Chapter 2
Well, one day, real suddent, when the plant wasn't thinkin' of any storm comin', a little wind riz up. 'T wa'n't a gale, 't wa'n't half as hard a blow as the berry'd seen lots o' times and never got hurt nor nothin'. And the plant wa'n't lookin' out for any danger, when all of a suddent there come a little bit of a snap, and the slimsy little pink stem broke, and the little berry fell and rolled away, and, 'fore you could say "Jack Robinson," 't was clean gone out o' sight. I can't begin to tell ye how that plant took on. Seem 's if she'd die, or go ravin' crazy. It's only folks that has lost jest what they set most by on airth that can understand about it, I s'pose. She wouldn't b'leeve it fust off; she 'most knowed she'd wake up and feel her little berry a-holdin' close to her, hangin' on her, snugglin' up to her under the shady leaves. The other plants 'round there tried to chirk her up and help her. One on 'em told her how it had lost all its little berries itself, a long spell back, and how it had some ways stood it and got over it. "But they wa'n't like mine," thinks the poor plant. "There never, never was no berry like mine, with its pretty figger, its pinky, slim little neck, and its soft, smooth-feelin' skin." And another plant told her mebbe her berry was saved from growin' up a trouble to her, gettin' bad and hard, with mebbe a worm inside on it, to make her ashamed and sorry. "Oh, no, no!" thinks the mother plant. "My berry'd never got bad and hard, and I'd 'a' kep' any worm from touchin' its little white heart." Not a single thing the plant-folks said to her done a mite o' good. Their talk only worried her and pestered her, when she jest wanted to be let alone, so's she could think about her little berry all to herself.
Just where the berry used to hang, and where the little pinky stem broke off, there was a sore place, a sort o' scar, that ached and smarted all day and all night, and never, never healed up. And bimeby the poor plant got all wore out with the achin' and the mournin' and the missin' and she 'peared to feel her heart all a-dryin' up and stoppin', and her leaves turned yeller and wrinkled, and--she was dead. She couldn't live on, ye see, without her little berry.
They called it bein' dead, folks did, and it looked like it, for there she lay without a sign of life for a long, long, long spell. 'Twas for days and weeks and months anyway. But it didn't seem so long to the mother plant. She shet up her eyes, feelin' powerful tired and lonesome, and the next thing she knowed she opened 'em again, and she was wide awoke. She hardly knowed herself, though, she was so fresh and juicy and 'live, so kind o' young every way. Fust off she didn't think o' anything but that, how good and well she felt, and how beautiful things was all 'round her. Then all of a suddent she rec'lected her little berry, and she says to herself, "Oh, dear, dear me! If only my own little berry was here to see me now, and know how I feel!" She thought she said it to herself, but mebbe she talked out loud, for, jest as she said it, somebody answered her. 'T was a Angel, and he says, "Why your little berry does see you,--look there." And she looked, and she see he was p'intin' to the beautif'lest little plant you never see,--straight and nice, with little bits o' soft green leaves, with the sun a-shinin' through 'em, and,--well, somehow, you never can get it through your head how mothers take in things,--she knowed cert'in sure that was her little berry.
The Angel begun to speak. He was goin' to explain how, if she hadn't never lost her berry, 'twouldn't never 'a' growed into this pretty plant, but, he see, all of a suddent, that he needn't take the trouble. She showed in her face she knowed all about it,--every blessed thing. I tell ye, even angels ain't much use explainin' when there's mothers, and it's got to do with their own child'en. Yes, the mother plant see it all, without tellin'. She was jest a mite 'shamed but she was terr'ble pleased.
The Stony Head
V
When little Lib told the story I give below, Deacon Zenas Welcome was one of the listeners. The deacon was a son of old Elder Welcome who had been many years before the pastor of the little church in a neighboring village. Elder Welcome was one of the old-fashioned sort not so common in these days, a good man, but stern and somewhat harsh. He preached only the terrors of the law, dwelt much upon the doctrines, the decrees, election, predestination, and eternal punishment, and rarely lingered over such themes as the fatherhood of God, his love to mankind, and his wonderful gift to a lost world. The son followed in his father's footsteps. He was a hard, austere, melancholy man, undemonstrative and reticent, shutting out all brightness from his own life, and clouding many an existence going on around him. I have always thought that his unwonted presence among us that day had a purpose, and that he had come to spy out some taint of heterodoxy in Lib's tales, to reprove and condemn. He went away quietly, however, when the story was ended, and we heard nothing of reproof or condemnation.
The Stony Head
Once there was somethin' way up on the side of a mountain that looked like a man's head. The rocks up there'd got fixed so's they jest made a great big head and face, and everybody could see it as plain as could be. Folks called it the Stony Head, and they come to see it from miles away. There was a man lived round there jest where he could see the head from his winder. He was a man that things had gone wrong with all along; he'd had lots o' trouble, and he didn't take it very easy. He fretted and complained, and blamed it on other folks, and more partic'lar on--God. And one day--he'd jest come to live in them parts--he looked out of his winder, and he see, standin' out plain ag'in the sky, he see that Stony Head. It looked real ha'sh and hard and stony and dark, and all of a suddent the man thought it was--God.
"Yes," he says to hisself, "that's jest the way I 'most knowed he looked, ha'sh and hard and stony and dark, and that's him." The man was dreadful scaret of it, but some ways he couldn't stop lookin' at it. And bimeby he shet hisself up there all alone, and spent his whole time jest a-lookin' at that hard, stony face, and thinkin' who't was, and who'd brought all his trouble on him. There was poor folks all 'round that deestrict, but he never done nothin' to help 'em; let 'em be hungry or thirsty or ailin', or shet up in jail, or anything, he never helped 'em or done a thing for 'em, 'cause he was a-lookin' every single minute at that head, and seein' how stony and hard it was, and bein' scaret of it and the One he thought it looked like.
Folks that was in trouble come along and knocked at his door, and he never opened it a mite, even to see who was there. Sheep and lambs that had got lost come a-strayin' into his yard, but he never took 'em in, nor showed 'em the way home. He wa'n't no good to nobody, not even to hisself, for he was terr'ble unhappy and scaret and angry. So 't went on, oh! I d'know how long, years and years, I guess likely, and there the man was shet up all alone, lookin' and lookin', and scaret at lookin' at that ha'sh, hard, stony face and head. But one day, as he was settin' there by the winder lookin', he heerd a little sound. I d'know what made him hear it jest then. There'd been sech sounds as that time and time ag'in, and he never took no notice. 'Twas like a child a-cryin', and that's common enough.
But this time it seemed diff'ent, and he couldn't help takin' notice. He tried not to hear it, but he had to. 'T was a little child a-cryin' as if it had lost its way and was scaret, and the man found he couldn't stand it somehow. Mebbe the reason was he'd had a little boy of his own once, and he lost him. Now I think on 't, that was one o' the things he blamed on God, and thought about when he looked at the Stone Head. Anyway, he couldn't stand this cryin' that time, and he started up, and, fust thing he knowed, he'd opened the door and gone out. He hadn't been out in the sunshine and the air for a long spell, and it made his head swimmy at fust. But he heerd the little cryin' ag'in, and he run along on to find the child. But he couldn't find it; every time he'd think he was close to it, he'd hear the cryin' a little further off. And he'd go on and on, a-stumblin' over stones and fallin' over logs and a-steppin' into holes, but stickin' to it, and forgettin' everything only that little cryin' voice ahead of him. Seems 's if he jest must find that little lost boy or girl, 's if he'd be more 'n willin' to give up his own poor lonesome old life to save that child. And, jest 's he come to thinkin' that, he see somethin' ahead of him movin' and in a minute he knowed he'd found the lost child.
'Fore he thought what he was a-doin', he got down on his knees jest's he used to do 'fore he got angry at God, and was goin' to thank him for helpin' him to save that child. Then he rec'lected. It come back to him who God was, and how he'd seed his head, with the ha'sh stony face up on the mountain, and that made him look up to see it ag'in.
And oh! what do you think he see? There was the same head up there,--he couldn't make a mistake about that,--but the face, oh! the face was so diff'ent. It wasn't ha'sh nor hard nor dark any more. There was such a lovin', beautiful, kind sort o' look on it now. Some ways it made the man think a mite of the way his father, that had died ever so long ago, used to look at him when he was a boy, and had been bad, and then was sorry and 'shamed. Oh, 't was the beautif'lest face you never see! "Oh! what ever does it mean?" says the man out loud. "What's changed that face so? Oh! what in the world's made it so diff'ent?" And jest that minute a Angel come up close to him. 'T was a little young Angel, and I guess mebbe 't was what he'd took for a lost child, and that he'd been follerin' so fur. And the Angel says, "The face ain't changed a mite. 'Twas jest like that all the time, only you're lookin' at it from a diff'ent p'int." And 'twas so, and he see it right off. He'd been follerin' that cryin' so fur and so long that he'd got into a diff'ent section o' country, and he'd got a diff'ent view, oh! a terr'ble diff'ent view, and he never went back.
Diff'ent Kind o' Bundles
VI
Everybody in Greenhills knew "Stoopin' Jacob," the little humpbacked boy who lived at the north end of the village. From babyhood he had suffered from a grievous deformity which rounded his little shoulders and bowed the frail form. It was characteristic of the kindly folk of the neighborhood, that, instead of calling the boy Hump-backed or Crooked-backed Jacob, they gave him the name of Stoopin' Jacob, as if the bowed and bent posture was voluntary, and not enforced.
A lovely soul dwelt in that crooked, pain-racked body, and looked out of the gentle brown eyes shining in the pale, thin little face. Every one loved the boy, most of all the dogs, cats, horses, cows of the little farms, the birds and animals of forest and brookside. He knew them all, and they knew, loved, and trusted him. The tinier creatures, such as butterflies, bees, ants, beetles, even caterpillars, downy or smooth, were his friends, or seemed so. He knew them, watched them, studied their habits, and was the little naturalist of Greenhills village, consulted by all, even by older and wiser people.
A close friendship existed between the boy and Story-tell Lib, and we all understood the tale she told us one day when Stoopin' Jacob was one of the listeners.
Diff'ent Kind o' Bundles
Once there was a lot o' folks, and every single one on 'em had bundles on their backs. But they was all diff'ent, oh! jest as diff'ent as--as anything, the bundles was. And these folks all b'longed to one person, that they called the Head Man. They was his folks, and nobody else's, and he had the whole say, and could do anything he wanted to. But he was real nice, and always done jest the best thing,--yes, sir, the bestest thing, whatever folks might say against it.
Well, I was tellin' ye about how these folks had diff'ent kind o' bundles on their backs. 'Twas this way. One on 'em was a man that had a real hefty bundle on his back, that he'd put on there hisself,--not all to onct, but a mite to time, for years 'n' years. 'Twas a real cur'us bundle, made up out o' little things in the road that'd got in his way, or hurt him, or put him back. Some on 'em was jest little stones that had hurt his feet, and some was little stingin' weeds that smarted him as he went by 'em, and some was jest mites o' dirt somebody'd throwed at him, not meanin' no great o' harm. He'd picked 'em all up, every bit o' worryin', prickin', hurtin' little thing, and he'd piled 'em up on his back till he had a big bundle that he allers carried about and never forgot for a minute.
He was f'rever lookin' out for sech troublin' things, too, and he'd see 'em way ahead on him in his road, and sometimes he'd think he see 'em when there wa'n't any there't all. And, 'stead o' lettin' 'em lay where they was, and goin' right ahead and forgettin' 'em, he'd pick every single one on 'em up and pile 'em on that bundle, and carry 'em wherever he went.
And he was allers talkin' about 'em to folks, p'intin' out that little stone that he'd stubbed his toe on, and this pesky weed that stung him, and t'other little mite o' mud he'd conceited somebody'd throwed at him. He fretted and scolded and complained 'bout 'em, and made out that nobody never had so many tryin' things gettin' in his way as he had. He never took into 'count, ye see, that he'd picked 'em up hisself and piled 'em on his own back. If he'd jest let 'em lay, and gone along, he'd 'a' forgot 'em all, I guess, after a spell.
Then there was another man with a bundle, a cur'us one too, for 't was all made out o' money, dreadful heavy and cold and hard to carry. Every speck o' money he could scrape together he'd put in that bundle, till he couldn't scursely heft it, 'twas that big and weighed so much. He had plenty o' chances to make it lighter, for there was folks all along the road that needed it bad,--little child'en that hadn't no clo'es nor no victuals, and sick folks and old folks, every one on 'em needin' money dreadful bad. But the man never gin 'em a mite. He kep' it all on his back, a-hurtin' and weighin' him down.
Then ag'in there was another man. He had a bundle that he didn't put on his back hisself, nor the Head Man didn't nuther. Folks did it to him. He hadn't done nothin' to deserve it, 't was jest put on him by other people, and so 't was powerful hard to bear. But, ye see, the Head Man had pervided partic'lar for them kind, and he'd said in public, so 't everybody knowed about it, that he'd help folks like that,--said he'd help 'em carry sech bundles hisself, or mebbe take 'em off, if it 'peared to be best.
But this man disremembered that,--or, worse still, p'r'aps he didn't 'zackly believe it. So he went along all scrunched down with that hefty bundle other folks had piled up on him, not scoldin' nor complainin' nor gittin' mad about it, but jest thinkin' it had got to be, and nobody could help him. But ye see it hadn't got to be, and somebody could 'a' helped him.
And then bimeby along come a man that had sech a hefty, hefty bundle! 'Twas right 'tween his shoulders, and it sort o' scrooched him down, and it hurt him in his back and in his feelin's. The Head Man had put that bundle on the man hisself when he was a little bit of a feller. He'd made it out o' flesh and skin and things. It was jest ezackly like the man's body, so 't when it ached he ached hisself. And he'd had to carry that thing about all his born days.
I don't know why the Head Man done it, I'm sure, but I know how good and pleasant he was, and how he liked his folks and meant well to 'em, and how he knowed jest what oughter be and what hadn't oughter be, so 't stands to reason he'd done this thing a-purpose, and not careless like, and he hadn't made no mistake.
I've guessed a lot o' reasons why he done it. Mebbe he see the man wouldn't 'a' done so well without the bundle,--might 'a' run off, 'way, 'way off from the Head Man and the work he had to do. Or, ag'in, p'r'aps he wanted to make a 'zample of the man, and show folks how patient and nice a body could be, even though he had a big, hefty bundle to carry all his born days, one made out o' flesh and skin and things, and that hurt dreadful.
But my other guess is the one I b'leeve in most,--that the Head Man done it to scrooch him down, so's he'd take notice o' little teenty things, down below, that most folks never see, things that needed him to watch 'em, and do for 'em, and tell about 'em. That's my fav'rite guess. 'Tany rate, the Head Man done right,--I'm cert'in sure o' that.
And it _had_ made the man nicer, and pleasanter spoken, and kinder to folks, and partic'lar to creaturs. It had made him sort o' bend down, 'twas so hefty, and so he'd got to takin' notice o' teenty little things nobody else scursely'd see,--mites o' posies, and cunnin' little bugs, and creepin', crawlin' things. He took a heap o' comfort in 'em. And he told other folks 'bout them little things and their little ways, and what they was made for, and things they could learn us; and 'twas real int'restin', and done folks good too.
And, deary me, he was that patient and good and uncomplainin', you never see! No, I ain't a-cryin'. This was a stranger, this man, you know, and I make a p'int o' never cryin' about strangers.
There was a lot and a lot more kinds o' folks with bundles, but I'm only goin' to tell ye about them four,--this time, any way.
Well, come pay day, these folks all come up afore the Head Man to be settled with. And fust he called up the man that had the bundle all made out o' things that had pricked him, and tripped him up, and scratched him, and put him back on the road. And then he had up the man with the money weighin' him down,--the money he'd kep' away from poor folks and piled up on his own back. And then come the feller that was carryin' the heavy bundle folks had put on him when 't wa'n't no fault o' his'n, and that he might 'a' got red of a long spell back, if he'd only rec'lected what the Head Man had said 'bout sech cases, and how they could be helped.
I ain't a-goin' to tell ye what he said to them folks, 'cause 't ain't my business, seems to me. Whether he punished either on 'em, or scolded 'em, or sent 'em off to try ag'in, or what all, never mind. Knowin' 's much as I do about the ways o' that Head Man, I bet he made 'em feel terrible ashamed, any way.
But when he came to the man with the bundle made out o' flesh and skin and things, he looks at him a minute, and then says he, the Head Man does, "Why," he says, "that's my own work! I made that bundle, and I fixed it on your back all myself. I hefted and I sized it, and I hefted you and sized you. A mite of a young one you was then. I made it jest hefty enough for you to carry, not a bit heftier, no more nor less. I rec'lect it well," he says. "I ain't forgot it. I never forgot it one minute sence I fitted in on, though mebbe you kind o' thought by spells that I had. And now," he says--No, I can't tell ye what he says. It's a secret, that is. But I don't mind lettin' ye know that the man was sat'sfied, perfec'ly sat'sfied. A Angel told me he was, and went on to say the man was dreadful pleased to find he'd been wearin' a bundle the Head Man hisself had made and fixed on him, heftin' it and sizin' it, and heftin' him and sizin' him too, so's 'twa'n't too much for him to carry. But he ain't carryin' it no more. The Angel said so.
The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin'
VII
I have told you that little Lib was a delicate child, and that she grew more and more fragile and weak as the summer went on. In the hot, dry days of August she drooped like a thirsty flower, and her strength failed very fast. Her voice, though still sweet and clear, lost its shrillness, and one had to draw very close to the little speaker that he might not lose a word of the stories she told. Aunt Jane York often came out to us now, anxious and fussy, talking fretfully of and to little Lib, feeling the small hands and feet to see if they were cold, and drawing the shawl closer around the wasted form. I know she loved the little girl, and perhaps she wished now that she had shown that love more tenderly. She talked freely, in the very presence of the child, of her rapid decline and the probability that she would not "last long." Lib said nothing concerning her own condition, and showed no sign of having heard her aunt's comments. But one day, when Miss York, after speaking very freely and plainly of the child's approaching end, had gone indoors, Lib announced, in a low, sweet voice, a new story.
The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin'
Once there was a boy that was dreadful scaret o' dyin'. Some folks is that way, you know; they ain't never done it to know how it feels, and they're scaret. And this boy was that way. He wa'n't very rugged, his health was sort o' slim, and mebbe that made him think about sech things more. 'Tany rate, he was terr'ble scaret o' dyin'. 'Twas a long time ago this was,--the times when posies and creaturs could talk so's folks could know what they was sayin'.
And one day, as this boy, his name was Reuben,--I forget his other name,--as Reuben was settin' under a tree, an ellum tree, cryin', he heerd a little, little bit of a voice,--not squeaky, you know, but small and thin and soft like,--and he see 'twas a posy talkin'. 'Twas one o' them posies they call Benjamins, with three-cornered whitey blowths with a mite o' pink on 'em, and it talked in a kind o' pinky-white voice, and it says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And he says, "'Cause I'm scaret o' dyin'," says he; "I'm dreadful scaret o' dyin'." Well, what do you think? That posy jest laughed,--the most cur'us little pinky-white laugh 't was,--and it says, the Benjamin says: "Dyin'! Scaret o' dyin'? Why, I die myself every single year o' my life." "Die yourself!" says Reuben. "You 're foolin'; you're alive this minute." "'Course I be," says the Benjamin; "but that's neither here nor there,--I've died every year sence I can remember." "Don't it hurt?" says the boy. "No, it don't," says the posy; "it's real nice. You see, you get kind o' tired a-holdin' up your head straight and lookin' peart and wide awake, and tired o' the sun shinin' so hot, and the winds blowin' you to pieces, and the bees a-takin' your honey. So it's nice to feel sleepy and kind o' hang your head down, and get sleepier and sleepier, and then find you're droppin' off. Then you wake up jest 't the nicest time o' year, and come up and look 'round, and--why, I like to die, I do." But someways that didn't help Reuben much as you'd think. "I ain't a posy," he think to himself, "and mebbe I wouldn't come up."
Well, another time he was settin' on a stone in the lower pastur', cryin' again, and he heerd another cur'us little voice. 'T wa'n't like the posy's voice, but 'twas a little, wooly, soft, fuzzy voice, and he see 't was a caterpillar a-talkin' to him. And the caterpillar says, in his fuzzy little voice, he says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And the boy, he says, "I'm powerful scaret o' dyin', that's why," he says. And that fuzzy caterpillar he laughed. "Dyin'!" he says. "I'm lottin' on dyin' myself. All my fam'ly," he says, "die every once in a while, and when they wake up they're jest splendid,--got wings, and fly about, and live on honey and things. Why, I wouldn't miss it for anything!" he says. "I'm lottin' on it." But somehow that didn't chirk up Reuben much. "I ain't a caterpillar," he says, "and mebbe I wouldn't wake up at all."