Part 9

“Lordy massy, how hot 'tis!” said Sam, lying back, and resting on the roots of a tree, with his hands folded under his head. “I'm all in a drip of sweat.”

“Well, Sam, we 'll pick off your berries, if you 'll talk.”

“Wall, wall, be kerful yer don't git no green ones in among 'em, else Hepsy 'll be down on me. She's drefful partikelar, she is. Every thing has to be jest so. Ef it ain't, you 'll hear on't. Lordy massy I boys, she's always telling me I don't do nothin' for the support of the family. I leave it to you if I didn't ketch her a nice mess o' fish a Tuesday. I tell her folks can't expect to roll in money, and allers to have every thing jess 'z they want it. We brought nothin' into the world with us, and it's sartain we ken carry nothin' out; and, having food and raiment, we ought to be content. We have ben better off'n we be now. Why, boys, I've seen the time that I've spent thirty-seven cents a week for nutmegs; but Hepsy hain't no gratitude: such folks hez to be brought down. Take care, now, yer ain't a-putting green ones in; be yer?”

“Sam, we sha'n't put in any at all, if you don't tell us that story.”

“Lordy massy! you young ones, there ain't never no contentin' yer, ef a fellow was to talk to the millennium. Wonder now if there is going to be any millennium. Wish I'd waited, and been born in them days, 'spect things would a sorter come along easier. Wall, I shall git through some way, I s'pose.”

“Sam,” said I, sitting back, “we're putting all our berries into your pail; and, if you don't begin to tell us a story, we won't do it.”

“Lordy massy! boys, I'm kind o' collectin' my idees. Ye have to talk a while to git a-goin', everybody does. Wal, about this 'ere story. Ye 'member that old brown house, up on the hill there, that we saw when we come round the corner? That 'are was where old Mump Moss used to live. Old Mump was consid'able of a nice man: he took in Ike Sanders, Mis' Moss's sister's boy, to help him on the farm, and did by him pretty much ez, he did by his own. Bill Moss, Mump's boy, he was a con-trairy kind o' critter, and he was allers a-hectorin' Ike. He was allers puttin' off the heaviest end of every thing on to him. He'd shirk his work, and git it off on to Ike every way he could. And he allers threw it up at him that he was eatin' his father's bread; and he watched every mouthful he ate, as if he hated to see it go down. Wal, ye see, for all that. Ike he growed up tall and strong, and a real handsome young feller; and everybody liked him. And Bill he was so gritty and contrairy, that his own mother and sisters couldn't stan' him; and he was allers a-flingin' it up at 'em that they liked Ike more'n they did him. Finally his mother she said to him one day, 'Why shouldn't I,' sez she, 'when Ike's allers pleasant to me, and doin' every thing he ken fur me, and you don't do nothin' but scold.' That 'are, you see, was a kind o' home-thrust, and Bill he didn't like Ike a bit the better for that. He did every thing he could to plague him, and hector him, and sarcumvent him, and set people agin him.

“Wal, ye see, 'twas the old story about Jacob and Laban over agin. Every thing that Ike put his hand to kind o' prospered. Everybody liked him, everybody hed a good word for him, everybody helped grease his wheels. Wal, come time when he was twenty-one, old Mump he gin him a settin' out. He gin him a freedom suit o' clothes, and he gin him a good cow, and Mis' Moss she knit him up a lot o' stockings, and the gals they made him up his shirts. Then, Ike he got a place with Squire Wells, and got good wages; and he bought a little bit o' land, with a house on it, on Squire Wells's place, and took a mortgage on't, to work off. He used to work his own land, late at night and early in the mornin', over and above givin' good days' works to the squire; and the old squire he sot all the world by him, and said he hedn't hed sich a man to work since he didn't know when.

“Wal, a body might ha' thought that when Bill had a got him out o' the house, he might ha' ben satisfied, but he wasn't. He was an ugly fellow, Bill Moss was; and a body would ha' thought that every thing good that happened to Ike was jest so much took from him. Come to be young men, growed up together, and waitin' on the gals round, Ike he was pretty apt to cut Bill out. Yer see, though Bill was goin' to have the farm, and all old Mump's money, he warn't pleasant-spoken; and so, when the gals got a chance, they'd allers rather go with Ike than him. Finally, there was Delily Sawin, she was about the handsomest girl there was round, and she hed all the fellers arter her; and her way was to speak 'em all fair, and keep 'em all sort o' waitin' and hopin', till she got ready to make her mind up. She'd entertain Bill Saturday night, and she'd tell Ike he might come Sunday night; and so Ike he was well pleased, and Bill he growled.

“Wal, there come along a gret cattle-show. Squire Wells he got it up: it was to be the gretest kind of a time, and Squire Wells he give money fur prizes. There was to be a prize on the best cow, and the best bull, and the best ox, and the best horse, and the biggest punkins and squashes and beets, and there was a prize for the best loaf o' bread, and the best pair o' stockin's, and the handsomest bed-quilt, and the rest o' women's work. Wal, yer see, there was a gret to-do about the cattle-show; and the wagons they came in from all around,--ten miles; and the gals all dressed up in their best bunnits, and they had a ball in the evenin'. Wal, ye see, it so happened that Bill and Ike each on 'em sent a bull to the cattle-show; and Ike's bull took the prize. That put the cap-sheaf on for Bill. He was jest about as much riled as a feller could be; and that evenin' Delily she danced with Ike twice as many times ez she did with him. Wal, Bill he got it round among the fellers that the jedges hed been partial; and he said, if them bulls was put together, his bull would whip Ike's all to thunder. Wal, the fellers thought 'twould be kind o' fun to try 'em, and they put Ike up to it. And finally 'twas agreed that Ike's bull should be driv over to old Mump's; and the Monday after the cattle-show, they should let 'em out into the meadow together and see which was the strongest. So there was a Sunday the bulls they were both put up together in the same barn; and the 'greement was, they wasn't to be looked at nor touched till the time come to turn 'em out.

“Come Sunday mornin', they got up the wagon to go to meetin'; and Mis' Moss and the gals and old Mump, they was all ready; and the old yaller dog he was standrn' waitin' by the wagon, and Bill warn't nowhere to be found. So they sent one o' the girls up chamber to see what'd got him; and there he was a-lyin' on the bed, and said he'd got a drefful headache, and didn't think he could go to meetin'. Wal, the second bell was a-tollin', and they had to drive off without him: they never mistrusted but what 'twas jest so. Wal, yer see, boys, 'twas that 'are kind o' Sunday headache that sort o' gets better when the folks is all fairly into meetin'. So, when the wagon was fairly out o' sight, Bill he thought he'd jest go and have a peek at them bulls. Wal, he looked and he peeked, and finally he thought they looked so sort o' innocent 'twouldn't do no harm to jest let 'em have a little run in the cow-yard aforehand. He kind o' wanted to see how they was likely to cut up. Now, ye see, the mischief about bulls is, that a body never knows what they's goin' to do, 'cause whatever notion takes 'em allers comes into their heads so kind o' suddin, and it's jest a word and a blow with 'em. Wal, fust he let out his bull, and then he went in and let out Ike's. Wal, the very fust thing that critter did he run up to Bill's bull, full tilt, and jest gin one rip with his horns right in the side of him, and knocked him over and killed him. Didn't die right off, but he was done for; and Bill he gin a the old feller turned right round, and come at _him_. I tell you, Bill he turned and made a straight coattail, rippin' and peelin' it towards the house, and the bull tearin' on right arter him. Into the kitchen he went, and he hedn't no time to shut the door, and the bull arter him; and into the keepin'-room, and the bull arter him there. And he hedn't but jest time to git up the chamber-stairs, when he heard the old feller roarin' and tearin' round there like all natur. Fust he went to the lookin'-glass, and smashed that all to pieces. Then he histed the table over, and he rattled and smashed the chairs round, and made such a roaring and noise, ye'd ha' thought there was seven devils there; and in the midst of it Bill he looked out of the window, and see the wagon a-comin' back; and 'Lordy massy!' he thought to himself, 'the bull 'll kill every one on 'em,' and he run to the window and yelled and shouted, and they saw him, and thought the house must be afire.

“Finally, he bethought him of old Mump's gun, and he run round and got it, and poked it through a crack of the chamber-door, and fired off bang! and shot him dead, jest as Mis' Moss and the girls was comin' into the kitchen-door.

“Wal, there was, to be sure, the 'bomination o' desolation when they come in and found every thing all up in a heap and broke to pieces, and the old critter a-kickin' and bleedin' all over the carpet, and Bill as pale as his shirt-tail on the chamber-stairs. They had an awful mess on't; and there was the two bulls dead and to be took care uv.

“'Wal, Bill,” said his father, “'I hope yer satisfied now. All that comes o' stayin' to home from meetin', and keepin' temporal things in yer head all day Sunday. You've lost your own bull, you've got Ike's to pay for, and ye 'll have the laugh on yer all round the country.'

“'I expect, father, we ken corn the meat,' says Mis' Moss, 'and maybe the hide 'll sell for something,' sez she; for she felt kind o' tender for Bill, and didn't want to bear down too hard on him.

“Wal, the story got round, and everybody was a-throwin' it up at Bill; and Delily, in partikelar, hectored him about it till he wished the bulls had been in the Red Sea afore he'd ever seen one on 'em. Wal, it really driv him out o' town, and he went off out West to settle, and nobody missed him much; and Ike he married Delily, and they grew from better to better, till now they own jest about as pretty a farm as there is round. Yer remember that white house with green blinds, that we passed when we was goin' to the trout-brook? Wal, that 'ere's the one.”

HOW TO FIGHT THE DEVIL

OOK here, boys,” said Sam, “don't you want to go with me up to the Devil's Den this arternoon?”

“Where is the Devil's Den,” said I, with a little awe.

“Wal, it's a longer tramp than I've ever took ye. It's clear up past the pickerel pond, and beyond old Skunk John's pasture-lot. It's a 'mazin' good place for raspberries; shouldn't wonder if we should get two, three quarts there. Great rocks there higher'n yer head; kinder solemn, 'tis.”

This was a delightful and seductive account, and we arranged for a walk that very afternoon.

In almost every New-England village the personality of Satan has been acknowledged by calling by his name some particular rock or cave, or other natural object whose singularity would seem to suggest a more than mortal occupancy. “The Devil's Punchbowl,” “The Devil's Wash-bowl,” “The Devil's Kettle,” “The Devil's Pulpit,” and “The Devil's Den,” have been designations that marked places or objects of some striking natural peculiarity. Often these are found in the midst of the most beautiful and romantic scenery, and the sinister name seems to have no effect in lessening its attractions. To me, the very idea of going to the Devil's Den was full of a pleasing horror. When a boy, I always lived in the shadowy edge of that line which divides spirit land from mortal life, and it was my delight to walk among its half lights and shadows. The old graveyard where, side by side, mouldered the remains of Indian sachems and the ancients of English blood, was my favorite haunt. I loved to sit on the graves while the evening mists arose from them, and to fancy cloudy forms waving and beckoning. To me, this spirit land was my only refuge from the dry details of a hard, prosaic life. The schoolroom--with its hard seats rudely fashioned from slabs of rough wood, with its clumsy desks, hacked and ink-stained, with its unintelligible textbooks and its unsympathetic teacher--was to me a prison out of whose weary windows I watched the pomp and glory of nature,--the free birds singing, the clouds sailing, the trees waving and whispering,--and longed, as earnestly as ever did the Psalmist, to flee far away, and wander in the wilderness.

Hence, no joy of after life--nothing that the world has now to give--can equal that joyous sense of freedom and full possession which came over me on Saturday afternoons, when I started off on a tramp with the world all before me,--the mighty, unexplored world of mysteries and possibilities, bounded only by the horizon. Ignorant alike of all science, neither botanist nor naturalist, I was studying at firsthand all that lore out of which science is made. Every plant and flower had a familiar face to me, and said something to my imagination. I knew where each was to be found, its time of coming and going, and met them year after year as returning friends.

So it was with joyous freedom that we boys ram bled off with Sam this afternoon, intent to find the Devil's Den. It was a ledge of granite rocks rising in the midst of a grove of pines and white birches. The ground was yellow and slippery with the fallen needles of the pines of other days, and the glistening white stems of the birches shone through the shadows like ivory pillars. Underneath the great granite ledges, all sorts of roots and plants grappled and kept foothold; and whole armies of wild raspberries matured their fruit, rounder and juicier for growing in the shade.

In one place yawned a great rift, or cavern, as if the rocks had been violently twisted and wrenched apart, and a mighty bowlder lodging in the rift had roofed it over, making a cavern of most seductive darkness and depth. This was the Devil's Den; and after we had picked our pail full of berries, we sat down there to rest.

“Sam, do you suppose the Devil ever was here?” said I. “What do they call this his den for?”

“Massy, child! that 'are was in old witch times. There used to be witch meetins' held here, and awful doins'; they used to have witch sabba' days and witch sacraments, and sell their souls to the old boy.”

“What should they want to do that for?”

“Wal, sure enough; what was it for? I can't make out that the Devil ever gin 'em any thing, any on 'em. They warn't no richer, nor didn't get no more'n this world than the rest; and they was took and hung; and then ef they went to torment after that, they hed a pretty bad bargain on't, I say.”

“Well, people don't do such things any more, do they?” said I.

“No,” said Sam. “Since the gret fuss and row-de-dow about it, it's kind o' died out; but there's those, I s'pose, that hez dealins' with the old boy. Folks du say that old Ketury was a witch, and that, ef't ben in old times, she'd a hed her neck stretched; but she lived and died in peace.”

“But do you think,” said I, now proposing the question that lay nearest my heart, “that the Devil can hurt us?”

“That depends consid'able on how you take him,” said Sam. “Ye see, come to a straight out-an'-out fight with him, he 'll git the better on yer.”

“But,” said I, “Christian did fight Apollyon, and got him down too.”

I had no more doubt in those days that this was an historic fact than I had of the existence of Romulus and Remus and the wolf.

“Wal, that 'ere warn't jest like real things: they say that 'ere's an allegory. But I 'll tell ye how old Sarah Bunganuck fit the Devil, when he 'peared to her. Ye see, old Sarah she was one of the converted Injuns, and a good old critter she was too; worked hard, and got her livin' honest. She made baskets, and she made brooms, and she used to pick young wintergreen and tie it up in bunches, and dig sassafras and ginsing to make beer; and she got her a little bit o' land, right alongside o' Old Black Hoss John's white-birch wood-lot.

“Now, I've heerd some o' these 'ere modern ministers that come down from Cambridge college, and are larnt about every thing in creation, they say there ain't no devil, and the reason on't is, 'cause there can't be none. These 'ere fellers is so sort o' green!--they don't mean no harm, but they don't know nothin' about nobody that does. If they'd ha' known old Black Hoss John, they'd ha' been putty sure there was a devil. He was jest the crossest, ugliest critter that ever ye see, and he was ugly jest for the sake o' ugliness. He couldn't bear to let the boys pick huckleberries in his paster lots, when he didn't pick 'em himself; and he was allers jawin' me 'cause I would go trout-fishin' in one o' his pasters. Jest ez if the trout that swims warn't, the Lord's, and jest ez much mine as his. He grudged every critter every thing; and if he'd ha' hed his will and way, every bird would ha' fell down dead that picked up a worm on his grounds. He was jest as nippin' as a black frost. Old Black Hoss didn't git drunk in a regerlar way, like Uncle Eph and Toddy Whitney, and the rest o' them boys. But he jest sot at home, a-soakin' on cider, till he was crosser'n a bear with a sore head. Old Black Hoss hed a special spite agin old Sarah. He said she was an old witch and an old thief, and that she stole things off'n his grounds, when everybody knew that she was a regerlar church-member, and as decent an old critter as there was goin'. As to her stealin', she didn't do nothin' but pick huckleberries and grapes, and git chesnuts and wannuts, and butternuts, and them 'ere wild things that's the Lord's, grow on whose land they will, and is free to all. I've hearn 'em tell that, over in the old country, the poor was kept under so, that they couldn't shoot a bird, nor ketch a fish, nor gather no nuts, nor do nothin' to keep from starvin', 'cause the quality folks they thought they owned every thing, 'way-down to the middle of the earth and clear up to the stars. We never hed no sech doin's this side of the water, thank the Lord! We've allers been free to have the chesnuts and the wannuts and the grapes and the huckleberries and the strawberries, ef we could git 'em, and ketch fish when and where we was a mind to. Lordy massy! your grandthur's old Cesar, he used to call the pond his pork-pot. He'd jest go down and throw in a line and ketch his dinner. Wal, Old Black Hoss he know'd the law was so, and he couldn't do nothin' agin her by law; but he sarved her out every mean trick he could think of. He used to go and stan' and lean over her garden-gate and jaw at her an hour at a time; but old Sarah she had the Injun in her; she didn't run to talk much: she used to jest keep on with her weedin and her work, jest's if he warn't there, and that made Old Black Hoss madder'n ever; and he thought he'd try and frighten her off'n the ground, by makin' on her believe he was the Devil. So one time, when he'd been killin' a beef critter, they took off the skin with the horns and all on; and Old Black Hoss he says to Toddy and Eph and Loker, 'You jest come up tonight, and see how I 'll frighten old Sarah Bunganuck.'

“Wal, Toddy and Eph and Loker, they hedn't no better to do, and they thought they'd jest go round and see. Ye see 'twas a moonlight night, and old Sarah--she was an industrious critter--she was cuttin' white-birch brush for brooms in the paster-lot.

“Wal, Old Black Hoss he wrapped the critter's skin round him, with the horns on his head, and come and stood by the fence, and begun to roar and make a noise.

“Old Sarah she kept right on with her work, cuttin' her brush and pilin' on't up, and jest let him roar. Wal, Old Black Hoss felt putty foolish, 'specially ez the fellers were waitin' to see how she took it. So he calls out in a grum voice,--

“'Woman, don't yer know who I be?”

“'No,' says she quite quiet, 'I don't know who yer be.'

“'Wal, I'm the Devil,' sez he.

“'Ye be?' says old Sarah. 'Poor old critter, how I pity ye!' and she never gin him another word, but jest bundled up her broom-stuff, and took it on her back and walked off, and Old Black Hoss he stood there mighty foolish with his skin and horns; and so he had the laugh agin him, 'cause Eph and Loker they went and told the story down to the tavern, and he felt awful cheap to think old Sarah had got the upper hands on him.

“Wal, ye see, boys, that 'ere's jest the way to fight the Devil. Jest keep straight on with what ye're doin', and don't ye mind him, and he can't do nothin' to ye.”

LAUGHIN' IN MEETIN'

E were in disgrace, we boys; and the reason of it was this: we had laughed out in meeting-time! To be sure, the occasion was a trying one, even to more disciplined nerves. Parson Lothrop had exchanged pulpits with Parson Summeral, of North Wearem. Now, Parson Summeral was a man in the very outset likely to provoke the risibles of unspiritualized juveniles. He was a thin, wiry, frisky little man, in a powdered white wig, black tights, and silk stockings, with bright knee-buckles and shoe-buckles; with round, dark, snapping eyes; and a curious, high, cracked, squeaking voice, the very first tones of which made all the children stare and giggle. The news that Parson Summeral was going to preach in our village spread abroad among us as a prelude to something funny. It had a flavor like the charm of circus-acting; and, on the Sunday morning of our story, we went to the house of God in a very hilarious state, all ready to set off in a laugh on the slightest provocation.

The occasion was not long wanting. Parson Lo-throp had a favorite dog yclept Trip, whose behavior in meeting was notoriously far from that edifying pattern which befits a minister's dog on Sundays. Trip was a nervous dog, and a dog that never could be taught to conceal his emotions or to respect conventionalities. If any thing about the performance in the singers' seat did not please him, he was apt to express himself in a lugubrious howl. If the sermon was longer than suited him, he would gape with such a loud creak of his jaws as would arouse everybody's attention. If the flies disturbed his afternoon's nap, he would give sudden snarls or snaps; or, if anything troubled his dreams, he would bark out in his sleep in a manner not only to dispel his own slumbers, but those of certain worthy deacons and old ladies, whose sanctuary repose was thereby sorely broken and troubled. For all these reasons, Madame Lo-throp had been forced, as a general thing, to deny Trip the usual sanctuary privileges of good family dogs in that age, and shut him up on Sundays to private meditation. Trip, of course, was only the more set on attendance, and would hide behind doors, jump out of windows, sneak through by-ways and alleys, and lie hid till the second bell had done tolling, when suddenly he would appear in the broad aisle, innocent and happy, and take his seat as composedly as any member of the congregation.

Imagine us youngsters on the _qui vive_ with excitement at seeing Parson Summeral frisk up into the pulpit with all the vivacity of a black grasshopper. We looked at each other, and giggled very cautiously, with due respect to Aunt Lois's sharp observation.

At first, there was only a mild, quiet simmering of giggle, compressed decorously within the bounds of propriety; and we pursed our muscles up with stringent resolution, whenever we caught the apprehensive eye of our elders.