Chapter 6

"All right, Mahs'r Morris," said Grandison. "If I gibs you my word ter pay de money on de fus' day ob October, I's gwine to do it. Dat's sartin shuh."

Months passed on, and, although Grandison worked as steadily as usual, he found toward the end of September that, in the ordinary course of things, he would not be able to make up the sum necessary for the first payment. Other methods out of the ordinary course came into his mind, but he had doubts about availing himself of them. He was extremely anxious to make up the amount due, for he knew very well that if he did not pay it on the day appointed he might bid farewell to his hope of becoming a freeholder. In his perplexity he resolved to consult Brother 'Bijah, the minister of the little church in the pine-woods to which Grandison belonged.

"Now, look-a-heah, Brudder 'Bijah," said he, "wot's I gwine to do 'bout dis bizness? I done promised ter pay dis money on de fus' day ob de comin' month, an' dar's six dollars ob it dat I ain't got yit."

"An' aint dar any way ter git it?" asked 'Bijah.

"Yaas, dar's one way," said Grandison, "I's been turnin' dis matter ober an' ober in my min', an' dar's only one way. I mought sell apples. Apples is mighty skarse dis fall, an' I kin git two dollars a bar'l for 'em in town. Now, if I was ter sell three bar'ls of apples I'd hab dat dar six dollars, sartin shuh. Don' you see dat, Brudder 'Bijah?"

"Dat's all clar 'nuf," said the minister, "but whar you gwine ter git three bar'ls o' apples? You don' mean ter tell me dat you's got 'nuf apple-trees in your little gyardin fur ter shake down three bar'ls o' apples."

"Now look a-heah, Brudder 'Bijah," said Grandison, his eyes sparkling with righteous indignation, "dat's too much 'to 'spec' ob a man who's got ter work all day to s'port his wife an' chillun. I digs, an' I plows, an' I plants, an' I hoes. But all dem things ain't 'nuf ter make apple-trees grow in my gyardin like as dey was corn-field peas."

"Dat's so," said 'Bijah, reflectively. "Dat's too much to spec' ob any man. But how's you gwine ter sell de apples if you ain't got 'em?"

"I's got ter git em," said Grandison. "Dar's apples 'nuf growin' roun' an' not so fur away dat I can't tote 'em ter my house in a bahsket. It's pow'ful hard on a man wot's worked all day ter have ter tote apples ahfter night, but dar ain' no other way ob gittin' dat dar money."

"I spec' de orchard whar you's thinkin' o' gwine is Mahs'r Morrises," said the minister.

"You don' 'spose Ise gwine ter any ob dose low down orchards on de udder side de creek, does ye? Mahs'r Morris has got the bes' apples in dis county. Dat's de kin' wot fetch two dollars a bar'l."

"Brudder Gran'son," said 'Bijah, solemnly, "is you min' runnin on takin' Mahs'r Morrises apples inter town an' sellin' em?"

"Well, he gits de money, don't he?" answered the other, "and if I don't sell his apples 'taint no use sellin' none. Dem udder little nubbins roun' heah won't fetch no two dollars a bar'l."

"Dem ain't justifyin' deeds wot's runnin' in your mind," said 'Bijah. "Dey ain't justifyin'."

"Ob course," said Grandison, "dey wouldn't be justifyin' if I had de six dollars. But I ain't got 'em, an' Ise promised to pay 'em. Now, is I ter stick to de truf, or isn't I?"

"Truf is mighty," said the preacher, "an' ought not to be hendered from prevailin'."

"Dat's so! dat's so!" exclaimed Grandison. "You can't go agin de Scripters. Truf _is_ mighty, an' 'tain't fur pore human critters like us to try to upsot her. Wot we're got ter do is ter stick to her through thick an' thin."

"Ob course, dat's wot we oughter do," said 'Bijah, "but I can't see my way clar to you sellin' dem apples."

"But dar ain't nuffin else ter do!" exclaimed Grandison, "an' ef I don't do dat, away goes de truf, clar out o' sight. An' wot sort o' 'ligion you call dat, Brudder 'Bijah?"

"'Tain't no kind at all," said 'Bijah, "fur we's bound ter stick to de truf, which is de bottom corner-stone ob piousness. But dem apples don't seem ter git demselves straightened out in my mind, Brudder Gran'son."

"It 'pears ter me, Brudder 'Bijah, dat you doan' look at dem apples in de right light. If I was gwine ter sell 'em to git money ter buy a lot o' spotted calliker ter make frocks for de chillen, or eben to buy two pars o' shoes fur me an' Judy ter go to church in, dat would be a sin, sartin shuh. But you done furgit dat I's gwine ter take de money ter Mahs'r Morris. If apples is riz an' I gits two dollars an' a quarter a bar'l, ob course I keeps de extry quarter, which don' pay anyhow fur de trouble ob pickin' 'em. But de six dollars I gibs, cash down, ter Mahs'r Morris. Don' you call dat puffectly fa'r an' squar, Brudder 'Bijah?"

'Bijah shook his head. "Dis is a mighty dubersome question, Brudder Gran'son, a mighty dubersome question."

Grandison stood with a disappointed expression on his countenance. He greatly desired to gain from his minister sanction for the financial operation he had proposed. But this the solemn 'Bijah did not appear prepared to give. As the two men stood together by the roadside they saw, riding toward them, Mr. Morris himself.

"Now, den," exclaimed Grandison, "heah comes Mahs'r Morris, and I's gwine ter put dis question to hisse'f. He oughter know how ter 'cide bout it, if anybody does."

"You ain't truly gwine ter put dat question to him, is ye?" asked 'Bijah, quickly.

"No, sah," replied the other. "I's gwine to put the case on a dif'rent show-pint. But 'twill be the same thing as de udder."

Mr. Morris was a genial-natured man, who took a good deal of interest in his negro neighbors, and was fond of listening to their peculiar humor. Therefore, when he saw that Grandison wished to speak to him he readily pulled up his horse.

"Mahs'r Morris," said Grandison, removing his hat, "Brudder 'Bijah an' me has been argyin on de subjick ob truf. An' jes' as you was comin' up I was gwine ter tell him a par'ble 'bout sticken ter truf. An' if you's got time, Mahs'r Morris, I'd be pow'ful glad ter tell you de par'ble, an' let you 'cide 'tween us."

"Very well," said Mr. Morris, "go on with your parable."

"Dis yere par'ble," said Grandison, "has got a justifyin' meanin' in it, an' it's 'bout a bar an' a' possum. De 'possum he was a-gwine out early in de mawnin' ter git a little corn fur his breakfus'--"

"Very wrong in the opossum," said Mr. Morris, "for I am sure he hadn't planted any corn."

"Well, den, sah," said Grandison, "p'raps 'twas akerns; but, anyway, afore he was out ob de woods he see a big, ole bar a-comin' straight 'long to him. De 'possum he ain't got no time ter climb a tree an' git out on de leetlest end ob a long limb, an' so he lay hese'f flat down on de groun' an' make b'lieve he's dead. When de ole bar came up he sot down an' look at de 'possum. Fus' he turn his head on one side an' den he turn his head on de udder, but he look at de 'possum all de time. D'reckly he gits done lookin' an' he says:

"'Look-a-heah, 'possum, is you dead or is you libin'? If you's dead I won't eat you, fur I neber eats dead critters, but if you's libin' den I eats you for my breakfus', fur I is bilin' hungry, not havin' had nuffin sence sun-up but a little smack dat I took afore gwine out inter de damp air ob de mawnin'. Now, den, 'possum, speak out and tell me is you 'libe or is you dead?'

"Dat are question frew de 'possum inter a pow'ful sweat. If he told de truf an' said he was alibe he knowed well 'nuf dat de bar would gobble him up quicker'n if he'd been a hot ash cake an' a bowl of buttermilk; but if he said he was dead so's de bar wouldn't eat him, de bar, like 'nuf, would know he lied, an' would eat him all de same. So he turn de matter ober an' ober in his min', an' he wrastled with his 'victions, but he couldn't come ter no 'clusion. 'Now don't you tink,' said de bar, 'dat I's got time to sit here de whole mawnin' waitin' fer you ter make up your mind whether you's dead or not. If you don't 'cide pretty quick, I'll put a big rock a-top o' you, an' stop fer you answer when I come back in de ebenin'.' Now dis gib de 'possum a pow'ful skeer, an' 'twas cl'ar to his min' dat he mus' 'cide de question straight off. If he tole de truf, and said he was alibe, he'd be eat up shuh; but if he said he was dead, de bar mought b'lieve him. 'Twarn't very likely dat he would, but dar was dat one leetle chance, an' he done took it. 'I is dead,' says he. 'You's a long time makin' up your min' 'bout it,' says de bar. 'How long you been dead?' 'Sence day 'fore yestidday,' says the 'possum. 'All right!' says de bar, 'when dey've on'y been dead two or free days, an' kin talk, I eats 'em all de same.' An' he eat him up."

"And now, Grandison," said Mr. Morris, "where is the moral of that parable?"

"De moral is dis," said Grandison; "stick ter de truf. If de 'possum had tole de truf, an' said he was alibe, de bar couldn't eat him no more'n he did eat him; no bar could do dat. An' I axes you, Mahs'r Morris, don' dat par'ble show dat eb'rybody oughter stick ter de truf, no matter what happens."

"Well, I don't think your moral is very clear," said Mr. Morris, "for it would have been about as bad for the 'possum one way as the other. But, after all, it would have been better for the little beast to tell the truth and die with a clear conscience."

"Dat's so!" cried Brother 'Bijah, speaking in his ministerial capacity, "de great thing in dis worl' is ter die wid a clear conscience."

"But you can't do dat," said Grandison, "if you let dis thing an' dat thing come in ter hinder ye. Now dat's jes' wot we's been disputin' 'bout, Mahs'r Morris. I 'clared dat we oughter stick ter de truf widout lookin' to de right or de lef'; but Brudder 'Bijah, his min' wasn't quite made up on de subjick. Now, wot you say, Mahs'r Morris?"

"I say stick to the truth, of course," said Mr. Morris, gathering up his reins. "And, by the way, Grandison, do you expect to make that payment on your place which is due next week?"

"Yaas, sah, sartin shuh," said Grandison. "I done tole you I'd do it, Mahs'r Morris, an' I 'tends ter stick ter de truf."

"Now, den," said Grandison, in a tone of triumph, when Mr. Morris had ridden away, "you see I's right in my 'clusions, and Mahs'r Morris 'grees with me."

"Dunno," said Brother 'Bijah, shaking his head, "dis is a mighty dubersome question. You kep' dem apples clar out o' sight, Brudder Gran'son; clar out o' sight."

It was about a week after this, quite early in the morning, that Grandison was slowly driving into town with a horse and a wagon which he had borrowed from a neighbor. In the wagon were three barrels of fine apples. Suddenly, at a turn in the road, he was greatly surprised to meet Mr. Morris, riding homeward.

"What have you in those barrels, Grandison?" inquired his landlord.

"Dey's apples, sah," was the reply, "dat I's got de job ob haulin' ter town, sah."

Mr. Morris rode up to the wagon and removed the piece of old canvas that was thrown over the tops of the barrels; there was no need of asking any questions. No one but himself, for many miles around, had "Belle-flowers" and "Jeannettes" like these.

"How much do you lack, Grandison," he said, "of making up the money you owe me to-morrow?"

"Six dollars, sah," said Grandison.

"Six dollars--three barrels--very good," said Mr. Morris. "I see you are determined to stick to the truth, Grandison, and keep your engagement. But I will trouble you to turn that wagon round and haul those apples to my house. And, if you still want to buy the place, you can come on Monday morning and work out the balance you have to make up on the first instalment; and, after this, you can make all your payments in work. A day's labor is fair and plain, but your ways of sticking to the truth are very crooked."

It was not long after this that Grandison was ploughing in one of Mr. Morris' fields, when Brother 'Bijah came along and sat upon the fence.

"Brudder Gran'son," said he, when the ploughman had reached the end of the furrow and was preparing to turn, "jes' you let your hoss res' a minnit till I tells you a par'ble."

"Wot par'ble?" said Grandison, in a tone of unconcern, but stopping his horse, all the same.

"Why, dis one!" said 'Bijah. "Dar was an ole mule an' he b'longed to a cullud man named Harris who used to carry de mail from de Coht House ter Cary's Cross-roads. De ole mule was a pow'ful triflin' critter an' he got lazier an' lazier, an' 'fore long he got so dreffle slow dat it tuk him more'n one day ter go from de Coht House ter de crossroads, an' he allus come in de day ahfter mail-day, when de people was done gone home. So de cullud man, Harris, he says:

"'You is too ole fur ter carry de mail, you triflin' mule, an' I hain't got no udder use fur you.'

"So he put him in a gully-field, whar dar was nuffin but bar' groun' an' hog weed. Now, dar was nuffin in dis worl' dat triflin' mule hated so much as hog weed, an' he says to hese'f: 'I's boun' ter do somefin' better'n dis fur a libin. I reckin I'll go skeer dat ole Harris, an' make him gib me a feed o' corn.' So he jump ober de fence, fur he was spry 'nuf when he had a min' ter, an' he steals an ole bar skin dat he'd seen hangin' up in de store po'ch, an' he pretty nigh kivered himse'f all up wid it. Den he go down to de pos' offis, whar de mail had jes' come in. When dis triflin' ole mule seed de cullud man, Harris, sittin' on de bottom step ob de po'ch, he begin to kick up his heels an' make all de noise he could wid he mouf. 'Wot's dat?' cried de cullud man, Harris. 'I's a big grizzly bar,' said de mule, ''scaped from de 'nagerie when 'twas fordin' Scott's Creek.' 'When did you git out?' said de cullud man, Harris. 'I bus' from de cage at half pas' free o'clock dis ebenin'.' 'An' is you reely a grizzly bar?' 'Dat's de truf,' said de triflin' mule, 'an' I's pow'ful hungry, an' if you don' go git me a feed o' corn I'll swaller you down whole.' An' he begun to roar as like a grizzly bar as he knew how. 'Dat all de truf, you tellin' me?' de cullud man, Harris, ask. 'Dat's all true as I's libin',' says de triflin' mule. 'All right, den,' says de cullud man, Harris, 'if you kin come from de ford on Scott's Creek in a hour an' a half, you kin carry de mail jes' as well as any udder mule, an' I's gwine ter buy a big cart whip, an' make you do it. So take off dat bar skin, an' come 'long wid me.' So you see Brudder Gran'son," continued 'Bijah, "dar's dif'rent kinds ob truf, an' you's got ter be mighty 'ticklar wot kind you sticks ter."

"Git up," said Grandison to his drowsy horse, as he started him on another furrow.

PLAIN FISHING.

"Well, sir," said old Peter, as he came out on the porch with his pipe, "so you came here to go fishin'?"

Peter Gruse was the owner of the farm-house where I had arrived that day, just before supper-time. He was a short, strong-built old man, with a pair of pretty daughters, and little gold rings in his ears. Two things distinguished him from the farmers in the country round about: one was the rings in his ears, and the other was the large and comfortable house in which he kept his pretty daughters. The other farmers in that region had fine large barns for their cattle and horses, but very poor houses for their daughters. Old Peter's ear-rings were indirectly connected with his house. He had not always lived among those mountains. He had been on the sea, where his ears were decorated, and he had travelled a good deal on land, where he had ornamented his mind with many ideas which were not in general use in the part of his State in which he was born. His house stood a little back from the high road, and if a traveller wished to be entertained, Peter was generally willing to take him in, provided he had left his wife and family at home. The old man himself had no objection to wives and children, but his two pretty daughters had.

These young women had waited on their father and myself at supper-time, one continually bringing hot griddle cakes, and the other giving me every opportunity to test the relative merits of the seven different kinds of preserved fruit which, in little glass plates, covered the otherwise unoccupied spaces on the tablecloth. The latter, when she found that there was no further possible way of serving us, presumed to sit down at the corner of the table and begin her supper. But in spite of this apparent humility, which was only a custom of the country, there was that in the general air of the pretty daughters which left no doubt in the mind of the intelligent observer that they stood at the wheel in that house. There was a son of fourteen, who sat at table with us, but he did not appear to count as a member of the family.

"Yes," I answered, "I understood that there was good fishing hereabout, and, at any rate, I should like to spend a few days among these hills and mountains."

"Well," said Peter, "there's trout in some of our streams, though not as many as there used to be, and there's hills a plenty, and mountains too, if you choose to walk fur enough. They're a good deal furder off than they look. What did you bring with you to fish with?"

"Nothing at all," I answered. "I was told in the town that you were a great fisherman, and that you could let me have all the tackle I would need."

"Upon my word," said old Peter, resting his pipe-hand on his knee and looking steadfastly at me, "you're the queerest fisherman I've see'd yet. Nigh every year, some two or three of 'em stop here in the fishin' season, and there was never a man who didn't bring his jinted pole, and his reels, and his lines, and his hooks, and his dry-goods flies, and his whiskey-flask with a long strap to it. Now, if you want all these things, I haven't got 'em."

"Whatever you use yourself will suit me," I answered.

"All right, then," said he. "I'll do the best I can for you in the mornin'. But it's plain enough to me that you're not a game fisherman, or you wouldn't come here without your tools."

To this remark I made answer to the effect that, though I was very fond of fishing, my pleasure in it did not depend upon the possession of all the appliances of professional sport.

"Perhaps you think," said the old man, "from the way I spoke, that I don't believe them fellers with the jinted poles can ketch fish, but that ain't so. That old story about the little boy with the pin-hook who ketched all the fish, while the gentleman with the modern improvements, who stood alongside of him, kep' throwin' out his beautiful flies and never got nothin', is a pure lie. The fancy chaps, who must have ev'rythin' jist so, gen'rally gits fish. But for all that, I don't like their way of fishin', and I take no stock in it myself. I've been fishin', on and off, ever since I was a little boy, and I've caught nigh every kind there is, from the big jew-fish and cavalyoes down South, to the trout and minnies round about here. But when I ketch a fish, the first thing I do is to try to git him on the hook, and the next thing is to git him out of the water jist as soon as I kin. I don't put in no time worryin' him. There's only two animals in the world that likes to worry smaller creeturs a good while afore they kill 'em; one is the cat, and the other is what they call the game fisherman. This kind of a feller never goes after no fish that don't mind being ketched. He goes fur them kinds that loves their home in the water and hates most to leave it, and he makes it jist as hard fur 'em as he kin. What the game fisher likes is the smallest kind of a hook, the thinnest line, and a fish that it takes a good while to weaken. The longer the weak'nin' business kin be spun out, the more the sport. The idee is to let the fish think there's a chance fur him to git away. That's jist like the cat with her mouse. She lets the little creetur hop off, but the minnit he gits fur enough away, she jumps on him and jabs him with her claws, and then, if there's any game left in him, she lets him try again. Of course the game fisher could have a strong line and a stout pole and git his fish in a good sight quicker, if he wanted to, but that wouldn't be sport. He couldn't give him the butt and spin him out, and reel him in, and let him jump and run till his pluck is clean worn out. Now, I likes to git my fish ashore with all the pluck in 'em. It makes 'em taste better. And as fur fun, I'll be bound I've had jist as much of that, and more, too, than most of these fellers who are so dreadful anxious to have everythin' jist right, and think they can't go fishin' till they've spent enough money to buy a suit of Sunday clothes. As a gen'ral rule they're a solemn lot, and work pretty hard at their fun. When I work I want to be paid fur it, and when I go in fur fun I want to take it easy and cheerful. Now I wouldn't say so much agen these fellers," said old Peter, as he arose and put his empty pipe on a little shelf under the porch-roof, "if it wasn't for one thing, and that is, that they think that their kind of fishin' is the only kind worth considerin'. The way they look down upon plain Christian fishin' is enough to rile a hitchin'-post. I don't want to say nothin' agen no man's way of attendin' to his own affairs, whether it's kitchen-gardenin', or whether it's fishin', if he says nothin' agen my way; but when he looks down on me, and grins at me, I want to haul myself up, and grin at him, if I kin. And in this case, I kin. I s'pose the house-cat and the cat-fisher (by which I don't mean the man who fishes for cat-fish) was both made as they is, and they can't help it; but that don't give 'em no right to put on airs before other bein's, who gits their meat with a square kill. Good-night. And sence I've talked so much about it, I've a mind to go fishin' with you to-morrow myself."

The next morning found old Peter of the same mind, and after breakfast he proceeded to fit me out for a day of what he called "plain Christian trout-fishin'." He gave me a reed rod, about nine feet long, light, strong, and nicely balanced. The tackle he produced was not of the fancy order, but his lines were of fine strong linen, and his hooks were of good shape, clean and sharp, and snooded to the lines with a neatness that indicated the hand of a man who had been where he learned to wear little gold rings in his ears.

"Here are some of these feather insects," he said, "which you kin take along if you like." And he handed me a paper containing a few artificial flies. "They're pretty nat'ral," he said, "and the hooks is good. A man who came here fishin' gave 'em to me, but I shan't want 'em to-day. At this time of year grasshoppers is the best bait in the kind of place where we're goin' to fish. The stream, after it comes down from the mountain, runs through half a mile of medder land before it strikes into the woods agen. A grasshopper is a little creetur that's got as much conceit as if his jinted legs was fish-poles, and he thinks he kin jump over this narrer run of water whenever he pleases; but he don't always do it, and then if he doesn't git snapped up by the trout that lie along the banks in the medder, he is floated along into the woods, where there's always fish enough to come to the second table."