. Then he put a woollen
shawl and an oilcloth blanket on the bottom, pulled the straps over his
shoulders and buckled them, standing before the looking-glass, and, hang
put on my cap and coat, stood me on the table, and stooped so that I
could climb into the basket--a pack basket, that he had used in hunting,
the top a little smaller than the bottom. Once in, I could stand
comfortably or sit facing sideways, my back and knees wedged from port
to starboard. With me in my place he blew out the lantern and groped his
way to the road, his cane in one hand, his rifle in the other. Fred, our
old dog--a black shepherd, with tawny points--came after us. Uncle
Eb scolded him and tried to send him back, but I pleaded for the poor
creature and that settled it, he was one of our party.

'Dunno how we'll feed him,' said Uncle Eb. 'Our own mouths are big
enough t' take all we can carry, but I hain' no heart t' leave 'im all
'lone there.'

I was old for my age, they tell me, and had a serious look and a wise
way of talking, for a boy so young; but I had no notion of what lay
before or behind us.

'Now, boy, take a good look at the old house,' I remember he whispered
to me at the gate that night ''Tain't likely ye'll ever see it ag'in.
Keep quiet now,' he added, letting down the bars at the foot of the
lane. 'We're goin' west an' we mustn't let the grass grow under us. Got
t'be purty spry I can tell ye.'

It was quite dark and he felt his way carefully down the cow-paths into
the broad pasture. With every step I kept a sharp lookout for swifts,
and the moon shone after a while, making my work easier.

I had to hold my head down, presently, when the tall brush began to whip
the basket and I heard the big boots of Uncle Eb ripping the briars.
Then we came into the blackness of the thick timber and I could hear him
feeling his way over the dead leaves with his cane. I got down, shortly,
and walked beside him, holding on to the rifle with one hand. We
stumbled, often, and were long in the trail before we could see the
moonlight through the tree columns. In the clearing I climbed to my
seat again and by and by we came to the road where my companion sat down
resting his load on a boulder.

'Pretty hot, Uncle Eb, pretty hot,' he said to himself, fanning his brow
with that old felt hat he wore everywhere. 'We've come three mile er
more without a stop an' I guess we'd better rest a jiffy.'

My legs ached too, and I was getting very sleepy. I remember the jolt
of the basket as he rose, and hearing him say, 'Well, Uncle Eb, I guess
we'd better be goin'.'

The elbow that held my head, lying on the rim of the basket, was already
numb; but the prickling could no longer rouse me, and half-dead with
weariness, I fell asleep. Uncle Eb has told me since, that I tumbled out
of the basket once, and that he had a time of it getting me in again,
but I remember nothing more of that day's history.

When I woke in the morning, I could hear the crackling of fire, and felt
very warm and cosy wrapped in the big shawl. I got a cheery greeting
from Uncle Eb, who was feeding the fire with a big heap of sticks that
he had piled together. Old Fred was licking my hands with his rough
tongue, and I suppose that is what waked me. Tea was steeping in the
little pot that hung over the fire, and our breakfast of boiled eggs and
bread and butter lay on a paper beside it. I remember well the scene
of our little camp that morning. We had come to a strange country, and
there was no road in sight. A wooded hill lay back of us, and, just
before, ran a noisy little brook, winding between smooth banks, through
a long pasture into a dense wood. Behind a wall on the opposite shore a
great field of rustling corn filled a broad valley and stood higher than
a man's head.

While I went to wash my face in the clear water Uncle Eb was husking
some ears of corn that he took out of his pocket, and had them roasting
over the fire in a moment. We ate heartily, giving Fred two big slices
of bread and butter, packing up with enough remaining for another day.
Breakfast over we doused the fire and Uncle Eb put on his basket He made
after a squirrel, presently, with old Fred, and brought him down out of
a tree by hurling stones at him and then the faithful follower of our
camp got a bit of meat for his breakfast. We climbed the wall, as he
ate, and buried ourselves in the deep corn. The fragrant, silky tassels
brushed my face and the corn hissed at our intrusion, crossing its green
sabers in our path. Far in the field my companion heaped a little of the
soft earth for a pillow, spread the oil cloth between rows and, as we
lay down, drew the big shawl over us. Uncle Eb was tired after the toil
of that night and went asleep almost as soon as he was down. Before I
dropped off Fred came and licked my face and stepped over me, his tail
wagging for leave, and curled upon the shawl at my feet. I could see no
sky in that gloomy green aisle of corn. This going to bed in the morning
seemed a foolish business to me that day and I lay a long time looking
up at the rustling canopy overhead. I remember listening to the waves
that came whispering out of the further field, nearer and nearer, until
they swept over us with a roaring swash of leaves, like that of water
flooding among rocks, as I have heard it often. A twinge of homesickness
came to me and the snoring of Uncle Eb gave me no comfort. I remember
covering my head and crying softly as I thought of those who had gone
away and whom I was to meet in a far country, called Heaven, whither we
were going. I forgot my sorrow, finally, in sleep. When I awoke it had
grown dusk under the corn. I felt for Uncle Eb and he was gone. Then I
called to him.

'Hush, boy! lie low,' he whispered, bending over me, a sharp look in his
eye.' 'Fraid they're after us.'

He sat kneeling beside me, holding Fred by the collar and listening. I
could hear voices, the rustle of the corn and the tramp of feet near
by. It was thundering in the distance--that heavy, shaking thunder that
seems to take hold of the earth, and there were sounds in the corn
like the drawing of sabers and the rush of many feet. The noisy thunder
clouds came nearer and the voices that had made us tremble were no
longer heard. Uncle Eb began to fasten the oil blanket to the stalks of
corn for a shelter. The rain came roaring over us. The sound of it was
like that of a host of cavalry coming at a gallop. We lay bracing the
stalks, the blanket tied above us and were quite dry for a time. The
rain rattled in the sounding sheaves and then came flooding down the
steep gutters. Above us beam and rafter creaked, swaying, and showing
glimpses of the dark sky. The rain passed--we could hear the last
battalion leaving the field--and then the tumult ended as suddenly as
it began. The corn trembled a few moments and hushed to a faint whisper.
Then we could hear only the drip of raindrops leaking through the green
roof. It was dark under the corn.






Chapter 2

We heard no more of the voices. Uncle Eb had brought an armful of wood,
and some water in the teapot, while I was sleeping. As soon as the rain
had passed he stood listening awhile and shortly opened his knife and
made a little clearing in the corn by cutting a few hills.

'We've got to do it,' he said, 'er we can't take any comfort, an' the
man tol' me I could have all the corn I wanted.'

'Did you see him, Uncle Eb?' I remember asking.

'Yes,' he answered, whittling in the dark. 'I saw him when I went out
for the water an' it was he tol' me they were after us.'

He took a look at the sky after a while, and, remarking that he guessed
they couldn't see his smoke now, began to kindle the fire. As it burned
up he stuck two crotches and hung his teapot on a stick' that lay in
them, so it took the heat of the flame, as I had seen him do in the
morning. Our grotto, in the corn, was shortly as cheerful as any room in
a palace, and our fire sent its light into the long aisles that opened
opposite, and nobody could see the warm glow of it but ourselves.

'We'll hev our supper,' said Uncle Eb, as he opened a paper and spread
out the eggs and bread and butter and crackers. 'We'll jest hev our
supper an' by 'n by when everyone's abed we'll make tracks in the dirt,
I can tell ye.'

Our supper over, Uncle Eb let me look at his tobacco-box--a shiny thing
of German silver that always seemed to snap out a quick farewell to me
before it dove into his pocket. He was very cheerful and communicative,
and joked a good deal as we lay there waiting in the firelight. I got
some further acquaintance with the swift, learning among other things
that it had no appetite for the pure in heart.

'Why not?' I enquired.

'Well,' said Uncle Eb, 'it's like this: the meaner the boy, the sweeter
the meat.'

He sang an old song as he sat by the fire, with a whistled interlude
between lines, and the swing of it, even now, carries me back to that
far day in the fields. I lay with my head in his lap while he was
singing.

Years after, when I could have carried him on my back' he wrote down
for me the words of the old song. Here they are, about as he sang them,
although there are evidences of repair, in certain lines, to supply the
loss of phrases that had dropped out of his memory:


  I was goin' to Salem one bright summer day,
  I met a young maiden a goin' my way;
  O, my fallow, faddeling fallow, faddel away.

  An' many a time I had seen her before,
  But I never dare tell 'er the love thet I bore.
  O, my fallow, etc.

  'Oh, where are you goin' my purty fair maid?'
  'O, sir, I am goin' t' Salem,' she said.
  O, my fallow, etc.

  'O, why are ye goin' so far in a day?
  Fer warm is the weather and long is the way.'
  O, my fallow, etc.

  'O, sir I've forgorten, I hev, I declare,
  But it's nothin' to eat an' its nothin' to wear.'
  O, my fallow, etc.

  'Oho! then I hev it, ye purty young miss!
  I'll bet it is only three words an' a kiss.'
  O, my fallow, etc.

  'Young woman, young woman, O how will it dew
  If I go see yer lover 'n bring 'em t' you?'
  O, my fallow, etc.

  ''S a very long journey,' says she, 'I am told,
  An' before ye got back, they would surely be cold.'
  O, my fallow, etc.

  'I hev 'em right with me, I vum an' I vow,
  An' if you don't object I'll deliver 'em now.'
  O, my fallow, etc.

  She laid her fair head all on to my breast,
  An' ye wouldn't know more if I tol' ye the rest
  O, my fallow, etc.

I went asleep after awhile in spite of all, right in the middle of a
story. The droning voice of Uncle Eb and the feel of his hand upon my
forehead called me back, blinking, once or twice, but not for long. The
fire was gone down to a few embers when Uncle Eb woke me and the grotto
was lit only by a sprinkle of moonlight from above.

'Mos' twelve o'clock,' he whispered. 'Better be off.'

The basket was on his back and he was all ready. I followed him through
the long aisle of corn, clinging to the tall of his coat. The golden
lantern of the moon hung near the zenith and when we came out in the
open we could see into the far fields. I climbed into my basket at the
wall and as Uncle Eb carried me over the brook, stopping on a flat rock
midway to take a drink, I could see the sky in the water, and it seemed
as if a misstep would have tumbled me into the moon.

'Hear the crickets holler,' said Uncle Eb, as he followed the bank up
into the open pasture.

'What makes 'em holler?' I asked.

'O, they're jes' filin' their saws an' thinkin'. Mebbe tellin' o' what's
happened 'em. Been a hard day fer them little folks. Terrible flood in
their country. Everyone on em hed t' git up a steeple quick 'she could
er be drownded. They hev their troubles an' they talk 'bout 'em, too.'

'What do they file their saws for?' I enquired.

'Well, ye know,' said he, 'where they live the timber's thick an' they
hev hard work clearin' t' mek a home.'

I was getting too sleepy for further talk. He made his way from field to
field, stopping sometimes to look off at the distant mountains then at
the sky or to whack the dry stalks of mullen with his cane. I remember
he let down some bars after a long walk and stepped into a smooth
roadway. He stood resting a little while, his basket on the top bar, and
then the moon that I had been watching went down behind the broad rim of
his hat and I fell into utter forgetfulness. My eyes opened on a lovely
scene at daylight. Uncle Eb had laid me on a mossy knoll in a bit of
timber and through an opening right in front of us I could see a broad
level of shining water, and the great green mountain on the further
shore seemed to be up to its belly in the sea.

'Hello there!' said Uncle Eb; 'here we are at Lake Champlain.'

I could hear the fire crackling and smell the odour of steeping tea.

'Ye flopped 'round like a fish in thet basket,' said Uncle Eb. ''Guess
ye must a been drearnin' O' bears. Jumped so ye scairt me. Didn't know
but I had a wil' cat on my shoulders.'

Uncle Eb had taken a fish-line out of his pocket and was tying it to a
rude pole that he had cut and trinmed with his jack-knife.

'I've found some crawfish here,' he said, 'an' I'm goin' t' try fer a
bite on the p'int O' rocks there.'

'Goin' t' git some fish, Uncle Eb?' I enquired.

'Wouldn't say't I was, er wouldn't say't I wasn't,' he answered. 'Jes
goin' t' try.'

Uncle Eb was always careful not to commit himself on a doubtful point.
He had fixed his hook and sinker in a moment and then we went out on a
rocky point nearby and threw off into the deep water. Suddenly Uncle
Eb gave a jerk that brought a groan out of him and then let his hook go
down again, his hands trembling, his face severe.

'By mighty! Uncle Eb,' he muttered to himself, 'I thought we hed him
thet time.'

He jerked again presently, and then I could see a tug on the line that
made me jump. A big fish came thrashing into the air in a minute. He
tried to swing it ashore, but the pole bent and the fish got a fresh
hold of the water and took the end of the pole under. Uncle Eb gave it
a lift then that brought it ashore and a good bit of water with it. I
remember how the fish slapped me with its wet tail and sprinkled my face
shaking itself between my boots. It was a big bass and in a little while
we had three of them. Uncle Eb dressed them and laid them over the fire
on a gridiron of green birch, salting them as they cooked. I remember
they went with a fine relish and the last of our eggs and bread and
butter went with them.

Our breakfast over, Uncle Eb made me promise to stay with Fred and the
basket while he went away to find a man who could row us across. In
about an hour I heard a boat coming and the dog and I went out on the
point of rocks where we saw Uncle Eb and another man, heading for us,
half over the cove. The bow bumped the rocks beneath us in a minute.
Then the stranger dropped his oars and stood staring at me and the dog.

'Say, mister,' said he presently, 'can't go no further. There's a reward
offered fer you an' thet boy.'

Uncle Eb called him aside and was talking to him a long time.

I never knew what was said, but they came at last and took us into the
boat and the stranger was very friendly.

When we had come near the landing on the 'York State' side, I remember
he gave us our bearings.

'Keep t' the woods,' he said, 'till you're out o' harm's way. Don't go
near the stage road fer a while. Ye'll find a store a little way up the
mountain. Git yer provisions there an' about eighty rod farther ye'll
strike the trail. It'll take ye over the mountain north an' t' Paradise
Road. Then take the white church on yer right shoulder an' go straight
west.'

I would not have remembered it so well but for the fact that Uncle Eb
wrote it all down in his account book and that has helped me over many
a slippery place in my memory of those events. At the store we got some
crackers and cheese, tea and coffee, dried beef and herring, a bit of
honey and a loaf of bread that was sliced and buttered before it was
done up. We were off in the woods by nine o'clock, according to Uncle
Eb's diary, and I remember the trail led us into thick brush where I had
to get out and walk a long way. It was smooth under foot, however, and
at noon we came to a slash in the timber, full of briars that were all
aglow with big blackberries. We filled our hats with them and Uncle Eb
found a spring, beside which we built a fire and had a memorable meal
that made me glad of my hunger.

Then we spread the oilcloth and lay down for another sleep. We could
see the glow of the setting sun through the tree-tops when we woke, and
began our packing.

'We'll hev t' hurry,' said Uncle Eb, 'er we'll never git out o' the
woods t'night 'S 'bout six mile er more t' Paradise Road, es I mek it.
Come, yer slower 'n a toad in a tar barrel.'

We hurried off on the trail and I remember Fred looked very crestfallen
with two big packages tied to his collar. He delayed a bit by trying to
shake them off, but Uncle Eb gave him a sharp word or two and then he
walked along very thoughtfully. Uncle Eb was a little out of patience
that evening, and I thought he bore down too harshly in his rebuke of
the old dog.

'You shif'less cuss,' he said to him, 'ye'd jes' dew nothin' but chase
squirrels an' let me break my back t' carry yer dinner.'

It was glooming fast in the thick timber, and Uncle Eb almost ran with
me while the way was plain. The last ringing note of the wood thrush
had died away and in a little while it was so dark I could distinguish
nothing but the looming mass of tree trunks.

He stopped suddenly and strained his eyes in the dark. Then he whistled
a sharp, sliding note, and the sound of it gave me some hint of his
trouble.

'Git down, Willie,' said he, 'an' tek my hand. I'm 'fraid we're lost
here 'n the big woods.'

We groped about for a minute, trying to find the trail.

'No use,' he said presently, 'we'll hev t' stop right here. Oughter
known berter 'n t' come through s' near sundown. Guess it was more 'n
anybody could do.'

He built a fire and began to lay out a supper for us then, while Fred
sat down by me to be relieved of his bundles. Our supper was rather dry,
for we had no water, but it was only two hours since we left the spring,
so we were not suffering yet. Uncle Eb took out of the fire a burning
brand of pine and went away into the gloomy woods, holding it above his
head, while Fred and I sat by the fire.

''S lucky we didn't go no further,' he said, as he came in after a few
minutes. 'There's a big prec'pice over yender. Dunno how deep 't is.
Guess we'd a found out purty soon.'

He cut some boughs of hemlock, growing near us, and spread them in a
little hollow. That done, we covered them with the oilcloth, and sat
down comfortably by the fire. Uncle Eb had a serious look and was not
inclined to talk or story telling. Before turning in he asked me to
kneel and say my prayer as I had done every evening at the feet of
my mother. I remember, clearly, kneeling before my old companion and
hearing the echo of my small voice there in the dark and lonely woods.

I remember too, and even more clearly, how he bent his head and covered
his eyes in that brief moment. I had a great dread of darkness and
imagined much evil of the forest, but somehow I had no fear if he were
near me. When we had fixed the fire and lain down for the night on the
fragrant hemlock and covered ourselves with the shawl, Uncle Eb lay on
one side of me and old Fred on the other, so I felt secure indeed. The
night had many voices there in the deep wood. Away in the distance I
could hear a strange, wild cry, and I asked what it was and Uncle Eb
whispered back, ''s a loon.' Down the side of the mountain a shrill bark
rang in the timber and that was a fox, according to my patient oracle.
Anon we heard the crash and thunder of a falling tree and a murmur that
followed in the wake of the last echo.

'Big tree fallin'!' said Uncle Eb, as he lay gaping. 'It has t' break a
way t' the ground an' it must hurt. Did ye notice how the woods tremble?
If we was up above them we could see the hole thet tree hed made. Jes'
like an open grave till the others hev filed it with their tops.'

My ears had gone deaf with drowsiness when a quick stir in the body of
Uncle Eb brought me back to my senses. He was up on his elbow listening
and the firelight had sunk to a glimmer. Fred lay shivering and growling
beside me. I could hear no other sound.

'Be still,' said Uncle Eb, as he boxed the dog's ears. Then he rose and
began to stir the fire and lay on more wood. As the flame leaped and
threw its light into the tree-tops a shrill cry, like the scream of a
frightened woman, only louder and more terrible to hear brought me to my
feet, crying. I knew the source of it was near us and ran to Uncle Eb in
a fearful panic.

'Hush, boy,' said he as it died away and went echoing in the far forest.
'I'll take care o' you. Don't be scairt. He's more 'fraid uv us than we
are o' him. He's makin' off now.'

We heard then a great crackling of dead brush on the mountain above us.
It grew fainter as we listened. In a little while the woods were silent.

'It's the ol' man o' the woods,' said Uncle Eb. 'E's out takin' a walk.'

'Will he hurt folks?' I enquired.

'Tow!' he answered, 'jest as harmless as a kitten.'






Chapter 3

Naturally there were a good many things I wanted to know about 'the
ol' man o' the woods,' but Uncle Eb would take no part in any further
conversation.

So I had to lie down beside him again and think out the problem as best
I could. My mind was never more acutely conscious and it gathered many
strange impressions, wandering in the kingdom of Fear, as I looked up
at the tree-tops. Uncle Eb had built a furious fire and the warmth of
it made me sleepy at last. Both he and old Fred had been snoring a long
time when I ceased to hear them. Uncle Eb woke me at daylight, in the
morning, and said we must be off to find the trail. He left me by the
fire a little while and went looking on all sides and came back no
wiser. We were both thirsty and started off on rough footing, without
stopping to eat. We climbed and crawled for hours, it seemed to me, and
everywhere the fallen tree trunks were heaped in our way. Uncle Eb sat
down on one of them awhile to rest.

'Like the bones o' the dead,' said he, as he took a chew of tobacco and
picked at the rotten skeleton of a fallen tree. We were both pretty well
out of breath and of hope also, if I remember rightly, when we rested
again under the low hanging boughs of a basswood for a bite of luncheon.
Uncle Eb opened the little box of honey and spread some of it on our
bread and butter. In a moment I noticed that half a dozen bees had lit
in the open box.

'Lord Harry! here's honey bees,' said he, as he covered the box so as to
keep them in, and tumbled everything else into the basket. 'Make haste
now, Willie, and follow me with all yer might,' he added.

In a minute he let out one of the bees, and started running in the
direction it flew. It went but a few feet and then rose into the
tree-top.

'He's goin' t' git up into the open air,' said Uncle Eb. 'But I've got
his bearins' an' I guess he knows the way all right.'

We took the direction indicated for a few minutes and then Uncle Eb let
out another prisoner. The bee flew off a little way and then rose in a
slanting course to the tree-tops. He showed us, however, that we were
looking the right way.

'Them little fellers hev got a good compass,' said Uncle Eb, as we
followed the line of the bees. 'It p'ints home ev'ry time, an' never
makes a mistake.'

We went further this time before releasing another. He showed us that
we had borne out of our course a little and as we turned to follow
there were half a dozen bees flying around the box, as if begging for
admission.

'Here they are back agin,' said Uncle Eb, 'an' they've told a lot o'
their cronies 'bout the man an' the boy with honey.'

At length one of them flew over our heads and back in the direction we
had come from.

'Ah, ha,' said Uncle Eb, 'it's a bee tree an' we've passed it, but I'm
goin' t' keep lettin' 'em in an' out. Never heard uv a swarm o' bees
goin' fur away an' so we mus' be near the clearin'.'

In a little while we let one go that took a road of its own. The others
had gone back over our heads; this one bore off to the right in front of
us, and we followed. I was riding in the basket and was first to see the
light of the open through the tree-tops. But I didn't know what it meant
until I heard the hearty 'hurrah' of Uncle Eb.

We had come to smooth footing in a grove of maples and the clean trunks
of the trees stood up as straight as a granite column. Presently we came
out upon wide fields of corn and clover, and as we looked back upon the
grove it had a rounded front and I think of it now as the vestibule of
the great forest.

'It's a reg'lar big tomb,' said Uncle Eb, looking back over his shoulder
into the gloomy cavern of the woods.

We could see a log house in the clearing, and we made for it as fast as
our legs would carry us. We had a mighty thirst and when we came to a
little brook in the meadow we laid down and drank and drank until we
were fairly grunting with fullness. Then we filled our teapot and went
on. Men were reaping with their cradles in a field of grain and, as we
neared the log house, a woman came out in the dooryard and, lifting a
shell to her lips, blew a blast that rushed over the clearing and rang
in the woods beyond it A loud halloo came back from the men.

A small dog rushed out at Fred, barking, and, I suppose, with some lack
of respect, for the old dog laid hold of him in a violent temper and
sent him away yelping. We must have presented an evil aspect, for our
clothes were torn and we were both limping with fatigue. The woman had
a kindly face and, after looking at us a moment, came and stooped before
me and held my small face in her hands turning it so she could look into
my eyes.

'You poor little critter,' said she, 'where you goin'?'

Uncle Eb told her something about my father and mother being dead and
our going west Then she hugged and kissed me and made me very miserable,
I remember, wetting my face with her tears, that were quite beyond my
comprehension.

'Jethro,' said she, as the men came into the yard, 'I want ye t' look
at this boy. Did ye ever see such a cunnin' little critter? Jes' look
at them bright eyes!' and then she held me to her breast and nearly
smothered me and began to hum a bit of an old song.

'Yer full o' mother love,' said her husband, as he sat down on the grass
a moment 'Lost her only baby, an' the good Lord has sent no other. I
swan, he has got putty eyes. Jes' as blue as a May flower. Ain't ye
hungry? Come right in, both o' ye, an' set down t' the table with us.'

They made room for us and we sat down between the bare elbows of the
hired men. I remember my eyes came only to the top of the table. So the
good woman brought the family Bible and sitting on that firm foundation
I ate my dinner of salt pork and potatoes and milk gravy, a diet as
grateful as it was familiar to my taste.

'Orphan, eh?' said the man of the house, looking down at me.

'Orphan,' Uncle Eb answered, nodding his head.

'God-fearin' folks?'

'Best in the world,' said Uncle Eb.

Want t' bind 'im out?' the man asked.

'Couldn't spare 'im,' said Uncle Eb, decisively.

'Where ye goin'?'

Uncle Eb hesitated, groping for an answer, I suppose, that would do no
violence to our mutual understanding.

'Goin' t' heaven,' I ventured to say presently--an answer that gave rise
to conflicting emotions at the table.

'That's right,' said Uncle Eb, turning to me and patting my head. 'We're
on the road t' heaven, I hope, an' ye'll see it someday, sartin sure, if
ye keep in the straight road and be a good boy.'

After dinner the good woman took off my clothes and put me in bed while
she mended them. I went asleep then and did not awake for a long time.
When I got up at last she brought a big basin of water and washed me
with such motherly tenderness in voice and manner that I have never
forgotten it. Uncle Eb lay sleeping on the lounge and when she had
finished dressing me, Fred and I went out to play in the garden. It
was supper time in a little while and then, again, the woman winded the
shell and the men came up from the field. We sat down to eat with them,
as we had done at noon, and Uncle Eb consented to spend the night after
some urging. He helped them with the milking, and as I stood beside him
shot a jet of the warm white flood into my mouth, that tickled it so
I ran away laughing. The milking done, I sat on Uncle Eb's knee in the
door-yard with all the rest of that household, hearing many tales of
the wilderness, and of robbery and murder on Paradise Road. I got the
impression that it was a country of unexampled wickedness and ferocity
in men and animals. One man told about the ghost of Burnt Bridge; how
the bridge had burnt one afternoon and how a certain traveller in the
dark of the night driving down the hill above it, fell to his death at
the brink of the culvert.

'An' every night since then,' said the man, very positively, ye can hear
him drivin' down thet hill--jes' as plain as ye can hear me talkin'--the
rattle o' the wheels an' all. It stops sudden an' then ye can hear 'im
hit the rocks way down there at the bottom O' the gulley an' groan an'
groan. An' folks say it's a curse on the town for leavin' thet hole
open.'

'What's a ghost, Uncle Eb?' I whispered.

'Somethin' like a swift,' he answered, 'but not so powerful. We heard a
panther las' night,' he added, turning to our host. 'Hollered like sin
when he see the fire.'

'Scairt!' said the man o' the house gaping. 'That's what ailed him. I've
lived twenty year on Paradise Road an' it was all woods when I put
up the cabin. Seen deer on the doorstep an' bears in the garden, an'
panthers in the fields. But I tell ye there's no critter so terrible as
a man. All the animals know 'im--how he roars, an' spits fire an' smoke
an' lead so it goes through a body er bites off a leg, mebbe. Guess
they'd made friends with me but them I didn't kill went away smarting
with holes in 'em. An' I guess they told all their people 'bout me--the
terrible critter that walked on its hind legs an' lied a white face an'
drew up an' spit 'is teeth into their vitals 'cross a ten-acre lot. An'
putty soon they concluded they didn't want t' hev no truck with me. They
thought thin clearin' was the valley o' death an' they got very
careful. But the deer they kep' peekin' in at me. Sumthin' funny 'bout a
deer--they're so cu'rus. Seem's though they loved the look o' me an' the
taste o' the tame grass. Mebbe God meant em t' serve in the yoke some
way an' be the friend o' man. They're the outcasts o' the forest--the
prey o' the other animals an' men like 'em only when they're dead.
An' they're the purtiest critter alive an' the spryest an' the mos'
graceful.'

'Men are the mos' terrible of all critters, an' the meanest,' said Uncle
Eb. 'They're the only critters that kill fer fun.'

'Bedtime,' said our host, rising presently. 'Got t' be up early 'n the
morning.'

We climbed a ladder to the top floor of the cabin with the hired men, of
whom there were two. The good lady of the house had made a bed for us
on the floor and I remember Fred came up the ladder too, and lay down
beside us. Uncle Eb was up with the men in the morning and at breakfast
time my hostess came and woke me with kisses and helped me to dress.
When we were about going she brought a little wagon out of the cellar
that had been a playing of her dead boy, and said I could have it. This
wonderful wagon was just the thing for the journey we were making. When
I held the little tongue in my hand I was half-way to heaven already. It
had four stout wheels and a beautiful red box. Her brother had sent it
all the way from New York and it had stood so long in the cellar it was
now much in need of repair. Uncle Eb took it to the tool shop in the
stable and put it in shipshape order and made a little pair of thills to
go in place of the tongue. Then he made a big flat collar and a back-pad
out of the leather in old boot-legs, and rigged a pair of tugs out
of two pieces of rope. Old Fred was quite cast down when he stood in
harness between the shafts.

He had waited patiently to have his collar fitted; he had grinned
and panted and wagged his tail with no suspicion of the serious and
humiliating career he was entering upon. Now he stood with a sober face
and his aspect was full of meditation.

'You fightin' hound!' said Uncle Eb, 'I hope this'll improve yer
character.'

Fred tried to sit down when Uncle Eb tied a leading rope to his collar.
When he heard the wheels rattle and felt the pull of the wagon he looked
back at it and growled a little and started to run. Uncle Eb shouted
'whoa', and held him back, and then the dog got down on his belly and
trembled until we patted his head and gave him a kind word. He seemed
to understand presently and came along with a steady stride. Our hostess
met us at the gate and the look of her face when she bade us goodbye and
tucked some cookies into my pocket, has always lingered in my memory and
put in me a mighty respect for all women. The sound of her voice, the
tears, the waving of her handkerchief, as we went away, are among the
things that have made me what I am.

We stowed our packages in the wagon box and I walked a few miles and
then got into the empty basket. Fred tipped his load over once or twice,
but got a steady gait in the way of industry after a while and a more
cheerful look. We had our dinner by the roadside on the bank of a brook,
an hour or so after midday, and came to a little village about sundown.
As we were nearing it there was some excitement among the dogs and
one of them tackled Fred. He went into battle very promptly, the wagon
jumping and rattling until it turned bottom up. Re-enforced by Uncle
Eb's cane he soon saw the heels of his aggressor and stood growling
savagely. He was like the goal in a puzzle maze all wound and tangled
in his harness and it took some time to get his face before him and his
feet free.

At a small grocery where groups of men, just out of the fields, were
sitting, their arms bare to the elbows, we bought more bread and butter.
In paying for it Uncle Eb took a package out of his trouser pocket to
get his change. It was tied in a red handkerchief and I remember it
looked to be about the size of his fist. He was putting it back when it
fell from his hand, heavily, and I could hear the chink of coin as it
struck. One of the men, who sat near, picked it up and gave it back to
him. As I remember well, his kindness had an evil flavour, for he winked
at his companions, who nudged each other as they smiled knowingly. Uncle
Eb was a bit cross, when I climbed into the basket, and walked along in
silence so rapidly it worried the dog to keep pace. The leading rope was
tied to the stock of the rifle and Fred's walking gait was too slow for
the comfort of his neck.

'You shifless cuss! I'll put a kink in your neck fer you if ye don't
walk up,' said Uncle Eb, as he looked back at the dog, in a temper
wholly unworthy of him.

We had crossed a deep valley and were climbing a long hill in the dusky
twilight.

'Willie,' said Uncle Eb, 'your eyes are better'n mine--look back and see
if anyone's comin'.'

'Can't see anyone,' I answered.

'Look 'way back in the road as fur as ye can see.

I did so, but I could see no one. He slackened his pace a little after
that and before we had passed the hill it was getting dark. The road ran
into woods and a river cut through them a little way from the clearing.

'Supper time, Uncle Eb,' I suggested, as we came to the bridge.

'Supper time, Uncle Eb,' he answered, turning down to the shore.

I got out of the basket then and followed him in the brush. Fred found
it hard travelling here and shortly we took off his harness and left the
wagon, transferring its load to the basket, while we pushed on to find
a camping place. Back in the thick timber a long way from the road, we
built a fire and had our supper. It was a dry nook in the pines--'tight
as a house,' Uncle Eb said--and carpeted with the fragrant needles. When
we lay on our backs in the firelight I remember the weary, droning voice
of Uncle Eb had an impressive accompaniment of whispers. While he told
stories I had a glowing cinder on the end of a stick and was weaving
fiery skeins in the gloom.

He had been telling me of a panther he had met in the woods, one day,
and how the creature ran away at the sight of him.

'Why's a panther 'fraid o' folks?' I enquired.

'Wall, ye see, they used t' be friendly, years 'n years ago--folks 'n
panthers--but they want eggszac'ly cal'lated t' git along t'gether some
way. An' ol' she panther gin 'em one uv her cubs, a great while ago, jes
t' make frien's. The cub he grew big 'n used t' play 'n be very gentle.
They wuz a boy he tuk to, an' both on 'em got very friendly. The boy 'n
the panther went off one day 'n the woods--guess 'twas more 'n a hundred
year ago--an' was lost. Walked all over 'n fin'ly got t' goin' round 'n
round 'n a big circle 'til they was both on 'em tired out. Come night
they lay down es hungry es tew bears. The boy he was kind o' 'fraid 'o
the dark, so he got up clus t' the panther 'n lay 'tween his paws. The
boy he thought the panther smelt funny an' the panther he didn't jes'
like the smell o' the boy. An' the boy he hed the legache 'n kicked
the panther 'n the belly, so 't he kin' o' gagged 'n spit an' they want
neither on 'em reel comf'able. The sof paws o' the panther was jes' like
pincushions. He'd great hooks in 'em sharper 'n the p'int uv a needle.
An' when he was goin' t' sleep he'd run 'em out jes' like an ol'
cat--kind o' playfull--'n purr 'n pull. All t' once the boy felt
sumthin' like a lot o' needles prickin' his back. Made him jump 'n
holler like Sam Hill. The panther he spit sassy 'n riz up 'n smelt o'
the ground. Didn't neither on 'em know what was the matter. Bime bye
they lay down ag'in. 'Twant only a little while 'fore the boy felt
somethin' prickin' uv him. He hollered 'n kicked ag'in. The panther he
growled 'n spit 'n dumb a tree 'n sot on a limb 'n peeked over at thet
queer little critter. Couldn't neither on 'em understan' it. The boy
c'u'd see the eyes o' the panther 'n the dark. Shone like tew live coals
eggszac'ly. The panther 'd never sot 'n a tree when he was hungry, 'n
see a boy below him. Sumthin' tol' him t' jump. Tail went swish in the
leaves like thet. His whiskers quivered, his tongue come out. C'u'd
think o' nuthin' but his big empty belly. The boy was scairt. He up with
his gun quick es a flash. Aimed at his eyes 'n let 'er flicker. Blew a
lot o' smoke 'n bird shot 'n paper waddin' right up in t' his face. The
panther he lost his whiskers 'n one eye 'n got his hide fill' o' shot
'n fell off the tree like a ripe apple 'n run fer his life. Thought he'd
never see nuthin' c'u'd growl 'n spits powerful es thet boy. Never c'u'd
bear the sight uv a man after thet. Allwus made him gag 'n spit t' think
o' the man critter. Went off tew his own folks 'n tol' o' the boy 'at
spit fire 'n smoke 'n growled so't almos' tore his ears off An' now,
whenever they hear a gun go off they allwus thank it's the man critter
growlin'. An' they gag 'n spit 'n look es if it made 'em sick t'
the stomach. An' the man folks they didn't hev no good 'pimon o' the
panthers after thet. Haint never been frien's any more. Fact is a man,
he can be any kind uv a beast, but a panther he can't be nuthin' but
jest a panther.'

Then, too, as we lay there in the firelight, Uncle Eb told the
remarkable story of the gingerbread hear. He told it slowly, as if his
invention were severely taxed.

'Once they wuz a boy got lost. Was goin' cross lots t' play with 'nother
boy 'n lied t' go through a strip o' woods. Went off the trail t' chase
a butterfly 'n got lost. Hed his kite 'n' cross-gun 'n' he wandered all
over 'til he was tired 'n hungry. Then he lay down t' cry on a bed o'
moss. Putty quick they was a big black bear come along.

'“What's the matter?” said the bear.

'“Hungry,” says the boy.

'“Tell ye what I'll dew,” says the bear. “If ye'll scratch my back fer
me I'll let ye cut a piece o' my tail off t' eat.”

'Bear's tail, ye know, hes a lot o' meat on it--heam tell it was gran'
good fare. So the boy he scratched the bear's back an' the bear he
grinned an' made his paw go patitty-pat on the ground--it did feel so
splendid. Then the boy tuk his jack-knife 'n begun t' cut off the bear's
tail. The bear he flew mad 'n growled 'n growled so the boy he stopped
'n didn't dast cut no more.

'“Hurts awful,” says the bear. “Couldn't never stan' it. Tell ye what
I'll dew. Ye scratched my back an' now I'll scratch your'n.”

'Gee whiz!' said I.

'Yessir, that's what the bear said,' Uncle Eb went on. 'The boy he up
'n run like a nailer. The bear he laughed hearty 'n scratched the ground
like Sam Hill, 'n flung the dirt higher'n his head.

'“Look here,” says he, as the boy stopped, “I jes' swallered a piece o
mutton. Run yer hand int' my throat an I'll let ye hev it.”

'The bear he opened his mouth an' showed his big teeth.'

'Whew!' I whistled.

'Thet's eggszac'ly what he done,' said Uncle Eb. 'He showed 'em plain.
The boy was scairter'n a weasel. The bear he jumped up 'an down on his
hind legs 'n laughed 'n' hollered 'n' shook himself.

'“Only jes' foolin,” says he, when he see the boy was goin' t' run
ag'in. “What ye 'fraid uv?”

'“Can't bear t' stay here,” says the boy, “'less ye'll keep yer mouth
shet.”

'An the bear he shet his mouth 'n pinted to the big pocket 'n his fur
coat 'n winked 'n motioned t' the boy.

'The bear he reely did hev a pocket on the side uv his big fur coat. The
boy slid his hand in up t' the elbow. Wha' d'ye s'pose he found?'

'Durmo,' said I.

'Sumthin' t' eat,' he continued. 'Boy liked it best uv all things.'

I guessed everything I could think of, from cookies to beefsteak, and
gave up.

'Gingerbread,' said he, soberly, at length.

'Thought ye said bears couldn't talk,' I objected.

'Wall, the boy 'd fell asleep an' he'd only dreamed o' the bear,' said
Uncle Eb. 'Ye see, bears can talk when boys are dreamin' uv 'em. Come
daylight, the boy got up 'n ketched a crow. Broke his wing with the
cross-gun. Then he tied the kite swing on t' the crow's leg, an' the
crow flopped along 'n the boy followed him 'n bime bye they come out a
cornfield, where the crow'd been used t' comin' fer his dinner.'

'What 'come o' the boy?' said I.

'Went home,' said he, gaping, as he lay on his back and looked up at the
tree-tops. 'An' he allwus said a bear was good comp'ny if he'd only keep
his mouth shet--jes' like some folks I've hearn uv.'

'An' what 'come o' the crow?'

'Went t' the ol' crow doctor 'n got his wing fixed,' he said, drowsily.
And in a moment I heard him snoring.

We had been asleep a long time when the barking of Fred woke us. I could
just see Uncle Eb in the dim light of the fire, kneeling beside me, the
rifle in his hand.

'I'll fill ye full o' lead if ye come any nearer,' he shouted.






Chapter 4

We listened awhile then but heard no sound in the thicket, although Fred
was growling ominously, his hair on end. As for myself I never had a
more fearful hour than that we suffered before the light of morning
came.

I made no outcry, but clung to my old companion, trembling. He did not
stir for a few minutes, and then we crept cautiously into the small
hemlocks on one side of the opening.

'Keep still,' he whispered, 'don't move er speak.'

Presently we heard a move in the brush and then quick as a flash Uncle
Eb lifted his rifle and fired in the direction of it Before the loud
echo had gone off in the woods we heard something break through the
brush at a run.

''S a man,' said Uncle Eb, as he listened. 'He ain't a losin' no time
nuther.'

We sat listening as the sound grew fainter, and when it ceased entirely
Uncle Eb said he must have got to the road. After a little the light
of the morning began sifting down through the tree-tops and was greeted
with innumerable songs.

'He done noble,' said Uncle Eb, patting the old dog as he rose to poke
the fire. 'Putty good chap I call 'im! He can hev half o' my dinner any
time he wants it.'

'Who do you suppose it was?' I enquired.

'Robbers, I guess,' he answered, 'an' they'll be layin' fer us when
we go out, mebbe; but, if they are, Fred'll find 'em an' I've got Ol'
Trusty here 'n' I guess thet'll take care uv us.'

His rifle was always flattered with that name of Ol' Trusty when it had
done him a good turn.

Soon as the light had come clear he went out in the near woods with dog
and rifle and beat around in the brush. He returned shortly and said he
had seen where they came and went.

'I'd a killed em deader 'n a door nail,' said he, laying down the old
rifle, 'if they'd a come any nearer.'

Then we brought water from the river and had our breakfast. Fred went on
ahead of us, when we started for the road, scurrying through the brush
on both sides of the trail, as if he knew what was expected of him. He
flushed a number of partridges and Uncle Eb killed one of them on our
way to the road. We resumed our journey without any further adventure.
It was so smooth and level under foot that Uncle Eb let me get in the
wagon after Fred was hitched to it The old dog went along soberly and
without much effort, save when we came to hills or sandy places, when
I always got out and ran on behind. Uncle Eb showed me how to brake the
wheels with a long stick going downhill. I remember how it hit the dog's
heels at the first down grade, and how he ran to keep out of the way
of it We were going like mad in half a minute, Uncle Eb coming after us
calling to the dog. Fred only looked over his shoulder, with a wild eye,
at the rattling wagon and ran the harder. He leaped aside at the bottom
and then we went all in a heap. Fortunately no harm was done.

'I declare!' said Uncle Eb as he came up to us, puffing like a spent
horse, and picked me up unhurt and began to untangle the harness of old
Fred, 'I guess he must a thought the devil was after him.'

The dog growled a little for a moment and bit at the harness, but
coaxing reassured him and he went along all right again on the level. At
a small settlement the children came out and ran along beside my wagon,
laughing and asking me questions. Some of them tried to pet the dog, but
old Fred kept to his labour at the heels of Uncle Eb and looked neither
to right nor left. We stopped under a tree by the side of a narrow brook
for our dinner, and one incident of that meal I think of always when
I think of Uncle Eb. It shows the manner of man he was and with what
understanding and sympathy he regarded every living thing. In rinsing
his teapot he accidentally poured a bit of water on a big bumble-bee.
The poor creature struggled to lift hill, and then another downpour
caught him and still another until his wings fell drenched. Then his
breast began heaving violently, his legs stiffened behind him and he
sank, head downward, in the grass. Uncle Eb saw the death throes of the
bee and knelt down and lifted the dead body by one of its wings.

'Jes' look at his velvet coat,' he said, 'an' his wings all wet n'
stiff. They'll never carry him another journey. It's too bad a man has
t' kill every step he takes.'

The bee's tail was moving faintly and Uncle Eb laid him out in the warm
sunlight and fanned him awhile with his hat, trying to bring back the
breath of life.

'Guilty!' he said, presently, coming back with a sober face. 'Thet's a
dead bee. No tellin' how many was dependent on him er what plans he bed.
Must a gi'n him a lot o' pleasure t' fly round in the sunlight, workin'
every fair day. 'S all over now.'

He had a gloomy face for an hour after that and many a time, in the days
that followed, I heard him speak of the murdered bee.

We lay resting awhile after dinner and watching a big city of ants.
Uncle Eb told me how they tilled the soil of the mound every year and
sowed their own kind of grain--a small white seed like rice--and reaped
their harvest in the late summer, storing the crop in their dry cellars
under ground. He told me also the story of the ant lion--a big beetle
that lives in the jungles of the grain and the grass--of which I
remember only an outline, more or less imperfect.

Here it is in my own rewording of his tale: On a bright day one of the
little black folks went off on a long road in a great field of barley.
He was going to another city of his own people to bring helpers for the
harvest. He came shortly to a sandy place where the barley was thin and
the hot sunlight lay near to the ground. In a little valley close by
the road of the ants he saw a deep pit, in the sand, with steep sides
sloping to a point in the middle and as big around as a biscuit. Now
the ants are a curious people and go looking for things that are new and
wonderful as they walk abroad, so they have much to tell worth hearing
after a journey. The little traveller was young and had no fear, so he
left the road and went down to the pit and peeped over the side of it.

'What in the world is the meaning of this queer place?' he asked himself
as he ran around the rim. In a moment he had stepped over and the soft
sand began to cave and slide beneath him. Quick as a flash the big
lion-beetle rose up in the centre of the pit and began to reach for
him. Then his legs flew in the caving sand and the young ant struck
his blades in it to hold the little he could gain. Upward he struggled,
leaping and floundering in the dust. He had got near the rim and had
stopped, clinging to get his breath, when the lion began flinging the
sand at him with his long feelers. It rose in a cloud and fell on the
back of the ant and pulled at him as it swept down. He could feel the
mighty cleavers of the lion striking near his hind legs and pulling the
sand from under them. He must go down in a moment and he knew what that
meant. He had heard the old men of the tribe tell often--how they hold
one helpless and slash him into a dozen pieces. He was letting go, in
despair, when he felt a hand on his neck. Looking up he saw one of his
own people reaching over the rim, and in a jiffy they had shut their
fangs together. He moved little by little as the other tagged at him,
and in a moment was out of the trap and could feel the honest earth
under him. When they had got home and told their adventure, some were
for going to slay the beetle.

'There is never a pit in the path o' duty,' said the wise old chief of
the little black folks. 'See that you keep in the straight road.'

'If our brother had not left the straight road,' said one who stood
near, 'he that was in danger would have gone down into the pit.'

'It matters much,' he answered, 'whether it was kindness or curiosity
that led him out of the road. But he that follows a fool hath much need
of wisdom, for if he save the fool do ye not see that he hath encouraged
folly?'

Of course I had then no proper understanding of the chiefs counsel, nor
do I pretend even to remember it from that first telling, but the tale
was told frequently in the course of my long acquaintance with Uncle Eb.

The diary of my good old friend lies before me as I write, the leaves
turned yellow and the entries dim. I remember how stern he grew of an
evening when he took out this sacred little record of our wanderings and
began to write in it with his stub of a pencil. He wrote slowly and read
and reread each entry with great care as I held the torch for him. 'Be
still, boy--be still,' he would say when some pressing interrogatory
passed my lips, and then he would bend to his work while the point of
his pencil bored further into my patience. Beginning here I shall quote
a few entries from the diary as they cover, with sufficient detail, an
uneventful period of our journey.

AUGUST 20 Killed a partridge today. Biled it in the teapot for dinner.
Went good. 14 mild.

AUGUST 21 Seen a deer this morning. Fred fit ag'in. Come near spilin'
the wagon. Hed to stop and fix the ex. 10 mild.

AUGUST 22 Clumb a tree this morning after wild grapes. Come near
falling. Gin me a little crick in the back. Willie hes got a stun bruze.
12 mild.

AUGUST 23 Went in swinmun. Ketched a few fish before breakfus'. Got
provisions an' two case knives an' one fork, also one tin pie-plate.
Used same to fry fish for dinner. 14 mild.

AUGUST 24 Got some spirits for Willie to rub on my back. Boots wearing
out. Terrible hot. Lay in the shade in the heat of the day. Gypsies come
an' camped by us tonight. 10 mild.

I remember well the coming of those gypsies. We were fishing in sight of
the road and our fire was crackling on the smooth cropped shore. The big
wagons of the gypsies--there were four of them as red and beautiful as
those of a circus caravan--halted about sundown while the men came over
a moment to scan the field. Presently they went back and turned their
wagons into the siding and began to unhitch. Then a lot of barefooted
children, and women under gay shawls, overran the field gathering wood
and making ready for night. Meanwhile swarthy drivers took the horses to
water and tethered them with long ropes so they could crop the grass of
the roadside.

One tall, bony man, with a face almost as black as that of an Indian,
brought a big iron pot and set it up near the water. A big stew of beef
bone, leeks and potatoes began to cook shortly, and I remember it had
such a goodly smell I was minded to ask them for a taste of it. A little
city of strange people had surrounded us of a sudden. Uncle Eb thought
of going on, but the night was coming fast and there would be no moon
and we were footsore and hungry. Women and children came over to our
fire, after supper, and made more of me than I liked. I remember taking
refuge between the knees of Uncle Eb, and Fred sat close in front of
us growling fiercely when they came too near. They stood about, looking
down at us and whispered together, and one young miss of the tribe came
up and tried to kiss me in spite of Fred's warnings: She had flashing
black eyes and hair as dark as the night, that fell in a curling mass
upon her shoulders; but, somehow, I had a mighty fear of her and fought
with desperation to keep my face from the touch of her red lips. Uncle
Eb laughed and held Fred by the collar, and I began to cry out in
terror, presently, when, to my great relief, she let go and ran away to
her own people. They all went away to their wagons, save one young man,
who was tall with light hair and a fair skin, and who looked like none
of the other gypsies.

'Take care of yourself,' he whispered, as soon as the rest had gone.
'These are bad people. You'd better be off.'

The young man left us and Uncle Eb began to pack up at once. They were
going to bed in their wagons when we came away. I stood in the basket
and Fred drew the wagon that had in it only a few bundles. A mile or
more further on we came to a lonely, deserted cabin close to the road.
It had began to thunder in the distance and the wind was blowing damp.

'Guess nobody lives here,' said Uncle Eb as he turned in at the sagging
gate and began to cross the little patch of weeds and hollyhocks behind
it 'Door's half down, but I guess it'll de better'n no house. Goin' t'
rain sartin.'

I was nodding a little about then, I remember; but I was wide awake when
he took me out of the basket The old house stood on a high hill, and
we could see the stars of heaven through the ruined door and one of the
back windows. Uncle Eb lifted the leaning door a little and shoved it
aside. We heard then a quick stir in the old house--a loud and ghostly
rattle it seems now as I think of it--like that made by linen shaking on
the line. Uncle Eb took a step backward as if it had startled him.

'Guess it's nuthin' to be 'fraid of;' he said, feeling in the pet of his
coat He had struck a match in a moment. By its flickering light I could
see only a bit of rubbish on the floor.

'Full o' white owls,' said he, stepping inside, where the rustling was
now continuous. 'They'll do us no harm.'

I could see them now flying about under the low ceiling. Uncle Eb
gathered an armful of grass and clover, in the near field, and spread it
in a corner well away from the ruined door and windows. Covered with our
blanket it made a fairly comfortable bed. Soon as we had lain down,
the rain began to rattle on the shaky roof and flashes of lightning lit
every corner of the old room.

I have had, ever, a curious love of storms, and, from the time when
memory began its record in my brain, it has delighted me to hear at
night the roar of thunder and see the swift play of the lightning. I
lay between Uncle Eb and the old dog, who both went asleep shortly.
Less wearied I presume than either of them, for I had done none of the
carrying, and had slept along time that day in the shade of a tree, I
was awake an hour or more after they were snoring. Every flash lit the
old room like the full glare of the noonday sun. I remember it showed me
an old cradle, piled full of rubbish, a rusty scythe hung in the rotting
sash of a window, a few lengths of stove-pipe and a plough in one
corner, and three staring white owls that sat on a beam above the
doorway. The rain roared on the old roof shortly, and came dripping down
through the bare boards above us. A big drop struck in my face and I
moved a little. Then I saw what made me hold my breath a moment and
cover my head with the shawl. A flash of lightning revealed a tall,
ragged man looking in at the doorway. I lay close to Uncle Eb imagining
much evil of that vision but made no outcry.

Snugged in between my two companions I felt reasonably secure and soon
fell asleep. The sun, streaming in at the open door, roused me in the
morning. At the beginning of each day of our journey I woke to find
Uncle Eb cooking at the fire. He was lying beside me, this morning, his
eyes open.

'Fraid I'm hard sick,' he said as I kissed him.

'What's the matter?' I enquired.

He struggled to a sitting posture, groaning so it went to my heart.

'Rheumatiz,' he answered presently.

He got to his feet, little by little, and every move he made gave him
great pain. With one hand on his cane and the other on my shoulder he
made his way slowly to the broken gate. Even now I can see clearly the
fair prospect of that high place--a valley reaching to distant hills and
a river winding through it, glimmering in the sunlight; a long wooded
ledge breaking into naked, grassy slopes on one side of the valley and
on the other a deep forest rolling to the far horizon; between them big
patches of yellow grain and white buckwheat and green pasture land and
greener meadows and the straight road, with white houses on either side
of it, glorious in a double fringe of golden rod and purple aster and
yellow John's-wort and the deep blue of the Jacob's ladder.

'Looks a good deal like the promised land,' said Uncle Eb. 'Hain't got
much further t' go.'

He sat on the rotting threshold while I pulled some of the weeds in
front of the doorstep and brought kindlings out of the house and built a
fire. While we were eating I told Uncle Eb of the man that I had seen in
the night.

'Guess you was dreamin',' he said, and, while I stood firm for the
reality of that I had seen, it held our thought only for a brief moment.
My companion was unable to walk that day so we lay by, in the shelter of
the old house, eating as little of our scanty store as we could do
with. I went to a spring near by for water and picked a good mess of
blackberries that I hid away until supper time, so as to surprise Uncle
Eb. A longer day than that we spent in the old house, after our coming,
I have never known. I made the room a bit tidier and gathered more grass
for bedding. Uncle Eb felt better as the day grew warm. I had a busy
time of it that morning bathing his back in the spirits and rubbing
until my small arms ached. I have heard him tell often how vigorously
I worked that day and how I would say: 'I'll take care o' you, Uncle
Eb--won't I, Uncle Eb?' as my little hands flew with redoubled energy on
his bare skin. That finished we lay down sleeping until the sun was low,
when I made ready the supper that took the last of everything we had to
eat. Uncle Eb was more like himself that evening and, sitting up in the
corner, as the darkness came, told me the story of Squirreltown and Frog
Ferry, which came to be so great a standby in those days that, even now,
I can recall much of the language in which he told it.

'Once,' he said, 'there was a boy thet hed two grey squirrels in a cage.
They kep' thinkin' o' the time they used t' scamper in the tree-tops an'
make nests an' eat all the nuts they wanted an' play I spy in the thick
leaves. An they grew poor an' looked kind o' ragged an' sickly an'
downhearted. When he brought 'em outdoors they used t' look up in the
trees an' run in the wire wheel as if they thought they could get there
sometime if they kep' goin'. As the boy grew older he see it was cruel
to keep 'em shet in a cage, but he'd hed em a long time an' couldn't
bear t' give 'em up.

'One day he was out in the woods a little back o' the clearin'. All t'
once he heard a swift holler. 'Twas nearby an' echoed so he couldn't
tell which way it come from. He run fer home but the critter ketched 'im
before he got out o' the woods an' took 'im into a cave, an' give 'im t'
the little swifts t' play with. The boy cried terrible. The swifts they
laughed an' nudged each other.

'“O ain't he cute!” says one. “He's a beauty!” says another. “Cur'us how
he can git along without any fur,” says the mother swift, as she run er
nose over 'is bare foot. He thought of 'is folks waitin' fer him an' he
begged em t' let 'im go. Then they come an' smelt 'im over.

'“Yer sech a cunnin' critter,” says the mother swift, “we couldn't spare
ye.”

'“Want to see my mother,” says the boy sobbing.

'“Couldn't afford t' let ye go--yer so cute,” says the swift. “Bring the
poor critter a bone an' a bit o' snake meat.”

'The boy couldn't eat. They fixed a bed fer him, but 'twant clean. The
feel uv it made his back ache an' the smell uv it made him sick to his
stomach.

'“When the swifts hed comp'ny they 'd bring 'em overt' look at him there
'n his dark corner.” “S a boy,” said the mother swift pokin' him with a
long stick “Wouldn't ye like t' see 'im run?” Then she punched him until
he got up an' run 'round the cave fer his life. Happened one day et a
very benevolent swift come int' the cave.

'“'S a pity t' keep the boy here,” said he; “he looks bad.”

'“But he makes fun fer the children,” said the swift.

'“Fun that makes misery is only fit fer a fool,” said the visitor.

'They let him go thet day. Soon as he got hum he thought o' the
squirrels an' was tickled t' find 'em alive. He tak 'em off to an
island, in the middle of a big lake, thet very day, an' set the cage on
the shore n' opened it He thought he would come back sometime an' see
how they was ginin' along. The cage was made of light wire an' hed a
tin bottom fastened to a big piece o' plank. At fust they was 'fraid t'
leave it an' peeked out o' the door an' scratched their heads's if they
thought it a resky business. After awhile one stepped out careful an'
then the other followed. They tried t' climb a tree, but their nails was
wore off an' they kep' fallin' back. Then they went off 'n the brush t'
find some nuts. There was only pines an' poppies an' white birch an' a
few berry bushes on the island. They went t' the water's edge on every
side, but there was nuthin there a squirrel ud give a flirt uv his
tail fer. 'Twas near dark when they come back t' the cage hungry as tew
bears. They found a few crumbs o' bread in the cup an' divided 'em even.
Then they went t' bed 'n their ol' nest.

'It hed been rainin' a week in the mount'ins. Thet night the lake rose
a foot er more an' 'fore mornin' the cage begun t' rock a teenty bit as
the water lifted the plank. They slep' all the better fer thet an' they
dreamed they was up in a tree at the end uv a big bough. The cage begun
t' sway sideways and then it let go o' the shore an' spun 'round once er
twice an' sailed out 'n the deep water. There was a light breeze blowin'
offshore an' purty soon it was pitchin' like a ship in the sea. But the
two squirrels was very tired an' never woke up 'til sunrise. They got a
terrible scare when they see the water 'round 'em an' felt the motion
o' the ship. Both on 'em ran into the wire wheel an' that bore down the
stern o' the ship so the under wires touched the water. They made it
spin like a buzz saw an' got their clothes all wet. The ship went faster
when they worked the wheel, an' bime bye they got tired an' come out
on the main deck. The water washed over it a little so they clim up the
roof thet was a kin' uv a hurricane deck. It made the ship sway an' rock
fearful but they hung on 'midships, an' clung t' the handle that stuck
up like a top mast. Their big tails was spread over their shoulders,
an' the wind rose an' the ship went faster 'n faster. They could see the
main shore where the big woods come down t' the water 'n' all the while
it kep' a comin' nearer 'n' nearer. But they was so hungry didn't seem
possible they could live to git there.

'Ye know squirrels are a savin' people. In the day o' plenty they think
o' the day o' poverty an' lay by fer it. All at once one uv 'em thought
uv a few kernels o' corn, he hed pushed through a little crack in the
tin floor one day a long time ago. It happened there was quite a hole
under the crack an' each uv 'em bad stored some kernels unbeknown t'
the other. So they hed a good supper 'n' some left fer a bite 'n the
mornin'. 'Fore daylight the ship made her pott 'n' lay to, 'side liv a
log in a little cove. The bullfrogs jumped on her main deck an' begun
t' holler soon as she hove to: “all ashore! all ashore! all ashore!” The
two squirrels woke up but lay quiet 'til the sun rose. Then they come
out on the log 'et looked like a long dock an' run ashore 'n' foun' some
o' their own folks in the bush. An' when they bed tol' their story the
ol' father o' the tribe got up 'n a tree an' hollered himself hoarse
preachin' 'bout how 't paid t' be savin'.

'“An' we should learn t' save our wisdom es well es our nuts,” said a
sassy brother; “fer each needs his own wisdom fer his own affairs.”

'An the little ship went back 'n' forth 'cross the cove as the win'
blew. The squirrels hed many a fine ride in her an' the frogs were the
ferrymen. An' all 'long thet shore 'twas known es Frog Ferry 'mong the
squirrel folks.'

It was very dark when he finished the tale an' as we lay gaping a few
minutes after my last query about those funny people of the lake margin
I could hear nothing but the chirping of the crickets. I was feeling
a bit sleepy when I heard the boards creak above our heads. Uncle Eli
raised himself and lay braced upon his elbow listening. In a few moments
we heard a sound as of someone coming softly down the ladder at the
other end of the room. It was so dark I could see nothing.

'Who's there?' Uncle Eb demanded.

'Don't p'int thet gun at me,' somebody whispered. 'This is my home and I
warn ye t' leave it er I'll do ye harm.'






Chapter 5

Here I shall quote you again from the diary of Uncle Eb. 'It was so dark
I couldn't see a han' before me. “Don't p'int yer gun at me,” the man
whispered. Thought 'twas funny he could see me when I couldn't see him.
Said 'twas his home an' we'd better leave. Tol him I was sick (rumatiz)
an' couldn't stir. Said he was sorry an' come over near us. Tol' him I
was an' ol' man goin' west with a small boy. Stopped in the rain. Got
sick. Out o' purvisions. 'Bout ready t' die. Did'n know what t' do.
Started t' stike a match an' the man said don't make no light cos I
don't want to hev ye see my face. Never let nobody see my face. Said he
never went out 'less 'twas a dark night until folks was abed. Said we
looked like good folks. Scairt me a little cos we couldn't see a thing.
Also he said don't be 'fraid of me. Do what I can fer ye.'

I remember the man crossed the creaking floor and sat down near us after
he had parleyed with Uncle Eb awhile in whispers. Young as I was I keep
a vivid impression of that night and, aided by the diary of Uncle Eb, I
have made a record of what was said that is, in the main, accurate.

'Do you know where you are?' he enquired presently, whispering as he had
done before.

'I've no idee,' said Uncle Eb.

'Well, down the hill is Paradise Valley in the township o' Faraway,'
he continued. 'It's the end o' Paradise Road an' a purty country. Been
settled a long time an' the farms are big an' prosperous--kind uv a land
o' plenty. That big house at the foot o' the hill is Dave Brower's. He's
the richest man in the valley.'

'How do you happen t' be livin' here?--if ye don't min' tellin' me,'
Uncle Eb asked.

'Crazy,' said he; ''fraid uv everybody an' everybody's 'fraid o' me.
Lived a good long time in this way. Winters I go into the big woods. Got
a camp in a big cave an' when I'm there I see a little daylight. Here 'n
the clearin' I'm only up in the night-time. Thet's how I've come to see
so well in the dark. It's give me cat's eyes.'

'Don't ye git lonesome?' Uncle Eb asked.

'Awful--sometimes,' he answered with a sad sigh, 'an' it seems good t'
talk with somebody besides myself. I get enough to eat generally. There
are deer in the woods an' cows in the fields, ye know, an' potatoes an'
corn an' berries an' apples, an' all thet kind o' thing. Then I've got
my traps in the woods where I ketch partridges, an' squirrels an' coons
an' all the meat I need. I've got a place in the thick timber t' do my
cookin'--all I want t' do--in the middle of the night Sometimes I come
here an' spend a day in the garret if I'm caught in a storm or if I
happen to stay a little too late in the valley. Once in a great while
I meet a man somewhere in the open but he always gits away quick as he
can. Guess they think I'm a ghost--dunno what I think o' them.'

Our host went on talking as if he were glad to tell the secrets of his
heart to some creature of his own kind. I have often wondered at his
frankness; but there was a fatherly tenderness, I remember in the voice
of Uncle Eb, and I judge it tempted his confidence. Probably the love
of companionship can never be so dead in a man but that the voice of
kindness may call it back to life again.

'I'll bring you a bite t' eat before morning,' he said, presently, as he
rose to go, 'leet me feel o' your han', mister.'

Uncle Eb gave him his hand and thanked him.

'Feels good. First I've hed hold of in a long time,' he whispered.

'What's the day o' the month?'

'The twenty-fifth.'

'I must remember. Where did you come from?'

Uncle Eb told him, briefly, the story of our going west

'Guess you'd never do me no harm--would ye?' the man asked. 'Not a bit,'
Uncle Eb answered.

Then he bade us goodbye, crossed the creaking floor and went away in the
darkness.

'Sing'lar character!' Uncle Eb muttered.

I was getting drowsy and that was the last I heard. In the morning we
found a small pail of milk sitting near us, a roasted partridge, two
fried fish and some boiled potatoes. It was more than enough to carry
us through the day with a fair allowance for Fred. Uncle Eb was a bit
better but very lame at that and kept to his bed the greater part of the
day. The time went slow with me I remember. Uncle Eb was not cheerful
and told me but one story and that had no life in it. At dusk he let me
go out in the road to play awhile with Fred and the wagon, but came to
the door and called us in shortly. I went to bed in a rather unhappy
frame of mind. The dog roused me by barking in the middle of the right
and I heard again the familiar whisper of the stranger.

'Sh-h-h! be still, dog,' he whispered; but I was up to my ears in sleep
and went under shortly, so I have no knowledge of what passed that
night. Uncle Eb tells in his diary that he had a talk with him lasting
more than an hour, but goes no further and never seemed willing to talk
much about that interview or others that followed it.

I only know the man had brought more milk and fish and fowl for us. We
stayed another day in the old house, that went like the last, and the
night man came again to see Uncle Eb. The next morning my companion was
able to walk more freely, but Fred and I had to stop and wait for him
very often going down the big hill. I was mighty glad when we were
leaving the musty old house for good and had the dog hitched with
all our traps in the wagon. It was a bright morning and the sunlight
glimmered on the dew in the broad valley. The men were just coming from
breakfast when we turned in at David Brower's. A barefooted little girl
a bit older than I, with red cheeks and blue eyes and long curly hair,
that shone like gold in the sunlight, came running out to meet us and
led me up to the doorstep, highly amused at the sight of Fred and the
wagon. I regarded her with curiosity and suspicion at first, while Uncle
Eb was talking with the men. I shall never forget that moment when David
Brower came and lifted me by the shoulders, high above his head, and
shook me as if to test my mettle. He led me into the house then where
his wife was working.

'What do you think of this small bit of a boy?' he asked.

She had already knelt on the floor and put her arms about my neck and
kissed me.

'Am' no home,' said he. 'Come all the way from Vermont with an ol' man.
They're worn out both uv 'em. Guess we'd better take 'em in awhile.'

'O yes, mother--please, mother,' put in the little girl who was holding
my hand. 'He can sleep with me, mother. Please let him stay.'

She knelt beside me and put her arms around my little shoulders and drew
me to her breast and spoke to me very tenderly.

'Please let him stay,' the girl pleaded again.

'David,' said the woman, 'I couldn't turn the little thing away. Won't
ye hand me those cookies.'

And so our life began in Paradise Valley. Ten minutes later I was
playing my first game of 'I spy' with little Hope Brower, among the
fragrant stooks of wheat in the field back of the garden.






Chapter 6

The lone pine stood in Brower's pasture, just clear of the woods. When
the sun rose, one could see its taper shadow stretching away to the
foot of Woody Ledge, and at sunset it lay like a fallen mast athwart
the cow-paths, its long top arm a flying pennant on the side of Bowman's
Hill. In summer this bar of shadow moved like a clock-hand on the green
dial of the pasture, and the help could tell the time by the slant
of it. Lone Pine had a mighty girth at the bottom, and its bare body
tapered into the sky as straight as an arrow. Uncle Eb used to say that
its one long, naked branch that swung and creaked near the top of it,
like a sign of hospitality on the highway of the birds, was two hundred
feet above ground. There were a few stubs here and there upon its
shaft--the roost of crows and owls and hen-hawks. It must have passed
for a low resort in the feathered kingdom because it was only the
robbers of the sky that halted on Lone Pine.

This towering shaft of dead timber commemorated the ancient forest
through which the northern Yankees cut their trails in the beginning of
the century. They were a tall, big fisted, brawny lot of men who came
across the Adirondacks from Vermont, and began to break the green canopy
that for ages had covered the valley of the St Lawrence. Generally they
drove a cow with them, and such game as they could kill on the journey
supplemented their diet of 'pudding and milk'. Some settled where the
wagon broke or where they had buried a member of the family, and there
they cleared the forests that once covered the smooth acres of today.
Gradually the rough surface of the trail grew smoother until it became
Paradise Road--the well-worn thoroughfare of the stagecoach with its
'inns and outs', as the drivers used to say--the inns where the 'men
folks' sat in the firelight of the blazing logs after supper and
told tales of adventure until bedtime, while the women sat with their
knitting in the parlour, and the young men wrestled in the stableyard.
The men of middle age had stooped and massive shoulders, and
deep-furrowed brows: Tell one of them he was growing old and he might
answer you by holding his whip in front of him and leaping over it
between his hands.

There was a little clearing around that big pine tree when David Brower
settled in the valley. Its shadows shifting in the light of sun and
moon, like the arm of a compass, swept the spreading acres of his farm,
and he built his house some forty rods from the foot of it on higher
ground. David was the oldest of thirteen children. His father had died
the year before he came to St Lawrence county, leaving him nothing but
heavy responsibilities. Fortunately, his great strength and his kindly
nature were equal to the burden. Mother and children were landed safely
in their new home on Bowman's Hill the day that David was eighteen. I
have heard the old folks of that country tell what a splendid figure of
a man he was those days--six feet one in his stockings and broad at the
shoulder. His eyes were grey and set under heavy brows. I have never
forgotten the big man that laid hold of me and the broad clean-shaven
serious face, that looked into mine the day I came to Paradise Valley.
As I write I can see plainly his dimpled chin, his large nose, his firm
mouth that was the key to his character. 'Open or shet,' I have heard
the old folks say, 'it showed he was no fool.'

After two years David took a wife and settled in Paradise Valley. He
prospered in a small way considered handsome thereabouts. In a few years
he had cleared the rich acres of his farm to the sugar bush that was the
north vestibule of the big forest; he had seen the clearing widen until
he could discern the bare summits of the distant hills, and, far as
he could see, were the neat white houses of the settlers. Children had
come, three of them--the eldest a son who had left home and died in a
far country long before we came to Paradise Valley--the youngest a baby.

I could not have enjoyed my new home more if I had been born in it. I
had much need of a mother's tenderness, no doubt, for I remember with
what a sense of peace and comfort I lay on the lap of Elizabeth Brower,
that first evening, and heard her singing as she rocked. The little
daughter stood at her knees, looking down at me and patting my bare toes
or reaching over to feel my face.

'God sent him to us--didn't he, mother?' said she.

'Maybe,' Mrs Brower answered, 'we'll be good to him, anyway.'

Then that old query came into my mind. I asked them if it was heaven
where we were.

'No,' they answered.

''Tain't anywhere near here, is it?' I went on.

Then she told me about the gate of death, and began sowing in me the
seed of God's truth--as I know now the seed of many harvests. I slept
with Uncle Eb in the garret, that night, and for long after we came to
the Brower's. He continued to get better, and was shortly able to give
his hand to the work of the farm.

There was room for all of us in that ample wilderness of his
imagination, and the cry of the swift woke its echoes every evening for
a time. Bears and panthers prowled in the deep thickets, but the swifts
took a firmer grip on us, being bolder and more terrible. Uncle Eb
became a great favourite in the family, and David Brower came to know
soon that he was 'a good man to work' and could be trusted 'to look
after things'. We had not been there long when I heard Elizabeth speak
of Nehemiah--her lost son--and his name was often on the lips of others.
He was a boy of sixteen when he went away, and I learned no more of him
until long afterwards.

A month or more after we came to Faraway, I remember we went 'cross lots
in a big box wagon to the orchard on the hill and gathered apples that
fell in a shower when Uncle Eb went up to shake them down. Then cane the
raw days of late October, when the crows went flying southward before
the wind--a noisy pirate fleet that filled the sky at times--and when we
all put on our mittens and went down the winding cow-paths to the grove
of butternuts in the pasture. The great roof of the wilderness had
turned red and faded into yellow. Soon its rafters began to show
through, and then, in a day or two, they were all bare but for some
patches of evergreen. Great, golden drifts of foliage lay higher than
a man's head in the timber land about the clearing. We had our best fun
then, playing 'I spy' in the groves.

In that fragrant deep of leaves one might lie undiscovered a long time.
He could hear roaring like that of water at every move of the finder,
wallowing nearer and nearer possibly, in his search. Old Fred came
generally rooting his way to us in the deep drift with unerring
accuracy.

And shortly winter came out of the north and, of a night, after rapping
at the windows and howling in the chimney and roaring in the big woods,
took possession of the earth. That was a time when hard cider flowed
freely and recollection found a ready tongue among the older folk, and
the young enjoyed many diversions, including measles and whooping cough.






Chapter 7

I had a lot of fun that first winter, but none that I can remember more
gratefully than our trip in the sledgehouse--a tight little house
fitted and fastened to a big sledge. Uncle Eb had to go to mill at
Hillsborough, some twelve miles away, and Hope and I, after much
coaxing and many family counsels, got leave to go with him. The sky was
cloudless, and the frosty air was all aglow in the sunlight that morning
we started. There was a little sheet iron stove in one corner of the
sledgehouse, walled in with zinc and anchored with wires; a layer of
hay covered the floor and over that we spread our furs and blankets. The
house had an open front, and Uncle Eb sat on the doorstep, as it were,
to drive, while we sat behind him on the blankets.

'I love you very much,' said Hope, embracing me, after we were seated.
Her affection embarrassed me, I remember. It seemed unmanly to be petted
like a doll.

'I hate to be kissed,' I said, pulling away from her, at which Uncle Eb
laughed heartily.

The day came when I would have given half my life for the words I held
so cheaply then.

'You'd better be good t' me,' she answered, 'for when mother dies I'm
goin' t' take care o' you. Uncle Eb and Gran'ma Bisnette an' you an'
everybody I love is goin' t' come an' live with me in a big, big house.
An' I'm goin' t' put you t' bed nights an' hear ye say yer prayers an
everything.'

'Who'll do the spankin?' Uncle Eb asked.

'My husban',' she answered, with a sigh at the thought of all the
trouble that lay before her.

'An' I'll make him rub your back, too, Uncle Eb,' she added. 'Wall, I
rather guess he'll object to that,' said he.

'Then you can give 'ins five cents, an' I guess he'll be glad t' do it,'
she answered promptly.

'Poor man! He won't know whether he's runnin' a poorhouse er a hospital,
will he?' said Uncle Eb. 'Look here, children,' he added, taking out his
old leather wallet, as he held the reins between his knees. 'Here's tew
shillin' apiece for ye, an' I want ye t' spend it jest eggsackly as ye
please.' The last words were spoken slowly and with emphasis.

We took the two silver pieces that he handed to us and looked them all
over and compared them.

'I know what I'll do,' said she, suddenly. 'I'm goin' t' buy my mother a
new dress, or mebbe a beautiful ring,' she added thoughtfully.

For my own part I did not know what I should buy. I wanted a real gun
most of all and my inclination oscillated between that and a red rocking
horse. My mind was very busy while I sat in silence. Presently I rose
and went to Uncle Eb and whispered in his ear.

'Do you think I could get a real rifle with two shilin'?' I enquired
anxiously.

'No,' he answered in a low tone that seemed to respect my confidence.
'Bime by, when you're older, I'll buy ye a rifle--a real rip snorter,
too, with a shiny barrel 'n a silver lock. When ye get down t, the
village ye'll see lots o' things y'd rather hev, prob'ly. If I was you,
children,' he added, in a louder tone, 'I wouldn't buy a thing but nuts
'n' raisins.'

'Nuts 'n' raisins!' Hope exclaimed, scornfully.

'Nuts 'n' raisins,' he repeated. 'They're cheap 'n' satisfyin'. If ye
eat enough uv 'em you'll never want anything else in this world.'

I failed to see the irony in Uncle Eb's remark and the suggestion seemed
to have a good deal of merit, the more I thought it over.

''T any rate,' said Uncle Eb, 'I'd git somethin' fer my own selves.'

'Well,' said Hope, 'You tell us a lot o' things we could buy.'

'Less see!' said Uncle Eb, looking very serious. 'There's bootjacks an'
there's warmin' pans 'n' mustard plasters 'n' liver pads 'n' all them
kind o' things.'

We both shook our heads very doubtfully.

'Then,' he added, 'there are jimmyjacks 'n' silver no nuthin's.'

There were many other suggestions but none of them were decisive.

The snow lay deep on either side of the way and there was a glimmer on
every white hillside where Jack Frost had sown his diamonds. Here and
there a fox track crossed the smooth level of the valley and dwindled on
the distant hills like a seam in a great white robe. It grew warmer as
the sun rose, and we were a jolly company behind the merry jingle of the
sleigh bells. We had had a long spell of quiet weather and the road lay
in two furrows worn as smooth as ice at the bottom.

'Consarn it!' said Uncle Eb looking up at the sky, after we had been on
the road an hour or so. 'There's a sun dog. Wouldn't wonder if we got a
snowstorm' fore night.

I was running behind the sledge and standing on the brake hooks going
downhill. He made me get in when he saw the sun dog, and let our
horse--a rat-tailed bay known as Old Doctor--go at a merry pace.

We were awed to silence when we came in sight of Hillsborough, with
spires looming far into the sky, as it seemed to me then, and buildings
that bullied me with their big bulk, so that I had no heart for the
spending of the two shillings Uncle Eb had given me. Such sublimity
of proportion I have never seen since; and yet it was all very small
indeed. The stores had a smell about them that was like chloroform in
its effect upon me; for, once in them, I fell into a kind of trance
and had scarce sense enough to know my own mind. The smart clerks, who
generally came and asked, 'Well, young man, what can I do for you?' I
regarded with fear and suspicion. I clung the tighter to my coin always,
and said nothing, although I saw many a trinket whose glitter went to
my soul with a mighty fascination. We both stood staring silently at the
show cases, our tongues helpless with awe and wonder. Finally, after a
whispered conference, Hope asked for a 'silver no nothing', and provoked
so much laughter that we both fled to the sidewalk. Uncle Eb had to do
our buying for us in the end.

'Wall, what'll ye hev?' he said to me at length.

I tried to think-it was no easy thing to do after all I had seen.

'Guess I'll take a jacknife,' I whispered.

'Give this boy a knife,' he demanded. 'Wants t' be good 'n sharp. Might
hev t' skin a swift with it sometime.'

'What ye want?' he asked, then turning to Hope.

'A doll,' she whispered.

'White or black?' said he.

'White,' said she, 'with dark eyes and hair.'

'Want a reel, splendid, firs'-class doll,' he said to the clerk. 'Thet
one'll do, there, with the sky-blue dress 'n the pink apron.'

We were worn out with excitement when we left for home under lowering
skies. We children lay side by side under the robes, the doll between
us, and were soon asleep. It was growing dark when Uncle Eb woke us,
and the snow was driving in at the doorway. The air was full of snow, I
remember, and Old Doctor was wading to his knees in a drift. We were up
in the hills and the wind whistled in our little chimney. Uncle Eb had
a serious look in his face. The snow grew deeper and Old Doctor went
slower every moment.

'Six mild from home,' Uncle Eb muttered, as he held up to rest a moment.
'Six mild from home. 'Fraid we're in fer a night uv it.'

We got to the top of Fadden's Hill about dark, and the snow lay so deep
in the cut we all got out for fear the house would tip over. Old Doctor
floundered along a bit further until he went down in the drift and lay
between the shafts half buried. We had a shovel that always hung beside
a small hatchet in the sledgehouse--for one might need much beside the
grace of God of a winter's day in that country--and with it Uncle Eb
began to uncover the horse. We children stood in the sledgehouse door
watching him and holding the lantern. Old Doctor was on his feet in a
few minutes.

''Tain' no use tryin',' said Uncle Eb, as he began to unhitch. 'Can't go
no further t'night.'

Then he dug away the snow beside the sledgehouse, and hitched Old Doctor
to the horseshoe that was nailed to the rear end of it. That done, he
clambered up the side of the cut and took some rails off the fence and
shoved them over on the roof of the house, so that one end rested there
and the other on the high bank beside us. Then he cut a lot of hemlock
boughs with the hatchet, and thatched the roof he had made over Old
Doctor, binding them with the reins. Bringing more rails, he leaned them
to the others on the windward side and nailed a big blanket over them,
piecing it out with hemlock thatching, so it made a fairly comfortable
shelter. We were under the wind in this deep cut on Fadden's Hill, and
the snow piled in upon us rapidly. We had a warm blanket for Old Doctor
and two big buffalo robes for our own use. We gave him a good feed of
hay and oats, and then Uncle Eb cut up a fence rail with our hatchet and
built a roaring fire in the stove. We had got a bit chilly wading in the
snow, and the fire gave us a mighty sense of comfort.

'I thought somethin' might happen,' said Uncle Eb, as he hung his
lantern to the ridge pole and took a big paper parcel out of his great
coat pocket. 'I thought mebbe somethin' might happen, an' so I brought
along a bite o' luncheon.'

He gave us dried herring and bread and butter and cheese.

''S a little dry,' he remarked, while we were eating, 'but it's drier
where there's none.'

We had a pail of snow on top of the little stove and plenty of good
drinking water for ourselves and the Old Doctor in a few minutes.

After supper Uncle Eb went up the side of the cut and brought back a lot
of hemlock boughs and spread them under Old Doctor for bedding.

Then we all sat around the stove on the warm robes and listened to the
wind howling above our little roof and the stories of Uncle Eb. The
hissing of the snow as it beat upon the sledgehouse grew fainter by and
by, and Uncle Eb said he guessed we were pretty well covered up. We fell
asleep soon. I remember he stopped in the middle of a wolf story, and,
seeing that our eyes were shut, pulled us back from the fire a little
and covered us with one of the robes. It had been a mighty struggle
between Sleep and Romance, and Sleep had won. I roused myself and
begged him to go on with the story, but he only said, 'Hush, boy; it's
bedtime,' and turned up the lantern and went out of doors. I woke once
or twice in the night and saw him putting wood on the fire. He had put
out the light. The gleam of the fire shone on his face when he opened
the stove door.

'Gittin' a leetle cool here, Uncle Eb,' he was saying to himself.

We were up at daylight, and even then it was snowing and blowing
fiercely. There were two feet of snow on the sledgehouse roof, and we
were nearly buried in the bank. Uncle Eb had to do a lot of shoveling
to get out of doors and into the stable. Old Doctor was quite out of the
wind in a cave of snow and nickering for his breakfast. There was plenty
for him, but we were on short rations. Uncle Eb put on the snow shoes,
after we had eaten what there was left, and, cautioning us to keep in,
set out for Fadden's across lots. He came back inside of an hour with a
good supply of provisions in a basket on his shoulder. The wind had gone
down and the air was milder. Big flakes of snow came fluttering slowly
downward out of a dark sky. After dinner we went up on top of the
sledgehouse and saw a big scraper coming in the valley below. Six teams
of oxen were drawing it, and we could see the flying furrows on either
side of the scraper as it ploughed in the deep drifts. Uncle Eb put on
the snow shoes again, and, with Hope on his back and me clinging to his
hand, he went down to meet them and to tell of our plight. The front
team had wallowed to their ears, and the men were digging them out with
shovels when we got to the scraper. A score of men and boys clung to the
sides of that big, hollow wedge, and put their weight on it as the oxen
pulled. We got on with the others, I remember, and I was swept off as
soon as the scraper started by a roaring avalanche of snow that came
down upon our heads and buried me completely. I was up again and had
a fresh hold in a jiffy, and clung to my place until I was nearly
smothered by the flying snow. It was great fun for me, and they were
all shouting and hallooing as if it were a fine holiday. They made slow
progress, however, and we left them shortly on their promise to try to
reach us before night. If they failed to get through, one of them
said he would drive over to Paradise Valley, if possible, and tell the
Browers we were all right.

On our return, Uncle Eb began shoveling a tunnel in the cut. When we got
through to the open late in the afternoon we saw the scraper party going
back with their teams.

'Guess they've gi'n up fer t'day,' said he. 'Snow's powerful deep down
there below the bridge. Mebbe we can get 'round to where the road's
clear by goin' 'cross lots. I've a good mind t' try it.'

Then he went over in the field and picked a winding way down the hill
toward the river, while we children stood watching him. He came back
soon and took down a bit of the fence and harnessed Old Doctor and
hitched him to the sledgehouse. The tunnel was just wide enough to let
us through with a tight pinch here and there. The footing was rather
soft' and the horse had hard pulling. We went in the field, struggling
on afoot--we little people--while Uncle Eb led the horse. He had to stop
frequently to tunnel through a snowdrift, and at dusk we had only got
half-way to the bridge from our cave in the cut. Of a sudden Old Doctor
went up to his neck in a wall of deep snow that seemed to cut us off
completely. He struggled a moment, falling on his side and wrenching
the shafts from the runners. Uncle Eb went to work vigorously with his
shovel and had soon cut a narrow box stall in the deep snow around Old
Doctor. Just beyond the hill dipped sharply and down the slope we could
see the stubble sticking through the shallow snow. 'We'll hev t' stop
right where we are until mornin',' he said. 'It's mos' dark now.

Our little house stood tilting forward about half-way down the hill, its
runners buried in the snow. A few hundred yards below was a cliff where
the shore fell to the river some thirty feet It had stopped snowing, and
the air had grown warmer, but the sky was dark We put nearly all the hay
in the sledgehouse under Old Doctor and gave him the last of the oats
and a warm cover of blankets. Then Uncle Eb went away to the fence for
more wood, while we spread the supper. He was very tired, I remember,
and we all turned in for the night a short time after we had eaten. The
little stove was roaring like a furnace when we spread our blankets on
the sloping floor and lay down, our feet to the front, and drew the warm
robes over us. Uncle Eb, who had had no sleep the night before, began
to snore heavily before we children had stopped whispering. He was still
snoring, and Hope sound asleep, when I woke in the night and heard the
rain falling on our little roof and felt the warm breath of the south
wind. The water dripping from the eaves and falling far and near upon
the yielding snow had many voices. I was half-asleep when I heard a
new noise under the sledge. Something struck the front corner of the
sledgehouse--a heavy, muffled blow--and brushed the noisy boards. Then I
heard the timbers creak and felt the runners leaping over the soft snow.
I remember it was like a dream of falling. I raised myself and stared
about me. We were slipping down the steep floor. The lantern, burning
dimly under the roof, swung and rattled. Uncle Eb was up on his elbow
staring wildly. I could feel the jar and rush of the runners and the
rain that seemed to roar as it dashed into my face. Then, suddenly,
the sledgehouse gave a great leap into the air and the grating of the
runners ceased. The lantern went hard against the roof; there was a
mighty roar in my ears; then we heard a noise like thunder and felt the
shock of a blow that set my back aching, and cracked the roof above our
heads. It was all still for a second; then we children began to cry, and
Uncle Eb staggered to his feet and lit the lantern that had gone out and
that had no globe, I remember, as he held it down to our faces.

'Hush! Are you hurt?' he said, as he knelt before us. 'Git up now, see
if ye can stand.'

We got to our feet, neither of us much the worse for what had
happened--My knuckles were cut a bit by a splinter, and Hope had been
hit on the shins by the lantern globe as it fell.

'By the Lord Harry!' said Uncle Eb, when he saw we were not hurt.
'Wonder what hit us.'

We followed him outside while he was speaking.

'We've slid downhill,' he said. 'Went over the cliff. Went kerplunk in
the deep snow, er there'd have been nuthin' left uv us. Snow's meltin'
jest as if it was July.'

Uncle Eb helped us into our heavy coats, and then with a blanket over
his arm led us into the wet snow. We came out upon clear ice in a
moment and picked our way along the lowering shore. At length Uncle Eb
clambered up, pulling us up after him, one by one. Then he whistled to
Old Doctor, who whinnied a quick reply. He left us standing together,
the blanket over our heads, and went away in the dark whistling as he
had done before. We could hear Old Doctor answer as he came near, and
presently Uncle Eb returned leading the horse by the halter. Then he
put us both on Old Doctor's back, threw the blanket over our heads,
and started slowly for the road. We clung to each other as the horse
staggered in the soft snow, and kept our places with some aid from
Uncle Eb. We crossed the fence presently, and then for a way it was hard
going. We found fair footing after we had passed the big scraper, and,
coming to a house a mile or so down the road called them out of bed. It
was growing light and they made us comfortable around a big stove,
and gave us breakfast. The good man of the house took us home in a big
sleigh after the chores were done. We met David Brower coming after us,
and if we'd been gone a year we couldn't have received a warmer welcome.






Chapter 8

Of all that long season of snow, I remember most pleasantly the days
that were sweetened with the sugar-making. When the sun was lifting his
course in the clearing sky, and March had got the temper of the lamb,
and the frozen pulses of the forest had begun to stir, the great kettle
was mounted in the yard and all gave a hand to the washing of spouts and
buckets. Then came tapping time, in which I helped carry the buckets and
tasted the sweet flow that followed the auger's wound. The woods were
merry with our shouts, and, shortly, one could hear the heart-beat
of the maples in the sounding bucket. It was the reveille of spring.
Towering trees shook down the gathered storms of snow and felt for the
sunlight. The arch and shanty were repaired, the great iron kettle was
scoured and lifted to its place, and then came the boiling. It was a
great, an inestimable privilege to sit on the robes of faded fur, in the
shanty, and hear the fire roaring under the kettle and smell the sweet
odour of the boiling sap. Uncle Eb minded the shanty and the fire and
the woods rang with his merry songs. When I think of that phase of the
sugaring, I am face to face with one of the greatest perils of my life.
My foster father had consented to let me spend a night with Uncle Eb in
the shanty, and I was to sleep on the robes, where he would be beside
me when he was not tending the fire. It had been a mild, bright day, and
David came up with our supper at sunset. He sat talking with Uncle Eb
for an hour or so, and the woods were darkling when he went away.

When he started on the dark trail that led to the clearing, I wondered
at his courage--it was so black beyond the firelight. While we sat alone
I plead for a story, but the thoughts of Uncle Eb had gone to roost
early in a sort of gloomy meditation.

'Be still, my boy,' said he, 'an' go t' sleep. I ain't agoin' t' tell no
yarns an' git ye all stirred up. Ye go t' sleep. Come mornin' we'll go
down t' the brook an' see if we can't find a mink or tew 'n the traps.'

I remember hearing a great crackling of twigs in the dark wood before
I slept. As I lifted my head, Uncle Eb whispered, 'Hark!' and we both
listened. A bent and aged figure came stalking into the firelight.
His long white hair mingled with his beard and covered his coat collar
behind.

'Don't be scairt,' said Uncle Eb. ''Tain' no bear. It's nuthin' but a
poet.'

I knew him for a man who wandered much and had a rhyme for everyone--a
kindly man with a reputation for laziness and without any home.

'Bilin', eh?' said the poet

'Bilin',' said Uncle Eb.

'I'm bilin' over 'n the next bush,' said the poet, sitting down.

'How's everything in Jingleville?' Uncle Eb enquired.

Then the newcomer answered:


   'Well, neighbour dear, in Jingleville
    We live by faith but we eat our fill;
    An' what w'u'd we do if it wa'n't fer prayer?
    Fer we can't raise a thing but whiskers an' hair.'

'Cur'us how you can talk po'try,' said Uncle Eb. 'The only thing I've
got agin you is them whiskers an' thet hair. 'Tain't Christian.'

''Tain't what's on the head, but what's in it--thet's the important
thing,' said the poet. 'Did I ever tell ye what I wrote about the
birds?'

'Don' know's ye ever did,' said Uncle Eb, stirring his fire.

'The boy'll like it, mebbe,' said he, taking a dirty piece of paper out
of his pocket and holding it to the light.

The poem interested me, young as I was, not less than the strange figure
of the old poet who lived unknown in the backwoods, and who died, I dare
say, with many a finer song in his heart. I remember how he stood in
the firelight and chanted the words in a sing-song tone. He gave us that
rude copy of the poem, and here it is:


                      THE ROBIN'S WEDDING

  Young robin red breast hed a beautiful nest an' he says to his love says he:
  It's ready now on a rocking bough
  In the top of a maple tree.
  I've lined it with down an' the velvet brown on the waist of a bumble-bee.

  They were married next day, in the land o' the hay, the lady bird an' he.
  The bobolink came an' the wife o' the same
  An' the lark an' the fiddle de dee.
  An' the crow came down in a minister gown--there was nothing
    that he didn't see.

  He fluttered his wing as they ast him to sing an' he tried fer t' clear
      out his throat;
  He hemmed an' he hawed an' be hawked an' he cawed
  But he couldn't deliver a note.
  The swallow was there an' he ushered each pair with his linsey an'
      claw hammer coat.

  The bobolink tried fer t' flirt with the bride in a way thet was sassy
      an' bold.
  An' the notes that he took as he shivered an' shook
  Hed a sound like the jingle of gold.
  He sat on a briar an' laughed at the choir an' said thet the music was old.

  The sexton he came--Mr Spider by name--a citizen hairy and grey.
  His rope in a steeple, he called the good people
  That live in the land o' the hay.
  The ants an' the squgs an' the crickets an' bugs--came out in a
      mighty array.

  Some came down from Barleytown an' the neighbouring city o' Rye.
  An' the little black people they climbed every steeple
  An' sat looking up at the sky.
  They came fer t' see what a wedding might be an' they
     furnished the cake an' the pie.

I remember he turned to me when he had finished and took one of my small
hands and held it in his hard palm and looked at it and then into my
face.

'Ah, boy!' he said, 'your way shall lead you far from here, and you
shall get learning and wealth and win--victories.'

'What nonsense are you talking, Jed Ferry?' said Uncle Eb.

'O, you all think I'm a fool an' a humbug, 'cos I look it. Why, Eben
Holden, if you was what ye looked, ye'd be in the presidential chair.
Folks here 'n the valley think o' nuthin' but hard work--most uv 'em,
an' I tell ye now this boy ain't a goin' t' be wuth putty on a farm.
Look a' them slender hands.

'There was a man come to me the other day an' wanted t' hev a poem 'bout
his wife that hed jes' died. I ast him t' tell me all 'bout her.

'“Wall,” said he, after he had scratched his head an' thought a minute,
“she was a dretful good woman t' work.”

'“Anything else?” I asked.

'He thought agin fer a minute.

'“Broke her leg once,” he said, “an' was laid up fer more'n a year.”

“Must o' suffered,” said I.

'“Not then,” he answered. “Ruther enjoyed it layin' abed an' readin' an'
bein' rubbed, but 'twas hard on the children.”

'“S'pose ye loved her,” I said.

'Then the tears come into his eyes an' he couldn't speak fer a minute.
Putty soon he whispered “Yes” kind o' confidential. 'Course he loved
her, but these Yankees are ashamed o' their feelin's. They hev tender
thoughts, but they hide 'em as careful as the wild goose hides her eggs.
I wrote a poem t' please him, an' goin' home I made up one fer myself,
an 'it run 'bout like this:


  O give me more than a life, I beg,
  That finds real joy in a broken leg.
  Whose only thought is t' work an' save
  An' whose only rest is in the grave.
  Saving an' scrimping from day to day
  While its best it has squandered an' flung away
  Fer a life like that of which I tell
  Would rob me quite o' the dread o' hell.

'Toil an' slave an' scrimp an' save--thet's 'bout all we think uv 'n
this country. 'Tain't right, Holden.'

'No, 'tain't right,' said Uncle Eb.

'I know I'm a poor, mis'rable critter. Kind o' out o' tune with
everybody I know. Alwus quarrelled with my own folks, an' now I ain't
got any home. Someday I'm goin' t' die in the poorhouse er on the ground
under these woods. But I tell ye'--here he spoke in a voice that grew
loud with feeling--'mebbe I've been lazy, as they say, but I've got more
out o' my life than any o' these fools. And someday God'll honour me far
above them. When my wife an' I parted I wrote some lines that say well
my meaning. It was only a log house we had, but this will show what
I got out of it.' Then he spoke the lines, his voice trembling with
emotion.


  'O humble home! Thou hadst a secret door
  Thro' which I looked, betimes, with wondering eye
  On treasures that no palace ever wore
  But now--goodbye!

  In hallowed scenes what feet have trod thy stage!
  The babe, the maiden, leaving home to wed
  The young man going forth by duty led
  And faltering age.

  Thou hadst a magic window broad and high
  The light and glory of the morning shone
  Thro' it, however dark the day had grown,
  Or bleak the sky.

'I know Dave Brower's folks hev got brains an' decency, but when thet
boy is old enough t' take care uv himself, let him git out o' this
country. I tell ye he'll never make a farmer, an' if he marries an'
settles down here he'll git t' be a poet, mebbe, er some such shif'less
cuss, an' die in the poorhouse. Guess I better git back t' my bilin'
now. Good-night,' he added, rising and buttoning his old coat as he
walked away.

'Sing'lar man!' Uncle Eli exclaimed, thoughtfully, 'but anyone thet
picks him up fer a fool'll find him a counterfeit.'

Young as I was, the rugged, elemental power of the old poet had somehow
got to my heart and stirred my imagination. It all came not fully to my
understanding until later. Little by little it grew upon me, and what an
effect it had upon my thought and life ever after I should not dare to
estimate. And soon I sought out the 'poet of the hills,' as they called
him, and got to know and even to respect him in spite of his unlovely
aspect.

Uncle Eb skimmed the boiling sap, put more wood on the fire and came and
pulled off his boots and lay down beside me under the robe. And, hearing
the boil of the sap and the crackle of the burning logs in the arch, I
soon went asleep.

I remember feeling Uncle Eb's hand upon my cheek, and how I rose and
stared about me in the fading shadows of a dream as he shook me gently.

'Wake up, my boy,' said he. 'Come, we mus' put fer home.'

The fire was out. The old man held a lantern as he stood before me, the
blaze flickering. There was a fearsome darkness all around.

'Come, Willy, make haste,' he whispered, as I rubbed my eyes. 'Put on
yer boots, an' here's yer little coat 'n' muffler.'

There was a mighty roar in the forest and icy puffs of snow came
whistling in upon us. We stored the robes and pails and buckets and
covered the big kettle.

The lofty tree-tops reeled and creaked above us, and a deep, sonorous
moan was sweeping through the woods, as if the fingers of the wind had
touched a mighty harp string in the timber. We could hear the crash and
thunder of falling trees.

'Make haste! Make haste! It's resky here,' said Uncle Eb, and he held my
hand and ran. We started through the brush and steered as straight as
we could for the clearing. The little box of light he carried was soon
sheathed in snow, and I remember how he stopped, half out of breath,
often, and brushed it with his mittens to let out the light. We had made
the scattering growth of little timber at the edge of the woods when the
globe of the lantern snapped and fell. A moment later we stood in utter
darkness. I knew, for the first time, then that we were in a bad fix.

'I guess God'll take care of us, Willy,' said Uncle Eb. 'If he don't,
we'll never get there in this world never!'

It was a black and icy wall of night and storm on every side of us.
I never saw a time when the light of God's heaven was so utterly
extinguished; the cold never went to my bone as on that bitter night.
My hands and feet were numb with aching, as the roar of the trees grew
fainter in the open. I remember how I lagged, and how the old man urged
me on, and how we toiled in the wind and darkness, straining our eyes
for some familiar thing. Of a sudden we stumbled upon a wall that we had
passed an hour or so before.

'Oh!' he groaned, and made that funny, deprecating cluck with his
tongue, that I have heard so much from Yankee lips.

'God o' mercy!' said he, 'we've gone 'round in a half-circle. Now we'll
take the wall an' mebbe it'll bring us home.'

I thought I couldn't keep my feet any longer, for an irresistible
drowsiness had come over me. The voice of Uncle Eb seemed far away,
and when I sank in the snow and shut my eyes to sleep he shook me as a
terrier shakes a rat.

'Wake up, my boy,' said he, 'ye musn't sleep.'

Then he boxed my ears until I cried, and picked me up and ran with me
along the side of the wall. I was but dimly conscious when he dropped
me under a tree whose bare twigs lashed the air and stung my cheeks. I
heard him tearing the branches savagely and muttering, 'Thanks to God,
it's the blue beech.' I shall never forget how he turned and held to my
hand and put the whip on me as I lay in the snow, and how the sting of
it started my blood. Up I sprang in a jiffy and howled and danced. The
stout rod bent and circled on me like a hoop of fire. Then I turned and
tried to run while he clung to my coat tails, and every step I felt the
stinging grab of the beech. There is a little seam across my cheek today
that marks a footfall of one of those whips. In a moment I was as wide
awake as Uncle Eb and needed no more stimulation.

The wall led us to the pasture lane, and there it was easy enough to
make our way to the barnyard and up to the door of the house, which had
a candle in every window, I remember. David was up and dressed to come
after us, and I recall how he took Uncle Eb in his arms, when he fell
fainting on the doorstep, and carried him to the lounge. I saw the blood
on my face as I passed the mirror, and Elizabeth Brower came running and
gave me one glance and rushed out of doors with the dipper. It was full
of snow when she ran in and tore the wrappings off my neck and began to
rub my ears and cheeks with the cold snow, calling loudly for Grandma
Bisnette. She came in a moment and helped at the stripping of our feet
and legs. I remember that she slit my trousers with the shears as I lay
on the floor, while the others rubbed my feet with the snow. Our hands
and ears were badly frosted, but in an hour the whiteness had gone out
of them and the returning blood burnt like a fire.

'How queer he stares!' I heard them say when Uncle Eb first came to, and
in a moment a roar of laughter broke from him.

'I'll never fergit,' said he presently, 'if I live a thousan' years, the
lickin' I gin thet boy; but it hurt me worse'n it hurt him.'

Then he told the story of the blue beech.

The next day was that 'cold Friday' long remembered by those who felt
its deadly chill--a day when water thrown in the magic air came down in
clinking crystals, and sheaths of frost lay thick upon the windows. But
that and the one before it were among the few days in that early period
that lie, like a rock, under my character.






Chapter 9

Grandma Bisnette came from Canada to work for the Browers. She was
a big, cheerful woman, with a dialect, an amiable disposition and a
swarthy, wrinkled face. She had a loose front tooth that occupied all
the leisure of her tongue. When she sat at her knitting this big tooth
clicked incessantly. On every stitch her tongue went in and out across
it' and I, standing often by her knees, regarded the process with great
curiosity.

The reader may gather much from these frank and informing words of
Grandma Bisnette. 'When I los' my man, Mon Dieu! I have two son. An'
when I come across I bring him with me. Abe he rough; but den he no bad
man.'

Abe was the butcher of the neighbourhood--that red-handed,
stony-hearted, necessary man whom the Yankee farmer in that north
country hires to do the cruel things that have to be done. He wore
ragged, dirty clothes and had a voice like a steam whistle. His rough,
black hair fell low and mingled with his scanty beard. His hands were
stained too often with the blood of some creature we loved. I always
crept under the bed in Mrs Brower's room when Abe came--he was such a
terror to me with his bloody work and noisy oaths. Such men were the
curse of the cleanly homes in that country. There was much to shock
the ears and eyes of children in the life of the farm. It was a fashion
among the help to decorate their speech with profanity for the mere
sound of it' and the foul mouthings of low-minded men spread like a
pestilence in the fields.

Abe came always with an old bay horse and a rickety buckboard. His one
foot on the dash, as he rode, gave the picture a dare-devil finish.
The lash of his bull-whip sang around him, and his great voice sent its
blasts of noise ahead. When we heard a fearful yell and rumble in the
distance, we knew Abe was coming.

'Abe he come,' said Grandma Bisnette. 'Mon Dieu! he make de leetle rock
fly.'

It was like the coming of a locomotive with roar of wheel and whistle.
In my childhood, as soon as I saw the cloud of dust, I put for the bed
and from its friendly cover would peek out' often, but never venture far
until the man of blood had gone.

To us children he was a marvel of wickedness. There were those who told
how he had stood in the storm one night and dared the Almighty to send
the lightning upon him.

The dog Fred had grown so old and infirm that one day they sent for Abe
to come and put an end to his misery. Every man on the farm loved the
old dog and not one of them would raise a hand to kill him. Hope and
I heard what Abe was coming to do, and when the men had gone to the
fields, that summer morning, we lifted Fred into the little wagon in
which he had once drawn me and starting back of the barn stole away
with him through the deep grass of the meadow until we came out upon the
highroad far below. We had planned to take him to school and make him a
nest in the woodshed where he could share our luncheon and be out of the
way of peril. After a good deal of difficulty and heavy pulling we
got to the road at last. The old dog, now blind and helpless, sat
contentedly in the wagon while its wheels creaked and groaned beneath
him. We had gone but a short way in the road when we heard the red
bridge roar under rushing wheels and the familiar yell of Abe.

'We'd better run,' said Hope, ''er we'll git swore at.'

I looked about me in a panic for some place to hide the party, but Abe
was coming fast and there was only time to pick up clubs and stand our
ground.

'Here!' the man shouted as he pulled up along side of us, 'where ye
goin' with that dog?'

'Go 'way,' I answered, between anger and tears, lifting my club in a
threatening manner.

He laughed then--a loud guffaw that rang in the near woods.

'What'll ye give me,' he asked leaning forward, his elbows on his knees,
'What'll ye give me if I don't kill him?'

I thought a moment. Then I put my hand in my pocket and presently took
out my jack-knife--that treasure Uncle Eb had bought for me--and looked
at it fondly.

Then I offered it to him.

Again he laughed loudly.

'Anything else?' he demanded while Hope sat hugging the old dog that was
licking her hands.

'Got forty cents that I saved for the fair,' said I promptly.

Abe backed his horse and turned in the road.

'Wall boy,' he said, 'Tell 'em I've gone home.'

Then his great voice shouted, 'g'lang' the lash of his whip sang in the
air and off he went.

We were first to arrive at the schoolhouse, that morning, and when
the other children came we had Fred on a comfortable bed of grass in a
corner of the woodshed. What with all the worry of that day I said my
lessons poorly and went home with a load on my heart. Tomorrow would be
Saturday; how were we to get food and water to the dog? They asked at
home if we had seen old Fred and we both declared we had not--the first
lie that ever laid its burden on my conscience. We both saved all our
bread and butter and doughnuts next day, but we had so many chores to
do it was impossible to go to the schoolhouse with them. So we agreed
to steal away that night when all were asleep and take the food from its
hiding place.

In the excitement of the day neither of us had eaten much. They thought
we were ill and sent us to bed early. When Hope came into my room above
stairs late in the evening we were both desperately hungry. We looked at
our store of doughnuts and bread and butter under my bed. We counted it
over.

'Won't you try one o' the doughnuts,' I whispered hoping that she would
say yes so that I could try one also; for they did smell mighty good.

''Twouldn't be right,' said she regretfully. 'There ain't any more 'n
he'll want now.

''Twouldn't be right,' I repeated with a sigh as I looked longingly at
one of the big doughnuts. 'Couldn't bear t' do it--could you?'

'Don't seem as if I could,' she whispered, thoughtfully, her chin upon
her hand.

Then she rose and went to the window.

'O my! how dark it is!' she whispered, looking out into the night.

'Purty dark!' I said, 'but you needn't be 'fraid. I'll take care o' you.
If we should meet a bear I'll growl right back at him--that's what Uncle
Eb tol' me t' do. I'm awful stout--most a man now! Can't nuthin' scare
me.'

We could hear them talking below stairs and we went back to bed,
intending to go forth later when the house was still. But' unfortunately
for our adventure I fell asleep.

It was morning when I opened my eyes again. We children looked
accusingly at each other while eating breakfast. Then we had to be
washed and dressed in our best clothes to go to meeting. When the wagon
was at the door and we were ready to start I had doughnuts and bread
and butter in every pocket of my coat and trousers. I got in quickly and
pulled the blanket over me so as to conceal the fullness of my pockets.
We arrived so late I had no chance to go to the dog before we went into
meeting. I was wearing boots that were too small for me, and when I
entered with the others and sat down upon one of those straight backed
seats of plain, unpainted pine my feet felt as if I had been caught in
a bear trap. There was always such a silence in the room after the elder
had sat down and adjusted his spectacles that I could hear the ticking
of the watch he carried in the pocket of his broadcloth waistcoat. For
my own part I know I looked with too much longing for the good of my
soul on the great gold chain that spanned the broad convexity of his
stomach. Presently I observed that a couple of young women were looking
at me and whispering. Then suddenly I became aware that there were
sundry protuberances on my person caused by bread and butter and
doughnuts, and I felt very miserable indeed. Now and then as the elder
spoke the loud, accusing neigh of some horse, tethered to the fence in
the schoolyard, mingled with his thunder. After the good elder had been
preaching an hour his big, fat body seemed to swim in my tears. When he
had finished the choir sang. Their singing was a thing that appealed to
the eye as well as the ear. Uncle Eb used to say it was a great comfort
to see Elkenah Samson sing bass. His great mouth opened widely in this
form of praise and his eyes had a wild stare in them when he aimed at
the low notes.

Ransom Walker, a man of great dignity, with a bristling moustache, who
had once been a schoolmaster, led the choir and carried the tenor part.
It was no small privilege after the elder had announced the hymn, to see
him rise and tap the desk with his tuning fork and hold it to his ear
solemnly. Then he would seem to press his chin full hard upon his throat
while he warbled a scale. Immediately, soprano, alto, bass and tenor
launched forth upon the sea of song. The parts were like the treacherous
and conflicting currents of a tide that tossed them roughly and
sometimes overturned their craft. And Ransom Walker showed always a
proper sense of danger and responsibility. Generally they got to port
safely on these brief excursions, though exhausted. He had a way of
beating time with his head while singing and I have no doubt it was a
great help to him.

The elder came over to me after meeting, having taken my tears for a
sign of conviction.

'May the Lord bless and comfort you, my boy!' said he.

I got away shortly and made for the door. Uncle Eb stopped me.

'My stars, Willie!' said he putting his hand on my upper coat pocket'
'what ye got in there?'

'Doughnuts,' I answered.

'An' what's this?' he asked touching one of my side pockets.

'Doughnuts,' I repeated.

'An' this,' touching another.

'That's doughnuts too,' I said.

'An' this,' he continued going down to my trousers pocket.

'Bread an' butter,' I answered, shamefacedly, and on the verge of tears.

'Jerusalem!' he exclaimed, 'must a 'spected a purty long sermon.

'Brought 'em fer ol' Fred,' I replied.

'Ol' Fred!' he whispered, 'where's he?'

I told my secret then and we both went out with Hope to where we had
left him. He lay with his head between his paws on the bed of grass just
as I had seen him lie many a time when his legs were weary with travel
on Paradise Road, and when his days were yet full of pleasure. We called
to him and Uncle Eb knelt and touched his head. Then he lifted the dog's
nose, looked a moment into the sightless eyes and let it fall again.

'Fred's gone,' said he in a low tone as he turned away. 'Got there ahead
uv us, Willy.'

Hope and I sat down by the old dog and wept bitterly.






Chapter 10

Uncle Eb was a born lover of fun. But he had a solemn way of fishing
that was no credit to a cheerful man. It was the same when he played
the bass viol, but that was also a kind of fishing at which he tried his
luck in a roaring torrent of sound. Both forms of dissipation gave him
a serious look and manner, that came near severity. They brought on
his face only the light of hope and anticipation or the shadow of
disappointment.

We had finished our stent early the day of which I am writing. When we
had dug our worms and were on our way to the brook with pole and line a
squint of elation had hold of Uncle Eb's face. Long wrinkles deepened as
he looked into the sky for a sign of the weather, and then relaxed a
bit as he turned his eyes upon the smooth sward. It was no time for idle
talk. We tiptoed over the leafy carpet of the woods. Soon as I spoke he
lifted his hand with a warning 'Sh--h!' The murmur of the stream was in
our ears. Kneeling on a mossy knoll we baited the hooks; then Uncle Eb
beckoned to me.

I came to him on tiptoe.

'See thet there foam 'long side o' the big log?' he whispered, pointing
with his finger.

I nodded.

'Cre-e-ep up jest as ca-a-areful as ye can,' he went on whispering.
'Drop in a leetle above an' let 'er float down.'

Then he went on, below me, lifting his feet in slow and stealthy
strides.

He halted by a bit of driftwood and cautiously threw in, his arm
extended, his figure alert. The squint on his face took a firmer grip.
Suddenly his pole gave a leap, the water splashed, his line sang in
the air and a fish went up like a rocket. As we were looking into the
treetops it thumped the shore beside him, quivered a moment and flopped
down the bank He scrambled after it and went to his knees in the brook
coming up empty-handed. The water was slopping out of his boot legs.

'Whew!' said he, panting with excitement, as I came over to him.
'Reg'lar ol' he one,' he added, looking down at his boots. 'Got away
from me--consarn him! Hed a leetle too much power in the arm.'

He emptied his boots, baited up and went back to his fishing. As I
looked up at him he stood leaning over the stream jiggling his hook. In
a moment I saw a tug at the line. The end of his pole went under water
like a flash. It bent double as Uncle Eb gave it a lift. The fish began
to dive and rush. The line cut the water in a broad semicircle and then
went far and near with long, quick slashes. The pole nodded and writhed
like a thing of life. Then Uncle Eb had a look on him that is one of
the treasures of my memory. In a moment the fish went away with such a
violent rush, to save him, he had to throw his pole into the water.

'Heavens an' airth!' he shouted, 'the ol' settler!'

The pole turned quickly and went lengthwise into the rapids. He ran down
the bank and I after him. The pole was speeding through the swift water.
We scrambled over logs and through bushes, but the pole went faster than
we. Presently it stopped and swung around. Uncle Eb went splashing into
the brook. Almost within reach of the pole he dashed his foot upon a
stone, falling headlong in the current. I was close upon his heels and
gave him a hand. He rose hatless, dripping from head to foot and pressed
on. He lifted his pole. The line clung to a snag and then gave way;
the tackle was missing. He looked at it silently, tilting his head. We
walked slowly to the shore. Neither spoke for a moment.

'Must have been a big fish,' I remarked.

'Powerful!' said he, chewing vigorously on his quid of tobacco as he
shook his head and looked down at his wet clothing. 'In a desp'rit fix,
ain't I?'

'Too bad!' I exclaimed.

'Seldom ever hed sech a disapp'intment,' he said. 'Ruther counted on
ketchin' thet fish--he was s' well hooked.'

He looked longingly at the water a moment 'If I don't go hum,' said he,
'an' keep my mouth shet I'll say sumthin' I'll be sorry fer.'

He was never quite the same after that. He told often of his struggle
with this unseen, mysterious fish and I imagined he was a bit more given
to reflection. He had had hold of the 'ol' settler of Deep Hole'--a
fish of great influence and renown there in Faraway. Most of the local
fishermen had felt him tug at the line one time or another. No man had
ever seen him for the water was black in Deep Hole. No fish had ever
exerted a greater influence on the thought, the imagination, the manners
or the moral character of his contemporaries. Tip Taylor always took
off his hat and sighed when he spoke of the 'ol' settler'. Ransom Walker
said he had once seen his top fin and thought it longer than a razor.
Ransom took to idleness and chewing tobacco immediately after his
encounter with the big fish, and both vices stuck to him as long as he
lived. Everyone had his theory of the 'ol' settler'. Most agreed he was
a very heavy trout. Tip Taylor used to say that in his opinion ''twas
nuthin' more'n a plain, overgrown, common sucker,' but Tip came from the
Sucker Brook country where suckers lived in colder water and were more
entitled to respect.

Mose Tupper had never had his hook in the 'ol' settler' and would
believe none of the many stories of adventure at Deep Hole that had
thrilled the township.

'Thet fish hes made s' many liars 'round here ye dimno who t' b'lieve,'
he had said at the corners one day, after Uncle Eb had told his story of
the big fish. 'Somebody 't knows how t' fish hed oughter go 'n ketch him
fer the good o' the town--thet's what I think.'

Now Mr Tupper was an excellent man but his incredulity was always too
bluntly put. It had even led to some ill feeling.

He came in at our place one evening with a big hook and line from 'down
east'--the kind of tackle used in salt water.

'What ye goin' t' dew with it?' Uncle Eb enquired.

'Ketch thet fish ye talk s' much about--goin' t' put him out o' the
way.'

''Tain't fair,' said Uncle Eb, 'its reedic'lous. Like leading a pup with
a log chain.'

'Don't care,' said Mose, 'I'm goin' t' go fishin t'morrer. If there
reely is any sech fish--which I don't believe there is--I'm goin'
t' rassle with him an' mebbe tek him out o' the river. Thet fish is
sp'llin' the moral character o' this town. He oughter be rode on a
rail--thet fish hed.'

How he would punish a trout in that manner Mr Tupper failed to explain,
but his metaphor was always a worse fit than his trousers and that was
bad enough.

It was just before haying and, there being little to do, we had also
planned to try our luck in the morning. When, at sunrise, we were
walking down the cow-path to the woods I saw Uncle Eb had a coil of bed
cord on his shoulder.

'What's that for?' I asked.

'Wall,' said he, 'goin' t' hev fun anyway. If we can't ketch one thing
we'll try another.'

We had great luck that morning and when our basket was near full we came
to Deep Hole and made ready for a swim in the water above it. Uncle Eb
had looped an end of the bed cord and tied a few pebbles on it with bits
of string.

'Now,' said he presently, 'I want t' sink this loop t' the bottom an'
pass the end o' the cord under the driftwood so 't we can fetch it
'crost under water.'

There was a big stump, just opposite, with roots running down the bank
into the stream. I shoved the line under the drift with a pole and then
hauled it across where Uncle Eb drew it up the bank under the stump
roots.

'In 'bout half an hour I cal'late Mose Tupper'll be 'long,' he
whispered. 'Wisht ye'd put on yer clo's an' lay here back o' the stump
an' hold on t' the cord. When ye feel a bite give a yank er two an' haul
in like Sam Hill--fifteen feet er more quicker'n scat. Snatch his pole
right away from him. Then lay still.'

Uncle Eb left me, shortly, going up stream. It was near an hour before I
heard them coming. Uncle Eb was talking in a low tone as they came down
the other bank.

'Drop right in there,' he was saying, 'an' let her drag down, through
the deep water, deliberate like. Git clus t' the bottom.'

Peering through a screen of bushes I could see an eager look on the
unlovely face of Moses. He stood leaning toward the water and jiggling
his hook along the bottom. Suddenly I saw Mose jerk and felt the cord
move. I gave it a double twitch and began to pull. He held hard for a
jiffy and then stumbled and let go yelling like mad. The pole hit the
water with a splash and went out of sight like a diving frog. I brought
it well under the foam and driftwood. Deep Hole resumed its calm,
unruffled aspect. Mose went running toward Uncle Eb.

''S a whale!' he shouted. 'Ripped the pole away quicker'n lightnin'.'

'Where is it?' Uncle Eb asked.

'Tuk it away f'm me,' said Moses. 'Grabbed it jes' like thet,' he added
with a violent jerk of his hand.

'What d' he dew with it?' Uncle Eb enquired.

Mose looked thoughtfully at the water and scratched his head, his
features all a tremble.

'Dunno,' said he. 'Swallered it mebbe.'

'Mean t' say ye lost hook, line, sinker 'n pole?'

'Hook, line, sinker 'n pole,' he answered mournfully. 'Come nigh haulin'
me in tew.'

''Tain't possible,' said Uncle Eb.

Mose expectorated, his hands upon his hips, looking down at the water.

'Wouldn't eggzac'ly say 'twas possible,' he drawled, 'but 'twas a fact.'

'Yer mistaken,' said Uncle Eb.

'No I hain't,' was the answer, 'I tell ye I see it.'

'Then if ye see it the nex' thing ye orter see 's a doctor. There's
sumthin' wrong with you sumwheres.'

'Only one thing the matter o' me,' said Mose with a little twinge of
remorse. 'I'm jest a natural born perfec' dum fool. Never c'u'd b'lieve
there was any sech fish.'

'Nobody ever said there was any sech fish,' said Uncle Eb. 'He's done
more t' you 'n he ever done t' me. Never served me no sech trick as
thet. If I was you I'd never ask nobody t' b'lieve it 'S a leetle tew
much.'

Mose went slowly and picked up his hat. Then he returned to the bank and
looked regretfully at the water.

'Never see the beat o' thet,' he went on. 'Never see sech power 'n a
fish. Knocks the spots off any fish I ever hearn of.'

'Ye riled him with that big tackle o' yourn,' said Uncle Eb. 'He
wouldn't stan' it.'

'Feel jest as if I'd hed holt uv a wil' cat,' said Mose. 'Tuk the hull
thing--pole an' all--quicker 'n lightnin'. Nice a bit o' hickory as a
man ever see. Gol' durned if I ever heem o' the like o' that, ever.'

He sat down a moment on the bank.

'Got t' rest a minute,' he remarked. 'Feel kind o' wopsy after thet
squabble.'

They soon went away. And when Mose told the story of 'the swallered
pole' he got the same sort of reputation he had given to others. Only it
was real and large and lasting.

'Wha' d' ye think uv it?' he asked, when he had finished.

'Wall,' said Ransom Walker, 'wouldn't want t' say right out plain t' yer
face.'

''Twouldn't he p'lite,' said Uncle Eb soberly.

'Sound a leetle ha'sh,' Tip Taylor added.

'Thet fish has jerked the fear o' God out o' ye--thet's the way it looks
t' me,' said Carlyle Barber.

'Yer up 'n the air, Mose,' said another. 'Need a sinker on ye.' They
bullied him--they talked him down, demurring mildly, but firmly.

'Tell ye what I'll do,' said Mose sheepishly, 'I'll b'lieve you fellers
if you'll b'lieve me.'

'What, swop even? Not much!' said one, with emphasis. ''Twouldn't be
fair. Ye've ast us t' b'lieve a genuwine out 'n out impossibility.'

Mose lifted his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully. There was a
look of embarrassment in his face.

'Might a ben dreamin',' said he slowly. 'I swear it's gittin' so here 'n
this town a feller can't hardly b'lieve himself.'

'Fur 's my experience goes,' said Ransom Walker, 'he'd be a fool 'f he
did.'

''Minds me o' the time I went fishin' with Ab Thomas,' said Uncle Eb.
'He ketched an ol' socker the fast thing. I went off by myself 'n got a
good sized fish, but 'twant s' big 's hisn. So I tuk 'n opened his mouth
n poured in a lot o' fine shot. When I come back Ab he looked at my fish
'n begun t' brag. When we weighed 'em mine was a leetle heavier.

'“What!” says he. “'Tain't possible thet leetle cuss uv a trout 's
heavier 'n mine.”

''Tis sarrin,' I said.

'“Dummed deceivin' business,” said he as he hefted 'em both. “Gittin' so
ye can't hardly b'lieve the stillyards.”'






Chapter 11

The fifth summer was passing since we came down Paradise Road--the dog,
Uncle Eb and I. Times innumerable I had heard my good old friend tell
the story of our coming west until its every incident was familiar to
me as the alphabet. Else I fear my youthful memory would have served me
poorly for a chronicle of my childhood so exact and so extended as this
I have written. Uncle Eb's hair was white now and the voices of the
swift and the panther had grown mild and tremulous and unsatisfactory
and even absurd. Time had tamed the monsters of that imaginary
wilderness and I had begun to lose my respect for them. But one fear had
remained with me as I grew older--the fear of the night man. Every boy
and girl in the valley trembled at the mention of him. Many a time I had
held awake in the late evening to hear the men talk of him before they
went asleep--Uncle Eb and Tip Taylor. I remember a night when Tip said,
in a low awesome tone, that he was a ghost. The word carried into my
soul the first thought of its great and fearful mystery.

'Years and years ago,' said he, 'there was a boy by the name of Nehemiah
Brower. An' he killed another boy, once, by accident an' run away an'
was drownded.'

'Drownded!' said Uncle Eb. 'How?'

'In the ocean,' the first answered gaping. 'Went away off 'round the
world an' they got a letter that said he was drownded on his way to Van
Dieman's Land.'

'To Van Dieman's Land!'

'Yes, an some say the night man is the ghost o' the one he killed.'

I remember waking that night and hearing excited whispers at the window
near my bed. It was very dark in the room and at first I could not tell
who was there.

'Don't you see him?' Tip whispered.

'Where?' I heard Uncle Be ask

'Under the pine trees--see him move.'

At that I was up at the window myself and could plainly see the dark
figure of a man standing under the little pine below us.

'The night man, I guess,' said Uncle Be, 'but he won't do no harm. Let
him alone; he's going' away now.'

We saw him disappear behind the trees and then we got back into our beds
again. I covered my head with the bedclothes and said a small prayer for
the poor night man.

And in this atmosphere of mystery and adventure, among the plain folk of
Faraway, whose care of me when I was in great need, and whose love of
me always, I count among the priceless treasures of God's providence, my
childhood passed. And the day came near when I was to begin to play my
poor part in the world.






BOOK TWO




Chapter 12

It was a time of new things--that winter when I saw the end of my
fifteenth year. Then I began to enjoy the finer humours of life in
Faraway--to see with understanding; and by God's grace--to feel.

The land of play and fear and fable was now far behind me and I had
begun to feel the infinite in the ancient forest' in the everlasting
hills, in the deep of heaven, in all the ways of men. Hope Brower was
now near woman grown. She had a beauty of face and form that was the
talk of the countryside. I have travelled far and seen many a fair face
hut never one more to my eye. I have heard men say she was like a girl
out of a story-book those days.

Late years something had come between us. Long ago we had fallen out of
each other's confidence, and ever since she had seemed to shun me. It
was the trip in the sledgehouse that' years after, came up between us
and broke our childish intimacy. Uncle Be had told, before company, how
she had kissed me that day and bespoke me for a husband, and while the
others laughed loudly she had gone out of the room crying. She would
have little to say to me then. I began to play with boys and she with
girls. And it made me miserable to hear the boys a bit older than I
gossip of her beauty and accuse each other of the sweet disgrace of
love.

But I must hasten to those events in Faraway that shaped our destinies.
And first comes that memorable night when I had the privilege
of escorting Hope to the school lyceum where the argument of Jed
Feary--poet of the hills--fired my soul with an ambition that has
remained with me always.

Uncle Be suggested that I ask Hope to go with me.

'Prance right up to her,' he said, 'an' say you'd be glad of the
pleasure of her company.

It seemed to me a very dubious thing to do. I looked thoughtful and
turned red in the face.

'Young man,' he continued, 'the boy thet's 'fraid o' women'll never hev
whiskers.'

'How's that?' I enquired.

'Be scairt t' death,' he answered,' 'fore they've hed time t' start
Ye want t' step right up t' the rack jes' if ye'd bought an' paid fer
yerself an' was proud o' yer bargain.'

I took his advice and when I found Hope alone in the parlour I came and
asked her, very awkwardly as I now remember, to go with me.

She looked at me, blushing, and said she would ask her mother.

And she did, and we walked to the schoolhouse together that evening, her
hand holding my arm, timidly, the most serious pair that ever struggled
with the problem of deportment on such an occasion. I was oppressed with
a heavy sense of responsibility in every word I uttered.

Ann Jane Foster, known as 'Scooter Jane', for her rapid walk and stiff
carriage, met us at the corners on her way to the schoolhouse.

'Big turn out I guess,' said she. 'Jed Feary 'n' Squire Town is comin'
over from Jingleville an' all the big guns'll be there. I love t' hear
Jed Feary speak, he's so techin'.'

Ann Jane was always looking around for some event likely to touch her
feelings. She went to every funeral in Faraway and, when sorrow was
scarce in her own vicinity, journeyed far in quest of it.

'Wouldn't wonder 'f the fur flew when they git t' going',' she remarked,
and then hurried on, her head erect, her body motionless, her legs
flying. Such energy as she gave to the pursuit of mourning I have never
seen equalled in any other form of dissipation.

The schoolhouse was nearly full of people when we came in. The big boys
were wrestling in the yard; men were lounging on the rude seats, inside,
idly discussing crops and cattle and lapsing into silence, frequently,
that bore the signs both of expectancy and reflection. Young men
and young women sat together on one side of the house whispering and
giggling. Alone among them was the big and eccentric granddaughter of
Mrs Bisnette, who was always slapping some youngster for impertinence.
Jed Feary and Squire Town sat together behind a pile of books, both
looking very serious. The long hair and beard of the old poet were now
white and his form bent with age. He came over and spoke to us and
took a curl of Hope's hair in his stiffened fingers and held it to the
lamplight.

'What silky gold!' he whispered.' 'S a skein o' fate, my dear girl!'

Suddenly the schoolteacher rapped on the desk and bade us come to order
and Ransom Walker was called to the chair.

'Thet there is talent in Faraway township,' he said, having reluctantly
come to the platform, 'and talent of the very highest order, no one can
deny who has ever attended a lyceum at the Howard schoolhouse. I see
evidences of talent in every face before me. And I wish to ask what are
the two great talents of the Yankee--talents that made our forefathers
famous the world over? I pause for an answer.'

He had once been a schoolmaster and that accounted for his didactic
style.

'What are the two great talents of the Yankee?' he repeated, his hands
clasped before him.

'Doughnuts an' pie,' said Uncle Be who sat in a far corner.

'No sir,' Mr Walker answered, 'there's some hev a talent fer sawin'
wood, but we don't count that. It's war an' speakin', they are the two
great talents of the Yankee. But his greatest talent is the gift o'
gab. Give him a chance t' talk it over with his enemy an' he'll lick 'im
without a fight. An' when his enemy is another Yankee--why, they both
git licked, jest as it was in the case of the man thet sold me lightnin'
rods. He was sorry he done it before I got through with him. If we did
not encourage this talent in our sons they would be talked to death by
our daughters. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me pleasure t' say that
the best speakers in Faraway township have come here t' discuss the
important question:

'Resolved, that intemperance has caused more misery than war?

'I call upon Moses Tupper to open for the affirmative.'

Moses, as I have remarked, had a most unlovely face with a thin and
bristling growth of whiskers. In giving him features Nature had been
generous to a fault. He had a large red nose, and a mouth vastly too
big for any proper use. It was a mouth fashioned for odd sayings. He was
well to do and boasted often that he was a self-made man. Uncle Be used
to say that if Mose Tupper had had the 'makin' uv himself he'd oughter
done it more careful.'

I remember not much of the speech he made, but the picture of him, as
he rose on tiptoe and swung his arms like a man fighting bees, and his
drawling tones are as familiar as the things of yesterday.

'Gentlemen an' ladies,' said he presently, 'let me show you a pictur'.
It is the drunkard's child. It is hungry an' there ain't no food in its
home. The child is poorer'n a straw-fed hoss. 'Tain't hed a thing t' eat
since day before yistiddy. Pictur' it to yourselves as it comes cryin'
to its mother an' says:

'“Ma! Gi' me a piece o' bread an' butter.”

'She covers her face with her apron an' says she, “There am none left,
my child.”

'An' bime bye the child comes agin' an' holds up its poor little han's
an' says: “Ma! please gi' me a piece O' cake.”

'An' she goes an' looks out O' the winder, er mebbe pokes the fire, an'
says: “There am' none left, my child.”

'An' bime bye it comes agin' an' it says: “Please gi' me a little piece
O' pie.”

'An' she mebbe flops into a chair an' says, sobbin', “There ain' none
left, my child.”

'No pie! Now, Mr Chairman!' exclaimed the orator, as he lifted both
hands high above his head, 'If this ain't misery, in God's name, what is
it?

'Years ago, when I was a young man, Mr President, I went to a dance one
night at the village of Migleyville. I got a toothache, an' the Devil
tempted me with whiskey, an' I tuk one glass an' then another an' purty
soon I began t' thank I was a mighty hefty sort of a character, I did,
an' I stud on a corner an' stumped everybody t' fight with me, an'
bime bye an accomanodatin' kind of a chap come along, an' that's all I
remember O' what happened. When I come to, my coat tails had been tore
off, I'd lost one leg O' my trousers, a bran new silver watch, tew
dollars in money, an a pair O' spectacles. When I stud up an' tried t'
realise what hed happened I felt jes' like a blind rooster with only one
leg an' no tail feathers.'

A roar of laughter followed these frank remarks of Mr Tupper and broke
into a storm of merriment when Uncle Eb rose and said:

'Mr President, I hope you see that the misfortunes of our friend was due
t' war, an' not to intemperance.'

Mr Tupper was unhorsed. For some minutes he stood helpless or shaking
with the emotion that possessed all. Then he finished lamely and sat
down.

The narrowness of the man that saw so much where there was so little
in his own experience and in the trivial events of his own township was
what I now recognise as most valuable to the purpose of this history.
It was a narrowness that covered a multitude of people in St Lawrence
county in those days.

Jed Feary was greeted with applause and then by respectful silence when
he rose to speak. The fame of his verse and his learning had gone far
beyond the narrow boundaries of the township in which he lived. It was
the biggest thing in the county. Many a poor sinner who had gone out of
Faraway to his long home got his first praise in the obituary poem by
Jed Feary. These tributes were generally published in the county paper
and paid for by the relatives of the deceased at the rate of a dollar
a day for the time spent on them, or by a few days of board and lodging
glory and consolation that was, alas! too cheap, as one might see by a
glance at his forlorn figure. I shall never forget the courtly manner,
so strangely in contrast with the rude deportment of other men in that
place, with which he addressed the chairman and the people. The drawling
dialect of the vicinity that flavoured his conversation fell from him
like a mantle as he spoke and the light in his soul shone upon that
little company a great light, as I now remember, that filled me with
burning thoughts of the world and its mighty theatre of action. The way
of my life lay clear before me, as I listened, and its days of toil and
the sweet success my God has given me, although I take it humbly and
hold it infinitely above my merit. I was to get learning and seek some
way of expressing what was in me.

It would ill become me to try to repeat the words of this venerable
seer, but he showed that intemperance was an individual sin, while war
was a national evil. That one meant often the ruin of a race; the other
the ruin of a family; that one was as the ocean, the other as a single
drop in its waters. And he told us of the fall of empires and the
millions that had suffered the oppression of the conqueror and perished
by the sword since Agamemnon.

After the debate a young lady read a literary paper full of clumsy
wit, rude chronicles of the countryside, essays on 'Spring', and like
topics--the work of the best talent of Faraway. Then came the decision,
after which the meeting adjourned.

At the door some other boys tried 'to cut me out'. I came through the
noisy crowd, however, with Hope on my arm and my heart full of a great
happiness.

'Did you like it?' she asked.

'Very much,' I answered.

'What did you enjoy most?'

'Your company,' I said, with a fine air of gallantry.

'Honestly?'

'Honestly. I want to take you to Rickard's sometime?'

That was indeed a long cherished hope.

'Maybe I won't let you,' she said.

'Wouldn't you?'

'You'd better ask me sometime and see.'

'I shall. I wouldn't ask any other girl.'

'Well,' she added, with a sigh, 'if a boy likes one girl I don't think
he ought to have anything to do with other girls. I hate a flirt.'

I happened to hear a footfall in the snow behind us, and looking back
saw Ann Jane Foster going slow in easy hearing. She knew all, as we soon
found out.

'I dew jes love t' see young folks enjoy themselves,' said she, 'it's
entrancin'.'

Coming in at our gate I saw a man going over the wall back of the big
stables. The house was dark.

'Did you see the night man?' Elizabeth Brower whispered as I lit the
lamp. 'Went through the garden just now. I've been watching him here at
the window.'






Chapter 13

The love of labour was counted a great virtue there in Faraway. As for
myself I could never put my heart in a hoe handle or in any like tool
of toil. They made a blister upon my spirit as well as upon my hands. I
tried to find in the sweat of my brow that exalted pleasure of which Mr
Greeley had visions in his comfortable retreat on Printing House Square.
But unfortunately I had not his point of view.

Hanging in my library, where I may see it as I write, is the old sickle
of Uncle Eb. The hard hickory of its handle is worn thin by the grip of
his hand. It becomes a melancholy symbol when I remember how also the
hickory had worn him thin and bent him low, and how infinitely better
than all the harvesting of the sickle was the strength of that man,
diminishing as it wore the wood. I cannot help smiling when I look
at the sickle and thank of the soft hands and tender amplitude of Mr
Greeley.

The great editor had been a playmate of David Brower when they were
boys, and his paper was read with much reverence in our home.

'How quick ye can plough a ten-acre lot with a pen,' Uncle Eb used to
say when we had gone up to bed after father had been reading aloud from
his Tribune.

Such was the power of the press in that country one had but to say of
any doubtful thing, 'Seen it in print,' to stop all argument. If there
were any further doubt he had only to say that he had read it either
in the Tribune or the Bible, and couldn't remember which. Then it was a
mere question of veracity in the speaker. Books and other reading were
carefully put away for an improbable time of leisure.

'I might break my leg sometime,' said David Brower, 'then they'll come
handy.' But the Tribune was read carefully every week.

I have seen David Brower stop and look at me while I have been digging
potatoes, with a sober grin such as came to him always after he had
swapped 'hosses' and got the worst of it. Then he would show me again,
with a little impatience in his manner, how to hold the handle and
straddle the row. He would watch me for a moment, turn to Uncle Eb,
laugh hopelessly and say: 'Thet boy'll hev to be a minister. He can't
work.'

But for Elizabeth Brower it might have gone hard with me those days.
My mind was always on my books or my last talk with Jed Feary, and
she shared my confidence and fed my hopes and shielded me as much as
possible from the heavy work. Hope had a better head for mathematics
than I, and had always helped me with my sums, but I had a better memory
and an aptitude in other things that kept me at the head of most of my
classes. Best of all at school I enjoyed the 'compositions'--I had many
thoughts, such as they were, and some facility of expression, I doubt
not, for a child. Many chronicles of the countryside came off my
pen--sketches of odd events and characters there in Faraway. These were
read to the assembled household. Elizabeth Brower would sit looking
gravely down at me, as I stood by her knees reading, in those days of my
early boyhood. Uncle Eb listened with his head turned curiously, as if
his ear were cocked for coons. Sometimes he and David Brower would slap
their knees and laugh heartily, whereat my foster mother would give them
a quick glance and shake her head. For she was always fearful of the day
when she should see in her children the birth of vanity, and sought to
put it off as far as might be. Sometimes she would cover her mouth to
hide a smile, and, when I had finished, look warningly at the rest, and
say it was good, for a little boy. Her praise never went further, and
indeed all those people hated flattery as they did the devil and frowned
upon conceit She said that when the love of flattery got hold of one he
would lie to gain it.

I can see this slender, blue-eyed woman as I write. She is walking up
and down beside her spinning-wheel. I can hear the dreary buz-z-z-z of
the spindle as she feeds it with the fleecy ropes. That loud crescendo
echoes in the still house of memory. I can hear her singing as she steps
forward and slows the wheel and swings the cradle with her foot:


  'On the other side of Jordan,
  In the sweet fields of Eden,
  Where the tree of Life is blooming,
  There is rest for you.

She lays her hand to the spokes again and the roar of the spindle drowns
her voice.

All day, from the breakfast hour to supper time, I have heard the dismal
sound of the spinning as she walked the floor, content to sing of rest
but never taking it.

Her home was almost a miracle of neatness. She could work with no peace
of mind until the house had been swept and dusted. A fly speck on the
window was enough to cloud her day. She went to town with David now and
then--not oftener than once a quarter--and came back ill and exhausted.
If she sat in a store waiting for David, while he went to mill or
smithy, her imagination gave her no rest. That dirt abhorring mind of
hers would begin to clean the windows, and when that was finished it
would sweep the floor and dust the counters. In due course it would
lower the big chandelier and take out all the lamps and wash the
chimneys with soap and water and rub them till they shone. Then,
if David had not come, it would put in the rest of its time on the
woodwork. With all her cleaning I am sure the good woman kept her soul
spotless. Elizabeth Brower believed in goodness and the love of God, and
knew no fear. Uncle Eb used to say that wherever Elizabeth Brower went
hereafter it would have to be clean and comfortable.

Elder Whitmarsh came often to dinner of a Sunday, when he and Mrs Brower
talked volubly about the Scriptures, he taking a sterner view of God
than she would allow. He was an Englishman by birth, who had settled in
Faraway because there he had found relief for a serious affliction of
asthma.

He came over one noon in the early summer, that followed the event of
our last chapter, to tell us of a strawberry party that evening at the
White Church.

'I've had a wonderful experience,' said he as he took a seat on the
piazza, while Mrs Brower came and sat near him. 'I've discovered a great
genius--a wandering fiddler, and I shall try to bring him to play for
us.'

'A fiddler! why, Elder!' said she, 'you astonish me!'

'Nothing but sacred music,' he said, lifting his hand. 'I heard him play
all the grand things today--“Rock of Ages”, “Nearer My God, to Thee”,
“The Marseillaise” and “Home, Sweet Home”. Lifted me off my feet! I've
heard the great masters in New York and London, but no greater player
than this man.'

'Where is he and where did he come from?'

'He's at my house now,' said the good man. 'I found him this morning. He
stood under a tree by the road side, above Northrup's. As I came near
I heard the strains of “The Marseillaise”. For more than an hour I
sat there listening. It was wonderful, Mrs Brower, wonderful! The poor
fellow is eccentric. He never spoke to me. His clothes were dusty and
worn. But his music went to my heart like a voice from Heaven. When he
had finished I took him home with me, gave him food and a new coat, and
left him sleeping. I want you to come over, and be sure to bring Hope.
She must sing for us.'

'Mr Brower will be tired out, but perhaps the young people may go,' she
said, looking at Hope and me.

My heart gave a leap as I saw in Hope's eyes a reflection of my own joy.
In a moment she came and gave her mother a sounding kiss and asked her
what she should wear.

'I must look my best, mother,' she said.

'My child,' said the elder, 'it's what you do and not what you wear
that's important.'

'They're both important, Elder,' said my foster mother. You should teach
your people the duty of comeliness. They honour their Maker when they
look their best.'

The spirit of liberalism was abroad in the sons of the Puritans. In
Elizabeth Brower the ardent austerity of her race had been freely
diluted with humour and cheerfulness and human sympathy. It used to be
said of Deacon Hospur, a good but lazy man, that he was given both to
prayer and profanity. Uncle Eb, who had once heard the deacon swear,
when the latter had been bruised by a kicking cow, said that, so far
as he knew, the deacon never swore except when 'twas necessary. Indeed,
most of those men had, I doubt not, too little of that fear of God in
them that characterised their fathers. And yet, as shall appear, there
were in Faraway some relics of a stern faith.

Hope came out in fine feather, and although I have seen many grand
ladles, gowned for the eyes of kings, I have never seen a lovelier
figure than when, that evening, she came tripping down to the buggy. It
was three miles to the white Church, and riding over in the twilight I
laid the plan of my life before her. She sat a moment in silence after I
had finished.

'I am going away, too,' she remarked, with a sigh.

'Going away!' I said with some surprise, for in all my plans I had
secretly counted on returning in grand style to take her back with me.

'Going away,' said she decisively.

'It isn't nice for girls to go away from home,' I said.

'It isn't nice for boys, either,' said she.

We had come to the church, its open doors and windows all aglow with
light. I helped her out at the steps, and hitched my horse under the
long shed. We entered together and made our way through the chattering
crowd to the little cloakroom in one corner. Elder Whitmarsh arrived in
a moment and the fiddler, a short, stout, stupid-looking man, his fiddle
in a black box under his arm, followed him to the platform that had been
cleared of its pulpit The stranger stood staring vacantly at the
crowd until the elder motioned him to a chair, when he obeyed with
the hesitating, blind obedience of a dog. Then the elder made a
brief prayer, and after a few remarks flavoured with puns, sacred
and immemorial as the pulpit itself, started a brief programme of
entertainment. A broad smile marked the beginning of his lighter mood.
His manner seemed to say: 'Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will give
good heed, you shall see I can be witty on occasion.'

Then a young man came to the platform and recited, after which Hope went
forward and sang 'The Land o' the Leal' with such spirit that I can feel
my blood go faster even now as I thank of it, and of that girlish figure
crowned with a glory of fair curls that fell low upon her waist and
mingled with the wild pink roses at her bosom. The fiddler sat quietly
as if he heard nothing until she began to sing, when he turned to look
at her. The elder announced, after the ballad, that he had brought with
him a wonderful musician who would favour them with some sacred music.
He used the word 'sacred' because he had observed, I suppose, that
certain of the 'hardshells' were looking askance at the fiddle. There
was an awkward moment in which the fiddler made no move or sign of
intelligence. The elder stepped near him and whispered. Getting no
response, he returned to the front of the platform and said: 'We shall
first resign ourselves to social intercourse and the good things the
ladies have provided.'

Mountains of frosted cake reared their snowy summits on a long table,
and the strawberries, heaped in saucers around them, were like red
foothills. I remember that while they were serving us Hope and I were
introduced to one Robert Livingstone--a young New Yorker, stopping at
the inn near by, on his way to the big woods. He was a handsome fellow,
with such a fine air of gallantry and so prig in fashionable clothes
that he made me feel awkward and uncomfortable.

'I have never heard anything more delightful than that ballad,' he said
to Hope. 'You must have your voice trained--you really must. It will
make a great name for you.'

I wondered then why his words hurt me to the soul. The castle of my
dreams had fallen as he spoke. A new light came into her face--I did not
know then what it meant.

'Will you let me call upon you before I leave--may I?' He turned to me
while she stood silent. 'I wish to see your father,' he added.

'Certainly,' she answered, blushing, 'you may come--if you care to come.

The musician had begun to thrum the strings of his violin. We turned
to look at him. He still sat in his chair, his ear bent to the echoing
chamber of the violin. Soon he laid his bow to the strings and a great
chord hushed every whisper and died into a sweet, low melody, in which
his thought seemed to be feeling its way through sombre paths of sound.
The music brightened, the bow went faster, and suddenly 'The Girl I Left
Behind Me' came rushing off the strings. A look of amazement gathered on
the elder's face and deepened into horror. It went from one to another
as if it had been a dish of ipecac. Ann Jane Foster went directly for
her things, and with a most unchristian look hurried out into the night.
Half a dozen others followed her, while the unholy music went on, its
merry echoes rioting in that sacred room, hallowed with memories of the
hour of conviction, of the day of mourning, of the coming of the bride
in her beauty.

Deacon Hospur rose and began to drawl a sort of apology, when the player
stopped suddenly and shot an oath at him. The deacon staggered under the
shock of it. His whiskers seemed to lift a bit like the hair of a cat
under provocation. Then he tried to speak, but only stuttered helplessly
a moment as if his tongue were oscillating between silence and
profanity, and was finally pulled down by his wife, who had laid hold of
his coat tails. If it had been any other man than Deacon Hospur it would
have gone badly with the musician then and there, but we boys saw his
discomfiture with positive gratitude. In a moment all rose, the dishes
were gathered up, and many hurried away with indignant glances at the
poor elder, who was busy taking counsel with some of the brethren.

I have never seen a more pathetic figure than that of poor Nick Goodall
as he sat there thrumming the strings of which he was a Heaven-born
master. I saw him often after that night--a poor, halfwitted creature,
who wandered from inn to inn there in the north country, trading music
for hospitality. A thoroughly intelligible sentence never passed his
lips, but he had a great gift of eloquence in music. Nobody knew whence
he had come or any particular of his birth or training or family. But
for his sullen temper, that broke into wild, unmeaning profanity at
times, Nick Goodall would have made fame and fortune.

He stared at the thinning crowd as if he had begun dimly to comprehend
the havoc he had wrought. Then he put on his hat, came down off the
platform, and shuffled out of the open door, his violin in one hand, its
box in the other. There were not more than a dozen of us who followed
him into the little churchyard. The moon was rising, and the shadows
of lilac and rose bush, of slab and monument lay long across the green
mounds. Standing there between the graves of the dead he began to play.
I shall never forget that solemn calling of the silver string:

'Come ye disconsolate where'er ye languish.'

It was a new voice, a revelation, a light where darkness had been, to
Hope and to me. We stood listening far into the night, forgetful of
everything, even the swift flight of the hours.

Loud, impassioned chords rose into the moonlit sky and sank to a faint
whisper of melody, when we could hear the gossip of the birds in the
belfry and under the eaves; trembling tones of supplication, wailing
notes of longing and regret swept through the silent avenues of the
churchyard, thrilling us with their eloquence. For the first time we
heard the music of Handel, of Mendelssohn, of Paganini, and felt its
power, then knowing neither name nor theme. Hour by hour he played on
for the mere joy of it. When we shook hands with the elder and tiptoed
to the buggy he was still playing. We drove slowly and listened a long
way down the road. I could hear the strains of that ballad, then new to
me, but now familiar, growing fainter in the distance:

O ye'll tak' the high road an' I'll tak' the low road An' I'll be in
Scotland afore ye; But me an' me true love will never meet again On the
bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.

what connection it may have had with the history of poor Nick Goodall
[*1] I have often wondered.


     [*1] Poor Nick Coodall died in the almshouse of Jefferson
     County some thirty years ago. A better account of this
     incident was widely printed at that time.

As the last note died into silence I turned to Hope, and she was crying.

'Why are you crying?' I asked, in as miserable a moment as I have ever
known.

'It's the music,' she said.

We both sat in silence, then, hearing only the creak of the buggy as
it sped over the sandy road. Well ahead of us I saw a man who suddenly
turned aside, vaulting over the fence and running into the near woods.

'The night man!' I exclaimed, pulling up a moment to observe him.

Then a buggy came in sight, and presently we heard a loud 'hello' from
David Brower, who, worried by our long stay, had come out in quest of
us.






Chapter 14

Hope's love of music became a passion after that night. Young Mr
Livingstone, 'the city chap' we had met at the church, came over next
day. His enthusiasm for her voice gave us all great hope of it. David
Brower said he would take her away to the big city when she was
older. They soon decided to send her in September to the big school in
Hillsborough.

'She's got t' be a lady,' said David Brower, as he drew her into his lap
the day we had all discussed the matter. 'She's learnt everything in
the 'rithinetic an' geography an' speller. I want her t' learn somethin'
more scientific.'

'Now you're talkin',' said Uncle Eb. 'There's lots o' things ye can't
learn by cipherin'. Nuthin's too good fer Hope.'

'I'd like t' know what you men expect of her anyway,' said Elizabeth
Brower.

'A high stepper,' said Uncle Eb. 'We want a slick coat, a kind uv a
toppy head, an a lot O' ginger. So't when we hitch 'er t' the pole bime
bye we shan't be 'shamed o' her.'

'Eggzac'ly,' said David Brower, laughing. 'An' then she shall have the
best harness in the market.'

Hope did not seem to comprehend all the rustic metaphors that had been
applied to her. A look of puzzled amusement came over her face, and then
she ran away into the garden, her hair streaming from under her white
sun-bonnet.

'Never see sech a beauty! Beats the world,' said Uncle Eb in a whisper,
whereat both David and Elizabeth shook their heads.

'Lord o' mercy! Don't let her know it,' Elizabeth answered, in a low
tone. 'She's beginning to have-'

Just then Hope came by us leading her pet filly that had been born
within the month. Immediately Mrs Brower changed the subject.

'To have what?' David enquired as soon as the girl was out of hearing.

'Suspicions,' said Elizabeth mournfully. 'Spends a good deal of her time
at the looking-glass. I think the other girls tell her and then that
young Livingstone has been turning her head.'

'Turning her head!' he exclaimed.

'Turning her head,' she answered. 'He sat here the other day and
deliberately told her that he had never seen such a complexion and such
lovely hair.'

Elizabeth Brower mocked his accent with a show of contempt that feebly
echoed my own emotions.

'That's the way o' city folks, mother,' said David.

'It's a bad way,' she answered. 'I do not thank he ought to come here.
Hope's a child yet, and we mustn't let her get notions.'

'I'll tell him not t' come any more,' said David, as he and Uncle Eb
rose to go to their work.'

'I'm 'fraid she ought not to go away to school for a year yet,' said
Elizabeth, a troubled look in her face.

'Pshaw, mother! Ye can't keep her under yer wing alwus,' said he. 'Well,
David, you know she is very young and uncommonly--' she hesitated.

'Han'some,' said he, 'we might as well own up if she is our child.'

'If she goes away,' continued Elizabeth, 'some of us ought t' go with
her.'

Then Uncle Eb and David went to their work in the fields and I to my own
task That very evening they began to talk of renting the farm and going
to town with the children.

I had a stent of cording wood that day and finished it before two
o'clock Then I got my pole of mountain ash, made hook and line ready,
dug some worms and went fishing. I cared not so much for the fishing as
for the solitude of the woods. I had a bit of think to do. In the thick
timber there was a place where Tinkle brook began to hurry and break
into murmurs on a pebble bar, as if its feet were tickled. A few more
steps and it burst into a peal of laughter that lasted half the year as
it tumbled over narrow shelves of rock into a foamy pool. Many a day I
had sat fishing for hours at the little fall under a birch tree, among
the brakes and moss. No ray of sunlight ever got to the dark water below
me--the lair of many a big fish that had yielded to the temptation of
my bait. Here I lay in the cool shade while a singular sort of heart
sickness came over me. A wild partridge was beating his gong in the near
woods all the afternoon. The sound of the water seemed to break in the
tree-tops and fall back upon me. I had lain there thinking an hour or
more when I caught the jar of approaching footsteps. Looking up I saw
Jed Feary coming through the bushes, pole in hand.

'Fishin'?' he asked.

'Only thinking,' I answered.

'Couldn't be in better business,' said he as he sat down beside me.

More than once he had been my father confessor and I was glad he had
come.

'In love?' he asked. 'No boy ever thinks unless he's in love.'

'In trouble,' said I.

'Same thing,' he answered, lighting his pipe. 'Love is trouble with
a bit of sugar in it--the sweetest trouble a man can have. What's the
matter?'

'It's a great secret,' I said, 'I have never told it. I am in love.'

'Knew it,' he said, puffing at his pipe and smiling in a kindly way.
'Now let's put in the trouble.'

'She does not love me,' I answered.

'Glad of it,' he remarked. 'I've got a secret t, tell you.'

'What's that?' I enquired.

'Wouldn't tell anybody else for the world, my boy,' he said, 'it's
between you an' me.'

'Between you an' me,' I repeated.

'Well,' he said, you're a fool.'

'That's no secret,' I answered much embarrassed.

'Yes it is,' he insisted, 'you're smart enough an' ye can have most
anything in this world if ye take the right road. Ye've grown t' be a
great big strapping fellow but you're only--sixteen?'

'That's all,' I said mournfully.

'Ye're as big a fool to go falling in love as I'd be. Ye're too young
an' I'm too old. I say to you, wait. Ye've got to go t' college.'

'College!' I exclaimed, incredulously.

'Yes! an' thet's another secret,' said he. I tol' David Brower what I
thought o' your writing thet essay on bugs in pertickier--an' I tol' 'im
what people were sayin' o' your work in school.'

'What d' he say?' I asked.

'Said Hope had tol' him all about it--that she was as proud o' you as
she was uv her curls, an' I believe it. “Well,” says I, “y' oughter sen'
that boy t' college.” “Goin' to,” says he. “He'll go t' the 'Cademy this
fall if he wants to. Then he can go t' college soon's he's ready.” Threw
up my hat an' shouted I was that glad.'

As he spoke the old man's face kindled with enthusiasm. In me he had one
who understood him, who saw truth in his thought, music in his verse,
a noble simplicity in his soul. I took his hand in mine and thanked him
heartily. Then we rose and came away together.

'Remember,' he said, as we parted at the corner, 'there's a way laid
out fer you. In God's time it will lead to every good thing you desire.
Don't jump over the fence. Don't try t' pass any milestun 'fore ye've
come to it. Don't mope. Keep yer head cool with philosophy, yer feet
warm with travel an' don't worry bout yer heart. It won't turn t' stun
if ye do keep it awhile. Allwus hev enough of it about ye t' do business
with. Goodbye!'






Chapter 15

Gerald Brower, who was a baby when I came to live at Faraway, and was
now eleven, had caught a cold in seed time, and he had never quite
recovered. His coughing had begun to keep him awake, and one night it
brought alarm to the whole household. Elizabeth Brower was up early in
the morning and called Uncle Eb, who went away for the doctor as soon
as light came. We ate our breakfast in silence. Father and mother and
Grandma Bisnette spoke only in low tones and somehow the anxiety in
their faces went to my heart. Uncle Eb returned about eight o'clock and
said the doctor was coming. Old Doctor Bigsby was a very great man in
that country. Other physicians called him far and wide for consultation.
I had always regarded him with a kind of awe intensified by the aroma of
his drugs and the gleam of his lancet. Once I had been his patient and
then I had trembled at his approach. When he took my little wrist in
his big hand, I remember with what reluctance I stuck out my quivering
tongue, black, as I feared with evidences of prevarication.

He was a picture for a painter man as he came that morning erect in his
gig. Who could forget the hoary majesty of his head--his 'stovepipe'
tilted back, his white locks flying about his ears? He had a long
nose, a smooth-shaven face and a left eye that was a trifle turned. His
thoughts were generally one day behind the calendar. Today he seemed to
be digesting the affairs of yesterday. He was, therefore, absentminded,
to a degree that made no end of gossip. If he came out one day with
shoe-strings flying, in his remorse the next he would forget his collar;
if one told him a good joke today, he might not seem to hear it, but
tomorrow he would take it up in its turn and shake with laughter.

I remember how, that morning after noting the symptoms of his patient,
he sat a little in silent reflection. He knew that colour in the cheek,
that look in the eye--he had seen so much of it. His legs were crossed
and one elbow thrown carelessly over the back of his chair. We all sat
looking at him anxiously. In a moment he began chewing hard on his
quid of tobacco. Uncle Eb pushed the cuspidor a bit nearer. The doctor
expectorated freely and resumed his attitude of reflection. The clock
ticked loudly, the patient sighed, our anxiety increased. Uncle Eb spoke
to father, in a low tone, whereupon the doctor turned suddenly, with
a little grunt of enquiry, and seeing he was not addressed, sank again
into thoughtful repose. I had begun to fear the worst when suddenly the
hand of the doctor swept the bald peak of benevolence at the top of
his head. Then a smile began to spread over his face. It was as if some
feather of thought had begun to tickle him. In a moment his head was
nodding with laughter that brought a great sense of relief to all of us.
In a slow, deliberate tone he began to speak:

'I was over t' Rat Tupper's t'other day,' said he, 'Rat was sitting with
me in the door yard. Purty soon a young chap came in, with a scythe,
and asked if he might use the grindstun. He was a new hired man from
somewhere near. He didn't know Rat, an' Rat didn't know him. So Rat o'
course had t' crack one o' his jokes.

'“May I use yer grindstun?” said the young feller.

'“Dunno,” said Rat, “I'm only the hired man here. Go an' ask Mis'
Tupper.”

'The ol' lady had overheard him an' so she says t' the young feller,
“Yes--ye can use the grindstun. The hired man out there'll turn it fer
ye.”

'Rat see he was trapped, an' so he went out under the plum tree, where
the stun was, an' begun t' turn. The scythe was dull an' the young
feller bore on harder'n wuz reely decent fer a long time. Rat begun t'
git very sober lookin'.

'“Ain't ye 'bout done,” said he.

'“Putty nigh,” said the young feller bearin' down a leetle harder all
the time.

'Rat made the stun go faster. Putty soon he asked agin, “Ain't ye done
yit?”

'“Putty nigh!” says the other, feeling o' the edge.

'“I'm done,” said Rat, an' he let go o' the handle. “I dunno 'bout the
scythe but I'm a good deal sharper'n I wuz.”

'“You're the hired man here ain't ye?” said the young feller.

'“No, I ain't,” said Rat. “'D rather own up t' bein' a liar than turn
that stun another minnit.”

As soon as he was fairly started with this droll narrative the strain
of the situation was relieved. We were all laughing as much at his
deliberate way of narration as at the story itself.

Suddenly he turned to Elizabeth Brower and said, very soberly, 'Will you
bring me some water in a glass?'

Then he opened his chest of medicine, made some powders and told us how
to give them.

'In a few days I would take him into the big woods for a while,' he
said. 'See how it agrees with him.'

Then he gathered up his things and mother went with him to the gig.

Humour was one of the specifics of Doctor Bigsby. He was always a poor
man. He had a way of lumping his bills, at about so much, in settlement
and probably never kept books. A side of pork paid for many a long
journey. He came to his death riding over the hills one bitter day not
long after the time of which I write, to reach a patient.

The haying over, we made ready for our trip into the woods. Uncle Eb and
Tip Taylor, who knew the forest, and myself, were to go with Gerald to
Blueberry Lake. We loaded our wagon with provisions one evening and made
ready to be off at the break of day.






Chapter 16

I remember how hopefully we started that morning with Elizabeth Brower
and Hope waving their handkerchiefs on the porch and David near them
whittling. They had told us what to do and what not to do over and over
again. I sat with Gerald on blankets that were spread over a thick mat
of hay. The morning air was sweet with the odour of new hay and the
music of the bobolink. Uncle Eb and Tip Taylor sang merrily as we rode
over the hills.

When we entered the shade of the big forest Uncle Eb got out his rifle
and loaded it. He sat a long time whispering and looking eagerly for
game to right and left. He was still a boy. One could see evidences of
age only in his white hair and beard and wrinkled brow. He retained
the little tufts in front of his ears, and lately had grown a silver
crescent of thin and silky hair that circled his throat under a bare
chin. Young as I was I had no keener relish for a holiday than he. At
noon we halted beside a brook and unhitched our horses. Then we caught
some fish, built a fire and cooked them, and brewed our tea. At sunset
we halted at Tuley Pond, looking along its reedy margin, under purple
tamaracks, for deer. There was a great silence, here in the deep of
the woods, and Tip Taylor's axe, while he peeled the bark for our camp,
seemed to fill the wilderness with echoes. It was after dark when the
shanty was covered and we lay on its fragrant mow of balsam and hemlock.
The great logs that we had rolled in front of our shanty were set afire
and shortly supper was cooking.

Gerald had stood the journey well. Uncle Eb and he stayed in while Tip
and I got our jack ready and went off in quest of a dugout He said Bill
Ellsworth had one hid in a thicket on the south side of Tuley. We found
it after an hour's tramp near by. It needed a little repairing but we
soon made it water worthy, and then took our seats, he in the stern,
with the paddle, and I in the bow with the gun. Slowly and silently we
clove a way through the star-sown shadows. It was like the hushed and
mystic movement of a dream. We seemed to be above the deep of heaven,
the stars below us. The shadow of the forest in the still water looked
like the wall of some mighty castle with towers and battlements and
myriads of windows lighted for a fete. Once the groan of a nighthawk
fell out of the upper air with a sound like that of a stone striking in
water. I thought little of the deer Tip was after. His only aim in life
was the one he got with a gun barrel. I had forgotten all but the beauty
of the scene. Suddenly Tip roused me by laying his hand to the gunwale
and gently shaking the dugout. In the dark distance, ahead of us, I
could hear the faint tinkle of dripping water. Then I knew a deer was
feeding not far away and that the water was falling from his muzzle.
When I opened my jack we were close upon him. His eyes gleamed. I shot
high above the deer that went splashing ashore before I had pulled my
trigger. After the roar of the gun had got away, in the distant timber,
Tip mentioned a place abhorred of all men, turned and paddled for the
landing.

'Could 'a killed 'im with a club,' said he snickering. 'Guess he must a
looked putty tall didn't he?'

'Why?' I asked.

'Cos ye aimed into the sky,' said he. 'Mebbe ye thought he was a bird.'

'My hand trembled a little,' said I.

''Minds me of Bill Barber,' he said in a half-whisper, as he worked his
paddle, chuckling with amusement.

'How's that?' I asked.

'Nothin' safe but the thing he shoots at,' said he. 'Terrible bad shot.
Kills a cow every time he goes huntin'.'

Uncle Eb was stirring the fire when we came whispering into camp, and
Gerald lay asleep under the blankets.

'Willie couldn't hit the broadside of a bam,' said Tip. 'He don't take
to it nat'ral.'

'Killin' an' book learnin' don't often go together,' said Uncle Eb.

I turned in by the side of Gerald and Uncle Eb went off with Tip for
another trip in the dugout. The night was chilly but the fire flooded
our shanty with its warm glow. What with the light, and the boughs under
us, and the strangeness of the black forest we got little sleep. I heard
the gun roar late in the night, and when I woke again Uncle Eb and Tip
Taylor were standing over the fire in the chilly grey of the morning.
A dead deer hung on the limb of a tree near by. They began dressing it
while Gerald and I went to the spring for water, peeled potatoes, and
got the pots boiling. After a hearty breakfast we packed up, and were
soon on the road again, reaching Blueberry Lake before noon. There we
hired a boat of the lonely keeper of the reservoir, found an abandoned
camp with an excellent bark shanty and made ourselves at home.

That evening in camp was one to be remembered. An Thomas, the guide who
tended the reservoir, came over and sat beside our fire until bedtime.
He had spent years in the wilderness going out for nothing less
important than an annual spree at circus time. He eyed us over, each in
turn, as if he thought us all very rare and interesting.

'Many bears here?' Uncle Eb enquired.

'More plenty 'n human bein's,' he answered, puffing lazily at his pipe
with a dead calm in his voice and manner that I have never seen equalled
except in a tropic sea.

'See 'em often?' I asked.

He emptied his pipe, striking it on his palm until the bowl rang,
without answering. Then he blew into the stem with great violence.

'Three or four 'n a summer, mebbe,' he said at length.

'Ever git sassy?' Uncle Eb asked.

He whipped a coal out of the ashes then and lifted it in his fingers to
the bowl of his pipe.

'Never real sassy,' he said between vigourous puffs. 'One stole a ham
off my pyazz las' summer; Al Fifield brought 't in fer me one day--smelt
good too! I kep' savin' uv it thinkin' I'd enjoy it all the more when
I did hev it. One day I went off cuttin' timber an' stayed 'til mos'
night. Comin' home I got t' thinkin' o' thet ham, an' made up my mind
I'd hev some fer supper. The more I thought uv it the faster I hurried
an' when I got hum I was hungrier'n I'd been fer a year. When I see the
ol' bear's tracks an' the empty peg where the ham had hung I went t'
work an' got mad. Then I started after thet bear. Tracked 'im over
yender, up Cat Mountin'.'

Here Ab paused. He had a way of stopping always at the most interesting
point to puff at his pipe. It looked as if he were getting up steam for
another sentence and these delays had the effect of 'continued in our
next'.

'Kill 'im?' Uncle Eb asked.

'Licked him,' he said.

'Huh!' we remarked incredulously.

'Licked 'im,' he repeated chucking. 'Went into his cave with a sledge
stake an' whaled 'im--whaled 'im 'til he run fer his life.'

Whether it was true or not I have never been sure, even to this day, but
Ab's manner was at once modest and convincing.

'Should 'a thought he'd 'a rassled with ye,' Uncle Eb remarked.

'Didn't give 'im time,' said Ab, as he took out his knife and began
slowly to sharpen a stick.

'Don't never wan' t' rassle with no bear,' he added, 'but hams is too
scurce here 'n the woods t' hev 'em tuk away 'fore ye know the taste uv
'em. I ain't never been hard on bears. Don't seldom ever set no traps
an' I ain't shot a bear fer mor'n 'n ten year. But they've got t' be
decent. If any bear steals my vittles he's goin' t' git cuffed bard.'

Ab's tongue had limbered up at last. His pipe was going well and he
seemed to have struck an easy grade. There was a tone of injury and
aggrievement in his talk of the bear's ingratitude. He snailed over his
whittling as we laughed heartily at the droll effect of it all.

'D'ye ever hear o' the wild man 'at roams 'round'n these woods?' he
asked.

'Never did,' said Uncle Eb.

'I've seen 'im more times 'n ye could shake a stick at,' said Ab
crossing his legs comfortably and spitting into the fire. 'Kind o' thank
he's the same man folks tells uv down 'n Paradise Valley there--'at goes
'round 'n the clearin' after bedtime.'

'The night man!' I exclaimed.

'Guess thet's what they call 'im,' said Ab. 'Curus man! Sometimes I've
hed a good squint at 'im off 'n the woods. He's wilder 'n a deer an'
I've seen 'im jump over logs, half as high as this shanty, jest as easy
as ye 'd hop a twig. Tried t' foller 'im once er twice but tain' no use.
He's quicker 'n a wil' cat.'

'What kind of a lookin' man is he?' Tip Taylor asked.

'Great, big, broad-shouldered feller,' said Ab. 'Six feet tall if he's
an inch. Hed a kind of a deerskin jacket on when I seen 'im an' breeches
an' moccasins made o' some kind o' hide. I recollec' one day I was over
on the ridge two mile er more from the Stillwater goin' south. I seen
'im gittin' a drink at the spring there 'n the burnt timber. An' if I
ain't mistaken there was a real live panther playin' 'round 'im. If 't
wa'n't a panther 'twas pesky nigh it I can tell ye. The critter see me
fast an' drew up 'is back. Then the man got up quickerin' a flash. Soon
'she see me--Jeemimey! didn't they move. Never see no human critter run
as he did! A big tree hed fell 'cross a lot o' bush right 'n his path.
I'll be gol dummed if 'twan't higher 'n my head! But he cleared it--jest
as easy as a grasshopper'd go over a straw. I'd like t' know wher he
comes from, gol dummed if I wouldn't. He's the consarndest queerest
animal 'n these woods.'

Ab emphasised this lucid view of the night man by an animated movement
of his fist that held the big hunting knife with which he whittled. Then
he emptied his pipe and began cutting more tobacco.

'Some says 'e 's a ghost,' said Tip Taylor, splitting his sentence with
a yawn, as he lay on a buffalo robe in the shanty.

'Shucks an' shoestrings!' said Ab, 'he looks too nat'ral. Don't believe
no ghost ever wore whiskers an' long hair like his'n. Thet don't hol' t'
reason.'

This remark was followed by dead silence. Tip seemed to lack both
courage and information with which to prolong the argument.

Gerald had long been asleep and we were all worn out with uphill
travelling and the lack of rest. Uncle Eb went out to look after the
horses that were tethered near us. Ab rose, looked up through the
tree-tops, ventured a guess about the weather, and strode off into the
darkness.

We were five days in camp, hunting, fishing, fighting files and
picking blueberries. Gerald's cough had not improved at all--it was, if
anything, a bit worse than it had been and the worry of that had clouded
our holiday. We were not in high spirits when, finally, we decided to
break camp the next afternoon.

The morning of our fourth day at Blueberry Uncle Eb and I crossed the
lake, at daylight, to fish awhile in Soda Brook and gather orchids then
abundant and beautiful in that part of the woods. We headed for camp
at noon and were well away from shore when a wil

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