Chapter 5

At this moment Aunt Cornelia cried out joyously, “Oh, thar's my chile!” and ran to meet her daughter-in-law. The little girl--Cornelia the second--could navigate bravely by herself now, and Huldy was carrying the lusty twin boys. In the flutter of delight over this stolen visit, the ugly wolf-trap threat was forgotten. It had been a month and more since Sammy had set foot in his parents' house. It had gone all over both Turkey Tracks that Sam Overholt declared he would never darken Pap Overholt's door again--Pap Overholt, who had tried to make a pauper of him, loading him with gifts and benefits, like he was shif'less, no-'count white trash! The little Huldy reported him gone to Far Canaan, over beyond Big Turkey Track, in the matter of some employment, which he had not deigned to make clearer to his wife. He would not be back until the day after to-morrow; and meantime she might stay with the old folks two whole days and nights! In the severe school to which life had put her, the little Huldy had developed an astonishing amount of character, of shrewdness, and perception, and a very fair philosophy of her own. To the elder woman's sad observation that it was mighty strange what made Sammy so “onthankful” and so “ha'sh” to his pappy, who had done so much for him, Huldy responded,

“No, Aunt Cornely, hit ain't strange, not a bit.”

“Ain't strange? Huldy child, what do you mean?”

“W'y, don't you know, Aunt Cornely, ef he do Pappy that-a-way, when Pappy do so much fer him, then he don't have to be thankful. When everybody's a-tellin' him, 'Yo' pap's so kind, yo' pap does everything for you; look like you cain't be good enough to him,' he 'bleeged to find some way to shake off all that thankfulness 'at's sech a burden to him. And so when Pappy come a-totin' milk, an' a-totin' pork, an' a-ploughin' his co'n outen the weeds, w'y, Sammy jest draw down his face an' look black at Pappy, and make like he mad at him--like he don't want none o' them things--like Pappy jest pesterin' round him fer nothin'. but meanness. Now mind, Aunt Cornely, I ain't say Sammy knows this his own se'f. But I studied Sammy mighty well, an' _I_ know. Sammy gittin' tell he do me the same way. I wait on him hand and foot; I cook his bacon jest like he tol' me you did it fer him. I fix everything the best I kin (and mebby all three of the chillen a-cryin' after me); and when he come in and see it all ready, and see how hard I got it, and seem like there's a call fer him to be thankful, then Sammy jest turns on hit all. He draw down his face at me and he say, black like: 'I don't want no bacon--what did you fix that shirt for that-a-way? Take away that turnip sallet--I cain't git nothin' like I want it.' Then, you know,” with a little smile up into the other's face, half pitiful, half saucy,--“Then you know, Sammy don't have to be thankful. Hit was all done wrong.”

It was the next evening--Saturday evening. The entire household (which included Elder Justice and two young preachers from Big Turkey Track, with Brother Tarbush, one of the new exhorters) had returned from the afternoon's meeting in the grove. Supper had been eaten and cleared away. The babies had been put to sleep; the two women and the five men--all strong and striking types of the Southern mountaineer--were gathered for the evening reading and prayer. Elder Justice, now nearly eighty years old, a beautiful and venerable person, had opened the big Bible, and after turning the leaves a moment, raised his grave, rugged face and read: “'Therefore will I divide him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he hath poured out his soul unto death.'”

He paused, and on the intense stillness which followed the ceasing of his voice--the silence of evening in the deep mountains--there broke a long, shrill, agonized scream.

As every one of the little circle leaped to his feet, Aunt Cornelia's eyes sought her husband's face, and his hers. After that grinding, terrible cry, the stillness of the night was unstirred. Pap Overholt sprang to the hearth--where even in the midsummer months a log smoulders throughout the day, to be brightened into a cheery blaze mornings and evenings,--seized a brand, one or two of the others following his example, and ran through the doorway, across the little chip-yard, making for the low-browed log barn and the grain-room beside it.

None who witnessed that scene ever forgot it. Each one told it afterward in his own way, declaring that not while he lived could the remembrance of it pass from his mind. Pap Overholt's tall figure leaped crouching through the low doorway, and next instant lifted the blazing brand high above his head; the others followed, doing the same. There by the grain-bin, with ashy countenance and shaking limbs, the sweat of anguish upon his forehead, his eyes roving dumbly around the circle of faces revealed by the flickering light of the brands--there with the dreadful wolf-trap (locked by its chain to a stanchion) hanging to his right arm, its fangs bitten through and through the flesh, stood Sammy.

Pap Overholt's mind refused at first to understand. He had known (with that sort of moral assurance which makes a thing as real to us as the evidence of the senses themselves) that it was Buck Fuson who had been stealing his grain. He had set his trap to catch Buck Fuson; not instantly could the mere sight of his eyes convince him that the trapped thief was the petted, adored, perverse son, who had refused his father's bounty when it had seemed the little wife and babies must starve. When he did realize, the cry that burst from his heart brought tears to all the eyes looking upon him. Down went the tall, broad figure, down into the dust of the grain-room floor. And there Pap Overholt grovelled on his knees, his white head almost at the thief's feet, crying, crying that old cry of David's: “Oh, Sammy, my son! My son, Sammy! An' I wouldn't 'a' touched a hair o' his head. My God! have mercy on my soul, that would 'a' fed him my heart's blood--an' he wouldn't take bite nor sup from my hand. Oh, Sammy! what did you want to do this to yo' po' old pappy fer?”

Elder Justice, quick and efficient at eighty years, had sprung to the lad's right arm, two of the younger men close after. Aunt Cornelia held her piece of blazing light-wood for them while they cut away the sleeve and made ready to bear apart the powerful jaws of the trap. The little Huldy had said never a word. Her small, white face was strained; but it did not bear the marks of shock and of horror that were written on every other countenance there. When they had grasped jaws and lever, and Elder Justice's kind voice murmured, “Mind now, Sammy. Hold firm, son; we air a-gwine to pull 'em back. Brace yo'se'f,” the boy's haggard eyes sought his mother's face.

“Le' me take it, Aunt Cornely,” whispered Huldy, loosing the light-wood from the elder woman's hand and leaving her free. And the next moment Sammy's left hand was clasped tight in his mother's; he turned his face round to her broad breast and hid it there; and there he sobbed and shook as the savage jaws came slowly back.

* * * * *

That strange hour worked a complete revolution in the lives of the little family in the cabin on The Bench and those in the big, hospitable Pap Overholt home. Sammy had “met up with” punishment at last; he had encountered discipline; and the change it wrought upon him was almost beyond belief. The spell which this winning, wayward, perverse creature had laid upon Pap Overholt's too affectionate, too indulgent nature was dissolved in that terrible hour. He was no more to the father now than a troublesome boy who had been most trying and not very satisfactory. The ability to wring the hearts of those who wished to benefit him had passed from Sammy; but it is only fair to say that the wish to do so seemed to be no longer his. While his arm was still in a sling, before he had yet raised his shamed eyes to meet the eyes of those about him, Pap Overholt cheerfully put old Ned and Jerry to the big ox-wagon and bodily removed the little household from The Bench to the home which had been so long yearning for them.

Now, at last, he was Pap Overholt indeed. The little Huldy, whose burden of gratitude for two had seemed to Aunt Cornelia so grievous a one, was a daughter after any man's heart, and her brood of smiling children were a wagon-load which Pap John hauled with joy and pride to and from the settlement, to the circus--ay, every circus that ever showed its head within a day's drive of Little Turkey Track,--to meetin', to grove quarterlies, in response to every call of neighborliness, or of mere amusement.

In the Piny Woods

BY MRS. B. F. MAYHEW

A sparsely settled bit of country in the piny woods of North Carolina. A house rather larger than its neighbors, though only a “story and a jump” of four rooms, two upper and two lower, and quite a commodius shed on the back containing two rooms and a small entry; and when Jeems Henry Tyler increased his rooms as his family grew, his neighbors “allowed” that “arter er while he'd make er hotel out'n it.” Several out-houses stood at convenient distances from the house. A rough board paling enclosed the yard. A clearing of twenty-five or more acres lay around three sides of the house, and well-to-do Industry and Thrift plainly went hand in hand about the place.

A Saturday in early autumn was drawing near its close, and the family had finished supper, though it was not yet dark. Like all country folk of their station in life, they ate in the kitchen, a building separate from the house. There were “Grandmother Tyler,” a sweet-faced old woman, with silvery hair smoothed away under a red silk kerchief folded cornerwise and tied under her chin; and her son, “Father Tyler,” with his fifty-odd years showing themselves in his grizzled hair and beard; and “Mother Tyler,” a brisk stout woman, with great strength of character in her strong features, black eyes, and straight black hair. Her neighbors declared that she was the “main stake” in the “Tyler fence.”

The children were “Mandy Calline,” the eldest, and her mother's special pride, built on the same model with her mother; Joseph Zachariah, a long-legged youth; Ann Elisabeth, a lanky girl; Susan Jane, and Jeems Henry, or “Little Jim,” to distinguish him from his father; and last, but by no means least in the household, came the baby. When she was born Mrs. Tyler declared that as all the rest were named for different members of both families, she should give this wee blossom a fancy name, and she had the desire of her heart, and the baby rejoiced in the name of Elthania Mydora, docked off into “Thancy” for short.

They had risen from the table, and Father Tyler had hastened to his mother's side as the old lady moved slowly away, and taking her arm, guided her carefully to the house, for the eyes in the placid old face, looking apparently straight before her, were stone-blind.

“Come, now, gals,” said Mother Tyler, briskly, with the baby in her arms, “make er hurry 'n' do up th' dishes. Come, Ann Elisabeth, go ter scrapin' up, 'n', Mandy Calline, pour up th' dish-water.”

“Ya'as, yer'd better make er hurry,” squeaked “Little Jim,” from his perch in the window, “fer Mandy Calline's spectin' her beau ter-night.”

“Ye'd best shet up yer clatter, Jim, lest ye know what yer talkin' erbout,” retorted Mandy Calline, with a pout, making a dash at him with the dish-cloth.

“Yer right, Jim,” drawled Joseph Zachariah, lounging in the doorway. “I heerd Zeke White tell 'er he was er-comin' ter-night.”

“Mar--” began Mandy Calline, looking at her mother appealingly.

“Shet up, you boys,” came in answer. “Zachariah, ha' ye parted th' cows 'n' calves?”

“No, 'm.”

“Then be erbout it straight erway. Jim--you Jeems Henry!”

“Ya'as, 'm,” from outside the window.

“Go 'n' shet up the hen-'ouse, 'n' see ef th' black hen 'n' chickens ha' gone ter roost in there. She'll keep stayin' out o' nights till th' fox 'll grab 'er. Now, chillen, make 'er hurry 'n' git thee in here. Come, Thaney gal, we'll go in th' house 'n' find pappy 'n' gra'mammy. Susan Jane, come fetch th' baby's ole quilt 'n' spread it down on th' floor fer 'er”; and Mother Tyler repaired to the house with the baby in her arms.

“Why, mother, ye in here by yerself? I tho't Jeems Henry was with yer.”

“Ya'as, Malviny, he was tell er minit ergo, 'n' he stepped out to th' lot,” replied the old lady, in tones so like the expression of her face, mildly calm, that it was a pleasure to hear her speak.

“Ha! ye got thet baby wi' ye?”

“Ya'as, 'm.”

“I wish ye'd put her on my lap. Gra'mammy 'ain't had 'er none ter-day.”

“Ya'as, 'm, in er minit. Run, Susan Jane, 'n' fetch er cloth ter wipe 'er face 'n' han's; they're that stuck up wi' merlasses, ter say nothin' o' dirt. Therey, therey, now! Mammy's gal don't want ter hev 'er face washed? Hu! tu! tu! Thaney mustn't cry so. Where's Jeff? Here, Jeff--here, Jeff! Ole bugger-man, come down the chimbly 'n' ketch this bad gal. You'd better hush. I tell yer he's er-comin'. Here, Susan Jane, take th' cloth. There, gra'mammy; there's jest es sweet er little gal es ye'd find in er dog's age.” And the old lady at once cuddled the little one in her arms, swinging back and forth in her home-made rocker, and crooning an old-time baby song.

“Here, Susan Jane, han' me my knittin' from th' table, 'n' go 'n' tell Jim ter pitch in some pine knots 'n' make er light in here, 'n' be quick erbout it”; and Mother Tyler settled herself in another home-made rocker and began to knit rapidly.

This was the night-work of the female portion of the family, and numerous stockings of various colors and in various stages of progress were stuck about the walls of the room, which boasted neither ceiling nor lath and plaster, making convenient receptacles between the posts and weather-boarding for knitting-work, turkey-tail fans, bunches of herbs for drying, etc.

A pine-knot fire was soon kindled on the hearth, and threw its flickering shadows on the room and its occupants as the dusk gathered in.

Mandy Calline and Elisabeth, running a race from the kitchen, burst into the back door, halting in a good-natured tussle in the entry.

“Stop that racket, you gals,” called out the mother; and as they came in with suppressed bustle, panting with smothered laughter, she asked, briskly, “Have ye shet up everything 'n' locked th' kitchen door?”

“Ya'as, 'm,” replied Mandy Calline; “'n' here's th' key on th' mantel-shelf.” She then disappeared up the stairs which came down into the sitting-room behind the back door.

“Come, Ann Elisabeth, git yer knittin'. Git your'n too, Susan Jane.”

“Yer'll ha' ter set th' heel fer me, mar,” said Susan Jane, hoping privately that she would be too busy to do so.

“Fetch it here,” from the mother, dashed the hope incontinently.

“I think we're goin' ter ha' some fallin' weather in er day er two; sky looks ruther hazy, 'n' I heerd er rain-crow ter-day, 'n' ther's er circle roun' th' moon,” observed Father Tyler as he entered, and hanging his hat on a convenient nail in a post, seated himself in the corner opposite his mother.

“Ha' ye got th' fodder all in?” queried his wife, with much interest.

“Ya'as; finished ter-day; that's all safe; but er rain 'ould interfere mightily wi' pickin' out cotton up in th' swamp, 'n' it's openin, mighty fast; shouldn't be s'prised ef some er that swamp don't fetch er bale ter th' acre, 'n' we'll have er right purty lot o' cotton, even atter th' rent's paid out”; and Father Tyler, with much complacency, lighted his pipe with a coal from the hearth.

“Th' gals 'll soon ha' this erround th' house all picked out; they got purty nigh over it ter-day, 'n' ther'll likely be one more scatterin' pickin',” said Mother Tyler.

Here a starched rustling on the stairs betokened the descent of Mandy Calline. Pushing back the door, she stepped down with all the dignity which she deemed suitable to don with her present attire.

A new calico dress of a blue ground, with a bright yellow vine rambling up its lengths, adorned her round, plump figure; her glossy black hair was plaited, and surmounted with a huge red bow, the ends of which fluttered out bravely; as she stepped slowly into the room, busying herself pulling a basting out of her sleeve.

“Well, Mandy Calline,” began her mother, “ef I do say it myself, yer frock fits jest as nice as can be. Looks like ye had been melted 'n' run into it. Nice langth, too,” eying her critically from head to foot.

“Ya'as, 'm; 'n' it's comf'ble, too; ain't too tight ner nothin',” giving her shoulders a little twitch, and moving her arms a bit.

“I guess th' boys 'll ha' ter look sharp ef that gal sets 'er cap at any on 'em,” put in Father Tyler, gazing proudly at his first-born, whereupon a toss of her head set the ribbon ends fluttering as she moved with great dignity across the room to the fireplace.

“Come, let me feel, dearie,” said the old lady, softly, turning her sightless eyes toward the girl, hearing her movements in her direction.

“Ya'as, gra'mammy,” and stepping nearer, she knelt at her grandmother's feet, and leaning forward, rested her hands lightly on her shoulders.

The old wrinkled hands groped their way to the girl's face, thence downward, over her arms, her waist, to the skirt of her dress.

“It feels nice, dearie, 'n' I know it looks nice.”

“I'm glad ye like it, gra'mammy,” said the girl, gently.

“Air ye spectin' comp'ny, dearie, that ye're all dressed up so nice? 'Pears like ye wouldn't put on yer new frock lest ye wer'.”

Noting the girl's hesitation, the old lady said, softly, “Whisper 'n' tell gra'-mammy who's er-comin'”; and Mandy Calline, with an additional shade to the red in her cheeks, leaned forward and shyly whispered a name in her grandmother's ear.

A satisfactory smile broke like sunshine over the kind old face, and she murmured: “He's come o' good fambly, dearie. I knowed 'em all years ago. Smart, stiddy, hard-workin', kind, well-ter-do people. I've been thinkin' he's been er-comin' here purty stiddy, 'n' I knowed in my min' he warn't er-comin' ter see Zachariah.”

Bestowing a kiss on one aged cheek and a gentle pat on the other, Mandy Calline arose to her feet, and lighting a splinter at the fire, opened the door in the partition separating the two rooms and entered the “parlor.”

This room was the pride of the family, as none of the neighbors could afford one set apart specially for company.

It was the only room in the house lathed and plastered. Mother Tyler, who was truly an ambitious woman, had, however, declared in the pride of her heart that this one at least should be properly finished.

Mandy Calline, with her blazing splinter, lighted the lamp, quite a gay affair, with a gaudily painted shade, and bits of red flannel with scalloped edges floating about in the bowl.

The floor was covered with a neatly woven rag carpet of divers gay colors. Before the hearth, which displayed a coat of red ochre, lay a home-made rug of startling pattern. The fireplace was filled with cedar boughs and sweet-smelling myrtle. Two “boughten” rocking-chairs of painted wood confronted each other primly from opposite ends of the rug. Half a dozen straight-back chairs, also “boughten,” were disposed stiffly against the walls. A large folding-leaf dining-table of real mahogany, an heirloom in the family, occupied the space between two windows, and held a few scattered books.

The windows were covered with paper curtains of a pale blue tint. In the centre of each a festive couple, a youth and damsel, of apparently Bohemian type, with clasped hands held high, disported themselves in a frantic dance. These pictures were considered by the entire neighborhood as resting triumphantly on the top round of the ladder of art.

Both parlor and sitting-room opened on a narrow piazza on the front of the house, Father Tyler not caring to waste space in a hall or passage.

Mandy Calline had flicked a bit of imaginary dust from the polished surface of the table, had set a bit straighter, if that were possible, one or two of the chairs, and turned up the lamp a trifle higher, when “Little Jim” opened the door leading out on the piazza, and in tones of suppressed excitement half whispered, “He's er-comin', Mandy Calline; Zeke's er-comin'; he's nigh 'bout ter th' gate.”

“Go 'long, Jim, 'n' shet up; ye allers knows more'n the law allows,” said his sister; but she glanced quickly and shyly out of the door.

Mr. Ezekiel White was just entering the gate. He was undoubtedly gotten up at vast expense for the occasion. A suit of store clothes of a startling plaid adorned his lanky figure, and a pair of new shoes cramped his feet in the most approved style. A new felt hat rested lightly on his well-oiled hair. But the crowning glory was a flaming red necktie which flowed in blazing magnificence over his shirt front.

Jeff, the yard dog, barked in neighborly fashion, as though yelping a greeting to a frequent visitor whom he recognized as a favored one.

“Susan Jane,” said the father, “step ter th' door 'n' see who Jeff's er-barkin' at.”

Eagerly the girl dropped her knitting and hastened to reconnoitre, curious herself.

“It's Zeke White,” she replied, returning to her work.

“I knowed Mandy Calline was spectin' him,” muttered Ann Elisabeth, under her breath.

Father Tyler arose and sauntered to the door, calling out: “You Jeff, ef ye don't stop that barkin'--Come here this minit, sir! Good-evenin', Zekle; come in.”

“Good-evenin”, Mr. Tyler. “Is Zachariah ter home?”

“I dun'no'. Malviny, is Zachariah erroun' anywher's 'at ye know of?”

“I dun'no'; I hain't seed 'im sence supper.”

“I know,” piped up “Little Jim.” “He said es he was er-goin' ter Bill Jackson's. But, Zeke,” he added, in a hurried aside, catching hold of the visitor's coat in his eagerness, “Mandy Calline's ter home, 'n' she's fixed up ter kill!”

At this juncture Mandy Calline herself appeared in the doorway, striving to look calmly indifferent at everything in general and nothing in particular; but the expression in her bright black eyes was shifty, and the color in her cheeks vied with that of the bow on her hair; and by this time Zekle's entire anatomy exposed to view shared the tint of his brilliant necktie.

“Good-evenin', Zekle,” said the girl, bravely assuming a calm superiority to all embarrassment and confusion. “Will ye come in th' parlor, er had ye ruther set out on th' piazza?”

Zekle was wise; he knew that “Little Jim” dare not intrude on the sacred precincts of the parlor, and he answered, “I'd jest es live set in th' parlor, of it's all th' same ter you.”

“Ya'as, I'd jest es live,” she replied, and led the way into the room; he followed, and sat down in rather constrained fashion on the chair nearest the door, deposited his hat on the floor beside him, took from his pocket and unfolded with a flirt an immense bandanna handkerchief, highly redolent of cheap cologne, and proceeded to mop his face with it.

“It's ruther warm,” he observed.

“Ya'as,” she replied, from a rocking-chair in the corner facing him. Here there was a long pause, and presently she added, “Pappy said es how he tho't it mought rain in er day er two.”

The family in the sitting-room had settled down, the door being closed between that room and the parlor.

“There, mother, gi' Thaney ter me,” said Mother Tyler. “I know ye're tired holdin' of her, fer she ain't no light weight,” and she lifted the little one away.

“Heigho, Thaney, air ye erwake yit?” questioned the father.

“Erwake! Ya'as, 'n' likely ter be,” said the mother. “Thaney's one o' th' setters-up, she is.”