Part 2

Colonel Abercrombie paused, as if waiting for some further explanation, but hearing none, said, "Good-night, my son, and God bless you!"

"Good-night, father dear," exclaimed the lad, flinging a kiss at the shadow his father's candle flung on the wall. Then he turned again into his own room, where Aaron the Arab (son of Ben Ali) sat leaning against the wall, as silent and as impassive as a block of tawny marble.

Little Crotchet lay back in his bed, and the two were silent for a time. Finally Aaron said:--

"The White Grunter carried his play too far. He nipped a piece from my leg."

"I never saw anything like it," remarked little Crotchet. "I thought the White Pig was angry. You did that to frighten Ben Gadsby."

"Yes, Little Master," responded Aaron, "and I'm thinking the young man will never hunt for the smoke in the swamp any more."

Little Crotchet laughed again, as he remembered how Ben Gadsby looked as Aaron and the White Pig went careening across the dry place in the swamp. There was a silence again, and then Aaron said he must be going.

"And when are you going home to your master?" Little Crotchet asked.

"Never!" replied Aaron the runaway, with emphasis. "Never! He is no master of mine. He is a bad man."

Then he undressed Little Crotchet, tucked the cover about him,--for the nights were growing chill,--whispered good-night, and slipped from the window, letting down the sash gently as he went out. If any one had been watching, he would have seen the tall Arab steal along the roof until he came to the limb of an oak that touched the eaves. Along this he went nimbly, glided down the trunk to the ground, and disappeared in the darkness.

I.

THE LITTLE MASTER.

If you imagine that the book called "The Story of Aaron (so-named), the Son of Ben Ali" tells all the adventures of the Arab while he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, you are very much mistaken. If you will go back to that book you will see that Timoleon the black stallion, Grunter the white pig, Gristle the gray pony, and Rambler the track dog, told only what they were asked to tell. And they were not anxious to tell even that. They would much rather have been left alone. What they did tell they told without any flourishes whatever, for they wanted to get through and be done with it. Story-telling was not in their line, and they knew it very well; so they said what they had to say and that was the end of it so far as they were concerned: setting a worthy example to men and women, and to children, too.

It is natural, therefore, that a man such as Aaron was, full of courage and valuable to the man who had bought him from the speculator, should have many adventures that the animals knew nothing of, or, if they knew, had no occasion to relate. In the book you will find that Buster John and Sweetest Susan asked only about such things as they heard of incidentally. But some of the most interesting things were never mentioned by Aaron at all; consequently the children never asked about them.

Little Crotchet, it will be remembered, who knew more about the matter than anybody except Aaron, was dead, and so there was nobody to give the children any hint or cue as to the questions they were to ask. You will say they had Aaron close at hand. That is true, but Aaron was busy, and besides that he was not fond of talking, especially about himself.

And yet, the most of the adventures Aaron had in the wildwoods were no secret. They were well known to the people in the neighborhood, and for miles around. In fact, they were made the subject of a great deal of talk in Little Crotchet's day, and many men (and women too) who were old enough to be wise shook their heads over some of the events and declared that they had never heard of anything more mysterious. And it so happened that this idea of mystery deepened and grew until it made a very romantic figure of Aaron, and was a great help to him, not only when he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, but afterwards when he "settled down," as the saying is, and turned his attention to looking after affairs on the Abercrombie plantation.

All this happened before Buster John and Sweetest Susan were born, while their mother was a girl in her teens. When Little Crotchet was alive things on the Abercrombie plantation were very different from what they were before or afterward. It is true the lad was a cripple and had to go on crutches, except when he was riding Gristle, the Gray Pony. But he was very active and nimble, and very restless, too, for he was here, there, and everywhere. More than that, he was always in a good humor, always cheerful, and most of the time laughing at his own thoughts or at something he had heard. For it was well understood on that plantation, and, indeed, wherever little Crotchet was familiarly known, that, as he was something of an invalid, and such a little bit of a fellow to boot, nothing unpleasant was to come to his ears. If he found out about trouble anywhere he was to find it out for himself, and without help from anybody else.

But although little Crotchet was small and crippled, he had a very wise head on his shoulders. One of the first things he found out was that everybody was in a conspiracy to prevent unpleasant things from coming to his ears, and the idea that he was to be humbugged in this way made him laugh, it was so funny. He said to himself that if he could have troubles while everybody was trying to help him along and make life pleasant for him, surely other people who had nobody to look out for them must have much larger troubles. And he found it to be true, although he never said much about it.

The truth is that while people thought they were humbugging little Crotchet, he was humbugging everybody except a few who knew what a shrewd little chap he was. These few had found out that little Crotchet knew a great deal more about the troubles that visit the unfortunate in this world than anybody knew about his troubles--and he had many.

It was very peculiar. He would go galloping about the plantation on the Gray Pony, and no matter where he stopped there was always a negro ready to let down the bars or the fence. How could this be? Why, it was the simplest matter in the world. It made no difference where the field hands were working, nor what they were doing, they were always watching for their Little Master, as they called him. They were sure to know when he was coming--sure to see him; and no matter how high the fence was, down it would come whenever the Gray Pony was brought to a standstill.

It was a sight to see the hoe hands or the plow hands when their Little Master went riding among them. It was hats off and "howdy, honey," with all, and that was something the White-Haired Master never saw unless he was riding with Little Crotchet, which sometimes happened. Once the White-Haired Master said to Little Crotchet, "They all love you because you are good, my son." But Little Crotchet was quick to reply:--

"Oh, no, father; it isn't that. It's because I am fond of them!"

Now, wasn't he wise for his age? He had stumbled upon the great secret that makes all the happiness there is in this world. The negroes loved him because he was fond of them. He used to sit on the Gray Pony and watch the hands hoeing and plowing; and although they did their best when he was around, he never failed to find out the tired ones and send them on little errands that would rest them. To one it was "Get me a keen switch." To another, "See if you can find me any flowers."

One of the worst negroes on the plantation was Big Sal, a mulatto woman. She had a tongue and a temper that nothing could conquer. Once Little Crotchet, sitting on the Gray Pony, saw her hoeing away with a rag tied around her forehead under her head handkerchief. So he called her out of the gang, and she came with no very good grace, and only then because some of the other negroes shamed her into it. No doubt Little Crotchet heard her disputing with them, but he paid no attention to it. When Big Sal came up, he simply said:--

"Help me off the horse. I have a headache sometimes, and I feel it coming on now. I want you to sit here and rub my head for me if you are not too tired."

"What wid?" cried big Sal. "My han's too dirty."

"You get the headache out, and I'll get the dirt off," said Little Crotchet, laughing.

Big Sal laughed too, cleaned her hands the best she could, and rubbed the youngster's head for him, while the Gray Pony nibbled the crabgrass growing near. But presently, when Little Crotchet opened his eyes, he found that Big Sal was crying. She was making no fuss about it, but as she sat with the child's head in her lap the tears were streaming down her face like water.

"What are you crying about?" Little Crotchet asked.

"God A'mighty knows, honey. I'm des a-cryin', an' ef de angels fum heav'm wuz ter come down an' ax me, I couldn't tell um no mo' dan dat."

This was true enough. The lonely heart had been touched without knowing why. But Little Crotchet knew.

"I reckon it's because you had the headache," he said.

"I speck so," answered Big Sal. "It looked like my head'd bust when you hollered at me, but de pain all done gone now."

"I'm glad," replied Little Crotchet. "I hope my head will quit aching presently. Sometimes it aches all night long."

"Well, suh!" exclaimed Big Sal. It was all she could say.

Finally, when she had lifted Little Crotchet to his saddle (which was easy enough to do, he was so small and frail) and returned, Uncle Turin, foreman of the hoe hands, remarked:--

"You'll be feelin' mighty biggity now, I speck."

"Who? Me?" cried Big Sal. "God knows, I feel so little an' mean I could t'ar my ha'r out by de han'ful."

Uncle Turin, simple and kindly old soul, never knew then nor later what Big Sal meant, but ever afterwards, whenever the woman had one of her tantrums, she went straight to her Little Master, and if she sometimes came away from him crying it was not his fault. If she was crying it was because she was comforted, and it all seemed so simple and natural to her that she never failed to express a deep desire to tear her hair out if anybody asked her where she had been or where she was going.

It was not such an easy matter to reach the plow hands. The fields were wide and the furrows were long on that plantation, and some of the mules were nimbler than the others, and some of the hands were quicker. So that it rarely happened that they all came down the furrows abreast. But what difference did that make? Let them come one by one, or two by two, or twenty abreast, it was all the same when the Little Master was in sight. It was hats off and "howdy," with "Gee, Beck!" and "Haw, Rhody!" and "Whar you been, Little Marster, dat we ain't seed you sence day 'fo' yistiddy?" And so until they had all saluted the child on the Gray Pony.

And why did Susy's Sam hang back and want to turn his mule around before he had finished the furrow? It was easy to see. Susy's Sam, though he was the most expert plowman in the gang, had only one good hand, the other being a mere stump, and he disliked to be singled out from the rest on that account. But it was useless for him to hang back. Little Crotchet always called for Susy's Sam. Sometimes Sam would say that his mule was frisky and wouldn't stand. But the word would come, "Well, drive the mule out in the bushes," and then Susy's Sam would have a long resting spell that did him good, and there would be nobody to complain. And so it was with the rest. Whoever was sick or tired was sure to catch the Little Master's eye. How did he know? Well, don't ask too many questions about that. You might ask how the Gray Pony knew the poison vines and grasses. It was a case of just knowing, without knowing where the knowledge came from.

But it was not only the plow hands and the hoe hands that Little Crotchet knew about. At the close of summer there were the cotton pickers and the reapers to be looked after. In fact, this was Little Crotchet's busiest time, for many of the negro children were set to picking cotton, and the lad felt called on to look after these more carefully than he looked after the grown hands. Many a time he had half a dozen holding the Gray Pony at once. This made the older negroes shake their heads, and say that the Little Master was spoiling the children, but you may be sure that they thought none the less of him on that account.

And then there were the reapers, the men who cut the oats and the wheat, and the binders that followed after. At the head of the reapers was Randall, tall, black, and powerful. It was fun to see the blade of his cradle flashing in the sun, and hear it swing with a swish through the golden grain. He led the reapers always by many yards, but when he was making the pace too hot for them he had a way of stopping to sharpen his scythe and starting up a song which spread from mouth to mouth until it could be heard for miles. Aaron, hiding in the wildwoods, could hear it, and at such times he would turn to one of his companions--the White Pig, or Rambler, or that gay joker, the Fox Squirrel--and say: "That's Randall's song. He sees the Little Master coming."

The White Pig would grunt, and Rambler would say he'd rather hear a horn; but the Red Squirrel would chatter like mad and declare that he lost one of his ears by sitting on a limb of the live oak and singing when he saw a man coming.

But the reapers knew nothing about the experience of the Fox Squirrel, and so they went on singing whenever Randall gave the word. And Little Crotchet was glad to hear them, for he used to sit on the Gray Pony and listen, sometimes feeling happy, and at other times feeling lonely indeed. It may have been the quaint melody that gave him a lonely feeling, or it may have been his sympathy for those who suffer the pains of disease or the pangs of trouble. The negroes used to watch him as they sang and worked, and say in the pauses of their song:--

"Little marster mighty funny!"

That was the word,--"funny,"--and yet it had a deeper meaning for the negroes than the white people ever gave it. Funny!--when the lad leaned his pale cheek on the frail hand, and allowed his thoughts (were they thoughts or fleeting aspirations or momentary longings?) to follow the swift, sweet echoes of the song. For the echoes had a thousand nimble feet, and with these they fled away, away,--away beyond the river and its bordering hills; for the echoes had twangling wings, like those of a turtle-dove, and on these they lifted themselves heavenward, and floated above the world, and above the toil and trouble and sorrow and pain that dwell therein.

Funny!--when the voice of some singer, sweeter and more powerful than the rest, rose suddenly from the pauses of the song, and gave words, as it seemed, to all the suffering that the Little Master had ever known. Aye! so funny that at such times Little Crotchet would suddenly wave his hand to the singing reapers, and turn the Gray Pony's head toward the river. Was he following the rolling echoes? He could never hope to overtake them.

Once when this happened Uncle Fountain stopped singing to say:--

"I wish I wuz a runaway nigger!"

"No, you don't!" exclaimed Randall.

"Yes, I does," Uncle Fountain insisted.

"How come?"

"Kaze den I'd have little Marster runnin' atter me ev'y chance he got."

"Go 'way, nigger man! You'd have Jim Simmons's nigger dogs atter you, an' den what'd you do?"

"Dat ar Aaron had um atter 'im, an' what'd he do?"

"De Lord, He knows,--I don't! But don't you git de consate in yo' min' dat you kin do what Aaron done done, kaze you'll fool yo'se'f, sho!"

"What Aaron done done?" Fountain was persistent.

"He done fool dem ar nigger dogs; dat what he done done."

"Den how come I can't fool dem ar dogs?"

"How come? Well, you des try um one time, mo' speshully dat ar col'-nose dog, which he name Soun'."

"Well, I ain't bleege ter try it when de white folks treat me right," remarked Uncle Fountain, after thinking the matter over.

"Dat what make I say what I does," asserted Randall. "When you know 'zactly what you got, an' when you got mighty nigh what you want, dat's de time ter lay low an' say nothin'. Hit's some trouble ter git de corn off'n de cob, but spozen dey want no corn on de cob, what den?"

"Honey, ain't it de trufe?" exclaimed Uncle Fountain.

Thus the negroes talked. They knew a great deal more about Aaron than the white people did, but even the negroes didn't know as much as the Little Master, and for a very good reason. They had no time to find out things, except at night, and at night--well, you may believe it or not, just as you please, but at night the door of the Swamp was closed and locked--locked hard and fast. The owls, the night hawks, the whippoorwills, and the chuck-will's widows could fly over. Yes, and the Willis Whistlers could creep through or crawl under when they returned home from their wild serenades. But everything else--even that red joker, the Fox Squirrel--must have a key. Aaron had one, and the White Grunter, and Rambler, and all the four-footed creatures that walk on horn sandals or in velvet slippers each had a key. The Little Master might have had one for the asking, but always when night came he was glad to lie on his sofa and read, or, better still, go to bed and sleep, so that he never had the need of a key to open the door of the Swamp after it was closed and locked at night.

II.

THE SECRETS OF THE SWAMP.

However hard and fast the door of the Swamp may be locked at night, however tightly it may be shut, it opens quickly enough to whomsoever carries the key. There is no creaking of its vast and heavy hinges; there is not the faintest flutter of a leaf, nor the softest whisper of a blade of grass. That is the bargain the bearer of the key must make:--

_That which sleeps, disturb not its slumber. That which moves, let it swiftly pass._

Else the Swamp will never reveal itself. The sound of one alien footfall is enough. It is the signal for each secret to hide itself, and for all the mysteries to vanish into mystery. The Swamp calls them all in, covers them as with a mantle, and puts on its every-day disguise,--the disguise that the eyes of few mortals have ever penetrated. But those who stand by the bargain that all key-bearers must make--whether they go on two legs or on four, whether they fly or crawl or creep or swim--find the Swamp more friendly. There is no disguise anywhere. The secrets come swarming forth from all possible or impossible places; and the mysteries, led by their torch-bearer Jack-o'-the-Lantern, glide through the tall canes and move about among the tall trees.

The unfathomable blackness of night never sets foot here. It is an alien and is shut out. And this is one of the mysteries. If, when the door of the Swamp is opened to a key-bearer the black night seems to have crept in, wait a moment,--have patience. It is a delusion. Underneath this leafy covering, in the midst of this dense growth of vines and saw-grass and reeds and canes, there is always a wonderful hint of dawn--a shadowy, shimmering hint, elusive and indescribable, but yet sufficient to give dim shape to that which is near at hand.

Not far away the frightened squeak of some small bird breaks sharply on the ear of the Swamp. This is no alien note, and Jack-o'-the-Lantern dances up and down, and all the mysteries whisper in concert:--

"We wish you well, Mr. Fox. Don't choke yourself with the feathers. Good-night, Mr. Fox, good-night!"

Two minute globules of incandescent light come into sight and disappear, and the mysteries whisper:--

"Too late, Mr. Mink, too late! Better luck next time. Good-night!"

A rippling sound is heard in the lagoon as the Leander of the Swamp slips into the water. Jack-o'-the-Lantern flits to the level shore of the pool, and the mysteries come sweeping after, sighing:--

"Farewell, Mr. Muskrat! Good luck and good-night!"

Surely there is an alien sound on the knoll yonder,--snapping, growling, and fighting. Have stray dogs crept under the door? Oh, no! The Swamp smiles, and all the mysteries go trooping thither to see the fun. It is a wonderful frolic! Mr. Red Fox has met Mr. Gray Fox face to face. Something tells Mr. Red Fox "Here's your father's enemy." Something whispers to Mr. Gray, "Here's your mother's murderer." And so they fall to, screaming and gnawing and panting and snarling. Mr. Gray Fox is the strongest, but his heart is the weakest. Without warning he turns tail and flies, with Mr. Red Fox after him, and with all the mysteries keeping them company. They run until they are past the boundary line,--the place where the trumpet flower tried to marry the black-jack tree,--and then, of course, the Swamp has no further concern with them. And the mysteries and their torch-bearers come trooping home.

It is fun when Mr. Red Fox and Mr. Gray Fox meet on the knoll, but the Swamp will never have such a frolic as it had one night when a strange bird came flying in over the door. It is known that the birds that sleep while the Swamp is awake have been taught to hide their heads under their wings. It is not intended that they should see what is going on. Even the Buzzard, that sleeps in the loblolly pine, and the wild turkey, that sleeps in the live oak, conform to this custom. They are only on the edge of the Swamp, but they feel that it would be rude not to put their heads under their wings while the Swamp is awake. But this strange bird--of a family of night birds not hitherto known to that region--was amazed when he beheld the spectacle.

"Oho!" he cried; "what queer country is this, where all the birds are headless? If I'm to live here in peace, I must do as the brethren do."

So he went off in search of advice. As he went along he saw the Bull-Frog near the lagoon.

"Queerer still," exclaimed the stranger. "Here is a bird that has no head, and he can sing."

This satisfied him, and he went farther until he saw Mr. Wildcat trying to catch little Mr. Flying-Squirrel.

"Good-evening, sir," said the stranger. "I see that the birds in this country have no heads."

Mr. Wildcat smiled and bowed and licked his mouth.

"I presume, sir, that I ought to get rid of my head if I am to stay here, and I have nowhere else to go. How am I to do it?"

"Easy enough," responded Mr. Wildcat, smiling and bowing and licking his mouth. "Birds that are so unfortunate as to have heads frequently come to me for relief. May I examine your neck to see what can be done?"

The strange bird fully intended to say, "Why, certainly, sir!" He had the words all made up, but his head was off before he could speak. Being a large bird, he fluttered and shook his wings and jumped about a good deal. As the noise was not alien, the Swamp and all its mysteries came forth to investigate, and oh, what a frolic there was when Mr. Wildcat related the facts! The torch-bearers danced up and down with glee, and the mysteries waltzed to the quick piping of the Willis-Whistlers.