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This book must not
be taken from the
Library building.

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North Carolina
Sketches

PHASES OF LIFE WHERE THE
GALAX GROWS

BY

MARY NELSON CARTER

CHICAGO

A. C. McCLURG & CO.

1900

Copyright

By a. C. McCLURG & CO.

A. D. 1900

DEDICATED

TO THE MEMORY OF ONE WHO, AS FRIEND AND

PHYSICIAN, WENT IN AND OUT

FOR YEARS AMONG THOSE WHO DWELL WHERE

THE GALAX GROWS

CONTENTS

PAGE

Mrs. Smith . . . . ' . i

J

Stepping Backwards ... 43

A Foggy Day . . . '59

Mr. Timmins . , . . 75

Playing with Fire . . . .81

Neighborly Gossip « • • 93

Barter ..... 105

The Course of True Love . . 121

Hiding Out . . . . -137

In Maria's Garden . . . 149

The Summer is Ended . . .163

A White Day . . . , 177

Now is the Winter of Our Discontent 199
Sally . . . . . 211

Old Times ..... 225
Getting an Education . . 243

Like Other Children . . . 301

MRS. SMITH

MRS. SMITH

Mrs. Smith, her "old man," and their six
grandchildren lived in a two-roomed cabin on
a hillside.

There was a good view of the mountains
from the hilltop, and when I walked out that
way I often stopped in to rest and chat with
Mrs. Smith.

She and Bijah had just been married when
the war broke out, she told me, and she had
many entertaining stories to tell of war
times.

*'Me and Bijah was livin* down to Coon
Branch them times," she said. "Bijah were
always mighty peaceable, and he allowed he
hadn't no call to go to war. We-uns never
did know what it were about, nohow.
When the recruitin' officers come round,
I done told 'em how Bijah were too puny
to chop wood or work much in the craps,

13

t

14 iRortS Otarolma Sfe^tcjes

and they reckoned he weren't no 'count for a
soldier. It's curious how many men's weakly
about work," added Mrs. Smith, with a sly
twinkle in her eyes; "especially if their women
folks is right peart to do it theirselves.

Them were skeery times, and we drawed the
bolt on the door nights. One night there
come a little knock on the door, and Bijah
crept out of bed, and whispered through the
crack, 'Who's there?' He daresn't open the
door. 'It's me. Bill Sines,' come a voice
back. Bill were a free nigger that lived in
the holler. 'What you want, Bill?' says Bijah.
'Lemme in, Mr. Smith, fer God's sake! and
I'll tell you,' Bill says. So Bijah opened the
door a crack, and Bill slipped in, and shut it
quick, scared-like. He says in a whisper:
*It's four Union soldiers, escapin' from prison.
There's six of 'em, but two's give out, and
they done hid 'em in the woods. T'others
is nigh perished. I done told 'em you-uns
knowed the road to Bentonville better'n most,
and I allowed mebbe you'd come a piece of the
way with us, Mr. Smith.' Bill knowed Bijah
were right soft-hearted, and hated it bad to
see a body sufferin'.

'I ain't never been fur on that road my-
self,' says Bill; 'and them poor fellows is like

JHrs. Stni'tft 15

to be ketched if they lose their way. They'se
waitin' outside whilst I come in to ax you,'
Bill says.

I done told him to fetch 'em in. My Lor*,
they was a sight! I never see the beat.
I expect they hadn't lived like they was the
top of the heap in prison, and they'd been
dodgin' in the woods for more'n a week, and
was nigh starved. We-uns give 'em every
bite there were in the house. Victuals weren't
none too plenty them times," she added,
with a grim smile. "It were little enough,
but they daresn't wait for me to cook
nothin', or I'd have made 'em some bread.
I were that sorry for 'em I could have cried.
They was mighty polite and obleeged fer what
we-uns done for 'em. They asked would we
watch out for t'other two, and we said we
would.

Bijah took his ax, like he were goin' to
chop, and a bag o' corn, like he were goin' to
mill, for the mill were on the way, and sot
out with Bill to show 'em the road. Bill he
had his gun, like he were 'possum huntin'.
He done told the soldiers that the neighbors
knowed as niggers was powerful fond o' 'pos-
sums. They smiled kind-like at him, but a
body could see how they was a-studyin' and

i

i6 iaortf) Olarolina Sfeetcfiesf

wasn't payin' no heed to Bill's foolishness.
Bijah said none of 'em spoke nary a word
after they got out of doors, and it were sort
of creepy-like in the dark. The night were
plum black and foggy, and Bijah said he kept
a-seein' bears and men jumpin' for 'em at
every turn; but he kept right on, and never
told t'others. He were plum glad he brung
his ax — but, Lor* me! Bijah's that soft-hearted
he can't hardly kill a chicken. I don't reckon
he'd have got much good out of his ax if any-
body'd got after 'em.

As luck would have it, nobody met up with
'em, and him and Bill had sot the prisoners
well on their way before sun-up. Then they
come along back by way of the mill, to get
the corn ground. Mr. Hanscum, the miller,
was takin' on powerful that mornin'.

'You-uns ain't seen no rascally Yanks as
you come along, has ye?' he says, first thing.
*How many was there?' says Bijah, sim-
ple-like.

*Six on *em, escapin' from prison,' says the
miller. 'The home guards is after 'em, and
I hope they'll hang every one of 'em.*

*Mebbe them's 'em we see. Bill,' says Bijah,
nudgin' Bill to make him quit lookin' scared.
'Where at?' says Bill, catchin' on. 'Them

iHtj3. Smitf) 17

men down in the holler? There were a heap
more'n six o' them. I'se skeered when I see
'em, and so's you, old man.' *We didn't wait
to ax 'em their names,' Bill says, laughin* out
loud.

'Where be they at?' says the miller, stoppin'
the mill, with Bijah's corn in the hopper, and
catchin' up his gun.

'Over yonder,' says Bijah, pointin' jest
contrary to where the men was gone. 'But
ain't you goin' to grind my corn, Mr. Hans-
cum?'

'No, sir! I'd a sight rather hunt Yanks.'

Bijah let on like he were mighty mad, and
allowed as he'd have to go to some mill that
were 'tended to right; but the miller quit,
without waitin' to hear what he were sayin'.
I ain't never heard whether them four pris-
oners got clear; but we reckoned they did,
'cause we'd have likely heard if they'd been
took. But the home guards come up with the
two poor sick ones, and shot 'em. Bill said
he done heard 'em tell t'others, when they
parted from 'em, that they wouldn't never be
took alive, so we allowed they'd fit back at
the home guards. We-uns hated it bad, but
we had to keep our mouths shut war times,
for fear o' gettin' shot ourselves. There

i8 iBLodf) (Karolma ^feetcfies

wouldn't never be no war if I had ray way.
What gets me is to see them that was fit to
tear one another to pieces them days, right
good friends now. Accordin' to my notion,
folks has a sight to learn before the millen-
nium catches *em," Mrs. Smith finished, with
a laugh.

II

» (I

There were a right smart o' raidin* 'long
towards the last o' the war," said Mrs. Smith
one day, **and one side were as bad as t'other.
It didn't make no difference which side you
was on; if you had anythin', they took it.
Old Mis' Gaston were about the only one I
heard tell of that got ahead of *em. Her
and her folks kept a public, and they done
their own stillin', so they had a sight o'
whisky laid by. They had right smart o'
stock, too. They was mighty forehanded.
Somehow they got word, after one o' the big
battles, that the mountings was plum full o'
raiders and stragglers. So they all sot to
work to hide what they had. Old Mis' Gaston
were like a man for bossin' things. She first
» sot the least boys to takin* out a lot of stones

£Bx^. 5mitf)

from under the side of the house, where it
were walled up. There weren't no cellar.
Then she sot the big boys and gals to makin'
fires and hangin' big pots of water over 'em,
while she and her old man sharpened up the
knives and the ax. Their hogs and chickens
was all penned up, against a time like this; so
there weren't no time lost catchin' 'em. The
old man and the biggest boy done killed 'em,
to the last one, and while Mis' Gaston and
the gals was cleanin' and scaldin' 'em, and
burnin' up the leavin's, so's they wouldn't tell
tales, the rest was puttin' the kegs of whisky
under the house.

But Mis' Gaston were bossin' the whole job.
She says to the boys: 'Leave one full barrel
and one that's nigh used up on the porch,
and put some empty kegs there, too. They'll
think we done hid 'em if they don't find nary
one. Now throw that old cloth over 'em,
like we was tryin' to hide 'em.'

They done just like she said, and then they
all went to work to hide the hog meat and
chickens and other victuals. Mis' Gaston
made 'em leave some scrap pieces of smoked
meat in the smokehouse, and a big cut o'
cheese layin' in the pantry. She wouldn't
let *em hide all the corn, neither, for fear o'

20 iRortt (O^arolina Sfeetdjeg

makin' the soldiers too suspicious. Wlien
everything were safe under the house, she
stood by till the stones was all laid up like
they was before. Nobody'd a knowed they'd
been took out.

After everything about the house were
done, she says to the boys to drive the two
cows up into the steepest and rockiest place
they could find in the woods. She give 'em
a pan o' salt to take along to put on the
rocks for 'em to lick, and a bag o' corn for
'em to eat their fill, hopin' they'd lay down
and chew their cuds, and not come home.
The gals done milked 'em dry before they
went. They throwed out all the folks couldn't
drink of the milk, so's nobody'd know they
had any cows.

Mis' Gaston were plum tired after every-
thing were done, and she sot down on the
porch to rest a bit. She said she never see
a prettier day. 'Feared like there couldn't
be no war. The sky were so blue that the
trees was standin' up agin it like they was
painted in a pictur. She were thinkin' to her-
self that no pictur couldn't be half so pretty,
when she heard such a noise down the road
that she knowed the soldiers was comin'.
She and the gals let on to be sewin', and

JHrs. SmitD 21

the old man and the boys was workin' in the
garden. Up come a lot of Yankee soldiers,
cussin' and swearin' like they'd been drinkin'.
Mis' Gaston asked what did they want. They
talked back mighty rough, and threatened to
shoot 'em all if they didn't fetch out what
whisky they had.

Mis' Gaston showed *em the kegs that
was under the cloth, and said that were all
she had. She let on like she were cryin*, and
said couldn't they leave 'em a little for sick-
ness? They didn't pay no heed to what she
were sayin', but went for the whisky. It
made 'em so rough actin' that she were gettin'
right scared, and had just told the gals they
must slip out and hide, when up gallops a offi-
cer on horseback. When the men see him
they sobered up mighty quick, and slunk out
into the road. He jawed 'em awful for get-
tin' drunk, and they done followed him like
they was whipped dogs.

They hadn't touched nothin' but the whisky,
and Mis' Gaston and her folks was laughin' to
think how easy they'd got off. They reckoned
they'd fry some o' the chickens for supper, and
maybe fresh hog meat, too. While they's talk-
in' about it, up comes about twenty Confeder-
ates. They says first thing, 'Got any whisky?'

22 iaorti^ (B'arolina 5)!tetcf)es

'I could have give you some,' says Mis'
Gaston, 'if them blamed Yankees hadn't stole
it all not two hours ago.'

'Phew!' says the orderly, 'be they so nigh
as that? We'd better light out o' this mighty
quick, boys. Give us what you got to eat,
ma'am, and we'll go 'long.'

'It's mighty little,' says Mis' Gaston, kind
of doleful. 'Them Yankees was for grabbin'
everythin' we had. If it hadn't been for
their Capting comin' along and jawin' 'em
for gettin' drunk, we-uns might go hungry.
Poor folks has a mighty poor chance these
days,' says she, burstin' into tears.

'Well,' says the man, 'we-uns has got to
eat, too; but we'll leave you a snack.'

So they looked round and carried off nigh
all there were. They was in a hurry, 'count
o' the Yankees bein' so nigh. They hadn't
had no liquor on the way, 'cause the Yankees
was ahead of 'em; so they was more politer.

After it got plum dark. Mis' Gaston allowed
it were safe for 'em to get some supper.
Exceptin' for the milk some on *em drunk,
they hadn't took time to eat a bite all day.
They was that hungry they didn't waste no
time pickin' the chicken bones, and they
was that tired that old Mis' Gaston allowed

Mt^* SmitS 23

they wouldn't have knowed what killed 'em
if the soldiers had come back and murdered
*em all in their beds. They was mighty proud
they done saved their things, though," Mrs.
Smith concluded.

Ill

Mrs. Smith had an eye for the beauties of
nature, and I found her one warm June day
sitting on a rock on the hilltop enjoying the
view. "My Lor', but it's warm, " she said, fan-
ning herself with her sunbonnet. "I get het up
workin' in the corn patch. Ain't it pretty up
here? I often come up here to rest and get
away from the children. They'se mighty
pesterin' some days.

Look at that big fire off towards Hawk's
Bill. It 'minds me of war times. When we
see a big fire 'way off, we was 'feared it were
the enemy sot it, or mebbe a big battle goin'
on. Them were oneasy times.

If you like to hear war stories so well,
I must tell you about Mr. Boner's folks.
They lived about two miles from Mis' Gaston.
They didn't get off so well as she done,
though. Mr. Boner were right well-to-do.

24 iRortJ ararolina Sfertc^es

and he had a sight o' hog meat hangin' in his
smokehouse. He'd done killed all his hogs
for winter. He had a big crap of corn and
rye that year, too. The Confederates was the
first to come by his house the day he were
raided. He see 'em goin' for the smokehouse,
and he hollers out for 'em to take the key
and open the door right. 'There ain't no
need o' my havin' to buy a new padlock, boys,
'count o' your bein' in a hurry,' he says to
'em. He were so pleasant-spoke that they
didn't take all the meat, like they'd meant
to, nor all his corn and rye. They see he
were a sympathizer.

He locked up the smokehouse after they
was gone, and when his folks was worryin'
about losin' so much, he reckoned 'tweren't
no use cryin' over spilt milk.

Next day here come some Yankees. He
give 'em the key the same way. He done
told 'em they wasn't right sharp or they'd
*a' got there ahead o' t'others. They was right
civil, but they done cleaned him out.

Old Mis' Boner were most cryin' t'other
day when she were tellin* me about the hard
times they had scratchin' along that winter.
She allowed the soldiers wouldn't have come
pesterin' of 'em if Mr. Boner had 'a' hid away

iHts. Smi'tf)

their things like Mis' Gaston done. The old
man sot by the fire laughin' while she's talkin'.
When she were through, he says, 'Well, I done
saved my padlock, Ma. ' Then he laughed till
she had to pat him on the back. When he
ketched his breath again, he says to her, * And
you mustn't forget how we done saved Si.*
Si's their gal Miry's man," Mrs. Smith ex-
plained.

*'01d Mis' Boner laughed, too. Then she
done told me the whole story about Miry and
Si courtin'. I knowed it all before, but I like
to hear her talk. So does her old man. A
body'd think he'd get tired listenin' to her.
He don't seem to, though. He sets by and
laughs every time, like he'd never heard her
tellin' the same thing before. Mis' Boner
says they plum hated the Yankees, and it
were all she could do that day to keep from
spittin' on 'em. She chaws, and she's always
a-spittin'.

The old man's right peaceable, and he
done told her to hold her jaw and not go nigh
them Yankees, if she knowed when she were
well off. She 'lowed he were right, but she
says it went agin her to do like he said.

Miry weren't sixteen then. She were right
peart lookin'; her hair were black and curly,

26 laortf) dO'arciHna S^ftetcljes

and her eyes 'minded you of stars dark nights.
Her cheeks was that red you'd most want to
eat 'em. I'm sayin' it like the fellers talked
about her. Her teeth was better'n common,
too, 'count of her not dippin' snuff.

When the Yankees come in, there were one
of 'em mighty peaked-lookin'; a right young
chap he were. He done sot down on the
doorstep and groaned. Miry heard him, and
run out to see if he was hurt. She were right
good-hearted. When he see her he groaned
worser. She said could she do anythin' to
help him. Lor', yes; he 'lowed she could,
leastwise if she was strong enough to help
him off with his heavy knapsack. She reck-
oned she were. He didn't help her none, so
it took time.

He 'peared like he were gettin' worser every
minute, and she wished her Ma or somebody'd
come. Mis' Boner kept out of the way. She
'lowed she wouldn't touch one of them Yankees
with a ten-foot pole; not even if he was dyin*.
T'other Yankees was cleanin' out the smoke-
house and corncrib.

Miry axed this one what ailded him. He
allowed it were cramp colic. *0h, Lord!' he
says, doublin' all up. She knowed hot whisky
and water were good for that, so she run in

JHC13, Smi'tib 27

to get some. Mis' Boner began to jaw her
for foolin' with a Yankee.

'Oh, shut up, Ma; you ain't got no feelin'.
He's half dead,' says Miry, runnin' out again
with the liquor.

It were the first time in her life that Miry'd
ever sassed her Ma. Mis* Boner nigh about
fainted when she heard her. It didn't keep
her from peekin' through the crack of the
door, though, to see what they was up to.

When the soldier smelled the whisky, he
says: 'Thank you kindly. Miss, but I'm
temperance. I wouldn't drink that stuff if I
was dyin'.'

'Yes, you would, too,' says Miry, right reso-
lute, seizin' him round the neck and pourin*
it down his throat like he were a naughty
child. It nigh about choked him. Mis' Boner
thought he'd never come to. He kept on
leanin' up agin Miry, and lettin' on like he'd
never get his breath. Miry were so scared
she forgot to take away her arm, and she
kept fannin' him with her apron. When he
heard t'other Yankees comin', he sot up.

'My pain's gone. Miss,' he says, smilin' at
Miry. 'You're the best doctor I ever see;
but if I go to the devil with drink, it'll be all
along of you. '

28 iaortj) OTaroKna Sfeetcfies

He see she were like to cry then, so he
laughed, and told her she needn't be scared,
for he'd always hated the stuff. He made
all kinds of excuses to keep her nigh him,
till she said she must go now and see if
her Ma needed her. Then he let on like
the pain were comin' back. It were, too,
but not so bad as first-off. He said he
wouldn't take no more whisky, for fear it
would make him tight, not bein' used to the
stuff. But he allowed if she'd rub his cold
hands with her warm ones that would do him
more good.

Mis' Boner kept on peekin', and she says
she never see a gal made sich a fool of; but
Miry didn't seem to sense it. Well, the long
and short of it were that when t'others got
ready to go, this one were too sick to march,
and they had to leave him behind. 3Iis'
Boner were that mad, she says, she could
have choked him in earnest. She daresn't
say nothin', though, and it ended by her and
Miry havin' to nurse him through the fever.
First-off Mis' Boner allowed he were playin'
'possum, but Miry knowed better.

He weren't nothin' but a boy, but he were
a right likely one. When he were out of his
head he never talked nothin' but clean talk

iBrs. 5mitf) 29

that couldn't shame nobody; and he were
always calling for his Ma and Pa and the rest
of his folks. He'd think Mis' Boner and
Miry was some on 'em, and beg 'em to kiss
him before he died, especially Miry; and she
done it to keep him quiet. They reckoned
he were goin* to die, and it wouldn't matter
nohow. He's livin' yet," said Mrs. Smith,
smiling.

"Soon as he got so's he could talk straight,"
she resumed, "he done told 'em all about his
folks. They was rich, and he were their only
son. He were away at college, and he were
plum crazy to go to war, 'long with the
neighbor boys, but his Pa wouldn't hear to it.
So he run off and 'listed. He done told 'em
he were of age, so's they'd take him. He
allowed the Lord wouldn't count that kind of
a lie agin him; but I dunno.

His folks took on powerful when they
heard it. They wanted to buy him off. It
were easy to do that up North, and git some
other feller to go in your place. He wouldn't
give in to it, though. He see mighty hard
times, but he wouldn't never complain, and
this were the first spell o' sickness he'd had.
It were nigh to bein' the last, too. Mis' Boner
allows as he'd 'a' died sure if it weren't for

30 iEorti) (Eatolma Sfeetcjes

Miry. She says she never see the like o' the
way that gal kept up to wait on him. 'Peared
like he couldn't stir, night nor day, but she
were right there, fussin' over him like he were
a baby. One spell, when he were right weak,
he'd cry if he see her go out o' the room.

Before he got so's to sit up, he told Miry
he loved her so that unless she agreed to
marry him, he couldn't never get well. He
were dyin' right then, he told her, and
nothin' but thinkin' she'd marry him could
keep him alive. He worked on her feelin's,
sayin' how hard his folks would take it if he's
to die. Miry allowed they'd feel worser if
he was to marry a poor girl like her; but he
wouldn't hear to that, so she give in.

Mis' Boner says they hated it mighty bad
havin' her marry a Yankee. They hadn't
nothin' agin Si himself; they liked him splen-
did; they plum forgot he were a Yankee, he
were so nice. They see Miry were sot on
him, and it went agin 'em to cross her, any-
way. Miry were a right good girl.

When he got well enough, he went away
off to join his regiment. He writ back to
Miry that he done told his folks all about
her, and they sent her their love. They
allowed it were her what saved his life, and

i^cs. Smitf) $1

they wouldn't put nothin' in the way of his
marryin' her. But they reckoned she'd
ought to go to a good school, and get a eddi-
cation like him. When the war were over,
they sent money for her to go up North to
school, nigh to where they lived.

Her and Si was married two years after-
wards. Nobody but old Mis' and Mr. Boner
calls him Si to his face, though. It's Mr.
and Mrs. Appleton when the neighbors talks
of Miry and her man. They're a right hand-
some couple, and they behave handsome to
the old folks, too. They had 'em up to live
with 'em, and treated 'em splendid; but Mis'
Boner says they live too fine for the likes of
her and Mr. Boner, and she can't never feel
to home up there.

She's got a whole trunkful of fine clothes
Miry and Si give 'em, but they never put
'em on. She keeps 'em under the bed. If
you ask her, she'll get 'em out to show you;
but most times, I reckon, she disremembers
she's got 'em. She allows homespun's good
enough for her and her old man. But they're
right proud of Miry and Si and their bein' so
rich and happy. 'Pears like Mis' Boner never
gets tired tellin' their story," said Mrs. Smith,
smiling.

32 iBtortf) Otarolma ^ketcijes

IV

One day in autumn I was sitting on the
hill above Mrs. Smith's house, idly watching
the rise and spread of smoke from the many
fires among the mountains.

The landscape was gorgeous with autumn
coloring, and the dying leaves were falling
thickly about me.

Having seen nothing of Mrs. Smith as I
passed the house, I was startled when she
suddenly appeared beside me. She laughed.
*'I reckon you're afraid o' ghosts, ain't
you?" she asked. "Say you ain't? I be.
I never see but one, and maybe Ma were
right, and it weren't one, nohow. All the
same, it give me the sort o' scare you can't
never git over. This kind o' day always puts
me in mind of it. The air smelt o' smoke,
and the leaves was a-rattlin' down on your
head everywheres, just like they be now.

It were when Bijah and me was courtin'.
I'd been to the settlemint to swap soft soap
and tree sugar for store goods, and it were
gettin' on towards dark as I come along back.
I weren't skeery then, and I weren't in no
hurry." She smiled.

Jiftrs. Smiti) 33

"When a girl's got a sweetheart," said
she, "she's always kind o' lookin' out for
him to catch up with her somewheres on the
road. Cut if she's got any spunk, she don't
let him know she's watchin' out for him.
That's how it were with me. I heard a kind
o* rustlin' in the leaves comin' on behind me,
and I allowed it were Bijah. I never turned
my head, but kept right on like I didn't hear
nothin'.

Pretty soon I begun to feel queer all over,
for it 'peared like I were bein' follered on
the sly. I knowed Bijah couldn't stand it not
to speak all that time. Then I thought I'd
better walk faster. Just that minute there
were a sort of crash behind me. I give one
look back, and see somethin' white movin'
in the woods 'longside the road. Then I give
a screech, and I never quit runnin' till I
stumbled on the step and fell in the door at
home. I cut my lip and hurt my head bad,
and I were that scared I ain't never been
easy in my mind since if I 'm out after
dark. Ma reckoned it were Mis' Bland's old
white cow I see, but I knowed better. I
made her promise she wouldn't tell, for I
hated it to have fun poked at me. But she
asked Mis' Bland where were her cow that

34 iEortS (Karolma S^etcjes

night, and Mis' Bland said she done wandered
off, and didn't come home till next evenin'.
Ma couldn't never git it out o' my head that
it were a ghost, though."

"Is that a ghost or a cow?" I asked, point-
ing to a moving object on the hillside,

'"Tain't neither one," replied Mrs. Smith.
"It's one o' them artist fellers paintin' pic-
turs. The mountings is plum full of 'em,"
she added. "A body'd think they could git
some kind o' work to do if they tried. Some
on 'em's right biggotty.

Mis' Sand went to one of 'em to git him
to paint her pictur, and he said he weren't
no photographer. She allowed she knowed
that; that were the reason she wanted him
to do it for her, so's to put in red cheeks and
her blue dress. She done told him so. He
allowed his prices was too high for her. She
got kind o' mad, and done told him she
reckoned she knowed her own business. He
said how much were she allowin' to pay. She
done told him a dollar. He laughed right
out. 'Mis' Sand,' he says, 'I ain't paintin'
nary picturs for nobody for less than fifty
dollars, and that's cheap. '

I reckon he were pokin' fun at her, but
Mis' Sand allows he were in earnest

MxB. Smiti) 35

When I were young, one o' them artist
fellers used to come up here summers. Us
gals done a sight o' what he called posin'
for him. But, Lor' me, as I done told Ma,
I'd a heap ruther work in the corn. A body
gits plum tired standin' or sittin' still. Them
drawin's he made hadn't no more look o' me
than that dog's got. I always let on like I
thought they had, though, for it ain't polite
to hurt a body's feelin's. He were a mighty
kind man hisself.

Makes me think o' war times. Not long
after the war bust out, one o' them artist
fellers come up into the mountings nigh to
where I lived. He were a city chap. He'd
had the fever, and were right puny. He
couldn't go to the war, nohow, bein' so
weakly, and his doctor done told him to stay
in the mountings till he got strong.

He brung his paint things along for com-
pany. His doctor allowed he'd git well a
heap quicker if he staid out o' doors all he
could. So he'd take his things and paint pic-
turs of the mountings nigh about all day. He
done showed 'em to we-uns, as he come along
by, but I never see nothin' to 'em.

He were always talkin' agin the Yankees,
and sayin' how he'd fight 'em when he got

36 iEoctf) (itatolina BttUf)ts

strong and well. But some o' the home
fc guards got it into their heads as he were a

Yankee spy. They reckoned them picturs
he were paintin' was to make a map o' the
mountings with. I knowed better, for I were
acquainted with some o' his kinfolks. Be-
sides, couldn't nobody pretend to hate the
Yankees like he done. They'd git tripped up
sometimes. He didn't. It were alwavs the
same kind o' talk and the same sort o' black
looks every time. I told some o' the home
guards so, but they allowed I'd better be care-
ful myself; so I done shut up.

But I give Mr. Todd — that were his name —
a hint. You never see a body so mad. It
weren't the Yankees he were goin' to fight
now, but the home guards," she went on,
laughing as she spoke.

" 'And to think my people belong to the
best blood in the Old North State!' he says,
most shoutin' ; *and now she's seceded, ain't
I bound to stand by her?'

I allowed I didn't know how that were,
but I says, *You*re bound to git into trouble
if you set the home guards agin you. ' Sure
enough, the very next day but one, some on
'em went to his boardin' place while he were
out paintin' picturs. They done upsot all his

JBcis. S^miti) 37

things, but they didn't find nothin'. As for
his picturs of the mountings, they reckoned
as the Yankee weren't livin' that were smart
enough to make head or tail out of 'em,
nohow.

They didn't pester him no more, but you
never see a madder feller than he were
when he found out what they'd done. His
face got as red as them maple leaves. His
people's mighty hot-headed.

He allowed as the Yankees couldn't 'a*
served him no meaner trick, and he quit
talkin' agin 'em. Poor feller! He didn't
live to fight nobody. He done took pneu-
mony fever, and died that very fall."

Mrs. Smith shaded her eyes with her hand
while she surveyed our artist neighbor at his
work.

*'That feller's been settin' over there all
the mornin'," she began. *'I see him when
I come up to hunt the cow. That white thing
you see is his umbrell. I reckon he's afraid
the sun'll fade him," she added, chuckling.
*'I asked one o' the boarder ladies t'other day
what she done put powder on her face for.
She laughed, and said it were to keep her
from fadin'," said Mrs. Smith.

Then, pushing back her sunbonnet and

3S iaortS Otarolfna 5feetcf)e0

wiping her face on her apron, she added : "The
sun is mighty hot to-day. Hope it won't
fade my gownd," added she, laughing heartily
at her own joke. ''I got a better one, but
I keep /'/ to wear to preachin' and Sun-
day-school. I reckon the Lord don't do
nothin' to keep his trees and things from
fadin'. The way the leaves is droppin'
down round you on that there rock is
like a red and yaller snowstorm. First big
wind comes long'U take nigh all of 'em off
the trees. I hate to see 'em fall, but I reckon
it's the Lord's way o' keepin' the world
a-goin'. I just love to see 'em all puttin'
out fresh in the spring. I wonder if it'll be
that way with we-uns, " said she, wistfully.
'"Pears like we're goin' the way o' the leaves
and the flowers."

*' 'We all do fade as a leaf,' " I quoted,
lightly. " 'As a flower of the field, so he
flourisheth.' "

"Yes; ain't it right queer," she rejoined,
quickly, "how the Bible's got somethin' in it
to fit everything a body does or says? It's a
heap o' comfort. Even war times," she con-
tinued, "when you didn't hear nothin' but
about battles and killin', and 'peared like
your eyes was full o' blood whichever way

i^rgf. Smfti^ 39

you looked, you kept a-thinkin' o' things the
Bible said.

My Pa and my youngest brother was both
killed in the same battle. Them was black
days. I kept a-sayin* over to myself every
comfortin' thing I could remember out o' the
Bible. It didn't help Ma much, though. She
were plum broke down after the news came.
I never see her laugh again. She were like
the leaves; she just faded away."

After a short silence, Mrs. Smith said,
cheerfully: "Well, them times is past and
gone. 'Tain't no kind o' use mournin' about
'em now.

This is a mighty pretty day; everything's
so quiet and peaceful. Just listen to them
hens cacklin' away down in yonder cove!

Wisht I could set up here awhile longer
with you, but there's my old man callin'.
*Yes, I'm a-comin'," she called back to him,
with a laugh in her tones. "I can't help
laughing," said she. '"Pears like he can't
get along nohow unless I'm somewheres in
sight," Mrs. Smith added, as she started down
the hill.

STEPPING BACKWARD

STEPPING BACKWARD

The rhododendrons and azaleas were in
bloom, their brilliant hues running riot
through the woods and filling the mountains
with glory. Like an ignis fatuus, their
marvelous coloring, set off by the back-
ground of green leaves or blue sky, had
led me on until I found myself far from
home.

The shadows were lengthening, and I was
tired enough to welcome the sight of the open
doorway of a cabin, where 1 was met by a
friendly invitation to "Come in, and set
awhile," which I accepted.

I had known something of the Simmons
family, but this was my first visit to their
home. I needed rest, and Mrs. Simmons in
her turn appeared to find my advent an agree-
able break in the day's monotony.

The woods had seemed ablaze with glowing
fires, as the flame-colored azaleas leaped into
view, and in this homely room the dancing

43

44 i^orti) Otarolina Sfeetdjes

reflections from a bright fire on the hearth
lent a strange charm where the sun would
have revealed only rugged ugliness. Except
for the fire, there was no light but that com-
ing in through the open doorway.

After chatting awhile with Mrs. Simmons,
I asked how long her family had been living
in that house. From the general air of dis-
order about the place, I thought they were
new tenants.

"Oh, always," she replied. "My Pa and
Ma done lived here before me. I done lived
along o' them after Timothy and me got mar-
ried. After Pa died. Ma lived along o' we-uns. "

"But you seem to have begun a new
house," said I.

"Yes; them old j'ists and rafters/^ just a
sight," interrupted Mrs. Simmons. "I tell
my old man I wisht he'd burn the hull lot and
get shut of 'em. He won't do it, 'cause he
'lows as he'll have a turn of luck some time,
and they'll come in handy to build another
house with. He didn't never begin it. It
were my Pa, before he got so poorly them last
three year. He's been dead nigh on twenty
year.

The frame were all covered in, and some
of the ceilin' were up, too — stripes o* yaller

stepping i3acfetoartj 45

pine and cherry it were. Pa allowed to make
it mighty pretty inside. Some of the floorin'
were down, and there were a sight o' work
done to that house before Pa died."

"Why, there's nothing but a bare frame
now!" I exclaimed, in astonishment.

"No," said Mrs. Simmons, com.placently.
"Timothy's always had a powerful hurtin* in
his side whenever he done any right hard
work, and he reckoned it weren't no kind
o' use him tryin' to finish a big job like that.
It takes a sight of wood to keep fires
going," added Mrs. Simmons, as she stirred
up a blaze with the long pole she used for
a poker. Thrusting the burning end of it
into the ashes to cool, she continued: "Tim-
othy allowed we-uns might as well burn up
the stuff in the new house as to leave it for
other folks. It were a sight easier'n choppin'
out in the woods. I'd ought to know, for
I done most of the choppin', 'long o' him
bein' so puny.

Ma done cried first-off when she heard
him pullin' the sidin' off the new house; but,
Lor' me, women folks ain't got no say about
such things; men's mighty masterful. I hated
it, too, the worst way, but it were powerful
easy to slip out and get wood off the new

4^ iaorti) Olarolina Sketches

house when Ma and the young ones was cold
and Timothy was down to the settlemint.
He allows he'll build a better house than that
when his luck turns."

I asked what work he did. I had seen him
loafing about the village every time I had
occasion to go there.

**0h, he don't do no right hard work,
nohow," said Mrs. Simmons, " 'count of the
crick in his side; but he allows he'll get a
nice soft job sometime and make big money.
Me and the children does most of the work,
and Sabiny and me, that's my biggest gal,
does a heap of boarders' wash."

Changing the subject, Mrs. Simmons said:
"My Pa's name were Moyer. He come from
way up in Pennsylvany. He weren't none of
your low-down, no-'count trash, like some
on 'em," said she, tossing her head.

*'He'd travelled a sight, my Pa had. He
drove on a canal boat when he were young,
and he done told us a heap about the things
he'd saw. But he enjoyed poor health up
there, 'long o' the hard winters. He had
the phthisic powerful bad. The doctors done
told him he'd live a sight longer down here
among the mountings. That's how he come
to be here.

5^tepping IBacfetoacti 47

He could do a heap more work than some
as is a sight weller, though. He done took
up this here land from the State, and he
cleared most of it hisself. Then he put up
this house and married my Ma. He stayed
'long o' her folks when he first come. She
were a right pretty gal, with red cheeks, then,
and it weren't long before they was courtin'.
My Ma were a mighty good woman, but she
hadn't no eddication. My Pa he had. He
could read out o' the Bible like he were
preachin', and he took a sight o' trouble
tryin' to learn we-uns to read and write.
There weren't no school nigh us in them days.
Ma always said what were the use pesterin'
of us; she done well enough without a eddi-
cation. So we growed up same as Ma done.
We'd a heap rather be out 'long o' Pa and
Ma burnin' brush and such than tryin' to get
book learnin'."

"Was the family large?"

"There were only Joshuay and me. He's
been dead nigh on thirty year. Just before
Pa died, he done told Ma to send to the city
and get a pretty white stone for his grave, like
his folks up in Pennsylvany always had. He
said for her to get her own name writ on it,
too, for he reckoned Timothy wouldn't never

48 iEortf) (O^arolina Sfeetcfies

t3

et no more stones for nobody. Pa didn't
always set sich store by Timothy as he'd
ought to. Ma done got the stone, but, Lor',
when it come home ail boxed up, it were that
white and pretty she weren't willin' to have
it out in the weather; so she done kep' it
under her bed till she died.

It were mighty onconvenient, for the
sweet 'tater cellar is right under that bed.
You see Ma slept nighest the fire, 'count of
her feelin' the cold, and you're just bound to
keep sweet 'taters nigh the fire.

It ain't to say a real cellar; it's just
a hole, and loose boards over it. 'Taters
needs a sight of airin', and Timothy'd get
that vexed havin' that stone to move every
time. He sets a sight o'store by sweet 'taters
for eatin', though," said Mrs. Simmons,
laughing. "Ma allowed if he could eat such
a sight of 'em, it wouldn't do him no hurt to
move that 'ere stone once in awhile. Him
and the boys done sot it up out there by Pa's
and Ma's graves after she died. They's
buried out there where you see them cows."

I saw some pigs, too, and asked Mrs. Sim-
mons if they were rooting in the family
burial lot.

"Yes," she replied; "nokeepin' of 'em out.

Stepping IJacktoartr 49

Pa fixed that lot up mighty fine after Joshuay
died. The grave were all flowers, and he
had nice green grass growin', and he put up
a good tight fence; couldn't even a chicken
get in, let alone horgs. Did you say where's
it gone? Oh, fences don't last no time.
Timothy allowed we-uns might as well burn
up the pieces as to let 'em lie there and rot.
Horgs don't root deep enough to disturb
corpses, nohow, and Timothy reckons the
way his people's buried is good enough for
we-uns.

Pa used to talk a sight about his old
home, and along to the last he allowed he'd
made a dreadful mistake not takin' Ma and
goin' back there, so's we-uns could get a
eddication. But Ma were always plum sot
agin it. Pa liked her splendid, but he
couldn't abide tobacco and snuff, and he said
no decent woman wouldn't use 'em where he
come from, and Ma'd just have to quit 'em if
she went up there. She were always a pow-
erful hand for a chew-stick. She used to
give 'em to we-uns when we's little, to keep
us still. That's how I took to dippin', and
Sabiny same way," said Mrs. Simmons, spit-
ting into the fire.

"Ma said couldn't nobody make her see no

50 iEortS Cftaroli'na Sfeetci^es

harm, in tobacco. Timothy and the boys
chaws. We-uns raises our own tobacco,"
continued Mrs. Simmons, with evident pride.
"We raises a sight, so Timothy has it to swap
at the stores sometimes."

I remarked that Timothy seemed to spend
a great deal of time at the stores.

"Yes; men folks has to be where there's
somethin* goin' on,' especially rainy days,"
she replied. "'Tis mighty dull settin' round
home all day; nobody can't blame 'em.

Timothy's different from most, too. He's
always allowing as he'll hear of a nice soft
job o' work up to the settlemint. Some
nights when he comes home all done out with
such a long walk, and bein' disappointed agin,
he says, *No luck yet, old gal.' Then I chirk
up and bid him mind how the preacher says
as some is always down on their luck in this
world, but it'll be made up to 'em in the next.

Now, my Pa weren't no believer in luck,
except about sickness; and he 'lowed we'd
get shut of a sight of that if we took better
care of ourselves."

"Why, you have got a window in your
house, Mrs. Simmons," I exclaimed, irrele-
vantly, as I caught sight of a shuttered open-
ing in the wall. "I have been wondering how

stepping iSacktoarb 51

a man like your father came to build a house
without one. "

"Yes; Pa set a heap o' store by plenty of
light and air. There's another winder back
of you; we-uns ain't so bad off as you
allowed."

"So I see," I replied; "but why don't you
open the windows and let in the light?"

"Well, when Pa built this house he couldn't
get no glass lights; so he put shutters with
leather hinges onto the windows. We done
kept 'em open always in pretty weather.
After Pa died the wind blowed 'em loose on
their hinges, and they kept Timothy awake
windy nights; so he nailed 'em fast, and
there they be ever since. He allows he'll
put a sight o' glass lights in the new house
he's goin' to build when his luck turns."

Mrs. Simmons stooped over the fire, draw-
ing to one side a bed of hot coals, on which
to set her bake-oven. While she talked, she
had been mixing and rolling out the soda bis-
cuits for the evening meal. Seeing the amount
of soda which went into them, I was glad I
had a good excuse for declining the kindly
invitation she gave me to stay to supper. I
was much interested in her primitive facilities
for cooking, however. I asked if there were

52 laortf) Olaiolina S^feetcfirg

no crane in the fireplace for suspending the
pots and pans over the fire.

"Not now there ain't," replied Mrs. Sim-
mons. "Pa put in a good one; he got the
blacksmith to make it like what Pa's folks had
at home, but it got broke. Timothy ain't no
hand to run round gettin' things fixed; so
there it lays in the corner."

Even the dancing firelight, as she bent over
the hearth, could not soften or glorify the
awkward gauntness of a figure like that of
Mrs. Simmons. She wore her black hair
strained back from a bony, high forehead ; her
skin was wrinkled and sallow, and her eyes
light and watery. The stain of tobacco was
about her mouth; her hands were coarse and
grimy, and so were the garments she wore.

Rising stiffly after adjusting her bake-oven
over the coals, she asked, abruptly: "Ever
hear tell of my Sammy? Say you ain't? Pa
named him after hisself, and he done sot
a heap o' store by him. He learned him his
letters when he weren't more'n three year
old, and when he were six he could read nigh
every kind of print.

Pa were sick more'n three year before he
died. He had a kinsumption, and he were
powerful bad off 'long to the last. He were

Stepping iSadtbarb 53

always telling Sammy he wanted him to make
somethin* of hisself ; them's his very words;
and when he got big enough, he must go up
to Pennsylvany and find Pa's folks and tell
'em who he were. He kep' a-sayin', 'Be sure
you git a eddication, Sammy.' It were a
sight the way the little feller took on when
his grandpop died."

*'And did he take his grandfather's advice?"

'"Feared like he done cared more than ever
for book learnin' after he were gone, and he
went twice to free school. It kep* in three
months, and Timothy allowed as that were
schoolin' enough for anybody. Sammy were
the smartest of all the children to work, and
Timothy took to leavin' him a sight to do;
but when he were fifteen he done told his Pa
he wanted to buy his time off him, and go to
the mission school at Hinkson's,

Say you ain't never heard tell of buyin' a
boy's time off his Pa? Why, children owes
their Pa their time till they're eighteen, for
their board and clothes.

Sammy'd been such a peart one to work
that he allowed he'd done a sight more'n his
share; and so he had. He reckoned he could
get work enough out of school time at Hink-
son's to pay his Pa for the rest of his time.

54 iB^ortf) (B'arolitta S^etci^es

I done told Timothy he might as well let
him go, for it weren't never no kind of use
tryin' to cross Sammy when his mind were
made up. He were always a right resolute
child.

Timothy grumbled a sight when the boy
were gone, 'count of there bein* so much more
work to do. Onct he borrowed a mule to go
hisself and fetch him back. As luck would
have it, a letter come from Sammy that very
day. He'd sent his Pa some money in it, and
writ that he'd send some more right soon.
He said he done liked the school splendid,
and were learnin' right smart. Timothy
allowed he wouldn't go for him yet. Then
the teacher's written as Sammy were such a
good scollard, and hopin' we-uns meant to
let him stay and get a eddication ; so he kep'
on. He done helped us a sight sendin' money
he earned, but when he were eighteen he told
his Pa he allowed he were free now, and he
were goin' to do as his grandpop said.

Timothy hadn't nothin' to say agin his
goin' to Pennsylvany. He allowed as the
boy'd maybe find some of Pa's folks up there
right well-to-do, and they'd send us money,
and we-uns wouldn't be down on our luck no
more.

.stepping 13acfelDarti 55

Sammy were growed such a peart young
man, and he'd learned such pretty manners at
school, and he wore such big red neckties, it
done me good to look at him. I hated it bad
to see him goin' way off, and like as not never
come back.

He says to me: 'Don't you fret, Ma; you'll
see me comin' back a rich man yet, and then
you won't have to work so hard no more.'
Sammy were a right good boy," said Mrs.
Simmons, wiping her eyes on her apron.

"And did he never come back?" I asked,
sympathetically.

*'No; I never sot eyes on him agin. He
done found Pa's folks, real well-to-do farmers
they was, and they set a sight of store by him.
He done married one of their gals. Here's
her picture," added Mrs. Simmons, blowing
the dust from an old photograph which she
took down from a shelf. "Here's their baby,
too; ain't it a peart one? This here's Sam-
my," said she, taking an ambrotype from
a box under the table. "This were took at
Hinkson's, and he never got nary another
one took."

He certainly did wear an immense red
necktie, which the artist had touched up in
color. An honest, boyish face looked out

56 iEorti^ OTarolina ^ktttf^t^

from the queer old picture, and I didn't
wonder at his mother's emotion, if, as I sup-
posed, he was dead.

"He died up there of pneumony fever,"
Mrs. Simmons presently resumed, in a broken
voice. "His wife done wrote us how it were.
About a year afterwards a letter came sayin'
she were comin' to see us, but we ain't heard
nary a word from her since. Do you allow
as she's done married again?"

"Perhaps so," I replied, absently. I was
wondering what the bright, well-dressed girl
in the photograph would think of Sammy's
home and people if she ever came to visit
them.

"There ain't no one to send us no money
since Sammy died. The rest on 'em ain't had
no better luck nor their Pa. There's four of
'em; I buried two of the least ones. Sammy
were a heap different from t'others. His
dyin' were all of a piece with the rest of the
bad luck we-uns has had. Never see nothin'
like it. Nobody can't blame Timothy for
gettin' so downhearted.

**Must you be goin'? I'm powerful glad
you come by. You done me a sight o' good,
bein' so sorry about Sammy."

A FOGGY DAY

A FOGGY DAY

I

Toward the close of a showery spring day,
I heard, through the fog which the mists rising
from the valleys had heaped upon us, a high-
pitched voice singing "My Way's Cloudy."
The minor time accorded well with the
steady drip, drip from the trees, the dismal
croaking of the frogs in the meadow, and the
weird color effects produced by the mist.

Presently the song ceased, the gate
clanged, I heard steps on the path, and a dun-
colored figure walked out of the fog. In be-
draggled skirts and shoes heavy with mud,
she looked of the earth earthy. A pleasant
face topped the figure, however, and by way
of greeting she said, cheerfully, "I brung you
something." Depositing upon the grass as
she spoke a bundle tied up in an old apron,
she began at once to open it.

I knowed how fond you be of wild flowers,

59

ti

6o iaortj (Carolina Sfeetcjes

so I dug you some roots. Me and Dan's
been down to the river plantation workin' all
day."

'Not in the rain!" I exclaimed.

"Yes; we've got to get our craps in, and it
didn't rain so hard down there as they say it
has up here. This here's sa7ig. You-uns said
you wanted to see what it were like. It's kind
of hard to find now, for it's nigh about dug out
round here since the stores took to trading it
to send to Chiny. Folks says them heathen
Chinee chaws it! They must be mighty queer
folks," continued Mrs. Ames, laughing, as
she turned the quid of tobacco in her mouth.

"It's a sight how these here yaller lilies and
this red horsemint grows if they get a chance.
It's just beautiful to see 'em down to the plan-
tation when it comes blossoming time; you
can't make no headway through 'em some-
times, they're so thick.

There ain't nothing I'm so fond of as flow-
ers. I keep er bringing roots from the plan-
tation, and plantin' 'em nigh the house, but,
Lor'! there ain't no show for 'em, what with
hogs and chickens and the men folks not
keeping up the fences. There's a sight of
pretties here. Get me a shovel, and I'll
plant 'em for you. "

^ jTogss liap 6i

Instead of accepting the kind offer, I took
her into the house and made her a cup of
coffee, for she still had a long walk before
her.

Dropping into a chair, she pulled off her old
sunbonnet, exclaiming: 'Tm plum tired; I
didn't know I were so wore out. The heart's
kind of out of me, anyway; things has got all
mixed up, and I can't see my way, nohow,"
she added, wearily.

"It's mighty peaceful and pretty down to
the plantation," she said, after a pause.
•' 'Pears like my troubles ain't too heavy to
tote down there. The river runs round the
meadow-lots so pretty and free; you can hear
it singin' over the stones and gurglin' like
a baby some places. It's a heap of company
when you're workin'. Sometimes, when I see
the sticks and dead leaves a-swirlin' round on
the water and bein' carried downstream,
whether or no, I think they ain't much differ-
ent from folks. Folks can't help theirselves
any more than the leaves; they're just driftin'
along, and 'tain't much use ketchin' on to
things to hold back agin the stream. I see
some poor little fishes, as got left in pools by
the last fresh. They 'minded me so of folks
workin' round and round in places they can't

62 iEoctf) Olarolina S-feftcJeis

never get out of, and ain't certain how they
got into, neither, that I just had to put 'em
back into the water," said Mrs. Ames, with
an apologetic laugh.

"I'm right queer that way, mixin' up things
and folks in my head. I reckon some would
allow I weren't all there, if I let on how I see
things. It don't do to tell all a body thinks,"
she added, smiling brightly.

"The birds are plum lively down in the
valley. I love to watch 'em building their
nests ; makes me think of young folks courtin'.
I see a cute thing as I come along by the mill.
There weren't nobody about, and there sot
two ground squirrels on the hopper, jabbering
away like they was folks. The sieve were
atop of the hopper, so's they couldn't get
nary a grain of corn, and they was that mad
I had to laugh. But comin' along to the top
of the mounting the fog got powerful thick,
and it seemed like all my worriments come
back on me."

"Was it you I heard singing?" I inquired.

"Yes; I learned that song when the niggers
had camp meetin', and it holps me a sight
when I'm down; I'm that way now. Did you
say why? Oh! because everything's goin*
wrong, and I can't see my way clear. Now,

^ dFofigg ©ap 63

there's my Annie, her as I sent to Hinkson's
to school, hopin' to make a teacher of her.
I allowed she had a heap of sense, and I'd had
such a sight of trouble with the rest that I
were plum glad I didn't have to study about
her. But, Lor' ! young folks is all alike, I do
believe. Gals is like birds a-settin' on a bush
waitin' for the fust boy that comes along to
knock 'em off with a stone.

Nobody'd er thought my Annie would have
looked at Tom Grogan. She always let
on like she hated a feller what drinks and
carries on like he does, and now she's plum
crazy after him. Nary one of us daresn't say
a word agin him when she's about. She allows
if she can't have him, she won't marry nobody ;
so we-uns give in to his coming to the house
courtin' her. I'm nigh sick about it. My!
but that's a pretty pink cup you're pourin' the
coffee into," she exclaimed, brightening.
"Annie's powerful fond of pretty things, and
I've laid awake nights studyin' how to git
'em for her. I reckon she'll have to whistle
for pretty things if she marries Tom Grogan.
She's a right good scollard, but Tom can't
even read. Gals is curious, and no mistake!
Now, there's my Sarah Jane; I'm all beat out
about her. She were bound to marry old

64 iEorti) Olarolina ^kticf^t^

Crosby, and him havin' four children, and she
nothin' but a slip of a gal! He's cross-eyed,
and that ugly to look at 'peared like Dan and
me jest couldn't give in for her to have him,
but she up and says, 'Why, Ma, you ain't got
to love him,' and no more we ain't. They've
been married nigh on five year, and I ain't
see nothin' to love about him yet; but they're
having a hard time just now. He's one of
them unlucky kind as everything goes agin.
Sarah Jane ain't never been stout since her
first baby came; she's got two, and is like
for another. Poor folks has a sight of chil-
dren. Old Crosby's by his first wife was all
puny. They had six. If the Lord wanted 'em,
I were glad they'd buried two of 'em before
Sarah Jane got married. Them two gals of
his is always ketchin' somethin'. Now it's
the measles, and the whole tribe'U have 'em
before they get through. As if that wasn't
enough, what does old Crosby hisself go and
do last week but let a log roll atop of him.
He's been in bed ever since, groanin' and
hollerin', but he won't have no doctor.
I wanted Annie to go and stay with 'em while
things was so bad, but she allows it makes her
sick the nasty way they live. Besides, she
says Sarah Jane's served just right for mar-

^ jFoggS iBag 65

rying a no-'count man! I wish she'd take
warnin', but 'tain't no use wishin'. She's on
the edge of the nest, and she allows she knows
how to fly; so she's bound to go over," Mrs.
Ames added, in a voice robbed of its usual
cheerfulness.

"Bill's wife's puny this spring, too. I can't
help studyin' about 'em all. If I could be in
two or three places at once, I shouldn't feel
so bad. Agin I do my own work and the
milkin', and work in the craps, I'm plum wore
out, and a body's got to git so7ne sleep. Dan,
he's sort of puny, too, and a heap of times
he can't even chop wood, so I have it to
do."

I asked what part of the work Annie did.

"Oh, she hates to work; that's why I
'lowed to make a scollard of her, so she
wouldn't have nothin' to do. She gets peaked
the least bit of hard work she does. She can't
even carry water for me when I'm doin'
boarders' wash without it givin' her a hurtin'
in her breast. Yes, she sews some. She
likes her things fixy, but she ain't got no time
for mending," added Mrs. Ames, glancing at
her own shabby attire. "If she marries Tom
Grogan, she'll be lucky if she even has things
to mend. It's all mighty bad, but the Lord

made me so's I always see the funny side of
things. It's been a heap of help to me some-
times. It is funny to see gals as can't do no
work at home marrying no-'count men that
they have to pick right up and carry. I wish
it was some other gal besides my Annie as were
sot on doing it, though.

There's other things pestering me, too.
We-uns owes fifty dollars on our house, and
Mr. Screw holds the papers. They're run
out, and he allows he can't wait no longer for
his money; so he's fixin' to sell us out. I had
thirty dollars saved up towards it, but I
couldn't see Sarah Jane and the rest so down
on their luck, and not give 'em a lift. It's
been a right hard winter for us, anyway. Our
other gal Jessie's been at home with her baby
and her old man since the first of the year.
He's a right well-meanin' man, but he don't
have no luck. 'Peared like things was goin'
agiri him right along; so the man he rented
his place from allowed he'd take it off his
hands, and he just give up and brung his
family to our house. Wie-uns is pinched for
room, and Annie don't like it. She says
mean things to Brad; that's Jessie's man.
I feel plum sorry for him sometimes. Things
seem all in a muddle, somehow; leastways,

^ dToggg Baj) 67

that's how I feel now. I don't see no light
nowheres. "

Rising stiffly to her feet, she put on her
old sunbonnet, saying: "I must go 'long
home and milk. Here I been settin' enjoying
myself, and forgettin' that them poor things
won't git a bite of supper ready till I'm there
to help. It'll be plum dark agin I get the
milkin' done.

I'm obleeged to you for the coffee and
snack. They've heartened me up a sight.
I reckon it's goin' to clear; it don't seem
nigh so thick as it did when I come in," said
Mrs. Ames, as she disappeared in the envel-
oping cloud.

At sunset the fog, suddenly lifting, floated
away in vapor. A dripping world tossed back
his own radiance into the face of the sun when
he burst forth, while the mountains glowed
like burnished copper till twilight drew its
purple veil.

68 iaortf) (Eacolma Sfeetctes

II

AT EVENING-TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT

The plants brought me by Mrs. Ames that
foggy day were growing thriftily, some of
them were already in bloom ; for the spring
was behind us, and we were in the heart of an
unusually warm and dry summer. In conse-
quence of the water-courses getting low, there
was much sickness, and I heard one day that
Mrs. Ames, among others, was "down with
the fever. " The next afternoon I was shocked
to receive a message that she was ''about to
die," and wanted to see me.

I found her looking terribly ill, but the old
cheerful smile illumined her face as she recog-
nized me and feebly put out her hand to take
mine. When I told her the bunch of red mint
I had just laid on her pillow came from the
roots she had brought me, she said, softly:
"Ain't it queer how things outlasts folks?
Them flowers will go on bloomin' when I'm
plum forgot. "

"Did you see the doctor as you come in?"
she asked; and then continued, slowly: "He
set quiet holding my wrist, and after a bit I

^ dFoggg Ba^ 69

see him wipin' his eyes, and he says, smoothiti'
my hair like I were a little gal, 'I'm plum
sorry I can't do no more for you, Mrs. Ames;
it makes me feel bad. '

' You ain't no call to blame yourself, Doc-
tor,' I says. 'There's been a heap o' times
you done helped me when you didn't even
know it. Many's the time it done me good
just to meet up with you, 'count of your kind
ways. Sick and well, we-uns has had a sight
of help from you; so you must just set this
off agin that. ' "

'*I laughed," said she, "but I see tears in
his eyes. 'We'll miss your pleasant ways,
Mrs. Ames,' he says, and that brung the tears
into my eyes, too."

Waiting a few moments to recover breath,
she went on more slowly: "He'd er helped
me if anybody could, but I reckon I'm like
that old clock up there," she added, with a
pathetic little laugh. *' 'Machinery's wore
out,' the tinker said. Just before it quit
goin' for good it took to buzzing so the baby
were scared, and all the strikes went off at
once, and it ain't budged since."

"Tell 'em not to cry," she whispered,
pointing to a group of her family and friends,
weeping audibly at the foot of the bed. "It

70 i^orti) (O^arolina Sfeetcftes

frets me to hear 'em; I'm wore out, and I
need quiet. There ain't nothin' to cry about.
It's all clear as day before me. It's like I'd
been workin' hard one of them long, foggy
days, when everything were all mixed up and
hard to understand, and there weren't no
light nowheres. " She paused a moment for
breath. "Now it's evenin'; the fog's lifted
and the sun's settin; he's ]\xstburstiti out^ and
it's all light and bright. Everything's shin-
ing with glory!"

She closed her eyes, resting a few moments.
Then the failing voice went on: "Do you
remember how you read me about Christian
dropping his pack at the cross, and how
happy he were when he got shut of it? I'm
like that now. I done toted all their loads,"
she whispered, glancing affectionately at her
weeping family, "till I were plum broke down.
Long while back the doctor told me my lungs
was weak, and when I took pneumony fever
I knowed it weren't no more use, and I just
let the whole pack roll off me, like Christian
did. I'm so thankful to be layin' here restin',
just waitin' on the Lord's will. It's hard on
them, poor things," she murmured, her eyes
filling with tears; "but I reckon the Lord
knows what's best,"

^ jFogfll? IBag 7t

At this the weeping broke forth afresh, and
she closed her eyes wearily. Dan, the picture
of woe, stood at the head of the bed, keeping
off the flies with a laurel branch. The tears
rolled down his thin cheeks, nesting unheeded
in his scraggy beard, but he uttered no sound
to disturb his dying mate.

Presently she spoke again. "I ain't much
account, nohow, but I done the best I could;
and the Lord knows better than folks does
how hard-pushed I've been most times. I've
been like the sticks and leaves whirlin' and
driftin' down the stream. I fought agin it a
sight, but 'long to the last I see it weren't
no use; so I just give in to drift. They say
the river's carryin' of 'em down to the sea.

I don't know nothing about the sea I'm
driftin' to, but I'm in the still waters now, and
I ain't afraid to trust the Lord. He's been
mighty good to me, and give me a heap of
blessings I weren't half thankful enough for.
I see a sight er worriment all my life, but I
weren't never one of them as looks long on
the dark side, and that's been a heap of help
to me and the rest. I 'lowed you'd read me
again that chapter in the Bible about peace,"
she said, faintly, after a long pause.

Annie got the Bible, and I read the four-

72 iaortj (Karolina S^etcfjes

teenth chapter of St. John, while the sick
woman lay with closed eyes and folded hands,
a look of great peace upon her shrunken face.
As I closed the book, I could see through
the open door the shadows grown long and
the underside of the leaves of the great
white rhododendron that grew by the little
porch silvering in the rays of the setting sun.

"Now sing me them verses I liked so well
of that hymn you played for me Sunday were
two weeks," said the fast-failing voice.

It had been hard for me to read calmly,
and I waited for command of my voice to sing.
Opening her eyes, the dying woman whis-
pered feebly: "Don't feel bad; you wouldn't
if you knowed how happy I be, and how
bright and clear it all is."

So I swallowed hard, and began softly
singing her favorite verses of "Sun of My
Soul," watching her the while, as she lay on
her miserable bed, the embodiment of peace.
As I began the last verse, her eyes opened
suddenly with a smile into mine. A swift
change passed over her face, and ere I finished
the last line I knew she was already afloat
upon that sea towards which she had rejoiced
to feel herself drifting.

MR. TIMMINS

MR. TIMMINS

A search for health landed us among the
North Carolina mountains. Spring was at
hand, and nothing could exceed the beauty
of the external world, to which the languor-
ous sighing of the pines and the joyous notes
of mating birds seemed to give voice. It was
like watching from a distance the approach of
a friend to see the tender green of the budding
trees start in the coves and valleys, and climb
slowly up the mountain sides, to burst at last
into sudden glory of leaf and bloom at the top.

Our new neighbors and their primitive
methods of life and work interested us greatly.

On one of our long drives we came across
an old man chopping wood near where we
camped at noon, and we invited him to share
our lunch. He proved a very entertaining
guest. After showing us the old cabin where
he and his wife lived alone, he gave us a sketch
of his life, much of which, naively told, was
very interesting.

75

7^ iaortj ataxolina S>Mcf}t^

1 1

I reckon you-uns wasn't livin' round these
parts war times," said he. "I were. We-
uns seen a sight o' worriment them days. My
people was all for the Union, so I slipped off
and jined the Union army.

The war's over long ago, and them as fit
in it ain't got nary a grudge agin nobody.
They likes to tell, when they git together,
how they used to call one another Yanks and
Rebs, and swap tobacco and hard-tack when-
ever there were a flag o' truce, and to brag
how they fit and licked each other. Them
kind don't stir up no contention. They done
had enough of it war times. It's them as
were all talk and bluster then as goes on the
same way now. I weren't never one of them
contentious sort. All I want is a chance to
work and live peaceable. Life ain't long
enough to be always pesterin' about what a
body ain't no call to meddle with.

My brother Bill weren't so strong as me,
and he staid to home to help Ma. The home
guards, as they done called theirselves, shot
him, 'cause they couldn't make him tell where
I were at. He weren't never no 'count for
work agin. They done served a sight that way.

My father died when I were little, and Ma
seen hard times raisin' us young ones. Bill

J^r. Cimmins 77

and me done a heap o' work to help her along,
but when the war come on she allowed as one
of us ought to fight for the country, so I went,
bein' the strongest. I kept a-studyin' about
t'others while I were away, though, and sure
enough, when I come back, poor Ma were dead
and gone, and Bill plum broke down. Ma
weren't never to say strong, and she overdone
herself after Bill were shot.

Them home guards run off folks' cattle,
too. We'd kept our cow by hidin' of her
down in a cove, but when she were a-calvin'
she were like to die, and Ma allowed it weren't
worth while to let her die now, after all the
bother we'd had keepin' of her hid so long.
Ma knowed a right smart about sick-nursin'.
The neighbors used to send after her from all
around for sickness. When night come on
and Ma seen the cow weren't no better, she
come back to the house and done told Bill and
the gals she reckoned she'd set up with her.

They was plum set agin her doin' it, and
the gals allowed they'd set up and Ma go to
bed. She wouldn't hear to it, though. She
knowed how skeery they be, and she done told
'em to quit talkin', for she were bent on
doin' her duty by that poor cow. It were a
cold night, and she daresn't make no fire,

78 ^oxtfj OTarolma ^ktttf^tB

'count of somebody maybe seein' it, but she
took along Pa's old lantern under her shawl.
The gals allowed they hadn't never seen the
stars so bright, but there weren't no moon.

Ma done saved the cow, but when she
didn't come home in the mornin' the gals
went to find her, and there she sot, plum
dead."

"Not your poor mother?" I asked, hoping
that Mr. Timmins had got things mixed, and
meant the cow.

"Yes, poor Ma," he replied. "The gals
come on her settin' there that natural and
pretty, with her sunbonnet on, they allowed
she were asleep. Them were bad times for
we-uns, and they lost the cow for all. Ma's
dying in the cove put the home guards on the
scent, and the next day the cow and calf was
gone."

PLAYING WITH FIRE

PLAYING WITH FIRE

On one of my long walks in early spring
I came upon a little cabin in the valley, and
recognized an acquaintance standing in the
doorway. It was Mrs. Rastus Barns. She
urged my coming in to rest before climbing
the hill again.

"You-uns ain't been used to the mountings,
and you'll be plum broke down and wore out
'fore you git back," she said, "if you don't
set awhile."

The bare trees and ever-green rhododen-
drons, standing up against the bluest of skies,
made a lovely picture, as I glanced back over
the way I had come, but the path seemed
steep and long. As I hesitated, I realized
that I was tired ; so I went in with Mrs. Barns,
and sat by the door on a straight-backed
splint chair.

Presently I asked her if she and her neigh-
bors did not find thei-r one-roomed houses too
small for comfort.

8i

82 ^oxtf) ataxolina, Sfeetcjes

it

We git used to 'em," she replied, smiling.
I reckon you-uns was raised different, so
they look queer to you. I were awful pestered
when Sal were a corpse, though."

"Who was Sal?" I asked, startled by this
sudden introduction of a cadaver.

"She were my youngest sister," answered
Mrs. Barns. "Sal weren't rightly her name.
Ma named her Meranthy Angeliny, outen
a book she heard read. Ma and Pa hadn't no
chance to git a eddication, and they couldn't
neither of 'em read.

When Sal got so's she could talk, t'others
was plaguin' her one day about havin' sich
a long name. She allowed as that weren't her
name, nohow. She said her right name were
Sal, and after that she wouldn't answer to
none other. So we-uns give in to call her
Sal. She were a mighty pesterin' young one.
She weren't all there, and she nigh about
ware Ma out. I took her to live along o' we-
uns after Ma died, but she were a sight o'
worriment. I never see no one, from that
day to this, that could be in so many places
at once as it 'peared like Sal could.

One day Pa and Rastus was burnin' down
a tree that had fell over and got stuck in a big
oak; so they done sot it afire to make it fall.

^Ilapmg Mti^ dFi'ce 83

They was goin' to the mill, so they come to
the house for the corn Sal and me had shelled
for 'em. Sal weren't no 'count for work, but
she were right spry at shellin' corn. She'd
carry some of it round with her, and have
every hog and chicken on the place follerin' of
her. Then she'd fire the cobs at 'em, and
laugh fit to kill herself if she hit one.

When the men folks was goin' to the mill,
Pa says to me: 'Sis, you keep a eye on Sal,
so she don't go nigh the big tree.' Rastus
says to her: 'Now, Honey, you stay right here
'long o' Sis till I git back, and I'll fetch you
some o' them molasses.' She said she would,
and they done went along.

I were powerful busy washin' and bilin*
soap that mornin'. 'Pears like men folks
always has to go to the mill or somewhere
just when they might be some help at home.
The baby were that cross cuttin' teeth you
might 'a' heard him holler clean to the settle-
mint. I had him layin' on a pallet under a
tree. I kept runnin' 'twixt him and the wash
and the soap, but I hadn't no call to go to the
house. The last time I were in, I see Sal
were all right, with her chew-stick and snuff,
and playin' with the cat. Then I plum for-
got her.

84 iEortJ (Carolina Sb^ttcfitB

The baby went off to sleep, and I settled
down peaceable to my work, and never give
a thought to Sal and the old tree. The birds
was a-singin', and I heard the young lambs
a-bleatin', and the wind stirrin' in the trees,
and the sky were so blue, and the clouds so
white and woolly, that it rested me just to
be out of doors.

Washin' and soap-bilin' is powerful hard
work when you have to carry all the wood for
the fires, and like as not chop it, too.
Women folks sees hard times in the mount-
ings.

Well, Pa and Rastus come 'long home jest as
I were puttin' away the tubs, and feelin' good
'count o' bein' so nigh through. 'Where's
Sal?' Pa says first thing. 'In the house,'
says I; 'but mind you don't wake the baby;
he's done hollered and cried most ever since
you-uns went to the mill. Looks cute layin'
there asleep, don't he?' I says. Pa were
a-standin' right 'long side o' the pallet, and it
made me laugh to see how the baby favored
his grandpop.

Pa and Rastus done carried in the meal,
and then they come runnin' out o' the door,
like they was scared, and cut for the old tree.
I run to the house, and I see Sal were gone.

Wmm ^tt{) jFirc 85

and before I got to the door agin I heard sich
a shout I I can't never forget it.

I ain't one of them fainty kind, but I had
to lean hard agin the doorpost, and when I
got so's I could see, there were Pa and Rastus
bringin' somethin' heavy to the house. I
knowed right away what it were, and I had
to set down on the floor just where I
were at.

Sal, not havin' right sense, must 'a* stood
lookin' up into the tree till it fell atop of her,
an' she never drawed another breath. I were
glad to think she couldn't 'a' suffered, for I
blamed myself a sight for not keepin' a watch
on her. You see, I'd put out the fire in the
stove before I come out, so I knowed there
weren't no fire for her to fool with. We
always had to keep the matches hid from her,
too.

Did you say were she fond of playing with
fire? She were that. Onct before she come
nigh burnin' up. Pa and Ma were out in the
field hoein' corn, and they'd left Sal asleep in
the house, and they thought the fire were out.
Pa reckoned he'd go to the spring for a drink.
It's plum curious how thirsty some men is
when they get a job of work to do. It beats
all to see how many times they have to go to

S6 ^ottf) Ol^arolina Sfeetcjes

the spring. It would wear *em all out to go
that often for water to cook with.

Well, Pa allowed he'd better look into the
house and see if Sal were all right. There
she were, a-sweepin' the floor with one o' them
brush brooms, and it, and her, too, was all
afire. Pa had brung a bucket o' water from
the spring that trip, and he quick throwed it
all over her and put out the fire, and scared
poor Sal nigh to death. She were plum
afraid o' water, and wouldn't go nigh it if she
could help herself. She wouldn't even wash
her own face and hands, and she hollered
when you done it for her.

We-uns always had to watch out for her
about fire, though, so it ain't no wonder she
come to a fiery end, is it?"

"No," I replied; "but you haven't told
me yet why your one-roomed house was so
uncomfortable when your sister died."

"Well, it were along o' the way the neigh-
bors come and come and come when they
heard about Sal, till I were nigh about crazy,
the house were so full," Mrs. Barns replied.
"Some on 'em brung their young ones to
larn 'em a lesson, they said, seein' as most
was heady like Sal about gettin' their own
way. Them children cried and went on fit to

Kagi'ng toi'tfj jfiu 87

waken the corpse, and my baby were scared
of 'em all. He were that cross I couldn't set
him down a minute. It come on to rain, too,
and that made it worse.

'Peared like Sal were the only one had
any room. They all fit shy o* her, layin'
there under a sheet on the bed in the corner.
The men folks allowed as there weren't
nothin' for it but to git the funeral over with;
so they sot up all night makin' Sal's coffin.
It sounded mighty lonesome to hear 'em
hammerin' and sawin' on sich work after it
got dark, and I were right glad Mr. and Mis*
Jones brung their pallet and slept on the floor.

There were a owl hootin' in the woods,
and a dog howlin', and Mis' Jones 'lowed as
that meant another death. Pa Jones says to
her, 'Ma, them critters is right over nigh our
house,' and she done shut up.

Preacher Smith were holdin' 'tracted
meetin' at the Baptist Church. He come
over next mornin' and said prayers, and we
buried Sal nigh Ma's grave in the old field.
We was that wore out when it were all over
I reckon we'd 'a' slept a week if it weren't
for the baby hollerin' for his breakfast.

Them mayflowers you got in your hand
puts me in mind o' that time," said Mrs.

SS i^ortfj (Karclina Sfeetcjes

Barns. 'Peared like Sal done picked a sight
of *em before she went nigh the old tree.
They was all strowed round where she were
layin'. The neighbors gathered 'em up, and
we put 'em in the coffin along o' Sal. She
were right fond o' flowers. She looked more
peacefuller layin' in her coffin than I'd ever
see her. Even when she were asleep, she
were like to holler out or jump up. You had
to sleep with one eye open to watch her. You
couldn't never tell what she'd do.

I were thinkin' o' her when I see you
comin'. I were lookin' at them there trees
way down in the holler. I disremember their
names, but I ain't never see 'em white like
that since the year Sal died."

I looked where she pointed. In the depths
of the valley, where the stream had, as she
expressed it, "quit its hurry," a group of
moulted sycamores stood forth ivory-white in
the sunshine.

"Look sort o' like ghosts, don't they?"
Mrs. Barns said, smiling. Then she added,
"I think them beeches up above 'em's a sight
prettier."

The hillside showed the gray of bare
beeches, some drooping long arms and dip-
ping slender branches almost to earth.

"Tears like some trees is a heap nicer than
others to look at in winter," said she.
"Beeches is that way. A sight o' leaves
hangs on 'em nigh all winter, and them that
draps is right yaller. Cloudy days it looks
like the sun were shinin' round *em. Oaks
is nice to look at in winter, too, but they's
more browner."

"What a beautiful tree!" I exclaimed, call-
ing her attention to a noble white pine on the
hillside.

"Know the reason, don't ye?" she re-
sponded, quickly. "That's 'count of its
growln' in the clearin'. Look at them trees
in that piece o' wood yonder. Ain't nary one
of 'em but what's growed crooked or queer
someways. Some on 'em's scarce growed at
all, 'count o' bein' so crowded up together.
It's that way with folks. A sight of 'em ain't
never had no room to stretch in. That kind's
mighty apt to get crabbed when they's old.
That's what's the matter with a heap o' chil-
dren; their folks don't never let 'em alone a
minute. I stepped into Mis' Travers' yester-
day, and the way she kept after them young
ones o' hers was a sight. She were a-flyin*
out at *em every minute. Even Saludy, the
biggest gal, come in for a slap before I come

90 iEortfj (C'arolina ^ifeetcfjes

away, and she's goin' on seventeen. Ain't
one o' them young ones but holds its head
kind o' queer, like it were dodgin' a blow. I
declare I were afraid I'd catch the same trick
if I staid there long. Mis' Travers hadn't let
them young ones alone a single minute whilst
I were there, and when I see her goin' for
Saludy I reckoned I'd staid long enough. I
weren't sure she wouldn't git round to me
next," Mrs. Barns, said, laughing. "We-uns
wasn't raised that way. My people was poor,
but they was right peaceable."

When I was leaving, I gave her part of my
bunch of trailing arbutus. " 'Bleeged to you
for these," said she; "I'll put 'em on Sal's
grave. I ain't got time to go huntin' 'em my-
self."

NEIGHBORLY GOSSIP

NEIGHBORLY GOSSIP

One day when I called at Mrs. Lank's, I
found her at her loom, which darkened the
only window the house could boast of.

After showing me the blue-and-white spread
she was weaving, she seemed glad to leave
her work for a friendly chat.

"Weavin's tiresomer work than you'd
think," said she, seating herself near the fire,
and taking down her hair as she talked.
This was a pet habit of hers, but it always
came upon me as a diverting surprise. Such
a head of hair as she had! It was long, light,
and so slippery — slick, she called it — that no
hairpins that were ever invented could keep
it in order long.

** A body's got to look mighty sharp to keep
track o' the pattern in one o' them spreads,"
she resumed, thickly, with her mouth full of
hairpins. "And you git tired all over settin'
workin' the loom. I'm right glad you come
by, so's 1 can rest a bit. My! but you-uns

93

94 Moxtf) (Eatclina Sfeetcjeg

sets a heap o' store by them ivy blossoms,"
said Mrs. Lank, referring to the bunch of
mountain laurel in my hand. "Why, they're
plenty as dirt."

** Yes, but they're so beautiful, " I protested.
"They'd brighten your room wonderfully if
you'd fill that old crock in the corner with
them."

"Lor' me! I ain't got no time for no sich
foolishness," she replied, taking the hairpins
out of her mouth and putting them into her
hair.

Then she asked: "Did you hear about the
row Mr. and Mis' Putty's been havin'? Say
you ain't? Well, it's just a sight the way
them two goes on. Last I heard he done beat
her. / wouldn't stand a beatin' from no
man — no, not if he was a gold man!" said
Mrs. Lank, giving her head a toss that sent
the hairpins flying. "He drinks, but some
allows as he's drove to it by the way she be-
haves. The church members has been
wantin* to have her up before the church, and
now they're all argufying about it. Some on
'em allows if she's let off they'll take their
letters and go over to the Baptists. There's
a heap o' them Methodys, anyway, that ain't
plum sure in their minds as sprinklin's safe.

iBteigpoclB (S^ogsip 95

Some on 'em done told me they git right low
in their minds about it sometimes. They
reckon they'd feel a heap safer if they'd been
soused, but they jined at the big 'tracted
meetin'. There was more'n forty a-mournin'
at onct, and thirty jiners. I never see sich a
sight. Folks got all worked up, cryin' and
goin' on. Miss Brand went up and down,
cryin' and wringin' her hands. 'Peared like
she allowed as everybody but her were goin'
straight to the bad place. She kept a hol-
lerin* for the Lord to save her nevvy, Aleck
Burr. She went and grabbed holt of him,
and tried to drag him to the mourner's bench,
but he dodged, and him and t'other boys he
were with run out, '^' Mrs. Lanks said, laughing.

"Preacher Crosby got mighty worked up,
too, shoutin' louder and louder, till he were
frothin' at the mouth like a dumb critter.
He's a right good man, but some on 'em ain't
got no use for him 'count o' his bein' so down
on liquor and 'stillin'.

They ain't never had another o' them big
'tracted meetin's, and Preacher Crosby allows
as a sight of 'em's fell away from grace since.
Fact is," said she, lowering her voice confi-
dentially, "folks gits tired o' one preacher,
and havin' him jaw at 'em about their sins.

9^ i^ortft OJacoIina Sfeetcfteg

Besides, they grudge payin' Mr. Crosby
seventy-five dollars a year, when they might
get another man for fifty. They reckon he's
too much after the make. That's 'count of
his sayin' no man couldn't rightly study Scrip-
tur' and preach acceptable unto the Lord
when he had to work so hard as he done on
the farm to support his family. His wife's
weakly most times, and two o' their young
ones is puny.

Did you say couldn't we give him more
salary? Well, some o' the church members is
right well-to-do, butthey'se mighty nigh when
it comes to money."

Just then a man with lantern jaws appeared
in the doorway. He stood with gaping mouth,
waiting for Mrs. Lank to ask his errand. He
wanted her husband. She said he was at the
mill, and the man went away.

Mrs. Lank laughed. "I can't never see
Tom Booth," she said, "without thinkin' of
the time t'other fellers put him up to keepin'
company with me. I couldn't abide him, and
they knowed it; but they let on to him like I
were sweet on him. He came up with me,
bold as brass, goin' home from preachin' one
night."

Here Mrs. Lank threw back her head and

laughed so heartily that away flew her hair-
pins, and the second arrangement of her hair
went for naught.

*'When I see it were him, I were mad!" she
resumed. "I says to him: 'If you're bound
to go 'long home with me, Tom Booth, I'll
get Pop to make you a clamp to keep your
mouth shut,' I says. Pop were a blacksmith.

Tom looked like I'd struck him. He never
said a word, but he turned short round and
went after the Dent gals. He done married
one of *em. Him and me was bad friends,
and never spoke for a long time after that.
Afterwards he allowed I'd spoke unthoughted,
and he said he hadn't no grudge agin me.
Nobody ever see him with his mouth shut,
and he snores terrible," said she, smiling.
"Time his sister that lived with him died, him
and Katy was plum wore out takin' care of
her. Me and two other gals offered to set up
all night with the corpse and let them folks
sleep. And you'd oughter heard 'em sleep
One played bass to t'other's trible They
kept us laughin' so we hadn't no trouble
keepin' awake, nor no chance to git skeery.
Lor' me!" said Mrs. Lank, lapsing into a vein
of reminiscence, "that sets me back to when
I were young. Gals is queer. I reckon I

98 iEortf) (Carolina ^kttcf^m

weren't no different from t'others. 'Pears
like I were always laughing at somethin' or
other them days. A body ain't no call to
laugh so much when they get older.

Maybe you wouldn't believe it, but I were
a right good-lookin' gal. I had a sight o'
sweethearts. The fellers all wanted me for
partner at corn-shuckin's. Me and Mr. Haw-
ley was keepin' company when I were seven-
teen," Mrs. Lank added, in a tone which
showed that she expected me to be much
impressed by this bit of information. Mr.
Hawley stood high in the community because
of his worldly success. Morally he was a
miserable failure, however.

Mrs. Lank continued: "My folks wouldn't
give in to our marrying, though. He were
a poor boy then. He got mad and went away
to Georgy. He were the only man I were
ever really in love with. I never see him agin
till he come back here after his second wife
died. I were married myself then, and, any-
ways, he'd got too biggotty for sich as me.

Did you say weren't I in love with my
man when I married him? 'Bout like com-
mon. We get along all right. He were in
love with another gal, too. Her folks
wouldn't hear to their raarryin'; so him an*

i^eigfttoclB (Sfossip 99

me got married to spite our folks," she said,
with a short laugh.

"Yes, there were a chance that we might a
spited ourselves worser, but we're both mighty
easy goin', so we get on together well as
most folks. Land! where's my hairpins
gone to?" Mrs. Lank exclaimed, abruptly,
as she began groping about the dim room in
search of them.

When she had recovered the strays, she sat
down and began upon her hair again.

Presently she said: "I don't guess you
stopped to see old Mr. Mason as you come
along? He's right bad off."

No; I didn't know he was ill," I replied.
Oh, he ain't ill," she returned, hastily.
He's always been right good to his folks,
and a lamb couldn't be patienter nor him
now he's sick. No, he weren't never ill.
He's sufferin' a sight, a kind o' suffocatin*;
can't get his breath. The room's plum full
o* the neighbors settin' round. The doctor
allowed as them that wasn't no help to the
family had oughter go away, so I come home.
He done told 'em they was spoilin' what air
there were to breathe, and the poor old man
couldn't git enough, nohow. Some on 'em
got mad, and for spite they done told Mis*

< (

loo iStortt (JUarolma Sfeetcjes

Mason the doctor said her man were dyin'
right then. The poor thing come outside,
where Mr. Mason couldn't hear her, and she
took on powerful. But I heard what the
doctor said, and it weren't no sich as that. I
done told her so. He said you might as well
give a sick body pisen to drink as to pisen
the only air he's got to breathe. I ain't smart
enough to understand no sich, but I know
he's a right good doctor. Since he come here
folks don't die with the fever like they done
before. "

"Well, did the neighbors go home!" I
asked.

*'Me and some others come away, but a
sight of 'em staid, and I reckon Mis' Mason
and the gals had to cook dinner for 'em,"
Mrs. Lank replied.

"Poor old Mr. Mason has seen a sight o'
worriment, 'long o' bad children and bad
health. Him and her's always been right
steady-goin' and peaceable, but it 'pears like
their boys and gals is always up to some devil-
ment. There's bad stock on the mother's
side. She were one o' them Cole bastards,
and it's comin' out in the children. It's
apt to. Some folks sees a heap o' worriment,
don't they?" said she, putting finishing

iEeigporlj) (Gossip loi

touches to her hair as she sat by the dingy
hearth, which looked as if it had never scraped
acquaintance with a broom. The very fire
seemed to burn dimly in this unkempt room.
Good housekeeping was not one of Mrs.
Lank's virtues, evidently.

"Preacher reckons as them that has it hard
here'll git it made up to 'em in heaven. I
don't know how 'tis," she added, thought-
fully. ''I've studied a heap about it. Now,
there's old Mr. Mason; his two oldest boys
went straight to the bad. They was both
killed in a drunken fight. Many's the time I
see him just a-humpin' to work, and them
boys off on some devilment or other.

They done spoiled 'em when they's little,
for one thing. Preacher Crosby allows as a
little birch-tea's a heap better'n pettin' some-
times. I don't guess he's fur wrong,
neither," she added, readjusting her hairpins.
Mr. Mason set a heap o' store by them boys,
and he ain't never quit grievin' about their
dyin' in their sins. Mis' Mason says he even
talks about it in his sleep. Many's the time
I've heard him say there couldn't be no
heaven for him without them two boys, and
if the Lord 'd let him, he'd go to the bad place
right cheerful, and serve out their time for

I02 laortt (Carolina i^ketci^es

'em, so's they'd be sot free. Them's the
things I just ca7i't see can be made up. Can
you?" she asked, wistfully.

I knew she had similar troubles of her own,
although she had never spoken of them to me.

*'I don't think they can," I replied. "But
why should we believe of our Heavenly Father
what we would not for a moment believe of
our earthly parents? Do you think God
could be less loving and forgiving toward
those two boys than their own father is?"

**I ain't heard tell o' no sich pint o' view,"
said Mrs. Lank, suspiciously, putting up her
hand absently to feel if it was the slipping
of her troublesome back hair that had given
her an unsettled feeling.

At that moment a neighbor hurried in to
say that Mr. Mason was dead, and Mrs.
Mason wanted Mrs. Lank to help to lay him
out.

I gave her my bunch of laurel for the
house of mourning.

As I passed out of that cheerless room into
the sunshine, I could almost imagine the joy
of release to the soul whose troubles we had
just been discussing.

BARTER

BARTER

I

When I gave Mrs. Hapgood a lift in the
buggy because she was carrying a heavy load,
she began at once to tell me her "business to
the settlemint. "

"I toted a big load to the store this
mornin'," said she. "We-uns gathers a sight
of roots and yarbs and other things for barter.
Miss Blane done carried my big sack part way
on her mule, or I wouldn't be gittin' back so
soon."

It was now four o'clock. She had given up
the better part of a day to her business trans-
actions in the way of barter. The subject of
barter interested me greatly. Hearsay had it
that the shopkeepers always came out ahead,
so I liked to hear the other side state the
case. Mrs. Hapgood was garrulous, and I
encouraged her to run on.

"I had other things besides roots and

io6 iaortf) (Eaxolina ^kttcf^tB

yarbs, " she said; "I had a sight of beeswax,
and they pay right smart for that. We-uns
keeps bees. We smoke 'em with sulphur and
kill 'em when we want to take the honey.
We get a heap of wax that way. Yes, I
reckon it's bad killin' of 'em off so; we done
had six stands, and now we ain't got but
two left. Folks* bees always swarm in the
spring, though, and if you watch out sharp
you kin often catch a stray swarm. I worked
a whole day last spring ringin' bells and
things to catch one, and didn't get it after
all. Peter even clomb the tree they was on,
but they up and flew away. We'd have had
a sight of bees by this time if ours hadn't got
burned up when our house were burned.
Peter's father give us two nice stand of bees
in new bee-gums when we was married, and
we had six setting close to the house that day.
Him and me had been over to his Pa's
spending the day. Before we went we
watered out the fire in the fireplace and cov-
ered it up, and we found it just like we left it;
so it weren't f/iaf as sot the fire. We reckoned
it were along of our having the bees so close.
There were a simple feller going about then
as had a powerful big sweet tooth, and folks
allowed as he knowed we was gone, and come

iSarter 107

pesterin' the bees to get some honey. 'Tain't
likely he had any sulphur, and maybe he
tried smokin* 'em with tobacco. That makes
'em plum wild. If they stung him, he'd drop
the fire and run. Like as not that's what he
done, and it ketched in the dry leaves laying
about. It were a dry time. Fire's easy sot,
but it's plum hard to ketch up with when it
gets goin'. Me and Peter see the smoke
when we was comin' home. We allowed it
were some on 'em burnin' brush, and we
wished folks weren't so free to set out fires
such dry times. When we come out into the
clearing and see it were our own house, we
both hollered and took to runnin'. He were
carrying a basket of good things — sassages,
pies, and sich — his Ma done give us. We
never knowed what become of 'em, but we
reckoned the hogs did," she said, laughing.
"I were totin' the baby. I were always right
careful of her. I have to laugh, though,
when I think how I done served her that time.
I see Peter's wagon standin' there, and as
luck would have it, there were straw in the
bottom of it, but it would have been all the
same if it was bare. I up and give the baby
a toss into the wagon as I run by, and never
looked to see what she lit on. All I knowed

io8 iEortf) OTaroU'tta S)fectcf)eis

was that she couldn't get out. The way she
hollered were a caution, though we didn't
take notice to it till afterwards. All him
and me was thinkin' was could we save our
things; but it were too late to get out much.
It were a big loss to young married folks and
mighty disheartenin'.

But we couldn't keep from laughin', after
it were all over, to see that young one. She
were kickin' and squallin , with her fists full
of straw. She kept pokin' it into her eyes
and mouth, and that made her madder than
ever," added Mrs. Hapgood, laughing heartily
at the recollection.

"There's a sight of fires among the mount-
ings. Folks allows as most of 'em's set for
spite by your enemies. What with religion
and politics, a body's like to have a lot of
enemies. If a man's a Dimocrat, and his
house burns down, he allows as the 'Publicans
done it. Same way, if he's a 'Publican, he
allows as the Dimocrats done it. It's just so
about religion, too. If he's a Methody, he
reckons the Baptists done it; if he's a Baptist,
he's plum sure it were the Methodys, or like
as not the Presbytarians, and he won't hear
to nothin' else. Folks is always argyfyin'
and quarrelin' about such as that. Sometimes

ISarter 109

it comes to out-and-out fightin', but most
times it's just meanness. There's seven kind
of Baptists in the mountings, and some on
'em's nigh to a fight every time they come
together.

But when there's a fire, the neighbors all
turn out, enemies or no enemies, and save all
they can. When Mr. Blank's house were
burned, they sot the things out and kept goin'
in for more till he just begged 'em to quit,
fear of the roof fallin' on 'em. A sight of
'em was down on him, too, 'count of his
being a 'Publican. Folks likes to talk,
though; 'pears like a heap of 'em would bust
if they couldn't take the lid off that way some-
times. "

I reminded Mrs. Hapgood that she had not
finished telling me about her trade at the
store.

"Sure enough," she exclaimed, with one of
her ready laughs. "I reckon you think I'm
one of them that don't know enough to put
the lid on when it's off. Peter says my
tongue's a sight when it gets waggin'. What
was it you asked me? Oh, yes; about my
trade at the store. I had a heap of things.
I only got five cents a dozen for my eggs, and
six cents a pound for my butter. It were

no iaortf) Otarolma Sfeetcftes

r

right good, too, but Mr. Sill said it were too
white lookin'. I done sot the cream too nigh
the fire, and that hurt it. Mr. Sill writ down
on a paper all the things I brung. I ain't no
scollard myself. He done counted 'em all up
to make sure it were all right, and told me
what they come to. He asked were I satis-
fied, and I allowed I were bound to be. It
did seem mighty little, though, after the way
I'd worked to get 'em together and the long
ways I'd toted 'em. The fact is, poor folks
ain't got much chance. A body's plum tired
after totin' a load to the store, and they're
willin' to strike most any kind of a bargain to
get shut of it.

Some of 'em takes their children along,
too. It's a sight of worriment; they come
along so slow and pesterin'. The least ones
gets so tired you're bound to have to tote
'em, atop of everything else. I make mine
stay at home. I've brung 'em some candy.
They knowed I would. Here it is; take
some," said Mrs. Hapgood, producing a news-
paper parcel and offering me some of the most
villainously colored cheap candy I had ever
beheld. I declined with thanks, suggesting
at the same time that it should be given to the
children homeopathically.

"Don't nothin' hurt my children," Mrs.
Hapgood replied, with a laugh. "They do
have colic a sight, though. What do I give
'em for the colic, did you say? I give 'em
catnip tea, with a heap of honey, or tree
sugar, one, in it; that's the only way I can git
'em to touch it. It mostly always cures 'em.

Yes, I took in a sight of yarbs to the store.
I disremember 'em all now. We-uns gathers
a heap of 'em on the full of the moon. Folks
allows as that makes 'em better. There was
all kinds of roots, too, the kinds the doctors
use for medicine. There must be a sight of
sickness up North. That's where Mr. Sill
says he sends 'em all. He says the freight
costs a heap, and that's why he don't give no
more for 'em. We-uns used to dig sang, and
get big money for it, but it's nigh about all
dug up round here now.

I were plum loaded down goin' in, but all
I brung back were this bag of flour and what's
in this basket. First-off, there was shoes to
get for me and Janey. She's my biggest one.
I been tellin' her I allowed she'd get a new
dress for sure this lick, but I couldn't make
it out. We-uns has to have coffee and
tobacco. My old man uses a sight o' chewin*
tobacco."

112 iEortf) (Itacolina S>feetcf)e0

"But surely — you don't use tobacco?" I
ventured to remark.

"I dip snuff," said she, producing her snuff-
box. '*Then there's bakin'-powder and
sody, " she continued, examining the contents
of her basket. "Them's molasses in that
there can. This here's a bag of white flour.
That costs a sight, but Peter's a great hand
for sody biscuits. He gets dreadful tired of
cornmeal and buckwheat. I got this piece
of fat meat for him, too, 'cause our hog
meat's give out. That's all I got.

There's one thing I won't 7ieve7' do, and
that is keep a store bill, like a heap of
'em does. You get a book, and the plunder
you fetch and all you buy is sot down
in it. Some of 'em says it works mighty
queer sometimes. Old Mr. Hinkson can't
read nor write, and he done tried it. He can
reckon figgers right smart, though, and he
kept tally on a board right along, and you
never see a man so beat out as he were when
he come to settle. Mr. Sill put on them big
spectacles folks allows he wears to make him
look wise, and studied over his books. Mr.
Hinkson went walkin' round the store,
thinkin' what he'd buy with what were comin'
to him. He'd made a heap of swaps one time

i3arter 113

and another. At last Mr. Sill looked over
his specs, smilin' — he's got right pleasant
ways — and says, 'Well, Mr. Hinkson, you and
nib's nigher square than I allowed we was.
You don't owe me but a nickel.'

My old man were in the store, 'long o'
some others, settin' round the stove. He
said Mr. Hinkson sot right down atop of a
keg o' nails that were standing open, and just
looked at Mr. Sill. He opened his mouth
once or twice like he were goin' to sass him,
but he never said nary a word. After a bit he
got up, and pulled a nickel out of his pocket
and put it on the counter. 'I'll take my
book, Mr. Sill,' he says. Mr. Sill got red in
the face, but he didn't say nothin'. He just
signed the book and give it back, and Mr.
Hinkson walked out of the store, and he ain't j
never done no tradin' there since. '*

'Tain't only the stores that does tradin'
round here. 'Pears like a heap o' the neigh-
bors raises more corn than they need to, else
they wouldn't be tradin' it for whisky like
they do. That's what's keepin' a sight of
*em so poor and no-'count. When once you
begin swappin' corn for whisky, you're gone.
It's like goin' over a precipice. Them that's
goin' down is always catchin' on to things and

114 iStort!) (Earolfna Sfe^tctej^

carryin' 'em along to the bottom. Ain't
nobody as drinks but wants a heap o' t'others
to keep 'em company. 'Pears like it's lone-
some kind of work. That's what's ruinin'
the boys. If they was left to theirselves, they
wouldn't touch a drop of the blamed stuff.
Poor Mis' Jenkins — her as lives across the
Deep Gorge — is seein' a sight of worriment
along of her men folks takin' to drink. The
still's right under 'em. She can't stop 'em
goin' there, nor totin' off the corn crap, but
she 'lows the Lord can; so she's took to
callin' on Him. Folks says she follers 'em
prayin', and she's prayin' for 'em nigh all the
time. She's plum scared lest they die in their
sins. She's always beggin' the Lord to save
their souls. Her least boy's only fourteen;
him she always called her baby. 'Pears like
she cant give in to have him go to the bad
place."

"Does that little boy drink whisky?"
**The neighbors says he's the worst of the
lot, but maybe his mother's prayers'll save
him yet. Just do look at them young ones of
mine!" Mrs. Hapgood exclaimed as we drew
near her house. "Don't they look like a lot
of turkeys roostin' on the fence?"
They did indeed.

13arter 115

"Now watch 'em drap when they see it's
me and a stranger."

Sure enough, they all dropped to cover as
we drove up, but the oldest girl popped up her
head to reply when her mother asked how long
they had been "watchin' out" for her.

*'Nigh about ever since you been gone,"
the girl answered, with a grin; "we-uns ain't
had no dinner. "

"Now just harken to that!" said the mother.
"Tired as I be, I got to go to cookin' victuals
soon as I get home."

She tried to be cross, but she couldn't help
laughing with motherly pride at the row of
dirty faces now peeping through the fence.
The last I saw of her as I drove off she was
bartering painted candy for grimy kisses.

II

The day after my talk with Mrs. Hapgood,
I walked over to the Black Rock to see the
sunset across Deep Gorge.

The path led out upon the brink of a preci-
pice, so steep and sheer that as I looked
into the chasm below I drew back in alarm.
Throwing myself upon the ground, the feel-

ii6 iBtorti^ (H^arolma ^ktttl^t^

ing of fear vanished, and I was soon lost in
contemplation of the glorious scene.

The sun had already dipped to the tops of
the higher mountains, and the valleys and
coves in the gorge before me lay in purpling
shadows. Miles to the south a black cloud
overhung the mountains, the sun raying under
it at many points. Gradually its lower edges
grew ragged, and fringed in sudden showers
to the earth, that tossed it back in rosy mists.

These cloud-fringes separate into forms like
human figures in flowing drapery. Rocking
and swaying, they rise into the higher air
currents. Then, righting themselves, they
form in procession, and leading towards the
setting sun, one figure, more beautiful than
the rest, moves with stately grace at their
head. It was such a vision, and the illusion
so perfect, that as the movements of a be-
lated butterfly near by attracted my attention,
I shuddered to find myself not being wafted
on rosy clouds into opening gates of pearl,
but dangerously near the edge of a preci-
pice.

As I drew back, the butterfly spread his
wings and floated over the chasm. Recalled
to earth, my eye caught sight of a thin column
of smoke curling up from the depths below.

13artcr 117

and out of the growing evening silence leaped
harsh voices, as of men and boys carousing.

I knew then that down among the gathering
shadows was one of the distilleries which work
such ruin.

Presently figures began moving up the steep
path of the opposite declivity. They were in
shadow, but there was still light to betray
the unsteady gait of the climbers, while the
soft air carried but too distinctly the sound
of their discordant voices.

At the top of the ridge a woman's form,
whose attitude puzzled me, was outlined
against the yellow sky. Suddenly I remem-
bered what Mrs. Hapgood had told me of
Mrs. Jenkins and her persistent prayers, and I
knew I was close to the tragedy of a human soul.

She rose from her knees, and turned toward
the west, standing for an instant with clasped
hands uplifted, evidently watching the float-
ing and now fading cloud-shapes. Then her
arms dropped like leaden weights. The next
moment she stepped lightly forward to where
the path emerged, calling out cheerfully,
"That you, boys? Come to supper. The
chores is all done, and I got somethin' good
for you."

For reply I heard foolish laughter, but the

iiS iBtottJ (Carolina S^etcfies

youngest boy went up to his mother and
kissed her.

"She's putting her prayers into execution,"
I said to myself; "she'll save them yet."

The glowing cloud-forms had vanished, but
between her and me hovered the butterfly
over the chasm.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

4('

What with weddin's and baptizin's, I never
see sich doin's, " said Bina Yerkes, bouncing
in upon me one day as I sat peacefully knitting.

"What's gone wrong with you, Bina?" I
asked, laughing, as I caught sight of her
flushed face.

She laughed, too. "Heaps," she replied.
"It's them Jasper gals. They mostly always
rile me up dredful. They come along apiece
o* the way with me just now, and they're just
bound they'll git baptized next month. Why
couldn't they 'a' done it last time? That's
what I want to know. It's just their blamed
contrariness. They don't care how much
work they make for me."

For you!" I exclaimed, in astonishment.
What have you got to do with the Jasper
girls joining the church, Bina?"

"My land! 'tain't their joinin' the church
I care about," she returned; "it's the
washin'."

121

122 iHiortJ atarolina Sfe^tcfieg

She laughed at my puzzled look. "Yes,
the washin','' she said. "Preacher Jenks
lives nigh on to fifteen mile from here, and
it's too fur for him to bring his baptizin'
clothes along. He always stays 'long o' we-
uns, and pop favorin' him in size, he always
borrows his clothes to baptize in. Of course
I have 'em all to wash every time, and branch
mud's mighty hard to wash out. The reason
them Jasper gals didn't jine last time were
that they's bound they'd wait till they could
git white cotton gownds to be baptized in,"
said Bina, in disgust. "Why, they'll show
the very print o' their figgers! 'Tain't 'spec-
table. Decent women folks always wears
black wool gownds pinned down tight to their
stockings. Even then, it makes you feel
right queer to come up out o' the water with
the fellers standin' on the bank sniggerin'.

Shucks! I ain't got no use for no sich as
them Jasper gals, nohow. Anyways, I sha'n't
have to wash their old white gownds, so I
don't care if they git 'em plum full o' branch
mud.

I didn't come in to tell you about them,
though. Their meetin' up with me sort o'
upsot me. Mom says I ain't got no call
to bother my head about 'em, nohow. I

Ef\t atourse of Crue Hobe 123

reckon she's about right. I come from the
weddin'."

As she paused and seemed to expect me to
express surprise, I put as much curiosity as I
well could into the question, '*What wedding?"
I didn't want to spoil Bina's story, but I
had already heard that a young couple among
the summer boarders had decided to have a
quiet wedding in the village church before
leaving the mountain.

"Why, Miss Petersen's, of course," an-
swered Bina. "Her and Mr. Sanders was
married in the church this mornin'. I was
lookin' to see you-uns there. Wasn't you
invited?"

When I admitted that we were not, I saw
that we immediately fell a notch in Bina's
estimation.

"I were," she said, proudly. "Why,
everybody were there ! The Mahones and the
Harts, and Mis' Pratt and her young ones, was
all there. I got my invite 'count o' washin'
for old Mis' Sanders all summer."

The bride's family had had a cottage part
of the summer, and the Mahones had sup-
plied them with chickens, and the Harts with
fruit and vegetables. I believe the Pratts
had sent flowers to dress the church.

124 iBtortS <2^arolma Sfeetcjes

ii I

There were a big talk first-off, " resumed
Bina, *'agin their usin' the church for a wed-
din'. Some on 'em reckoned it weren't right
to open it weekdays, nohow, lest it were for
preachin', or maybe a funeral. Some on
'em's got mighty old-fashioned idees. They
allowed as such goin's on as weddin's wasn't
religion. Mr. Sanders got right mad. He
asked 'em what they done took him and Miss
Petersen for, anyhow. He said if there were
anythin' solemner or more religious nor get-
tin' married, he'd thank 'em to tell him what
it were. That settled it. He's a mighty
nice young man. Him and her's took
right smart interest in the Sunday-school
this summer, and they didn't want to rile
him.

He hired Uncle Lem to haul a sight o'
spruce pine and laurel to trim up the church
with. Uncle Lem allowed as it were a right
smart waste o' money to spend it fixin' up the
church the way they done just for one day,
but Mom told him if they paid him well it
weren't no concern o' his'n. He's own
brother to Mom.

He laughed, and said she were most gen-
erally right, 'specially when she were ridin*
her high horse. That always makes Mom

Cf)e OToursfe of Ccue Hobe 125

mad," said Bina, with a laugh. "He means
when she's tellin' you 'tain't none o' your
business, nohow. She's right apt to say that
when you're tellin' her things about other
folks, and Uncle Lem likes to joke her
about it.

He got paid all right, and you never see
nothin' so pretty as the way the church were
fixed. It were all green branches nigh the
pulpit, with posies stuck in among 'em every-
wheres. And don't you think," said she, wax-
ing enthusiastic, "right over where they stood
when the preacher were a-marryin' 'em were
a big thing — looked like a bell — made out of
daisies and sich. It were all white."

"And what of the bride?" I asked.

"Well, she weren't much pretty to look at,
but I wisht you could 'a' seen her gownd!"
replied Bina. "It were all white silk, and
dragged on the floor away behind her. They
had to lay down things for her to walk over
after all the folks was in. Her neck were all
bare, though. It made me feel right queer,
but some on 'em said they'd seen boarder
ladies dressed that way before. They was
pokin' fun at Uncle Lem. He was allowin',
after we came out, that Miss Petersen's Ma
put sich a sight o' stuff in the skirt o' her

126 iHiortib (Slarolma ^kttcfit^

gownd that there weren't none left for the
waist. Uncle Lem likes his joke.

I see him lookin' mighty sharp at the
bride, like as if he thought that kind of a
gownd right nice. It wouldn't do to tell Aunt
Sally that," she added, laughing outright.
"Old as they be, she's plum jealous o' Uncle
Lem.

But I didn't finish tellin' you about the
bride. She had a long white veil hangin*
down her back that covered her up a little,
and you never see sich gloves as she had on!
They come way up her arms. T'other boarder
young ladies, them as showed folks where to
set, had on same kind. They had white
shoes, too, and white dresses, and bunches o'
flowers in their hands. They looked right
pretty.

Two young men was a-standin' by the door
all the time. One of 'em took folks' tickets,
and t'other kept sweepin' out the mud. It
rained right smart last night. All the
boarder folks come in carriages, but there
were a sight o' mud."

I inquired if there was any music.

*'Yes," was the reply; "a boarder lady done
played a kind of dance tune on the organ for
'em to step to when they was comin* in and

^f)t Qtoux^t of due itobe 127

goin'' out. I ain't right sure I liked that part
in church. "

"Why not, Bina? Don't you think the Lord
likes cheerful music?" I asked.

"Well, Preacher Smith allows as no music but
psalm singin' ain't right, nohow, " she answered.
He can't abide the very name of dancin'."
But they didn't dance at the wedding, did
they?" I inquired.

"Not exactly," replied Bina, slowly; "but
they done kept step to the music, and
Preacher Smith allows as that's nigh about as
bad as dancin'."

I asked if he was at the wedding.

"No, he weren't," Bina answered; "but he
come along by our house one day when Bob
were playin' on a mouth-organ, and Melindy
were a-skippin' about keepin' time to the
music. Lor'! she's sich a little thing she
ain't never heard tell o' dancin', and Mom
was mighty vexed to think he seen her skip-
pin' like that.

He done told Mom it were her duty as a
professor to take that there mouth-organ away
from Bob if he done played them dance tunes
again. And he allowed as no church member
were bringin' up a child the way it ought to
go to let 'em hop and skip to music like Me-

128 iaortj) (B^arolma S^etcjeg

lindy were doin'. Mom, she cried, and Melindy
run and hid. "

"And what of Bob?" I asked, smiling, as I
thought of his gaunt figure and expressionless
face in connection with "dance music."

"Bob didn't say nothin' to the preacher,"
was Bina's reply. "After he were gone,
though, he allowed as it were mighty queer if
the Lord cared what tunes a feller like him
played on a little old mouth-organ, and him
earnin' the money to buy it, too."

I laughed, and Bina, emboldened, went on.
"And Bob said he reckoned the Lord knowed
what he were about. Wasn't it Him as set all
the young critters in the world a-skippin' and
a-playin'? Bob said. And who sot all the
birds a-singin', I'd like to know, and even the
trees a-makin' music every time the wind
blows?" Bina asked, triumphantly.

"Bob says Melindy's only one o' the young
critters, anyhow."

"I quite agree with him," said I, heartily.
"I didn't know Bob was so sensible."

"Lor*! Bob's got a heap o' sense — real
horse sense," answered Bina. "You wouldn't
think it to look at him, though." To which
I gave inward assent, but as I said nothing,
Bina continued:

Ci&e (EoMtst of ^cue ILobe 129

"He's done played a sight o' dance tunes
since then. He reckons if the Lord cares for
music, He likes 'em a heap better'n sich
dawdly old tunes as they puts up at preachin'.
Bob ain't never got religion; he ain't even
sot on the mourners' bench. He's a right
good boy at home, though, and Melindy sets
a heap o' store by him."

Bina watched me silently while I picked up
a dropped stitch in my knitting. Then she
asked, smiling, "Did you hear tell o' Jake
Ham's weddin'?"

"No; was it a fine one?"

"Not much fine," laughed Bina. "Jake's
queer, anyways, and him and Viny Bangs had
been courtin' more'n a year, and t'other day
he allowed as they might as well get married.
So they took hold of hands and started to find
Mr. Spence — he's the justice, you know — to
marry 'em. He weren't at home, and Mis'
Spence told 'em he'd gone to the settlemint;
so Jake and Viny followed him.

Me and the Bent girls was comin' along
the road just as they come up with him. We-
uns just said howdy, and went right on. As
we was passin', we heard Jake tell Mr. Spence,
no, they hadn't time to go along back to his
house, 'cause it were nigh time to hunt the cows.

I30 iBtortf) CO^arolma S^etcjeis

Then Mr. Spence hollered for we-uns to
come back. 'I want you gals for witnesses,'
says he; 'we're goin' to have a weddin'.'

Jake and Viny looked plum foolish standin'
there in the road. We-uns wanted to laugh,
but Mr. Spence pulled off his hat and went
right on marryin' 'em. Jake's awful tall and
thin, and he kept on his hat, and got all sort
o' skeery. He kept crackin' the joints o' his
fingers all the time. Viny's mighty little.
She acted like she wanted to run away before
Mr. Spence got through. They went off
holdin' hands and smilin' for all they's worth,
though. Mr. Spence and me and the Bent
girls was all they was at that weddin', so you
see it weren't much fine. Jake's cousin Lank
Crane's been gettin' married, too."

Why, he's nothing but a boy, ' ' I exclaimed.
Lor'! that's nothin'," said Bina, with a
broad grin. *'He's done married the wid-
der o' Bill Drayton, him as died a while
back."

"She's almost old enough to be his mother,"
said I, indignantly; "and besides, she has a
lot of children."

"Not now she ain't," Bina returned, signi-
ficantly. "She done got her people to take
'em soon as ever Bill died. Bill's folks took

Cje dtoutsf ot Crue Uobe 131

two on 'em. They was right peart young
uns, but she allowed as she couldn't do for
*em, nohow. Bill weren't never no hand to
git along, and they seen hard times, him and
her. When he were gone, she said she'd lived
on the floor o' the cupboard long enough, and
now she were goin* up onto the shelves. So
she done put away the children, and swung a
free foot. Then her and Lank went to
courtin', and now they're married."

Bina got up and changed her seat. She
was quiet a few moments, then she said,
abruptly: "I don't guess you see that young
man Mr. Black's got to run the sawmill?
His name's Thompson, George Washington
Thompson. "

"What a fine-sounding name I" I said, by
way of showing an interest in Bina's new
theme.

"He's a mighty fine young man," she said,
bridling. Glancing up from my knitting, I
surprised her blushing.

"Now, Bina," said I, "you're surely not
going to fall in love with that young man after
telling me you wouldn't leave home for the
best man living?'

"I done done it," she answered, testily.
"Him and me's sweethearts."

132 iRottJ ararolina ^ktUf}t&

"Have you known him long, Bina?" I asked.
She hesitated. "I ain't to say knowed ^im
long," she replied, *'but he's kin to the
Mahones, and they allow as he's a right peart
young man. "

"So there's to be another wedding, is there,
Bina? Well, I hope you'll be happy."

"No fear but what I'll be happy 'long o'
him," she answered, with spirit. Then
glancing at the clock, she jumped up, saying,
"'Tain't that late, is it? I must be goin'.
He allowed he'd quit work early to-day. I
reckon he's waitin' by the branch for me
now," she added, with a bright smile and
heightened color. "Good evenin'. Come
and see us," she said, and was off.

Meeting her a week later, I ventured to
express the hope that the course of true love
was running smoothly in her case.

"Oh, that's all fell through," said Bina,
scornfully. ^'He drinks, and I wouldn't marry
a gold man what drinks. I didn't care
nothin' for him, nohow," she added, sharply,
as she tossed into a laurel bush the bunch of
wild flowers she had been twirling in her hands.
"You can't trust no man," said Bina, dog-
gedly, jerking leaves off the laurel bush and
casting them from her as she spoke.

Ci)e ^ourge of Kxnt llobe 133

I was greatly surprised, but I only said, "So
there'll not be another wedding, after all,
Bina>"

"No, sir!" she returned, emphatically;
"not for him and me. He may go 'long where
he come from, for all me. I ain't goin' to
marry no such low-down, no-'count trash as
him."

HIDING OUT

HIDING OUT

"Marigolds is mighty pretty flowers, and
powerful easy to raise," said Cinthy Ann,
gathering a bunch of them for me while she
talked. "They don't need no boxin', and
horgs won't touch 'em 'count of their bad
smell. Onct I had a dress the very color of
that there one in your hand; it were in war
times. Nigh about all the men folks was hid
out, and — "

"Hid out? What does that mean?" I
interrupted.

"Why, you see we-uns hadn't nary niggers,

and the men folks allowed as they hadn't no

call to fight for 'em to please nobody; so they

lit out and hid where nary side couldn't ketch

em.

"But I don't see what that had to do with
your yellow gown," said I, bewildered.

"Lor' me! that weren't nothing to what
some of 'em had — red and pink and sky-blue,
so's you could see 'em a mile off."

137

13S iBtortS CO^arolina Sfeftcijes

But what for?" I persisted
So's they wouldn't shoot us for men folks.
When they seen 'em, they done shot at the
men what hid out like they was birds. My
old man he done hid out. He were power-
ful fond of me and Jemimy — that's her over
in the lot hoeing corn; she were just a baby
them times."

Looking in the direction indicated by Cinthy
Ann, I saw a lank girl in a pink sunbonnet,
resting on her hoe as she talked to a gawky
youth leaning on the fence.

"Him and her's courtin'," said Cinthy Ann,
with evident pride; "his Pa's mighty well-
to-do."

"And is the young man himself steady and
well-to-do?" I asked.

Bout like common," replied Cinthy Ann.
His Pa won't see 'em want if they git mar-
ried."

I was getting used to this idea that young
couples were to rely upon their parents, and
I made no further comment, and Cinthy Ann
returned to her story.

"Where was I at? Oh, yes; Jemimy were a
baby, and Doniram — that's my old man; his
Ma give him that name for a missionary the
preacher heard tell about. Well, Doniram

JgitJing <©ut 139

said nobody weren't going to git him to no
war to leave we-uns alone ; so he done hid
out. He crept round nights and fotched all
the wood and water for me, and I done cooked
all his victuals and put 'em in the spring-
house, where he could get 'em handy. I
weren't never no great cook, but he said
I done made things real tasty them times.
He kept us in fresh meat, snaring boomers
and birds, and sich, and they was mighty
good eatin'."

'^Weren't you afraid he'd be caught by the
soldiers?" I asked.

"Lor'! it weren't the soldiers we-uns was
afraid of; it were them home guards, they
called theirselves. They staid to home, they
said, to see that other men done their duty
goin' to war; and they was mighty sharp after
them as hid out. It were along of one of
them that Doniram were nigh ketched onct."

"Tell me about it," said I, looking off over
the peaceful landscape, and trying to imagine
how it had seemed when the tragedy of war
overshadowed it.

"One day," said Cinthy Ann, "one of them
home guards come to the house; his name
were Brown, and he lived over to the settle-
mint. None of the men what were hid out

HO iaortlj OTarolina Sfeetcjes

had got took, and Doniram were getting care-
less-like about being seen, and I allowed some
one had told Mr. Brown he were nigh about
home. He done axed me real polite where
was Doniram. Done gone to the mill, I says,
real peart, letting on like I reckoned Mr.
Brown didn't know as he was hid out. He
were a mighty sharp man, and there weren't
much he didn't know, except that / knowed
he'd joined the home guards. I done heard
it that very morning. Miss Plank done told
me, when she come over to borrow some
frivoles to make light bread. Her man were
hid out, and she had on a gown as pink as a
peachblow, and a sunbonnet as green as
a pea pod. She looked for all the world like
a big hollyhock flower walking along upside
down. I done told her so, and she just
perked up her lips that vain. She needn't,
though, for she weren't much to look at, but
her gown were mighty pretty."

"But about Mr. Brown," said I, switching
Cinthy Ann back upon the main track.

" 'Been gone long?' says he, careless-like,"
she resumed. "'Lor' me!' I says, letting on
like I were mad, 'it takes men folks a sight of
time to go to mill. If Doniram would mind the
baby, I'd go there and back while he's think-

Jgitimg (Bnt 141

ing about it. But the minute you ask a man to
tend his own baby you'd think it weren't no
kin to him. Doniram says he'd a heap rather
go to the mill himself than mind this gal,' says
I, laughing, and tossing her up.

'Daddy! daddy!' says she, clapping her
hands and pointing her finger out of the door.

'Where at, honey?' says I, laughing again.
I reckon daddy wants his supper if he's
done come back that quick.' But I tell you
my heart nigh about stood still, for, as I
told you, Doniram was getting careless, and
I allowed that like as not Jemimy had seen
him when she hollered out. I weren't going
to let on to Mr. Brown, though. He didn't
rightly hear what she said first-off, but the
second time she hollered, and while I were
laughing at her, he jumped up so sudden that
he upset his chair.

'Where at. Sissy?' says he; 'where's your
Pa?'

'What's your hurry, Mr. Brown?* says I,
letting on like I hadn't heard him; 'better set
a while and have some supper along with we-
uns when Doniram gets back. I'm going to
have fresh horg meat and sweet 'taters. '

I knowed he were powerful fond of good
victuals, and I'd have cooked everything I

could get my hands on to throw him off the
scent of Doniram.

*'Bleeged to you, Mis' Jones,' says he,
*but Mis' Brown's expecting me home to sup-
per, and I reckon I'd better be going along.'

I 'lowed he had, too, but I didn't say so.

*Come and see us. Mis' Jones,* says he,
and went away.

I peeked out of that there little window,
and when I see he weren't going towards the
settlemint I knowed he were hunting my old
man. I daresn't go out while he were about,
and every noise I heard made me jump. I
kep' a tin pail mighty bright and shiny to hang
out by the door when I knowed it were dan-
gerous for Doniram to come nigh the house,
and I hung that out now. It were getting
along to early candlelight, and I kept think-
ing, 'Suppose he don't see it?' till it 'peared
like I'd have to run out of doors and holler,
or go plum crazy. My folks and Doniram's
had lived nigh neighbors ever since we was
little, and me and him had always set a heap
of store by one another. He'd run and give
me the first bite of the nicest apple he picked
up when he were a boy, and it 'peared like his
pockets was always full of chestnuts and tea-
berries when he come nigh me. If they sent

Jftftitng a^nt 143

one of us on an errand, there weren't no keep-
ing of t'other one back. The folks had to give
in to our going together or go theirselves. I
were sort of skeery going through the woods,
but Doniram always let on like he weren't
afraid of nothing. But I have to laugh when
I think of the day he got took down. We
was walking along chawing apples; Doniram
give his a fling, and grabbed my hand all trem-
bly-like. 'Run, Cinthy Ann, run!' says he;
'it's a bear!'

I hadn't seen nothing, but I were that
scared I never stopped running till we met up
with old Mr. Sikes, stacking straw.

'What's your hurry?' says he; and when
we done told him, he laughed fit to kill hisself.
*Look behind you,' says he. We hadn't
dar'st to before. We felt different now we
was close to Mr. Sikes, so we both turned
round. Then we hollered out and grabbed
Mr. Sikes by the legs.

'Look out, sonny! don't upset me,' he
says to Doniram. 'Ain't cut your wisdom
teeth yet; better look again, so's you'll know
your friends when you see 'em.'

Sure enough! there were Pa's old black
sow trotting after us, watching for more apple-
cores. We felt mighty mean, and we wisht we

144 iEortf) (KaroUna Sfeetcl)e0

dar'st ask Mr. Sikes not to tell, but we
knowed he would, anyway, so we went off
holding hands, and when we was alone, Doni-
ram up and kissed me.

I were thinking of them old times, and I
knowed the lights would go out for me if he
got shot, but I didn't dar'st to cry, lest Mr.
Brown might come back. I done all the
chores I could think of, except chopping some
light wood, but I knowed if Doniram heard
me at that he'd come home sure, for he ain't
like some men; I ain't never had to chop
wood. The baby went to sleep, and I kept
walking about doing little things, but I reckon
I were only making believe do 'em, for my
fists were that tight shut they was all bloody
afterwards where my nails had gouged in, but
I didn't take notice. 'Long towards mid-
night I heard Doniram whistle, and when he
come creeping in through the shed-room, I
cried and cried, and he cried, too, like as if
we'd never stop. 'I were most took that time,
little gal,' he says, 'and I must light out of
this mighty quick.'

I done give him a warm snack, and he
slipt out, and I never set eyes on him for a
whole month. You see, he 'lowed nobody
were about, and he wanted to see me and the

W^m <©ut 145

baby so bad that he were coming right up to
the door when Jemimy called out that time.
He done caught sight of Mr. Brown's back,
and quicker'n a wink he were off again."

Cinthy Ann laughed as she finished her
story. "You see that hill?" she asked.
"Well, Doniram just rolled down it like a log.
*'It's a powerful slick hill, and when he got to
the bottom he hid where no Mr. Brown couldn't
find him. That's the time I got my yaller
gown. One night Doniram says: 'Next week's
your birthday, Cinthy Ann, and I were going
to surprise you with something I bought off a
peddler, but I reckon I'd better give it to you
now, lest I'm drove sudden to hide out for
good. I'll go get it.' When he come back
he brung me a bundle, and I quick tore the
paper off, and there was yards and yards of
yaller print, the very color of marigolds. I
jumped up and give him a kiss; then I
throwed the stuff around me to see how it
would look.

'That's right, Cinthy Ann,' says he, 'make
it into a gown; and if I have to stay hid
out, wear it every time you go anywheres,
so's I '11 know it's you if I'm where I can
sight you. ' And that's what I done, ' ' said she.
"Doniram said he could stand hiding out with

146 laorti^ (K^arolina S^etcfies

t'other fellers so long as he got a sight of that
yaller gown to hearten him up; but when he
didn't see it, he allowed the sun were set for
him that day. He were always powerful soft-
hearted about me, and he ain't got over
it yet."

IN MARIANS GARDEN

IN MARIA'S GARDEN

Maria was generally accepted as an old
maid, but she had had in her youth what she
herself called "a little accident," which some-
what set her apart from that class. It didn't
seem to have affected her later morals, how-
r ever, nor her standing with her neighbors.
The child had lived long enough to leave
her with well-developed maternal instincts,
which made her kindly to all children.

She lived alone on a little hillside farm that
dipped sharply down into a fertile cove,
planted with fruit, now in profitable bearing.
The joy and solace of her life, however, was
her flower garden.

"I'll tell you just how I came to take to a
garden," she explained. "My little Jinny
were powerful fond of posies. It were
a sight to see her runnin' to pick every one
she could get hold of. She were a mighty
peart young one. Just to please her, I brung
in roots of wild flowers and planted 'em where

149

15"^ i^orti) (Q^arclina Sfeetcljes

I knowed she'd see 'em the first minute they
come out. That there big bunch of red lily
roots were one of 'em, and so were that
golden-rod and them wild asters. But, Lor*
me! they done spread all over the place since,
and I ain't never had the heart to thin 'em
out. I pick a sight of 'em for the children
going by to school. I'm right fond of chil-
dren, and I like to please 'em. Flowers
is mighty like folks," she added, laughing;
"if you give some on 'em a inch, they'll
take a ell. And then the actions of some
on 'em! I often laugh all to myself to
see the ways of 'em. There's them white
dahlias, now. Yes, they're plum pretty,
but they're too biggotty for me. They put
me in mind of what a boarder lady told
me. She'd been about a sight, and she
said some place where she were at — I ain't
no scollard, and can't never recollect names
— folks always get married in the morn-
ing, and then they drive all round the set-
tlemint in a fine open wagon for the bride
to show off. She said she were all in white,
sitting up that stiff, with a white veil, and
a wreath of white flowers on her head, and
a big bunch of 'em in her hand. Poor
folks like us-uns they was, she said, and

$n i^aria*0 (JJ^artien 151

there's a sight of mountings there, just like
here.

Now, them white dahlias looks like them
brides to me, and I don't love 'em like I do
some other flowers. Sunflowers, too, has a
way with 'em that folks is like. T'other day
a boarder young lady and her sweetheart come
in to buy some posies. You see, I make right
smart money out of my garden in summer.
Well, that gal were the fondest I ever see of
flowers. She kept running about every which
way, smelling of this and calling him to look
at that. I give her the scissors to cut her
own posies. I didn't allow to run about that
way myself. But it didn't make no differ-
ence to that young man where she were at;
his head were always turned that way, like
she were his sun. He had a yaller straw hat
sot back on his head, and when I see it a-turn-
ing this way and that I says to myself, for all
the world he's just like a big sunflower.

He says, was that all I charged for them
lovely flowers? — them was his words — when he
come to pay, and he give me a dime extra.
Yes, lots of these here things is just herbs.
Folks uses 'em for teas and sich. Some on
'em's right good to smell of, too. There
ain't nary a time, except midwinter, when

152 iRortift CHacolina Sfe^tcjes

I can't find some sort of a posy in my
garden.

Did you say weren't I lonesome in winter?
Yes, I be sometimes, but I have a sight of
work to do. I ain't one of the skeery kind,
and the dogs is right good company. I do
piecework for the neighbors. I put together
three big quilts last winter, and quilted 'em,
too. Then there's my loom. One time and
another I do a sight of weaving, and it keeps
a body busy choppin' enough wood to burn.
I ain't got much time to be lonesome.

But I sot in to tell you how I come to have
such a sight o' flowers. It were along o' the
school teachers. First-off I only had wild
things and marigolds and such. Down to
Jones' Branch there's a mission school for
girls. Right good ladies the teachers is, too,
and they've been mighty kind to poor folks.
I been going, off and on, to their women's
prayer-meetings, so I got to know 'em right
well. It don't hurt nobody to do a little
extra prayin' now and then, and it does we-
uns good to get out and meet the neighbors.
Some of the men folks is down on them
meetings, though. They allow as the wom-
en's getting too many new-fangled notions.
What about, did you say? Why, whisky for

In iHaria'0 ©artien 153

one thing. Women see a sight of sorrow
over the drink, but ain't knowed how to set
about to help theirselves. Another thing is
about eddicating the children. Men folks
allows that what were good enough for them's
good enough for their children. A sight of
*em can't read and write, and they ain't got
no use for schools for the children. They
reckon they get all the eddication they need
workin' the land and such. Taking the inter-
est they do in the neighbors, the teachers
allowed they'd offer some prizes for the best
flower gardens. I ain't in the settlemint, so
I weren't in it; but they knowed me, and
when they had seeds or roots to give away,
they give me some. That sot me to trying to
beat 'em all, prize or no prize, and I done
it. I reckon that were the best kind of a
prize, for folks comes ever so far just to see
my garden.

Yes, them's prize pansies, sure; but it
takes a sight of work to keep 'em that way.
If they're left to theirselves, they run out.
A heap of folks is that way, too. I reckon
that's what ails a sight of poor folks in these
parts. There ain't nobody to take no inter-
est in 'em, and they never go nowheres, and
the children just grows up anyhow. I don't

154 ^ottfi O^arolina Sfeetcjes

reckon as the Lord sets it agin them as hasn't
nary a chance, no more'n He does agin pan-
sies. Yes, I know folks says we-uns might do
better, and so we might. But there's a heap
ain't got no better sense, and so long as they
don't know no better, it's clear they can't
learn. If all your folks drink whisky, you're
pretty nigh plum sure to come to it yourself.
But, mind you, I ain't making excuses for bad
actions. I'm only telling you what I see, and
what I've learnt tending flowers.

A boarder gentleman showed me as there
wouldn't be nary flowers if it weren't for the
bees coming and going all day long. When
I see 'em I allow the strangers coming and
going all summer is like the bees. Poor
folks has a sight to learn, and a heap of it
is bound to go agin 'em. Look at that
bumblebee caught in this here flower," added
Maria, quietly releasing a bee from a snap-
dragon. "That flower ain't got sense enough
to know its best friends; and a sight of folks
is that way, too. A heap of 'em has moved
off the mounting to get away from boarder
folks. Some on 'em acts plum foolish about
it. If their children's up to any devilment,
they lay it on the boarders, when it's all their
own contrariness. No, I can't rightly say as

Jn illaria^s (*5^artien 155

I'm fond of all kinds of flowers. Some on
'em's queer. I plant all the seeds and things
folks gives me, but I don't set no store by
some on 'em. Now, there's them new-fangled
phloxes, all pints and jags. I ain't got no
use for no sich. I'm right fond of marigolds,
though, and I feel like I were hurt myself when
the frost ketches 'em. Yes, you're right, the
mountings is fine, but it don't seem like
they's the same comfort to me that flowers
is. I reckon I'd miss 'em if I was to go 'way
off; leastways, folks says you do. My brother
Abner went to Nebrasky; there weren't nary
one of the children left but him and me.
Ma'd had seven. He got a scollard to write
back to Ma that he'd give a heap to see the
mountings once more before he died. He had
the chills bad out there, and they run him
into a kinsumption. Ma took on powerful
when she heard he were bad off. She wanted
Pa to sell the farm to git money for her to go
to him, but he wouldn't hear to it.

Mr. Walton, what paints picturs, come by
the day Ma got the first letter tellin' how he
were pinin' for the mountings, and she asked
him would he read it to her. When he got
through, she sot pounding back and forth on
that old chair on the doorstep, with her

15^ iEortS (fTarolma ^^utcjes

apron over her head, but he see'd she were
cryin', and he were plum sorry for her. Next
day he come in with a pictur he'd painted
of the mountings, like they look from the
high pasture lot. He asked Ma did she know
what it were, and she allowed as it must be a
dunce as wouldn't know his own mount-
ings anywheres. Well, he said he done painted
'em on purpose for her to send to Abner. She
bust right out cryin', she were so glad. He
done told her he'd wrop it up and back it, for
he reckoned she wouldn't know how. And
he said wouldn't she like to send some flowers,
too, that growed nigh the old house, so she
give him a bunch of chiny pinks. It weren't
much more'n a week when a letter come back
sayin' as Abner were dead, but that it would
have done Ma's heart good to see how happy
that pictur and them flowers made him.
They wasn't hardly ever out of his hands,
the letter said, and they was in 'em when
he died; so they put 'em in his coffin.

Ma weren't never the same after that, and
she and Pa went nigh about the same time.
They's buried over there where you see them
purple asters so thick. My little Jinny's
layin' alongside of 'em.

Ma sot a heap o' store by them chiny

$n iHaria's ©artjen 157

pinks. Her Ma brung the root when her folks
come to the mountings to live. Granny were
plum biggotty. She were always telling
how she weren't brung up to live like we-
uns. Her man died before I were born. I
reckon he weren't no-'count, nohow. He
were always tradin' horses and stock, till
he nigh about traded away everything Ma's
folks had. Granny married him after she
come up here. Ma told us he never said nary
a word when she got goin' on about how she
were brung up. He allowed, maybe, it were
all so, just as she said. He weren't acquainted
with her before she come up here. It made
her right hard to live with, and I used to git
plum tired hearing her brag of the things she
had where she used to live, and I wished
she'd stayed there. But Ma never give her
no disrespect, and she felt right bad when she
died. She planted some of them chiny pinks
on her grave.

Yes, I'm a right good hand at raising
sweet peas. I sell a sight of 'em to the board-
ers. There ain't nary flower 'pears so all
alive to me as sweet peas. They ain't so like
folks as they're like to the birds, though.
A body takes queer notions about flowers,
working so much among 'em as I do and

158 iaortj ararolina Sfeetcfteg

bein' mostly alone. You can't never rightly
tell what it is about a garden that works up
your feelings. Just to look at it in the
mornin' when the dew's sparklin' all over
everything's enough to make a body cry. See
them big yaller and black spiders in that there
web? Well, you just oughter see what that
web's like when the dew's on it. It puts me
in mind of Bible talk about jewels and pearls.
Even them big stiff hollyhocks has trimmin's
on their leaves mornings.

I done sold a sight of roses this summer.
I've got some mighty fine ones. They've
quit bloomin' now, though. But there ain't
nary one I set sich store by as the wild ones.
All them bushes alongside o' that big rock,
with the clematis a-featherin' all over it, is
wild roses. It's just a sight when they're in
bloom. 'Pears like the school children would
go crazy over 'em. It goes agin me to let
*em break the bushes, so I gather a heap of
*em every day and put 'em where they can
help theirselves.

The neighbors think I'm plum foolish to
let such truck as them big elders behind that
rock stay on my place. It ain't only that my
little Jinny were wild after elder-blows that
makes me love 'em. I ain't sure I know just

In iiflan'a'g iS^actien 159

w/iaf 'tis. But, my Lor' ! if you want to see
something pretty, just come here when the
wild roses is out and them elders standing
up behind 'em hanging full of white blossoms.
The least mite of wind sends 'em flying like
feathers over that old brown rock. I take
queer notions sometimes, like they was all
playing together, with the birds joining in.

No, a body can't never tell what 'tis about
a garden that works up their feelin's. I come
out here one mornin' this very summer, when
the dew were a-shinin' on them wild roses,
and morning-glories was bustin' open every-
wheres, and elder-blows a-siftin' like snow all
over that there rock, and before I knowed it
I were settin' down in a heap cryin'!

Some of the boarder folks that come here
has a mighty biggotty way of talkin', so I
can't hardly tell what they're aimin* at; but
I heard one that were lookin' over the fence
at my garden t'other day say somethin' that
kind o' stuck by me. I asked her to say it
over again. It were 'a thing of beauty is a
joy forever.' I've studied over it a sight,
and I reckon it hits that old rock complete.
When the roses and other things is climbing
all over it, you ain't no call to take note of
much else. But when the frost ketches 'em,

i6o iEortf) (Carolina ^feetcftes

they're done for, and pretty soon there's
nothing left but stems. Then it 'pears like
the old rock laughs up into my face, for it's
covered all over, where it ain't mossy, with
the beautifullest red and green galax you
ever see. Colt's-foot, some calls it. It stays
like that all winter. When the sun hits it on
top, it's all shiny, and if you look through it,
it's like lookin' through red winder curtains.
I don't know why, but the snow never lies on
that there rock, and it's a sight of company
to me dark winter days, seein' it all bright,
most like fire. Yes," she added, reflectively,
**a body learns right smart from a garden,
and it works off a sight of nerves."

THE SUMMER IS ENDED

THE SUMMER IS ENDED

A rainy autumn day was drawing to a close
as, tired of indoor occupations, I started for
a walk. All view was shut out by a heavy
fog which swayed and lifted fitfully in the
lessening gusts of wind, but gave no hint of
blue sky or distant mountains beyond. It
was a day to note the things underfoot and
near by, rather than to lift one's eyes to the
hills. The fast-bronzing galax, its lustrous
leaves loaded with moisture, spreads like a
jewelled tapestry upon the ground and rugged
bowlders by the roadside. The great brown
lichens, turning up their olive-green edges in
the dampness, as well as the lesser lichens and
mosses — their neutral tints vivified by the
rain — lend harmony to nature's beautiful
handiwork, with which she so lavishly adorns
her rough-hewn castles. The overhanging
rhododendrons hold their slim green hands
atilt, letting the moisture drip from their tips
upon the galax below. Beneath lies a carpet

163

164 i^orti^ (Ularolina S^etcjes

of leaf-mold, giving off pungent odors as it
soaks up the rain and sends the overflow
trickling down every slant.

Above all droop the brown oaks, clutching
fast their dying leaves, which they mean to
flaunt through the winter in the face of rag-
ing snowstorms, and to rattle like castanets
in the teeth of the wind. The rain fills their
brown hands, spilling over upon their neigh-
bors. It is easy to imagine that you hear
them all laughing together when swept by a
gust of wind.

Except for the busy little snowbirds, there
are no birds to be seen, and no sudden bursts
of song enliven the way. Sometimes a fright-
ened rabbit or chattering squirrel darts across
the road, or a long-legged pig dashes into the
bushes at sight of me; but of human interest
there is none.

Suddenly, at a turn in the road, I heard
quick, splashing footsteps behind me and a
child's laugh. I turned to give greeting to my
fellow-traveller through the fog, and looked
into one of the saddest faces I had ever seen.
It was that of a young woman, a mere girl I
thought her, carrying a child. She was miser-
ably clad for such a day, and the baby's feet
were thrust out bare from under the old shawl

Ei)t Summer is d^n^t^i 165

which she held over the child and herself.
She stopped beside me to shift the child
and a basket she carried to opposite arms.

I asked if she was tired.

"Yes, marm," she replied; 'Tm mighty
tired. I've been up to the settlemint scour-
ing for Mis' Hall; I reckon you know her.
She gives me work once a week, and some
cold pieces to take home; that's what's in my
basket. "

'*Are you a widow?" I asked.

Her face darkened and flushed. '*No, I
ain't no widow. I wisht I was," she added,
bitterly. "I ain't never been married. I met
with a accident."

"You have a dear little baby," I said.

"Yes; she's all the comfort I got. Folks
done turned against me when they found she
were comin'. I tried to drown myself, I were
that miserable, and I tried to get rid of her,
too, poor lamb!" she said, hugging the child
closer. "You wouldn't think it to look at me
now, but I were a right pretty gal, and chock-
full of fun and devilment. I never meant no
harm, though. I run about a sight, and had
lots of sweethearts, but I held my head high,
'cause my folks was mighty well-to-do, and I
wouldn't look at no feller to marry him.

i66 iaortlj Olarolina Sfeetcjes

Granny used to say I'd go through the woods
and pick up a crooked stick at last. I done it.
When Jason Briggs, that all the gals was set
on catchin', come after me, he turned my
head. He could talk that slick you'd believe
every word he said, and think you was goin'
straight to heaven along with him. Many's
the time I've watched a big pink cloud when
the sun were settin', and felt like him and me
was floatin' away on it.

He asked me to marry him first-off. He
said I were the only gal he ever see that he
wanted to marry. He talked like all the rest
of the gals wasn't nowhere alongside of me,
and I believed him. But he said his folks was
plum set against him marryin' at all, so we
must keep quiet till his Pa died. The doctors
allowed he were like to die any minute of heart
complaint, so Jason said. The old man's
living yet," said the girl, with a forced laugh.

"Jason talked like his own folks used him
hard. He allowed if it weren't for me bein'
so good to him and lovin' him so well, he
couldn't stand it nohow, and he'd quit and go
away off West. Some days he talked like he
were goin', anyway, till I'd get plum wild
listenin' to him. I axed him if he were so sot
on goin' why couldn't him and me marry, and

CJe Rummer 10 ([^ntietr 167

me go along; but he always had some good
excuse that I swallowed like it were gospel
truth.

I ain't the only gal that's went wrong, and
I needn't tell you the rest; but when a gal
forgets to hold herself dear, she may be plum
sure the man holds her cheap. That's how it
were with me and Jason. When he found
he'd got me into trouble, he quit comin' nigh
me, and the next I knowed,he'd gone way off,
sure enough. Then I took to crying and cry-
ing night and day, and my folks suspicioned
what was the matter, and turned me off.
I'd have been in a bad fix, if it weren't for
Ma's aunt, old Miss Johnson. She were a
right good old woman, but she were gettin*
puny, and she allowed I'd be a sight of com-
pany if I'd stay with her. Lord knows, I
were glad of a place to go to, and I done
holped her all I could with the work. She
were mighty good and kind to me, and I can't
never forget it. She's dead now. 'Pears
like she knowed the world had all gone black
for me, and when she see me cryin' or goin'
off towards the dam, she'd say somethin'
kind, or she'd reckon she'd take a walk, too,
and she were glad she needn't go alone.
Then she'd think of good things out o' the

i68 iaortj (Eatolina ^ktttf^t^

Bible to tell me, or maybe out of a book she
had called Pilgrim's Progress. She were a
good reader — better'n me, for I were all for
havin' a good time when I went to school.
She weren't no hand to preach nor to scold a
body that's down, but she knowed how to get
your mind off your troubles. I didn't know
then that she'd had a dreadful trouble herself
when she were young. It weren't like mine,
though ; she were too good a woman for that.
When the baby come, she made a sight of
fuss over it. I hated the poor little thing
first-off, but I couldn't keep on doin' it with
a good woman like her lovin* it so. She'd
talk to it like it were to be a great help and
comfort to its Mammy, and grow up a good
girl that no man couldn't ruin. I knowed she
were only talkin' for me to hear, and when I
see she were failin' fast I began to pay heed
to all she said. It's all along of her that I've
tried to live right, and take care of my baby.
She died when Maggie were four months
old," said the girl, bursting into tears; "and
it's the Lord's truth that I ain't got nary a
real friend in the world since. My people live
over to Beech Farms, and they ain't never
give no sign for me to come back home, I'm
sort of scared for Maggie to go among 'em.

Cije Rummer is iil^ntie^ 169

anyway, for fear they'd throw up agin her
what she couldn't help. Aunty Johnson left
me her little place, but it took all the money
she had for her sickness and buryin'. Her
and me workin' together couldn't make
enough out of the old place to keep us
in victuals, and I ain't much strong any
more to work in craps, nohow. Some of
Aunty's folks out West sent her money twice
a year. That's how she got along. I'd be
glad to get more work to do, but some
folks lets on like it would hurt 'em to have
such as me around, and most don't want
to be pestered with a baby. You can't blame
'em, for babies is a sight o' trouble."

"Would none of your neighbors look after
her?"

"I could leave her with old Mis' Peters now
she can walk and talk, for she allowed she'd
take care of her if I'd give her half I earned.
But they do say she were right cruel to her
own young ones, and nobody sha'n't abuse
you, shall they, honey?" she said to the child,
giving it a motherly hug.

"Most of them as has sons," she resumed,
**is afraid to have me comin' to their houses
to work, but they needn't be. I've had
enouQfh of men. I wouldn't look at the best

one ever lived. No, nor I wouldn't believe
he meant honest by me, not even if we was
standin' up before a preacher to be married,"
she added, in a hard tone.

We had been splashing along through the
mud while she was talking, the baby playing
bo-peep with me, or patting and kissing its
mother's face.

"She's a peart one, ain't she?" said the
girl, as the baby clapped its hands and said
"moo!" to a cow by the roadside. "It's
mighty queer sometimes to think she won't
never have no father to see her pretty ways,
or for me to tell about her new tricks when he
come home. It would be that way if I was
a widder woman, I reckon. Only then I'd be
thinkin' how he'd love her, and that maybe
he seen her and me now, though we couldn't
see him. But now my heart's all black and
bitter whenever I think about Jason. He
were the only one I ever loved, you see, and
that makes it worsen Aunty done told me
I must try to forgive him. Maybe I could if
I never see him or heard tell of him. Mis*
Hall done told me this mornin* he were back
again, and courtin' one of the Brown gals.
Nice gals they be, too. When I come up
with you I were thinkin' I could h'/l him

CJe Summec is Cfritticti 171

if I wasn't a coward and afraid I'd get
hung. It's a chance if I don't do it yet.
My heart seems to me them times like
one o' them black hog-wallers. 'Pears like
I were sinkin' in the black mud and couldn't
get out. Then, maybe, Maggie does some-
thin' pretty and cute, and makes me laugh,
and I feel like I were walkin' on God's
earth again. But I can't never tell when I'll
be flounderin' in the waller again. It scares
me to think how easy a body might do a mur-
der them times. Sometimes I think I ousfht
to see Jason and warn him to keep clear of
me, and then I'm afraid I might do it right
then and there. I've studied about it a sight,
and I don't know what I'd ought to do. It's
hard lines for the girl to have all of the cruel
sufferin', and be looked down on by every-
body, and the man go free. 'Pears like he
ain't no worse thought of, and he can marry
most any nice girl he v/ants. I don't know
why I've told you all this," said the girl,
the tears streaming down her cheeks, which
the baby was softly stroking as she snug-
gled closer to her mother, cooing, "Pitty
mammy, don't ee cry."

'*I ain't talked like that to a livin' soul
since Aunty died, and she's been gone

172 iEoitS ataroHna ^feetcftes

more'n a year. I feel like everybody's
hand were agin me, and maybe that makes
me more biggotty. It's easy keepin' 'count
of them as has took notice to her or me
since the baby come. The new doctor were
plum kind to me when she were sick last
summer. I done took her to his office once,
and she taken to him right off, and put out
her tongue so pretty when he said to that he
gave her a pictur to carry home. A body
can't forget them that's kind to 'em when
they're down."

I had been holding my umbrella over her as
we walked, but we were both getting very
wet, and it was time for me to be turning
homeward.

"Have you much farther to go?" I asked,
not liking to leave her unsheltered in the rain.

*'No; that old cabin down in the holler is
where I live. Right here's the bars I go
through, I'd be plum glad if you'd come to
see me sometime when you're passing," she
added, wistfully. "I know nice folks don't
like the name of visiting such as me, though."

Promising to stop for a rest the next time
I came by, I turned to go. Then I remem-
bered that I did not know her name.

"It's Debby Cooper," she said, in reply

Cf)e 5uttitnec is ii?ntjeti 173

to my inquiry. "The baby's called after
Aunty; her name were Margaret, and I call
the baby Maggie. Good evenin'. I wish you
well. It's been a sight o' help to have some-
body to talk to. "

As I walked briskly toward home, trying to
shake off the chill of the dampness, which
seemed to strike through me, I no longer saw
the wondrous tapestry effects, nor any of
Nature's marvels, which had so beguiled me
outward bound. The world that lay about
me seemed wrapped in deadly shades.

A WHITE DAY

A WHITE DAY

I

Silently throughout the damp winter night
the hoarfrost has been at work. Dawn finds
a thick rime upon every lichen that decks the
bare trees, every laurel leaf, every mossy
stone, the bronzed leaves of the galax that
carpets the ground, and upon the very ground
itself.

A white world flashed into radiance when
the sun rose. Sudden mists veiled his face
ere he could undo the frostwork of the night,
and then followed one of those wondrous
"white days," seldom seen but among the
mountains.

Gleaming and sparkling in the hazy light,
the frosty air spreads its white net, and with
silent witchery all things are transformed.

While out for a walk, we laugh to see one
another grown suddenly gray, and hand-in-
hand, like two children, find interest in trifles.

177

17S iBtortJ O^arolma Sketcfies

The clouds of steam rising from the plodding
oxen and falling again in snowy shower upon
their rough coats, as well as the clumsy puppy
fighting frost from his face, offer diversion to
our light mood. We amuse ourselves guessing
the identity of nebulous human forms in frosty
draperies. At sight of a girl with powdered
hair and gleaming garments, haloed with
mist, walking beside a youth thrust into sud-
den dignity by whitened hair and frost toga,
our imaginations take fire.

We behold in them the embodiment of per-
petual youth, with its old, old story, and our
handclasp tightens as they draw near. We
surprise the young lovers, for such they are,
by the warmth of our greeting.

We, too, have dreamed dreams, and memory
is busy with the time when we began to walk
the long path together, our world palpitating
in glowing white.

The girl was Bella Comly, who, having been
to the school at Hinkson's Corner, spoke bet-
ter English and appeared better in conse-
quence. Some sewing she was doing for me
gave us an excuse to stop and talk with her a
few moments.

Having heard of her engagement to Harry
Heath, who was her escort, we had some curi-

a tlMf^iU Bag 179

osity to meet him. He seemed a good fellow,
and they both looked very happy.

Bella said she was coming to see me in an
hour for further directions about the sewing,
so after exchanging a few commonplaces, we
parted.

When she called, the matter of the sewing
was soon dispatched, but I saw from her
manner that she had another errand, which
she found hard to broach. It came out at last
when I spoke of the beauty of the white day.
She exclaimed, with a blush: "It's a white
day for Harry and me, and I want you to
know about it. When you met us on the road,
we had just been to 'Squire Brown's to get
married. "

Laughing at my astonishment, Bella contin-
ued: "I'll tell you how it was. You know
Harry and I both went to Hinkson's to school ;
his folks live over there. They're not so
well-to-do as my people, and my father's been
plum set against my marrying one of that
stock, as he calls it. No matter what good
he heard of Harry, he'd up and say, 'The
stock's there. ' Father's right stubborn, and
I favor him in that. The more he talked
against Harry, the more set I was on having
him. Father allowed there wasn't one of

Harry's folks that had ever amounted to
shucks, and he wouldn't hear to it that Harry
was different. He is, though. He paid his
own way at school, and he's got the farm he's
buying near us part paid for. He owns a yoke
of steers and a wagon and a cow, and he has
'em all paid for.

There wasn't a better boy in school than
Harry; the teachers will all tell you that. He
and I were sweethearts from the start.
Neither of us ever wanted to look at anybody
else, so it wasn't much use trying to part us.
Mother wasn't so set against him as father
was. She couldn't bear to see me feeling
bad, so she's been sort of encouraging us
when father wasn't by. That heartened
Harry to go on getting things and fixing up
his place like we expected to marry; but
father wouldn't give in to it. Harry wanted
me to go off and get married anyway. He
said father'd come round all right when he
found he couldn't help himself. Maybe he
would have, but it seemed like I couldn't
treat father that way. Harry's folks are dif-
ferent. He hasn't any call to go out of his
way to please 'em; but father's always been
good to me, except about this, and I couldn't
go back on him like that.

a 5mt)ite Bay) i8i

Well, Karry got mad at last, and said I
didn't love him. He declared he'd sell out
and go West; he meant it, too. That's three
weeks ago. He said he'd giv^e me just a
month to decide. I told mother, and she
talked to father; but he got angry, and said:
'I wish he would go West; I'll buy his place
myself to get shut of him.'

Mother allowed he'd never give in now.
It made me plum sick; I couldn't sleep, and
I cried every time I thought how awful it
would be when Harry was gone and I'd have
to go by his place and see strangers there.
I couldn't eat, and I couldn't read or sew, or
feel any interest in anything, and poor mother
did nothing but study about me. The house
was like a funeral, but father appeared like he
didn't care.

Then Jenny Anson, who was at Hinkson's
when I was, got worse. You know she died
of the fever yesterday. Mother was over
there a good deal, helping Mrs. Anson, and
when she'd come home she'd tell how Jenny
was like to die, and how bad her folks felt.
Yesterday she came back when father and
I were eating breakfast, and threw herself
into a chair by the fire, and cried and cried,
so she could hardly tell us Jenny was dead.

iS2 iEortt) (fTarolina S^ctci^cs

Father was scared at first, for mother ain't
one of the crying kind of women. He just
smoothed her hair without saying a word, but
the tears were running down his cheeks.
Then he went out to tend the cattle, and
mother and I sat there crying. I wasn't cry-
ing about Jenny, though; I was crying about
Harry and me, and wishing I was dead like
Jenny.

The neighbors came hurrying along to
see Mrs. Anson as soon as they heard Jenny
was dead, and everybody had something to
say to father out there in the yard about how
awful it was for the Ansons to lose their only
girl. Toward night Harry came by with his
team. When I heard his whistle, I went out
to speak to him. I was in hopes he had
come round, and was going to tell me he
wouldn't sell out and go West if father held
out. Mother saw us, and told father he'd
better give in for us to marry, for, like as
not, I'd go the way Jenny did. She allowed
there wasn't anybody so peaked as I was then
that could stand up against anything. Folks
do say Jenny was crossed in love, and that
was why she'd got so puny that she hadn't any
chance against the fever.

Father studied a while. Then he said:

^ ^mf)iU Bap 183

'Mother, I know you're right, but I've stood
out so long that it comes mighty hard for me
to give in for all the neighbors to make talk
about. You can go out this minute, though,
and tell those children I give my consent,
provided they'll go off and get married with-
out saying anything to anybody, and not tell
you or me, either. '

I was feeling pretty bad just then, for
what Harry came to tell me was that Mr.
Bagley had made him an offer for his team
and his cow, and said he must decide about it
in three days. Harry felt bad, too. He
hadn't even got out of the wagon to talk to
me.

When mother came out and told us, 'You
don't mean it, Mother Comly!' he says, and
jumped right out and whirled me round like
we were dancing. Then we ran into the house
and hugged and kissed father till he put his
head down on the table and cried like a baby.

Mother didn't cry, though. She just
laughed, and told Harry to hitch his team to
the fence and stay to supper, and she said for
me to fly round and get it ready, if I knew
whether I was on my head or my heels.

I got my appetite back that minute, and I
put so much on the table the folks poked fun

184 jEortf) Oltacolma SfeetcSes

at me, for I was too flustered to eat, after all.
When I went out M'ith Harry to bid him good
night, he said: 'Get your things together,
little girl, for I'm going to move you into
your own house to-morrow.' That took my
breath away, and I hid my face against his
coat and said it was too soon. Harry only
laughed when he kissed me, and said for me
to meet him at the turn of the branch this
morning at nine o'clock. He said he'd fix it
all right so's we'd be sure to find 'Squire
Brown at home.

Father was out of the way when I started,
but I think mother mistrusted, for I saw tears
in her eyes, though she let on to laugh, and
said what a pretty white day it was. When
I met up with Harry, both of us were white
with frost. He said we looked like we were
in bridal array, sure enough. He made me
stop and listen to the waterfall by the turn of
the branch, because he thought it sounded
like bells. That was when the sun most
shone out and everything looked pinky white.
Harry said he didn't know the world could
be so beautiful. We were so happy coming
along that we laughed at everything and
nothing, and we just loved the white day for
coming for our wedding.

a W!R\jitt Hap 1S5

It didn't take 'Squire Brown long to tie
the knot, as he called it. Mrs. Brown and
Sarah were witnesses.

When we first caught sight of you we
were walking arm in arm, but we felt shy of
your seeing us, so we let go. Then we saw
you holding hands and not minding us, and
wished we hadn't been so silly. But how I
have run on," said she, rising; " I promised
Harry I'd meet him at the store. We need
some oil and flour and things, and he's gone
to get his team. x\fter we do our store
errands, he's going to take me home to see
the folks and get my things, and then we're
going to our own house," Bella said, blush-
ing. "When I get the place tidied up, I
want you should come and see me. Good
by."

The white day held its own to the end.
Toward night the mists, sinking into the
valleys below us, spread out into a billowy
white sea that glowed rose-tinted at sunset.
Like islands the mountain-peaks stand out of
it, glinting in the last rays of the setting
sun.

We, two, who still dream dreams, watch the
scene as the rosy glow changes to the dull
grays and deep purple shades of twilight.

iS6 iEoctft Otarolma Sfe^tcjes

talking the while of other white days of long
ago, till daylight fades.

Then darkness gathers, and there is no light
but the light of stars.

II

" Now came still evening on, and the twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad."

One fine spring day, when nature was smil-
ing into leaf and bud, we went for a long
drive, Karl and I, taking our lunch with us,
and coming home by way of Edgely.

Whole families are abroad, clearing the
land, and the smoke of burning brush veils
the landscape. Everywhere rings upon the
air the stroke of the ax, and we hear on all
sides the thud of falling trees. Girdled long
ago, they stand like grim specters awaiting
their doom.

Ground squirrels dart across the road and
eye us from fresh coverts in the briar-grown
fences. Mountain boomers, playing a furtive
bo-peep as they dodge around tree-trunks,
chatter wildly at the sound of falling trees,
while nesting birds vent their alarm in noisy
restlessness.

a ^mf)ite Bag 1S7

Above the fragrant sassafras, the swamp
maples swing their red tassels in the light
breeze. Stiffly beside them stand the bare
oaks, awaiting their spring robes of pale pink
velvet. At their feet now lie the rustling
brown garments that defied the winter and
struggling through that dusky matting, the
tender green of new galax is crowding aside
the searing red and bronze of its old foliage.

Over all things spreads the spring magic,
into whose net we too are swiftly drawn.
All things are become new. There is no
time, no death, nothing but youth with its
old, old story. It is not we two who shall be
no more when other springs shall ripple upon
the shores of time. We are part and parcel
of this ever-recurring miracle.

Toward noon the stony road, winding down-
ward through dense rhododendrons, brings us
to a stream that is hardly whispering as it runs
away to the sea; yet far above its bed the
telltale banks shout tidings of a recent
destructive freshet; while on the brink the
alders, in fringed weeds bestowed by the
flood, mourn the ruin of their spring costumes.

We camped near the water, building our fire
among stones that but the other day formed
the bed of a rushing torrent. The horse

iS8 iaortf) OTaroKna Sfe^tci^es

munching his corn near by, and the startled
sheep thrusting their heads out of the under-
growth, watching us askance, ready for flight,
added to the charm of the peaceful scene.
It was not peaceful long, however. When the
razor-backed hogs in the surrounding wood
smelled our hot lunch, the clan charged upon
us, putting to flight our peace of mind, and
the timid sheep as well.

We defended our rock table in the sneaking
hope that the next freshet might bear on its
bosom these same razor-backs in its mad rush
through mountain gorges.

On our way home we found ourselves in the
neighborhood of the Heaths, who lived on the
Edgely road. We had not seen them since
the "white day" of their marriage in early
December, so we decided to call upon them.
We found them at work in their garden; and
it was a happy pair of faces that looked up to
welcome us. Harry tied our horse, and took
Karl off to inspect the stock and talk politics,
while Bella and I went toward the house.
We stopped on the way to watch the young
shepherd dog giving wild chase to the chick-
ens.

"It's lucky for Pete the bees haven't got
the spring fever like folks," Bella said, as the

^ S2af)ite Bap 1S9

dog dashed in and out among the beehives.
"Good old fellow, I love him because he's so
fond of Harry." Rushing up to her at this
moment, Pete, on hearing his master's name,
gave her hand a hasty lick and bounded off in
search of him.

Bella laughed happily when she saw him
go, and we went on to the house. It was
simply furnished, but was very neat, and had
an unusual air of comfort.

After displaying with evident pride her
pretty patchwork quilts and home-made de-
vices for the adornment of her house, Bella,
with flushing cheeks, confided to me the new
hope just springing into life in their hearts.

"I'm so glad you came," said she, "for
I want somebody to advise me. This makes
me feel mighty young and ignorant, but I'm
so happy, and I want to do what is right
about taking care of myself. Harry's so glad.
I thought he was as happy as a man could be
before, but he's like a boy over this. He
wants me to pick out names for a girl and a
boy out of the Bible the teachers gave us when
we were married. When I asked why our
names wouldn't do, he said there couldn't be
but one Bella in the world for him, and,"
added Bella, smiling, "I reckon I feel the same

190 iaortS Ol:afolina Sfeetcfjejs

way about his name. There ain't many girls
that have such a good husband as I've got.
I haven't never had to carry water or fetch in
wood, and Harry's more contented at home
than anywhere. Father and mother have come
to like him mighty well, too. Mother says
they're right sorry they were so set against our
marrying."

Later, seeing me look at the books on the
shelf, Bella said, "Harry's a right good
scholar. He reads aloud to me evenings
while I knit or sew. Sometimes we get down
our school-books and hear one another the
old lessons; it's a heap of fun."

Our "men folks" came in just then, Harry
bringing eggs in his hat, and laughing about
our encounter with the razor-backs, of which
Karl was telling him. "But" said he,
"I reckon I've got something to say about
your wanting *em carried off by the next
fresh, for they're my hogs!" At which Bella
laughed merrily. Happy, care-free souls;
they bubbled into laughter at trifles, and
walked with glad, springing steps, good to see.

When we were leaving, we found the fresh
eggs bestowed in our lunch-basket. Harry,
in reply to our protest, said, laughing, "That's
to pay for the way our hogs pestered you."

a OTlSite Dag 191

There were many happenings to prevent
our seeing the Heaths for a long time, but
what we heard of them convinced us their
"white day" held its own.

When the doctor told us of the arrival of
Bella's baby girl, he confided to us the touch-
ing story of Bella lying exhausted after the
baby came, while Harry, beside himself with
alarm, kept kissing her pale face and limp
hands, imploring her not to die and leave
him. Anxious to give Bella the rest she
needed, the doctor finally sent him from the
room. Harry staggered into the next room,
where the sturdy baby was yelling itself into
the color of a boiled lobster. He dropped
into a chair, taking no notice of the child,
much to the disgust of the old women assisting
at its toilet. There he stayed until the doctor
told him he might see Bella again for a few
moments. The loving smile with which she
greeted him relieved his great anxiety.
He told the doctor afterward that he could
hardly keep from laughing when she asked
him if the baby wasn't a beauty. He had
quite forgotten to look at it, but was wise
enough not to tell Bella so. She made a
rapid recovery.

The baby was named Bera, because they

19^ iRortf) (Carolina S^etciie^

found in the Concordance of their Bible that
the name meant gift. Bella said they felt
that the child had come to them as a blessed
gift from heaven.

Three years passed, and just after the birth
of their second child, Harry took the grippe,
and was for a time very ill. His convalesence
was very slow. Every attempt he made dur-
ing the winter to resume his outdoor duties
resulted in a relapse. This brought much
anxiety and extra work upon Bella, who was
by no means strong herself at this time.

Troubles seemed to thicken about them.
Their cow wandered away in a snowstorm,
and was found dead in a ravine, and some of
their razor-backed hogs actually met the fate
we had invoked for their progenitors.

I went one day in the spring to see Bella,
and found poor Harry, wan and weak, alone
with the babies. He said Bella had just gone
on an errand to her mother's. As I was on
horseback, and glad of an excuse for a longer
ride, I decided to follow her. "When I over-
took her, Pete, the dog, was walking deject-
edly beside her, while Bella's eyes were red
with weeping, which broke forth afresh at
sight of me.

I dismounted and tied my horse, and Bella

and I seated ourselves upon a log in the
woods. Pete, edging close to her, nosed
Bella's face and hands, giving vent to his
sympathy in whines and sniffs when her sor-
row overpowered her. Having just seen
Harry, it was easy for me to understand the
wild burst of grief that shook the young wife,
and I could not restrain my own tears as I sat
beside her.

At last she spoke. "I hadn't any real er-
rand to mother's. I just made up one, so I
could get away alone to cry," she said. "My
heart has felt all day like it were bursting,
and I couldn't let Harry know. He spit
blood this morning, a good deal of it, and
I know, by the questions the doctor asked me
when he came, that it means he can't get
well. Harry's got so downhearted about
himself that I have to keep up. He just
clings to me like a child, but the Lord knows
my heart's broken and my courage gone."

She wept bitterly for a while. Then she
said, "We've been so happy; nobody knows
like I do what a good, kind man Harry is. I
can't live without him, I can't, I can*f/' she
cried, throwing her arms above her head and
sobbing violently.

I sat dim-eyed looking at the mountains,

in*

194 ^oxtf) dltarolina Sfeetc!)e0

while Bella's head sank lower till it rested
upon that of the faithful dog. When her sobs
ceased, I thought her asleep from exhaustion.
Save for the sighing of the breeze in the old
spruce pine overhead, or the rustle of a wood
robin among decaying leaves, a deep silence
lay about us. The echoes of more distant
sounds failed to touch consciousness, though
memory might blare them forth later.

Presently Bella raised her head wearily.

You see it's this way with me," she said;

I'm mighty easy disheartened when things
go wrong. I take all the blame to myself,
and get to crying sometimes like I'd never
stop. Then Harry comforts me. He talks
like I made his whole world, and couldn't do
anything very bad anyhow. Before I know
it he has me laughing at some of his jokes, and
I think what a fool I've been, and I love him
better than ever. But oh, my God! how
shall I live without him?"

The shadow of a passing cloud suddenly
darkened the woods. Bella threw back her
head, crying, "Oh, it will be like that when
Harry's gone, all dark. How can I bear it?"
The cloud passed, and again the dancing sun-
beams played about us, but she was uncon-
scious of the change.

a m^i)itt ©ap 195

1 1

The worst of it is, ' ' said she, after a while,

I don't feel to care anything for the chil-
dren, especially the baby ; they just seem to be
taking my time away from Harry. I'm afraid
I shall hate the poor little things when he's
gone."

Alas! the "white day" was drawing to a
close for poor Bella.

After she became quiet, I went on with her
to her mother's, and then back to her own
door. She had bathed her eyes at a spring,
and resumed her usual manner, but she sur-
prised me by the cheerful greeting she gave
Harry. "Look," she cried out, laughingly,
to me, as we drew near the house, "I do be-
lieve Harry and Bera have been sitting in
that doorway ever since I started, just waiting
for me to come home." Harry laughed, too,
and little Bera danced for joy in the light of
her mother's cheerful presence.

"Mother sent you this fresh buttermilk,
Harry; it will do you a sight of good," I heard
Bella say.

As I rode off, Harry was smiling up at her
as she poured the milk into a glass, while
Pete, overjoyed to see them so cheerful, was
jeopardizing the buttermilk by his antics.

It was the last time I saw poor Harry.

196 i^ortt) OTaiolina S^feetcjes

The twilight of their "white day" was a
short one. Ere Bella's eyes had become ac-
customed to its somber hues, swift darkness
gathered; the "white day" had joined the
memory throng, and she was alone, with no
light save the light of stars.

NOW IS THE WINTER OF
OUR DISCONTENT

I-

NOW IS THE WINTER OF
OUR DISCONTENT

Winter was coming on apace. Already the
nights were cold, and hard frosts had shriv-
elled and blackened, as with fire, every tender
growing thing. The rough chestnut-burrs
had opened and fallen at the touch of the
north wind. The squirrels and bluejays had
had out their quarrel over the nuts, and the
jays had flown away southward, leaving the
squirrels in peace with their winter hoard.
The oaks held fast their dry brown leaves,
i that rustled with every breath of air, but

their crop of acorns was scattered on the
I hillsides, and the fattening hogs left long zig-

zag furrows among the dead leaves in their
search for mast.

Every gust of wind sent the fallen leaves
whirling far and wide in mad disorder. They
banked at every obstacle, like drifting snow,

199

200 laortf) (Carolina ^ktttf^t^

and one must wade knee-deep through them
at every turn. There was ice along the edges
of the leaping mountain stream, while the
rising sun surprised a rime of hoar frost upon
the mossy trunks and limbs of the trees these
mornings. As it beaded in the sun's warmth,
the woods glinted, as with the sudden flash
of jewels.

It was a time to look well to the winter's
supply of food and fuel. We, with the pru-
dence born of experience, had done so, but
many of our neighbors were still trusting to
luck to save them from the inevitable. They
depended largely upon their crops of cab-
bages, potatoes, and apples for their living,
and as there were no cellars to the houses,
these must be buried before a hard freeze
destroyed them. In the mean time they were
heaped in the fields, and we could always
feel sure that when winter, after repeated
warnings of his approach, gave us a final grip,
he would still come unawares upon the im-
provident.

Mrs. Hansley came in on an errand one
cold day, and had much to tell of the damage
done by the heavy frost of the previous night.

" 'Pears like some on 'em would learn not
to git ketched this late with their cabbages

i^cito IS tje WRinttx of our HBmonitnt 201

and 'taters not buried, and their apples out,
too," said she; '*but it's that way every
winter. Folks is so unthoughted. They'll
work the whole summer making a crap o* cab-
bages, and then lose 'em all by freezin*.
They can't never believe winter's comin' till
everything they've got is froze stiff. Old
Mr. Moss were runnin' round everywheres
this mornin' tryin' to git somebody to help
him bury his cabbages and 'taters, but the
neighbors is all plum busy with their own
craps. Yesterday he were runnin' about all
the evenin' tryin' to borrow a bushel basket
to tote his 'taters in. 'Pears like him and
his old woman might 'a' toted 'em in buckets
and got 'em all kivered in before night if he'd
staid to home and sot to work at *em. It
were nigh dark when he come back without
ary basket.

A sight of 'em loaded up their wagons
yesterday to haul their cabbages and apples
to Hinkson's to sell. If they hadn't 'em well
kivered in, they're plum froze this mornin'.
I see 'em all goin' down the road a while
back, so I reckon they allow they'll git to
sell *em anyway. Mis' Cooper told me, as
I come along, that she done her best to git
her old man to put more hay and straw in the

202 iEortJ (Carolina Sfeftcjes

wagon to keep things from freezin', but he
allowed it weren't worth while to haul a bite
more'n the critters would eat whilst he's
gone. He ain't forehanded like her. Like
as not his things is all froze in his wagon."

I asked what he would do in that case, if
he failed to sell them.

"Throw 'em all out," Mrs. Hansley
replied. "It wouldn't pay to haul 'em back up
the mounting. A heap of 'em has it to do.
If it comes off steady cold, the neigh-
bors'U have to help old Mr. Moss cut some
wood. He ain't got nary a stick put up.
I see him and Mis* Moss gatherin' brush in
the woods nigh his house every mornin'. It
takes a sight o' time to git enough for a fire,
and it don't last no time, nohow. Most
folks reckon he might 'a' chopped what wood
he needed this summer, when he weren't doin*
nothin' but settin' round the stores and
chawin' tobacco."

"Then who does the field work?" I said.

"She mostly works the crap," said Mrs.
Hansley. "They ain't made nigh enough
corn to see 'em through the winter, and
I see 'em t'other day feedin' of it out to their
hens as has quit layin'. Their old cow's gone
plum dry, and they'll have her to feed, too.

iaoto IS i\)t ^WiinUt of our discontent 203

I axed 'em was they goin' to carry the old
cow over the winter, and they allowed they
was. They ain't got nary stable, and that
poor critter lays out, and goes about bellerin',
huntin' food. A heap of 'em does that way
with their cattle. I'm that sorry for the poor
dumb things goin' round showin' their bones
and huntin' food all winter, I can't hardly
bear it. Cows can't give no milk unless
they're took care of. It don't pay to keep 'em
over winter, but folks goes on doin' it, and
drawin' long faces in the spring about how
poor they be. Same way with them as has
steers and horses. They might get a good
price for 'em in the fall, when the drovers
comes through buyin' up cattle, but no, they
won't sell 'em, though they, maybe, won't
use 'em more'n two or three times all winter.
Two year ago the Jakes done kept a horse
and cow that way over winter. It were
a mighty bad winter, too. The poor things
was that weakly by spring that both on *em
died, and they ain't had money since to buy
no more.

Sich folks draws drefful poor mouths, and
goes about beggin' of them that's forehanded,
and talkin' agin 'em the worst way if they
won't give nor lend 'em nothin'.

204 iEortt Cf^arolma Skkttcf^t^

Old Mr. Cooke just goes for 'em when
they git after him for corn. He allows
as he were humpin' to work in the heat
and cold to make a crap while some on
'em was settin' round the stores or bakin'
their sides by the fire at home. He just
won't lend 'em nary a thing. Some folks
calls him hard names, but he's got his own
family to raise and he works mighty hard."

Mrs. Hansley remarked, as she noticed that
the sky had clouded over: "The sun's
mournin' for somethin'. I reckon we're
goin' to have snow. I d better be goin' along
home. Good evenin'."

After she left, I replenished the wood fires,
and resumed the writing she had interrupted.
I forgot the weather till the fires burned low
again and I felt cold. Then I saw, to my sur-
prise, that the ground was white with snow.
Before dark the wind rose to a gale, and the
snowstorm became a blizzard.

We hugged the fire, thankful for warmth
and shelter, and waked in our comfortable
beds shivering when the wind shook the house
and the trees whipped the roof.

iEoh) 10 tf)e Mimtec of our discontent 205

II

"It's just a sight about them poor Dents,"
said Mrs. Hansley, a few days after the bliz-
zard. "Lucky the neighbors had sent *em
warm clothes and victuals before the big snow-
storm. They liked to perished as it were.
Mis' Dent says she reckons that old blanket
you give her kept the baby from freezin'.
She rolled him up in it, head and all, and
kept him snugged up to her in bed all night.

You never see sich a place for folks to
live in as where they're at. It's easy to say.
Why don't they git out of it? Them poor
things is mighty hard pressed. Mr. Dent is
one o' them kind as luck's always been agin.
Some says he drinks, but I ain't never see
him the worse for liquor. A heap o' them
that talks agin him drinks a sight more nor he
does. He's always kept his family on rented
land, and most times he works it on shares.
Can't neither him nor her, nor none o' them
children, read and write, and folks gits ahead
of him. Lots o' sich as he, when they work
a place on shares, find their own share was
mostly the hard work that went into the
craps." Mrs. Hansley gave a harsh laugh,

2o6 iEortf) (Carolina ^kztcf^t^

adding: "I been there myself. I'd oughter
know. Folks like the Dents get all out o'
heart, and try another farm when they can't
make nothin' for theirselves. That keeps
'em movin', and nobody can't blame 'em.

Work reg'lar, did you say? Him and the
boys is mighty hard workin'. 'Pears like
they'd oughter git along, but she's weakly,
and they got sich a sight o' young ones.
I reckon they can't never git enough victuals
to fill *em plum full, let alone clothes to keep
'em all covered at once.

I had more cornmeal than I were needin',
so I stepped in, as I come by, to leave 'em
some. They was right glad to get it, and
I were right glad I toted it to 'em.

I never see sich a place. The wet o' the
snow were all over the floor yet. You see,
the door's off the hinges, and the windows is
only boarded up loose. The roof ain't tight,
and the chimney smokes.

When they see the storm comin' on bad,
they got in all the wood they could tote, and
made a good fire. They ain't got no stove,
and it takes a right big fire to even touch sich
a place as that. They sot the old table agin
the door, but he allows if the wind blowed it
over onct it done it twenty times in the night,

i^oto IS tf)e W^inttt of our 33iscontent 207

and every time the snow come bouncin' in
like it were bein' throwed, he says. 'Taint no
wonder the place 'pears like it'll never dry out.

Mr. Dent done told the rest of 'em to
warm theirselves by the fire, and git into bed
with their clothes on. They done it, and Mis'
Dent even kept on her sunbon'net. He tucked
'em all in the best he could, and told *em to
lay close and go to sleep, and he'd set up and
keep the fire goin'.

By that time the wind had rose and the
snow come swirlin' in everywheres. I don't
reckon there's a crack that's plum tight in
that old shanty, anyhow. Before mornin'
the beds and the floor was covered with snow.
Mr. Dent had a brush broom, and he kept
a-sweepin' a place in front of the fire with it
all night. That were the best he could do,
for he were nigh to perishin' every time he
quit the fire. I felt mighty bad when Mis'
Dent were tellin' me about it. But, Lor' me!
children's queer," Mrs. Hansley added, smil-
ing. *'While I were standin' at the door, a bird
began chirpin' in a pretty green laurel-bush.
One o' the boys was standin' there, and I says
to him, by way of pleasant talk, that I won-
dered what the birds done the night of the
big storm. He's a right peart young un. He

2o8 ia^ortf) OTaroKna S^etcftes

give a quick look up into my face, and says,
smilin', 'That's what I were thinkin' myself
t'other night, when the snow were drivin'
down on we-uns in bed.' It give me a kind
of a turn to hear him," she said, with her
eyes full of tears. "I kind o' ketched my
breath, and says to myself, like I were
prayin', 'Oh, Lord, I reckon this is one o'
your little ones the Bible talks about.'

But what I came to tell you, 'cause I
knowed you'd be glad to hear it, was that
Mis' Dent done told me they're goin' to move
off the mounting. Mr. Nye's got a right
good house on one o* his farms, and he's
goin' to put 'em into it, and they're goin' to
work for him. He's mighty well-to-do, and
if he takes a real interest in them poor
Dents, it looks like they might get along now.
My! but them old pines is pretty with the
snow shelvin' off 'em that way," said Mrs.
Hansley, changing the subject. "Looks like,
the way the wind blowed, the snow couldn't
'a' stuck to 'em, nohow.

That were a night to remember, and no
mistake. I can't never forget the look o' the
Dents' place. I'm mighty glad they're goin'
to better theirselves," she said, as she went
her way.

SALLY

SALLY

Once upon a time, Henry Holt had been
numbered with the Confederate dead. Dur-
ing the hours of merciful oblivion which
followed the shattering of his right leg, his
comrades, while hastily removing the
wounded from the battlefield, had overlooked
him.

When he awoke to conscious misery, there

lay across his body, like a ghastly nightmare,

the corpse of one of his mates. Filled with

horror at the contact, he tried to throw it off.

His arms still served him, but the effort

to move his legs was torture. He could dimly

I hear distant firing, but the silence round about

I him was like a thick mist. Out of it came

I presently the commotion of struggle, followed

by an unearthly groan. Turning his head,

he saw close upon his left a wounded horse.

One look convinced him that the poor creature

was past help. With numbed hand he drew

I the pistol from the belt of the dead man; the

211

212 iBlortft (Earolina Sfeetcftes

next moment he was left the only living thing
upon that bloody field.

"Poor old nag!" he sighed; "he'd have been
some company in this hell of a place, but a body
couldn't see a dumb critter suffer that way."

Then silence, except for the groans called
forth by his own frantic efforts to get free
from his burden. He fainted and came to
many times before he succeeded. Then he
fainted again when he tried to rise. When
he came to himself he had sense enough to
make a desperate effort to stanch the flow of
blood from his wounded leg. This probably
saved his life.

But we will let him tell his own story:

"I were that weak, for want o' food and
drink and losin' so much blood, that I must
have slep' away a heap of time before I took
notice of a bugle-call and the tramp of men.
Next I heard shovel and pick, and I know'd
they was makin' ready to bury the dead.
Weak and wanderin' in my mind like I were,
that scared me. I put up my arms and tried
to wave 'em, so's they'd see I were alive.
I were too puny to holler. I couldn't see
'em, but it 'peared like I didn't care whether
they was Yanks or our own boys.

The second time I got my arms up I heard

a

allp 213

voices, and then I see two Yankees lookin'
down at me. 'Lord, Jim!' says the tallest
one, 'this here Reb's alive. We must get
him out of this sharp. Looks like he's done
for.' Then I up and fainted again. Next
I knowed I were in the Yanks' field hospital,
and I hadn't but one leg. The doctors
allowed I'd either got to die or lose my leg,
so they cut it off. I didn't know nothing
about it, and when I come to I just felt rested
and comfortable.

Folks was right good to me, but I seed
they was Yankees, and I allowed I were a pris-
oner. And so I were. When I got so's to
be moved they sent me to Camp Chase, Ohio,
and I was a prisoner there nigh about a year.
It weren't no fun, but a body couldn't com-
plain of nothin' but the eatin*. There were
enough of it, sich as it were, but it weren't
what we-uns had been used to. Some of us
got to hankering to bile a pot. One of the
Yankee subs — a mighty pleasant chap he were,
too — heard us talkin' about it, and asked
what it were. We done told him, and the
next day the cook said as he had orders to
let Bill Smedley and me come to the kitchen
and bile a pot. Bill were wounded in the
shoulder and were right puny.

214 i9.orti& CItarolina ^ttUf)t^

We-uns was plum proud, I tell you. They
give us a chunk of fat hog-meat, and while
that were bilin', Bill and me got ready all the
vegetables the cook give us, and then we put
'em all in with the meat. It weren't exactly
like we-uns had at home, for there weren't no
dried green beans, but it were nigh enough.
It smelled so good that Bill and me and t'other
fellers couldn't hardly wait to taste it.

It done us a heap of good to get some-
thin' like home again. After that, Bill and
me used to help a sight in the kitchen, so's
to get the cook to let us bile a pot now and
then. It kind o' kep' us in heart. They
done give us books and papers to read, and
I let on to study over 'em. Them Yanks
was mighty sharp-tongued about them as
couldn't read and write, so I let on like
I could.

One day I were settin' holdin' a book like
I were readin', and a Yankee come along and
give a great screechin' laugh that made me
jump. 'Look here, you fellers!' he calls out,
'Johnny Reb's readin' with his book upside
down!'

They all laughed fit to bust, and I were
mighty mad inside, but I daresn't show it.
I let on like I'd went to sleep while I were

^allp 215

readin', and that's how the book come turned.
After that I were careful to keep the big let-
terin' to the top. There's nothin' a body-
hates like havin' fun poked at 'em.

I hadn't my wooden leg then, and I hadn't
got used to crutches, and I couldn't play
no lively games like the rest. Time hung
heavy first-off, and I set round studyin'
over my troubles a sight. Then I took to
makin' baskets, like we-uns had at home.
I swapped the first ones for tobacco, but
I sold t'others. One way and another I
picked up right smart money. I'd lost so
much blood I were right white-lookin', and
havin' but one leg, everybody were sorry for
me ; so I got more accommodation than some.

I allowed there wouldn't nary a gal look
at me, 'count of my wooden leg, when I came
home. But, Lor' me! I needed two legs first-
off to git away from 'em. Gals is plum curi-
ous creeturs. I were always kind of shy,
and after a bit most of 'em quit follerin' me
round, and I were right glad of it.

My Sally always gits mad when I say she
done the courtin', but it's nigh the truth.
I were nothin' but a boy when I jined the
army. I never did rightly know what the
war were about. Most of 'em allowed it were

2i6 iEortfj Olarclina ^kctc^es

for the niggers. I never sot no store by 'em,
nohow, so that weren't what got me. It
were the band, and the shck things the re-
cruitin' officers told us. I reckoned it were
mighty fine to go marchin' round to music,
so I jined.

I were away two years, but I felt like
I were ten years older when I come back.
I were mighty downhearted first-off. You
see, if a feller's been used to tearing round
on two good legs all his life, it ain't easy to
give in to crutches. No matter how kind
t'other fellers mean to be, they can't help
leavin' you out of everythin'. Why, when
the fires used to get out I were always
amongst the first to run, and I could work all
day with the best.

Right after I got back, them lazy Kators,
down in the holler, let their fires git out. The
flames come licking up the side of the mount-
ing like it were a flume. I seen 'em among
the first, and started to run. Down I fell
flat, and two fellers stopped and set me up
again. I says to 'em: 'Go on, boys, for
God's sake! Don't mind about me.' When
they was clean out of sight, I laid flat on my
face on the ground and cried like a baby.

That's where my Sally comes in. She

^allg 217

come running along to the fire — she's that
big and hefty now it makes a body laugh to
think of her runnin', but she weren't that way
then. There weren't another girl anywheres
went trippin' about so light. I didn't hear
her comin', 'count of the roarin' of the fire
and the racket the boys was makin'. I weren't
noways particular about cryin' soft, for I reck-
oned there weren't no one nigh enough to
hear. I were too disheartened to care much,
anyway.

First I knowed, an angel flopped down
beside me — leastwise, that's what I thought
then — and had my head on her lap. Then
she were a-cryin', too, and for about a minute
we was both too fur gone to speak. It were
Sally. 'Why, Henry,' she says, sobbing, 'I
never knowed you felt that bad about losing
your leg. You always let on to be so kind of
biggotty that we-uns allowed you was just
proud of it. '

'Oh, Lord, Sally! I ain't proud of nothin'.
I'm miserable,' I groaned. Then I rolled
my head up in her apron and cried out loud.
Sally couldn't hardly get a corner to wipe her
own eyes on.

After we was married, she owned up that
she done hid that apron and let on to her

2i8 iaort^ (Carolina S)'kttti)t&

folks like it were lost. She hadn't the heart
to wash the tears out of it. For all I know
she'sgot it yet. Sally's right romantic. After
a bit we both felt better, and I sat up beside
her, feeling kind of foolish. She looked at me
and then she put her arms round my neck and
kissed me.

'What do you mean by that, Sally?' I
says, fer it kind o' scared me. Her face got
red as fire, but she spoke up brave, 'It means
that I love you, Henry,' she said.

You might have knocked me over with a
rye straw. 'You don't mean you'd marry a
poor cripple like me, Sally?' I says, catching
my breath.

'Yes, I do, Henry,' she says, bursting into
tears.

Then it were my turn to comfort her, and
it's been turn and turn about between us ever
since. Luck's been agin us sometimes, but
in the long run Sally and me's had things as
comfortable as most.

When we was about to get married she
allowed, seeing as I weren't no great on
walkin* any more, we'd better live where we
could see the mountings easy. 'Coves is good
fer them as can climb,' says Sally, 'I've
clomb out of 'em all my life, and thought

<Sang 2^

nothin' of it, bein' so spry; but it's different
with you, Henry. You'll want to see the
mountings many's the time, to hearten you
up.* I allowed as I wouldn't never need
nothin' but her for that, but she only laughed.
Sally's got a heap o' horse sense. 'Life's
all ups and downs,' she says, 'and when
you're down it's best to be livin' atop of the
mountings, and not be in a cove, with 'em
sort of on top of you.'

I hadn't never told nobody but her about
the money I done saved up. It were enough
to give us a start. We bought a rough piece
of land, where there were a good spring, and
her and me sot in to clear it. The neighbors
poked fun at Sally for doin' it before we was
married, but she allowed she knowed her own
business.

When we got ready to build a little log
house, the neighbors come forward mighty
kind, and holped us. It weren't much of a
house, but it were tight and snug, and there
were a grand fireplace and chimney. We
liked it splendid.

Sally knowed how to turn a place into a
home along with the best, and she done it
from the start. Folks used to come in won-
derin' how it were that our place were a heap

220 iEort^ CItarolina S^etrjes

snugger than theirn. It were all Sally's
contrivin'. She sot the house the way she
wanted it, too. We hadn't no money to buy
glass lights for winders, but she had a big one
cut out front and back, and put shutters on
'em for bad weather.

From the front winder and the door you
could look way off over the mountings. You
could see Hawk's Bill and Table Rock, like
they was close by, and Grandfather Mounting,
too; and clear days there were Roan and a
sight of others standin' up against the sky.
They was a heap of company, just like Sally
said.

The Bible talks about mountings leapin'
and singin', and I reckon there's somethin' in
it. They always seem to be doin' somethin'
different. When it's rainin' over there it's
clearin' over here, and if you turn your back,
it's like a spry gal that's changed her gown
all in a minute. You can't never say just
what the mountings is like, for before you git
the words out, it's all different."

*'But the winters must be dreary, ar'n't
they?"

"Yes, we have pretty bad winters up here
mostly, and I'm apt to get low in my mind
along towards the last. I reckon that's why

Sails 221

Sally's always watchin' out for the first turn
of spring. First I know, when I'm settin'
over the fire studyin', I hear her at the door
callin' me to come out, she's got somethin' to
show me. She's seen the spring beginnin' to
work down in the valleys. She shows me
them bright green spots here and there, and
afterwards I keep watch of 'em. First-off,
they're clean down in the coves. Then the
green comes creepin', creepin' up the mount-
ing, while the snow's still layin' all round we-
uns up here. On it comes, and before you
know where you're at the snow's gone and the
spring is busting all over the mounting, like
folks laughin' out loud. 'Didn't I tell you
so?' Sally says every time, and it does a body
good to hear her laugh. 'There can't no win-
ter last forever,' she always says, but 'pears
to me like it could. If it weren't for Sally
heartenin* me up so, I reckon I'd shrivel up
plum silly with the cold.

I ain't never been right stout since I lost
my leg. You wouldn't believe it, but that
very leg aches me so with the rheumatiz when
the weather's cold that it's all I can do to
bear it. If it weren't for Sally, I'd have give
out long ago.

We had six children. Two of 'em's buried,

22 2 i^orti^ (Carolina Sf'^tUf^t^

but t'others was likely young ones. They're
all married and gone now. Sally and me has
the old house to ourselves mostly, except
when our children's young ones come to stay
with us. They're right fond of granny and
me. Sally's always a-laughin', and that makes
the young ones laugh, too.

It's been hard work scratchin' along some-
times, but she weren't never the one to give
in, and we pulled through somehow. Folks
calls us the 'old folks,* but Sally and me
don't never feel old, and we don't allow to
neither, not if we live to be a hundred."

Since Henry told his story he and his Sally
have gone to that bourne whose prospective
charms were nulled for him by Bible testimony
that there was no marrying nor giving in mar-
riage there.

He said he had ''studied a heap" over that,
and there couldn't be any heaven for him
where he and Sally weren't going to be hus-
band and wife.

Seeing how many wives some men had, he
*'allowed as things was mighty mixed, any-
way," and it troubled him to the end.

Not so Sally. She was content to take it
all on trust.

OLD TIMES

OLD TIMES

Having heard that old Mrs. Yerkes was at
variance with the Scripture doctrine about
entertaining strangers, I made my first call
upon her with diffidence. As she laid aside
her pipe at my approach, and asked me to
"take a cheer," I hoped she had modified her
point of view, and regarded me in the light
of a possible angel unawares.

The neighbors said everything depended
upon her likes and dislikes. They were
pretty sure to add that she was "right
changeable and mighty apt to turn agin a body
next time," no matter how pleasant she had
been at first. She evidently liked me this time,
and much to my satisfaction, she was in a very
talkative mood, so I made the most of the
occasion.

Before she got started talking, however,
she spent some time arranging her fire. It
was made upon a plan quite new to me. The
ends of two fence rails were thrust into the

225

226 i^orti) ararolma Sketches

bed of glowing coals on the hearth, while
their lengths lay stretched across the floor of
the cabin. As they burned, she kicked or
pushed them farther in.

"Old bones is cold bones," said she. "A
body's bound to keep warm somehow.
Sophrony's boys allows they tote a sight o*
wood for me, but it ain't enough to keep a
chicken warm," the old woman added, scorn-
fully. "Young folks is mighty unthoughted
about doin' for old folks. Sophrony's man
hates it that bad my takin' the fence-rails
that he's always jawin' about it. He don't
say nothin' to me, though. He knows better.
This here's my farm, and when I give in to
their comin' onto it and puttin' up a house
for theirselves I were sharp enough to have
writin's drawed up." She laughed. "It's
in them writin's as I'm to have all the wood
I want to burn. I weren't goin' to have no-
body tellin' me how much wood I needed.
That's the way her folks done served old
Mis' Grove. She allowed they reckoned as
one stick a day were all she needed most
times.

It don't hurt Sophrony's man none to take
a spell at choppin' now and then. He's
gettin' too fat," she added, laughing. "Hog-

<©ltJ Cimej3 227

meat and buckwheat cakes, with a sight o'
them molasses on 'em's right fattenin', let
alone the way he sets round the stores and
to home doin' nothin*. It would do a sight
o' men good if they had to work the way folks
done when my Pa and Ma come to the mount-
ings. I don't reckon none on 'em was much
fat them times. Everyways they turned they
had to work mighty hard. I never see one
o' them nice clearin's, where there ain't no
stumps, and the crap or the grass grows so
pretty, but I think o' the hard work them first
settlers put into it first-off. I reckon there
ain't no harder way o' puttin' in a day's work
than grubbin'. 'Pears like some roots knows
what you're doin' to 'em, and holds onto the
ground to spite you.

My folks come up here from Virginny. It
were gettin' too thick settled there for my
Pa. So far as that goes, my Ma were about
as bad as him. Neither one of 'em wanted
to stay where folks was gettin* biggotty. . Ma
were alive when the boarder folks first came
up here. Soon as she sot eyes on 'em, she
allowed as they'd spile the whole country,
and she were for movin' right off the mount-
ing somewheres. Wouldn't none o' we-uns
hear to it, though.

228 ^otti) (Eacolina S^kttci^tB

When her and Pa came up here it were all
so wild that she had to learn to use a gun,
just like the men folks. The woods was pow-
erful thick, except in spots where fire'd got
out. There weren't no real clearin's.

The folks that come to the mountings first
hadn't never come so high up. They'd took
up the bottom lands in the valleys, and
worked 'em till they was drove off by the
Indians. That were long before my folks
come here."

"Then your folks have not been here many
years, I suppose?"

"Yes, they was among the first that came
clean up on the mountings. Bears was that
plenty then they was meetin' up with 'em
everywheres. Some on 'em wouldn't harm
nobody, unless you pestered 'em, but folks had
to watch out for their hogs. Hogs is mostly
right onhandy to catch, but bears is a heap
smarter than they be. Ma allowed they liked
fresh meat splendid, the way the hogs went
sometimes.

She'd say we-uns didn't know nothin' about
the bother o' gettin' along, 'count o' there
bein' nothin' to pester the hogs and cattle
when we turned 'em loose.

Ma'd tell how pretty it were to see the

a^Vti Cimes 22(

young bears playin' together when they
allowed nobody were nigh, but it were a
sight the way the old she ones fit when they
had cubs. They done killed some o' the first
settlers." She paused to rearrange the fire.
As I saw the rails growing visibly shorter,
I speculated on the number of panels which
would soon be missing from the nearest snake-
fence if "Sophrony's man" didn't bestir him-
self to do that "chopping. "

"The worst of rails," said the old woman,
"is they're chestnut. There ain't no wood
worse for snappin', and it beats everything
for worms. The frost gets into the worm-
holes in winter, and when you go to burn it,
it goes off like a gun sometimes. No, 'tain't
right safe. I wisht I had some good mahog-
any or oak wood, but a body's got to do the
best they can. Them big laurels is mighty
fine to burn, but Sophrony takes all they bring
in for her cook-stove."

While she was fixing the fire, I had been
noting many things of interest in the window-
less room. There was neither carpet nor mat
on the floor, but the bed in the corner was
covered with a homespun spread of red,
white, and blue. It was quite a beauty, and
the old woman told me with pride that she

230 iBtortf) (Itarolma Skctdjes

had woven it herself soon after her marriage.
Some of the straight-backed, splint bottomed
chairs had chintz covered cushions, which
struck me as an unusual concession to com-
fort.

Strings of dried apples and small red pep-
pers, interspersed with bunches of herbs and
sage, came out fitfully in patches of harmoni-
ous color against the smoke darkened walls
and beams, as the fire rose to a flame. When
it died down again they fell back into obscu-
rity, like the paling of stained glass in waning
daylight.

"What were I tellin' you about — bears?"
asked the old woman, after she had returned
to her chair in the chimney-corner. "Well,"
she resumed, "first-off there weren't no doors
to the houses. It were all the men folks could
do to git up a log cabin with a stone chimbley.
There weren't no sawmills, and they had to
hew everythin' out with axes, except what
little they could do with a hand saw. Them
hand-made shingles wore splendid, but they
curled up powerful in a dry spell, and was
mighty apt to leak bad.

The chimbleys smoked right bad, too,
mostly. They hadn't nothin' but mud mortar
to lay 'em up with, and it fell out a sight after

<©lti Ci'tnes 231

they got het up. It worked out in wet weather,
too. Cold nights they'd hang a quilt, and
most generally they sot saplin's acrost the
doorwav.

My hair always riz on my head, when I were
little, when Ma'd git to tellin* how foxes and
sich come in in the night. But I declare to
goodness it were nigh to drappin' out when
she'd tell how the bear come in.

Ma were layin' awake, and she heard him
sniffin' round the door. Then he done pushed
agin the saplin's, and down they went. That
woke up Pa; didn't nobody sleep right sound
them times, I reckon. He whispered for Ma
to lay still. Then he reached for his gun,
and when the bear got 'twixt him and the fire
he done shot it. Pa were a mighty good shot.
That bear never pestered 'em no more after
the first fire. They had bear's meat a-plenty
and to spare, and a big fur to keep 'em warm.
Pa allowed it were time to get up some kind
of a door after that, though. Ma hadn't no
kind o' use for no new-fangled idees, and
when she'd tell that story after she got old,
she'd say she reckoned if it were now, she'd
have been biggotty enough to put that big
bearskin down on the floor for folks to walk
on. She despised the very name of a carpet.

232 i^ortf) (Itarolina S^etcfies

She allowed as a good plank floor she could
scour were good enough for her. And how
Ma could scour a floor, when onct she got at
it! She'd begin by twisting up her hair into a
tight knot on top of her head, and pinnin'
her gownd up to her knees. Ma had right
pretty red hair when we-uns was little, and a
sight of it, too, and a nice pink color in her
cheeks.

After she'd got her gownd up out o' the
way, she'd set all the chairs out o' doors, and
by that time we-uns knowed what were comin'.
Ma \vere right easy riled, and when she were
busy we knowed better than to pester her.

If she felt right good, she'd let we-uns
throw the sand all over the floor before she
began to scour. We liked that part splendid.
Most times she drove us off, though. Chil-
dren's all alike, and bound to git to cuttin' up
shines.

The best fun were seein' Ma put soft soap
all round atop o' the sand till the floor were
right slick with it. We-uns used to peek in
the door, wishin' she'd let us slide round in it
with our bare feet. I can feel the very way
my toes kept wigglin' when I were wantin' to
slide. When Ma weren't looking, we'd poke
our feet into soft soap nigh the door, but

a^lti Ci'mes 233

most like she'd git after us with a switch and
run us off. After she'd begin to scour with
that big hickory broom, and to sling water all
about, we-uns knowed what to expect if we
didn't clear out.

When I see her sweepin' the water out o'
the door, I were always wishin' I were growed
up, so's I could scour floors. I ain't found it
sich a sight o' fun, though," laughed Mrs.
Yerkes.

After readjusting the burning rails in the
fire, she said: "There was a heap o' wild crit-
ters besides bears goin' about when my folks
come up here. There was wild cats and
painters, and a body had a right to be afraid
of 'em both. The men folks done shot a
sight of 'em.

Deer was mighty plenty, too. They give
Ma a big scare one night. All the neighbors
had been grubbin' out roots all day. They
was mostly them big ivy roots, mighty hard
to git out, and hard to get shut of after you
git 'em out. They make a right good fire,
but they was too far from home for the men
folks to tote 'em in; so they allowed they'd
better pile *em up in the clearin' and burn
*em 'long o' the brush. There ain't no puttin'
of 'em out when onct they git afire, but the

234 i^ortf) CItaroli'na S^etci^es

men folks throwed dirt over 'em when they
quit work, 'count o' the wind risin' long
towards night.

It were below our house, and before bed-
time Ma'd got scarey about the fire gettin*
out. Pa reckoned there weren't no sort o'
danger, but nothin' wouldn't do Ma but that
they'd take their guns and go down there and
see for theirselves.

The fires was all right, just showin' like red
and yaller lamps; but Ma see somethin' queer.
She grabbed holt of Pa, and says, all shaky:
'Look at them big eyes nigh that farthest
brush-heap, Jedediah. It's the bad man his-
self! O Lord, save us!' says she, drappin*
on her knees and pullin' him down 'longside
of her. 'There's more'n one of 'em; there's
a sight of 'em!' she says, beginnin' to cry.
Sure enough, there was big eyes a-shinin' out
o' the night all round them fires. By that
time. Pa knowed what they be, and he up with
his gun and fired. He done shot a big buck,
but all the rest run off at the noise of the gun.
Ma allowed she couldn't never forget the trip-
trip o* the feet o' them deer goin' downhill
in the night. 'Pears like sich wild critters
is right curious about what folks is doin',"
said Mrs. Yerkes. "They'll wait till the men

a^lti Cime0 235

quit work, and then steal into the clearin's
to see; specially when there's fires like that
night," she added.

"There was Indians round, too, when my
folks come up here. They wasn't to say wild
Indians. They was right peaceable. They
mostly come up here to hunt and fish. There
were right smart o' trout in the rivers them
days. The sawmills has killed 'em out a
sight, though. Them Indians lived way off.
They'd bring up baskets and sich they made
theirselves and trade 'em for victuals and
things the folks up here had. Ma said the
worst she had agin 'em was their not wearin'
more clothes when they went huntin' in warm
weather. They never took notice who seen
'em, and Ma allowed they didn't know no
better. She reckoned they felt as biggotty
with just a string tied round their waists as
she done when she got on a new wove
gownd.

Folks done all their own spinnin' and
weavin' in old times. Yes, and dyein*, too.
Ma had the best indigo-blue dye-pot in the
settlemint. The neighbors was always
pesterin' her to lend it to *em.

There weren't no print gownds, unless a
peddler brung up the stuff, or some o* the

236 JLortf) (!!:arolina Sketci^es

men folks went clear way off to a big settle-
mint, and come back with a pack o' store
goods on their backs. Ma said there weren't
no roads them times, only wood roads and
trails, and the women folks was that oneasy
about the men losin' their way while they was
gone that they was willin' to do without store
goods. Seein' how easy got most things is
now, it's hard to believe how folks had to
git along in old times.

To her dyin' day Ma always allowed they
was a heap better off then than they be now.
She reckoned as every new-fangled thing they
got were somethin' more to take care of;
just pilin' up worriments, she called it.

Pa nor her, neither one, didn't take no
stock in eddicatin' children. They allowed
as young ones was a sight better behaved
when they hadn't no book learnin'. Did
you say eddication ought to make 'em man-
nerly? I don't reckon it's the book learnin'
that spiles their manners; it's runnin' with
bad children. There's a right smart o' that
kind in school and everywheres. Them as
can read and write gits a heap o' comfort out
of it. I give every one o' my children a right
good chance o' schoolin'," Mrs. Yerkes said,
getting up to attend to the fire.

(©Iti Cimes 237

"Was you askin' me what come o* Ma's old
loom?" she said, as she sat down again. ''It
got bust up long ago, but that's her spinnin'-
wheel settin' there in the corner. Some board-
er women come here tryin' to buy it. I axed
'em what they allowed to do with it. They
done said they wanted it to put in their par-
lor to look at. I reckoned I'd keep it to look
at myself. I weren't so struck on it when
I were young, though, and Ma'd set me to
work at it. Children was raised to work them
days. I can hear Ma now sayin', 'If you-uns
don't quit your foolin', and git to work, I'll
know the reason mighty quick!' When there
weren't nothin' else to do, she kept us knittin'
stockin's and mittens.

The boarders is mighty pesterin'. I dunno
how many of 'em's been after me to sell *em
that there bedspread, and maybe you
wouldn't believe it, but some on 'em come in
yesterday wantin' to buy that cupboard in the
corner!" she exclaimed, in disgust. "I don't
reckon they'll come again. I got right mad
at 'em. My old man made that cupboard
out of a big wild cherry-tree he done cut
down and sawed up his own self when we was
first married. He done all the work on it
evenin's, too, so I seen him puttin' every

23^ i^orti dllarcilma S^etcfies

stick of it together. Time enough when I'm
dead and gone for folks to be comin' after
my things," said Mrs. Yerkes, giving the
rails an extra hard push that sent the flames
dancing up the chimney. A sudden transfor-
mation was wrought in the simple room, as
new form and color took shape in the flashing
light.

**My old man made that set o* drawers
you're lookin' at, too, and like as not some
o' the boarders'll be wantin' to buy them
next," she snapped.

*' 'Pears like some on 'em allows as money'll
buy anythin'. They'll find out different if
they come pesterin' me much more.

Did you say would I show you some o' Ma's
weavin's? S'pose I'll have to, but it's
mighty onhandy gettin' at 'em," she said,
ungraciously, as she gave the rails another
shove into the heart of the fire. Then get-
ting slowly down upon her knees, she began
pulling an old trunk from under the bed. As
she scorned my offer of assistance, I feared
she was mentally classing me with the ''pes-
terin' boarders."

The trunk, upon being opened, presented
a very helter-skelter interior. Mrs. Yerkes,
however, seemed to have a good mental

<©ltj d'mejsf 239

inventory of its contents, most of wliich she
tossed out upon the floor, making audible com-
ments as she did so. Finally she pulled out
the *'ging-gums" she was in search of.

One piece was a bedspread in huge blue-
and-white check. It looked as if it might last
forever, so I inquired why it was not in use.

"Don't want it to wear out," she replied.
"Ma sot a heap o' store by the things she'd
wove. She done used that spread on her bed
nigh about twenty year, and I'm bound to
make it last my time. These here's her dress
and aprons."

All of the "weavin's" she had shown me
were blue-and-white ginghams.

"Her and me done wore out the woolen
things," said Mrs. Yerkes, "except the stuff
in this old brown skirt I got on. Ma done
wove that."

She allowed me scant time to examine the
ginghams before she began hustling the things
back into the trunk, which she shut with a
bang, and hastily pushed into its place under
the bed.

"You see, I'm afraid some o' Sophrony's
young ones might come in," said she.
"They're always pesterin' me to give 'em
them things. They sha'n't have nary one of

240 ^ottfi a^arolma Sfeftcjes

'em while I'm above ground. Ma'd turn in
her grave, I do believe, if them gals of So-
phrony's was to go trapseing around in her
things. Not but what they're nice enough
gals," she added, hastily, as she remembered '
that they were her grandchildren. "Folks is
mighty good and kind, but times is changed. ' '

She sighed. "I used to laugh at Pa and
Ma for talkin' so about the good old times,
but I reckon they wasn't fur wrong," said
she.

The rails were now consumed to a length
which permitted her to use them as ordinary
sticks on the fire. She threw some brush
on top of them, and as it leaped into a blaze
she took up her pipe and began to refill it.

I understood this as a signal that she was
tired of entertaining strangers. I rose at
once to go, and was rewarded for my prompt-
ness by a cordial invitation to come again.

GETTING AN EDUCATION

GETTING AN EDUCATION

I

The room was so low that a tall man could
not stand upright in it without bumping his
head against the hewn rafters, but the fire of
green logs, well alight, sent abroad a ruddy-
glow and dancing shadows that transformed
the commonplace and softened all harsh out-
lines.

As there were no windows in the cabin, the
light was not strong enough to throw into
relief the bald bareness of the room, nor the
scanty wardrobes of the family sitting near
the fire.

"Be you goin' to mill to-morrow, Pa?"
asked the eldest girl. '"Cause if you be, I
want to go 'long. I got some store errands
to do for Ma."

"Yes, Nancy, I be," replied her father;
"but I don't like your goin' so often to the
settlemint. Folks is powerful hands to talk.

243

1 1

244 i^otti^ (l^arolina S^etcjes

First you know, they'll be sayin' you're
courtin' some feller over there. I don't want
no gal o' mine talked about, mind you."

Shucks!" exclaimed Nancy, scornfully.
Let 'em talk; who cares?"

Let her be, Por, " said the mother, reach-
ing for her snuff-box. "Gals is gals, and
they're bound to enjoy theirselves a bit.
Nance is all right."

That settled it, and the next morning
Nancy, seated on the bags of corn, rode off
in the ox-cart with her father. While he
was gone to the mill, she did her store
errands, but when he returned she did not
speak of the one she considered of the most
importance.

At supper time her father asked, suddenly:
"Who were that stuck-up chap I see you
talkin' to, Nancy, when I come back from
the mill? I plum forgot him till this minute."

Nancy wished he'd forgotten him alto-
gether. She was tired, and felt unequal to
what she knew was coming. Her face flushed
as she replied, testily: "He ain't stuck up,
neither. You always allow as every one's
stuck up as wears store clothes. That's Sam
Burke, come back from college. He knows
a sight. He's goin' to teach the Wren Hill

Q^tttinq an (5t)ucation 245

school this winter, and I'm goin' to it, too.
He says I ain't too old to learn if I be fifteen. "

Her father, busy shovelling fried potatoes
into his mouth, laid in an extra supply before
grounding arms, with his knife and fork
grasped in clenched fists, while he looked at
Nancy.

Without waiting for him to speak, she burst
forth: *'You can't scare me like you onct
could. Pa, lookin' at me that way. 'Cause
I'm nigh about as big as you be now," added
she, laughing nervously. "When I were little
I wanted to go to school, 'long with t'other
gals, but you always had excuses for keepin'
me at home. There were always a sight of
work for me to do, and I done it, but I never
got no schoolin'! JVow I'm goin' to git a
eddication. "

Oh! you be, be you?" snarled her father.
Well, just tell me who's goin' to keep you
while you're gittin' it."

*'I ain't never said I weren't goin' to work
no more," began Nancy.

"Work!" retorted her father; "gals as
goes to school ain't worth the shoe-leather
they wears out trompin' the roads."

"Shoe-leather, indeed!" rejoined the girl,
sharply. "There ain't nary another gal as

246 jaorti) (B^arolma S^kHcf)t^

big as me goin' mostly barefoot, and I ain't
never had no rightly good gownd in my life.
And no more ain't Mor, " added Nancy,
quickly, as she caught her mother's sympa-
thetic glance.

"You ain't no call to talk that way to me,
nohow, Por, " she went on, hurriedly. "You
and Mor knows I've carried wood and water
ever since I could tote 'em, and you ain't
never done a batch o' clearin' but what I
holped with. I've heard you brag many's
the time how peart 1 be to handle a ax when
I weren't no bigger nor Janie here. " Janie
was four years old.

As Nancy was still given the floor, she went
on: "I allow I've earned my bread by the
sweat of my brow, and Lord knows I ain't
had much else! I reckon women's made for
somethin' besides always slaving for men folks.
The boarders is always pokin' fun at we-uns,
and sayin' why don't we strike, whatever that
be. I allow it's somethin' to do with a eddi-
cation. Anyway, I'm bound to git one."

Her father still regarded her in silence, and
she continued: "No, you ain't no call to talk
about shoe-leather to me, Por, but when it
comes to that I tell you right now I've done
got it all fixed. I went to see Mr. Comber

letting an ©Ifucation 247

to-day, and he 'lows he can make me all the
shoes I want. His wife's weakl}'', and I'm
going to pay for 'em by washing for her."

This was the important errand which was
to settle the school question for Nancy. Her
meeting with the new teacher had been purely
accidental, and their brief conversation a
business affair. Not that the interview had
not added a touch of romance to her new
undertaking, for in his improved appearance
and speech and "store clothes" he seemed to
Nancy's simple mind a very superior being.
As her father still said nothing, she went on:
"I'm plum tired of bein' laughed at by the
boarders. A boarder lady asked me t'other
day what work I did, and I said I done holped
you and Mor, and she laughed, and said there
warn't no sich word as holped.''

"Yes, there be, too," spoke up Mrs.
Rivers, "for I done heerd preacher readin' it
outen the Bible, Sunday were a week. I 'lov/
she's one of them infidels as ain't got no reli-
gion and don't never read the Bible."

"No, she ain't, neither," retorted Nancy;
"she's a right good lady. " Nancy felt bound
to defend this particular boarder lady, whose
friendly interest had done much to stimulate
the girl to strike for an education.

248 iEorti) OTarolina ^ktttf^t^

All this time Mr. Rivers, still holding his
knife and fork in rigid fists, sat staring at
Nancy, the greasy potatoes grown stone cold
upon his plate. His wife's danger signals,
given by means of a kick or two under the
table, served to hold in check his impulse to
knock the girl down on the spot. He was a
hard man in his own family, but heretofore
there had been no open rebellion.

His wife, an easy-going creature, with a
figure like a meal-sack, was not calculated by
temperament to inspire her husband or chil-
dren to do their best, but she was peaceable,
and hated a fuss of any kind, and was in
misery now lest Nancy and her father come
to an open rupture. As soon as she could
attract Nancy's attention, she said, pointedly:
"Nance, I wish you and the children would
go and git in the light wood for mornin';
I plum forgot it."

Nancy, glad of a respite, rose hastily to do
her bidding, and the other children trooped
out at her heels. Sending them off into the
new clearing to gather pine-chips, Nancy,
resting her arms on the top rail of the fence,
turned her face toward the mountains, which
were always her solace in time of trouble.
The sun had set, and every purple peak and

letting an ©tiucation 249

rugged outline stood clear-cut against the
canary-colored sky. Far up in the zenith
floated clouds still glowing crimson and gold,
while the world beneath lay in shadow. From
her infancy Nancy had been a regular attend-
ant at church and Sunday-school, and was
familiar with the noble poetry and beautiful
similes of the Bible, and her own mind was
full of dumb imagery. Glancing upward, she
saw the shining clouds, and her face bright-
ened. *'It's like them that see a great light,"
she said, softly, to herself, "and we-uns is like
them that sits in darkness. I'm bound to git
into the light, if I can, but I reckon sassin*
Por ain't the way to begin."

After the children had left the room, Mrs.
Rivers said to her husband : "Nance is mighty
like you, Reuben; she's got a heap of horse
sense, but when she gits the bit in her teeth
and takes to pullin', mout as well give her her
head." Mr. Rivers swallowed the bait, and
laughing grimly, resumed his attack upon the
fried potatoes.

"'Tain't no feller as has done it," resumed
his wife; "it's the boarders. She sees their
gals so nice and fixy, and pretty-spoke, and
she thinks it's all along of their having eddi-
cation. She'll find out her mistake; poor

250 i^ortf) dtarolfna Sfeetdjcs

folks has always got to work, but it ain't no
use tryin' to check her up now. The mis-
chief's done."

Although Mr. Rivers had a fine masculine
scorn of the other sex, he knew by experience
that his wife was generally in the right; so he
gulped down the hot coffee she poured for
him, and finished his supper in silence.
When Nancy and the children returned, he
was peaceably smoking his pipe in the chim-
ney-corner.

Nancy and her mother washed the few
supper dishes in silence, and then the whole
family retired for the night. Nancy, hoping
that her point was gained, was too excited to
sleep. She lay awake, listening to the heavy
breathing of the rest as one after another fell
asleep.

The fire, which had been covered with
ashes, suddenly fanned by a puff of wind, sent
a shov/er of cinders upon the bare floor.
This was of too common occurrence to disturb
Nancy, but presently she smelled something
burning, which made her rise on her elbow
and look around the room. Then she sprang
up in alarm. A spark lodging close to her
parents' bed, which stood near the fireplace,
had caught the corner of a cotton comfort-

letting an (^tiucation 251

able hanging down to the floor, and a tongue
of flame was rapidly creeping upward. Nancy
made no outcry, but seizing the water-bucket,
quickly put out the fire without disturbing the
sleepers.

Before discovering it she had been too busy
building air-castles to notice the rising of the
wind, which now shook the cabin and drove
the smoke in fitful gusts down the chimney.

"Sich an awful night for a fire!" she said to
herself; "and supposin' For had got burnt
up, I'd have felt powerful bad about sassin'
him that way. All the same, I got as good
a right to git a eddication as other gals; but
I'm mighty glad I were laying awake when
the fire cotched. "

In the morning, when it became evident
that she had saved the house, and perhaps the
family also, from an untimely end, Nancy
found herself treated with unusual considera-
tion. Whatever her father thought of her
undutiful behavior at supper-time, he made
no reference to it.

252 JtortJ Olarolina ^ktttf^t^

II

Nancy had thought her troubles at an end
when her father tacitly withdrew his oppo-
sition, but her first day at school convinced
her to the contrary.

Sam Burke, the new teacher, was making
his own struggle for an education. It was
not made easier for him by having to do his
first teaching so near home. The school he
had attended, though dignified by the name
of college, was a very poor affair. After two
winters spent in mastering its curriculum, he
had come forth so shaky as to what he must
now try to impart to others that he entered
upon his new duties in fear and trembling.
This necessitated his putting on a show of
dignity and severity, which for a time made
him very unpopular in the school.

He made a great point of examining the
pupils in order to grade the classes. As he
began with the older ones, poor Nancy's turn
came all too soon. She quaked in her stiff
new shoes as she listened to the questions
put to those who preceded her, and heard the
bursts of ridicule which greeted many of the
answers. At this time Sam himself was not

Q^tttinq an (l^tiucation 253

above sitting in the seat of the scorner.
When her name was called, Nancy stumbled
up to his desk in a state of alarm, and was
quickly relegated to the infant class.

She tramped back to her place amid laughs
of derision, muttering to herself, as she
glanced around the room, "T'ain't my fault
I don't know anything. I ain't never had
nary a chance. Just wait and see if I don't
beat 'em all yet!"

Then she burstinto tears. This new diver-
sion for the idlers brought them crowding
around her, and the teacher, who said angrily
that he couldn't hear himself think, ordered
all who had already been examined to leave
the room. This, of course, included Nancy.
The moment she was outside of the school-
house her courage returned, and she pro-
ceeded to pitch into those who had ridiculed
her, establishing once for all her right to get
an education with the best of them.

But her real difficulties began the next day,
when sitting in class with the younger pupils
she for the first time in her life attempted a
simple lesson in Webster's "Speller." The
smallest child in the class had far less diffi-
culty than had Nancy in remembering the let-
ters. They blurred so before her eyes that

254 S^ottt^ (Carolina ^kttd)t^

the simplest of three-lettered words became
hopeless puzzles to her unaccustomed senses.
So bewildered did she become at last that she
didn't even know the meaning of words like
*'cat" and "dog" when given out by the
teacher.

The other pupils, mindful of the lesson she
had given them the previous day, did not
dare to laugh, but they were so diverted watch-
ing her that the teacher, who was finding his
own position no sinecure, got very impatient
at their inattention, and calling the class "a
stupid lot," ordered them to their seats.

Nancy's bitterness of heart would have been
much mitigated could she have known that he
was only giving them a rehash of his own
school experiences. As it was, she was so
angry and so humiliated that had she not
feared the ridicule of her father and the neigh-
bors she would then and there have given up
her attempt to get an education, and gone
back to her work, content to be a hewer of
wood and a drawer of water for the rest of
her days.

While fiercely regarding the recalcitrant let-
ters in her spelling-book, however, she had
a brilliant idea, which she put into execution
on her way home. She took her book to the

letting an (^buration 255

"boarder lady" whose washing she was now
doing, and boldly stated her difficulties.

"I 'lowed you knowed most everything,
Miss Thompson," said Nancy, "and you're
so kind I knowed you wouldn't mind telling
me what was the matter with these pesky let-
ters. I'm beat if I can tell which side's up
or down."

Miss Thompson, who liked the girl, was glad
to give her a lift, and thanks to her help,
Nancy was soon at the head of the infant
class. Early and late she was poring over
her book, and for a time at least she was, as
her father put it, not worth her salt at home.

The teacher's attention had from the first
been centered upon a pretty girl two years
older than Nancy. Her people were suf(i-
ciently well-to-do to give her whatever educa-
tional advantages came in their way, and to
dress her better than her companions.

She scorned Nancy and her humble abode,
so they had little in common. Nancy said of
her: "If Amorita Topknot will just go her
own way, I sha'n't pester her; she's too big-
gottyforme."

Amorita's way appeared for a while to be
a very flowery one, for the new teacher made
everything easy for her. In fact, he fell heels

256 iEorti) OTaroIina Sfeetcftes

over head in love with her, and for a time so
neglected his duties to the other pupils that
the Board privately voted to turn him out if
he did not mend his ways.

About this time a young man as old as Sam
Burke himself came to school, and presently
he began to cast admiring glances at Nancy.

This did not suit Amorita, who was of
a jealous disposition, and resented attentions
paid to other girls. So, regardless of the fact
that she was now privately engaged to Sam,
she made a dead set at Evans Dower, the
new pupil. Heretofore, in order to be alone
with the teacher, she had waited, when school
was dismissed, till the rest were gone, but
now she was the first to leave, and it was not
her fault if she did not walk part of the way
home with Evans.

Nancy's mind had been so taken up with
the difficulties which beset her every step on
the highway of education that she had given
little heed to what was going on around her,
and she was entirely oblivious of Evans Dow-
er's admiration for herself. She had, to be
sure, often wished that the teacher would give
her as ready assistance as he bestowed upon
Amorita; but she thought it only natural that
so backward and stupid a pupil as herself

([Jetting an OJtJuration 257

should receive very little attention from any
one.

But presently Nancy awoke to the fact that
some sort of a change had come over the
teacher. For a while he had been very irrita-
ble over the blunders of the pupils; then he
became listless and indifferent, and poor
Nancy was often at a loss to know whether she
had recited correctly or made another failure.
Her attention once aroused, she began to
observe Sam, and she decided he must be
sick.

"Don't you allow it's the fever workin' on
him, Mor?" she asked her mother. "He's
plum sallow, and peaked-lookin', and he don't
take no interest in anything. He used to be
always helping Amorita wnth her lessons.
Now he don't scarcely notice her, and she's
that sassy to him sometimes I'd like to slap
her, but he don't say nary a word back.
And the young ones is getting to cut up
such capers that a body can't hardly study
in school, but he don't seem to mind."

Mrs. Rivers laughed. "More like he's in
love, Nancy," she said. "Who's he been
courtin'? That Amorita?"

"La, Mor, I ain't never thought of that.
I've been so took up with my books I warn't

25S iBtortf) (O'arolina Sbktttf)t^

taking notice of what was going on round
me. But that's better than fever, ain't it,
Mor?"

"Dunno," replied her mother, shaking
with laughter; ''folks gits over the fever, if
they don't eat too much truck and die with it,
but love-sickness goes hard sometimes."

This aroused Nancy's interest and sympa-
thy, and the next day she picked out the
finest apple she could find, polished it care-
fully, and slyly laid it on Sam's desk. It had
the desired effect. The poor fellow, think-
ing it a peace offering from Amorita, made
a great parade of eating it with relish at
recess, although all the morning she had turned
him the cold shoulder. Nancy, finding the
atmosphere a little cleared, decided to place
a friendly offering of some sort upon Sam's
desk every few days. He, accepting them all
as he had done the first, began to appear like
himself once more, although Amorita no
longer smiled upon him.

During this interregnum the snapping of
apple-seeds and the firing of slimy spitballs
had been the order of the day, the pre-occu-
pied teacher being the target for many of the
missiles. It was a trying time for Nancy.
She was too studious to escape the notice of

^ttimq an (B^^uration 259

the idlers, who hit her many a stinging fillip.
She had her trials at home, too, for even her
easy-going mother was getting tired of her
long absences and of trying to make the other
children do her work. One day, after she had
been going to school about a month, her
father brought home the county paper, and
ordered her to read it to him.

*'Why, Pa!" exclaimed Nancy, aghast, **I
ain't got so fur as to read real readin' like
that, and you'd ought to know it."

*'What be you goin' to school for, then, if
you ain't learnin' to read, write, and cipher?"
snapped her father.

"So I be," replied Nancy, eagerly, "but
I ain't learnt yet. You've got to give a feller
time."

Scenes like this were of frequent occur-
rence. Nancy was often put to it to keep
the peace at home, while things dragged so
wearily in school that she got quite disheart-
ened.

Amorita's devices to win the regard of
Evans Dower were not a success. He told
some of the boys that Nancy was worth six of
her This, being duly reported to Amorita,
made her pursuit of him the more eager, for
it was always the unattainable which had the

26o iEorti) Otarolina Sfeetcf)es

higher value in her eyes. So she continued
to torment the teacher by her attentions to
Dower, while Sam, like herself, became the
more keen after what seemed slipping from
his grasp. One day he ventured to hint to the
girl that if she were so indifferent to him as
she now claimed to be, she wouldn't be plac-
ing love-tokens upon his desk, at which she
flew into a towering rage, flatly denying the
charge. She was so evidently in earnest that
he was forced to believe her. This, for a time,
seemed to knock the foundations from under
him.

As Nancy's offerings were now left un-
heeded upon his desk, she brought no more
for some time. Seeing that he was greatly
troubled about something, however, she
longed to help him. She was herself so sensi-
tive to the charm of flowers that she wished
it were summer, that she might bring him
some. As the next best thing, she tried
a bunch of wintergreen, with its bright red
berries glowing amid the glossy dark leaves.
She saw the teacher take it up listlessly, and
pick off a few of the berries, eating them in
absent fashion. This gave her much satisfac-
tion.

Next she essayed a wreath of the beautiful

©etting an Cf^tiucation 261

red and bronze galax-leaves, similar to one
she had seen Miss Thompson making. She
slipped it into school under her apron, and
laid it upon Sam's desk. So far she had
escaped detection, but her offerings had
attracted the notice of the other pupils, and at
sight of the wreath there was a general buzz
of interest.

The teacher, who seemed to have himself
well in hand this morning, after holding it up
for general admiration, hung the wreath upon
a nail over his desk. He said he was very-
much obliged to the unknown donor, and that
it served as a reminder of something he had
intended to speak of before. This was that
during the Christmas holidays he proposed to
invite the parents of the pupils to the school-
house to listen to recitations and examina-
tions, and he should like to have the room
decorated with wreaths and evergreens for
the occasion. And he added that from this
time on they should devote an hour each
afternoon to preparing for this event.

He was very cheerful, and told his plans
in a bright, earnest way that aroused the inter-
est and stimulated the ambition of the pupils.
Nancy was puzzled to account for this sud-
den change in him, but Amorita, who looked

262 i^oxtf^ Otarolina Sfeetcfies

very downcast, could have explained it. The
truth was, Sam, having reached the limit of
endurance, had demanded of Amorita the
previous evening a full explanation of her
changed attitude toward himself. She had
resented his air of authority, and given tanta-
lizing replies to his questions, which in turn
aroused his ire. In a few moments they had
passed the rapids and were in the whirlpool of
a violent lovers' quarrel.

Amorita declared their engagement at an
end, and Sam discovered, to his surprise, that
this was what he most desired.

Now that the suspense and irritation of the
past few weeks were over, he applied himself
with commendable zeal to his work in the
schoolroom, while Amorita was left to chew
the cud of bitterness, having lost the old lover
and failed to captivate the new. All that
Nancy perceived was that Sam paid much
more attention to the classes. This enabled
her to get on so much faster with her lessons
that she was even losing her dread of the
approaching examinations.

Miss Thompson, who had volunteered to
teach her a piece for recitation, had taken
great pains with her. Nancy tried her best
to follow all of her directions, as well as the

O&ettmg an (!Btiucatfon 263

hints she gave her about her dress and the
arrangement of her abundant hair.

When the great day arrived her parents were
surprised to find themselves so proud of her.

Amorita upon this occasion, while eclipsing
all the rest in dress, failed to distinguish her-
self otherwise, and went home in the sulks.
Most of the pupils acquitted themselves with
credit, however.

Nancy, seeing that the teacher was for
some reason no longer an object of sympathy,
made the wreath her final offering. In puz-
zling for a time over the identity of the
donor, he did not think of Nancy. Although
civilly kind to the girl, he, in common with
many others, regarded her family as of "no
account," and thought himself above her.
She had, to be sure, won his respect by her
plodding perseverance; nor had he failed to
note the steady improvement in her personal
appearance, as her brain, so long dormant,
began to assert itself.

Glimpses caught of her face, full of vivid
interest in her work, often reminded him of
the old book of fairy stories he was fortunate
enough to own in his childhood. He won-
dered if it were not the kiss of Knowledge
which, after all, awakened the Sleeping

264 ia^octj CO^arolma Sfeetci)es

Beauty. Miss Thompson's influence had told
upon Nancy in many ways. She had in con-
sequence become much more tidy in dress
and person. Her fine head of hair now gave
ample evidence of familiarity with brush and
comb, and her well-kept teeth added charm
to a ready smile. Taken altogether, with its
good skin, fresh color, and sincere eyes,
Nancy's face was a very attractive one.

Sam, much to his annoyance, discovered
that his eyes kept straying in the direction of
a sunny head bent studiously over a book.
He was vexed if Nancy chanced to glance up
at such times, although she did it in absent
fashion, as she memorized her lessons. That
vexed him, too. He had been so used to
Amorita's devices to attract his attention in
the early days that he resented Nancy's indif-
ference. **I might be a stock or a stone, the
way she looks at me with those eyes of hers,"
he often said to himself.

This made him the more eager to capture
her personal liking, and he went out of his
way to help her with her lessons. Nancy
accepted these attentions gratefully, but was
wholly obtuse as to the feelings which
prompted them.

Knowing but too well in what contempt her

a^tttinq an dl^ljucation 265

family were held by many of their neighbors,
she supposed that Sam Burke shared the
same prejudice, and she had never thought of
him in the light of a possible lover. In truth,
he himself would have scoffed at such an idea
at this time. But in spite of himself, he was
becoming desperately interested in the girl,
and in deadly fear lest she or others find it
out.

With the money he should receive for his
winter's work he meant to continue his own
education at the Highbridge Academy. Like
a reckless moth, he thought he might flit
around the candle till that time, and then
soar away with wings unsinged. And so he
might for all Nancy cared, for she was mak-
ing such rapid progress with her lessons that
her whole attention was concentrated upon
them.

Amorita, finding useless her efforts to recap-
tivate Sam, soon discovered that his heart
had been caught in the rebound.

"And by stupid Nancy Rivers, of all girls I"
she said to herself. "Never mind! I'll soon
settle him."

She began by making slighting remarks
about Nancy in Sam's hearing, but as this had
no effect, she changed her tactics. She now

266 iaorti^ (^axolina SUtcf)t^

made advances to Nancy, who, however,
fought shy of her for a long time, but was at
last won over by her persistent professions of
friendship. After this, they walked to and
from school together, which gave Amorita
the chance to enlarge upon her love affair
with Sam. She represented him as having
deceived her cruelly, and Nancy was moved
to many expressions of eager sympathy or
sharp indignation. Amorita saw to it that
some of these came to Sam's ears.

He had watched this increasing intimacy
between the two girls with growing uneasiness,
but was powerless to check it. Its effects
were soon visible in Nancy's attitude toward
himself. Amorita had assured her that his
only object in giving her so much extra
assistance with her lessons was that he might
win her affections and then cast them aside,
as he had done her own. In place of its for-
mer friendly unconsciousness, Nancy's man-
ner toward him now assumed the mildly
defensive.

Amorita, overjoyed at Sam's evident
chagrin, redoubled her devotion to Nancy,
whom, now that she seemed beyond his reach,
he thought grov/n prettier and more attractive
each day. Her speech, too, was daily improv-

(letting an ©tjucation 367

ing, and he hardly noticed the slips of her
tongue, so glad was he to listen to her soft
voice.

He was constantly contrasting her with
Amorita, who now seemed to him so flashy
and coarse that he marvelled he could ever
have been in love with her. Nancy had be-
come to him the pearl of great price, for the
possession of which he often felt ready to bar-
ter his very soul. How he was to live without
the daily sight of her after school closed, had
become his most absorbing problem.

Ill 1/

At the noon recess one bitter cold day,
when the whole school, the teacher included,
were gathered about the overheated stove,
the boys began skylarking, and in the rough
play Nancy was thrown against the stove.

For an instant she was conscious of the
blistering heat and a sharp pain in her arm,
but the next minute she was being swiftly
borne to a seat. Then some one was leaning
over her, and in great agitation asking if she
were much hurt. Nancy looked up in amaze-
ment into the face of the teacher, and some-

268 iS^ortfj (^axolina ^ktttf^t^

thing she read there caused her eyes to over-
flow as the pain of the burn increased.

"Is it so bad?" he whispered; and the next
moment there was a thud, and Sam lay at her
feet in a dead faint.

The school was in an uproar in an instant.
The children's nerves, unstrung by Nancy's
accident, were now jangling in all keys.
Amorita, too, added to the confusion by
throwing herself on her knees beside Sam,
wringing her hands and weeping audibly.
Evans Dower had been almost as much de-
moralized as the teacher himself. Nancy was
the first person in the room to recover self-
control.

She sent the younger children to their seats,
and asking Dower to bring water, she bathed
Sam's face, telling Evans to loosen his collar,
and the rest of the pupils to stand back and
give him air. Then she suggested that as he
might take cold if left upon the floor till he
came to, some of the bigger boys should lay
him upon the long bench at the back of the
room.

One of her brothers had fainting fits, so she
was not a novice in the treatment of them.
As no one took any notice of Amorita, she
returned to her seat near the fire. Upon

iSfetting an (l^tiucation 269

second thought she had concluded not to give
Sam himself the benefit of a scene. When
he at last opened his eyes they rested upon
the anxious face of Nancy.

"You're better now, ain't you?" she asked,
hurriedly.

**Yes, I'm all right," he replied, trying to
rise; "but you, were you terribly burned?
Oh, my God! it was awful!" he cried, un-
mindful of any presence but hers.

"Pshaw!" said Nancy, lightly, "it wasn't
so bad as all that. It's my gown I'm thinking
about; see here, my sleeve's burnt clean
through," she added, smiling, "and so's the
front breadth of my skirt."

As he glanced at her sleeve, Sam turned so
pale that Nancy, thinking him about to faint
again, wished she had known better how to
divert his attention from her burned arm,
which was paining her so badly that she could
scarce restrain her tears. Sam, fallen back
upon his pillow of coats, was regarding her
with such earnestness that she grew uncom-
fortable, and made a motion to withdraw.

"Don't go, Nancy!" he whispered, clutch-
ing at her gown.

Then suddenly remembering where they
were, he said, in atone of authority: "All

270 iEortf) Otarolina ^ktUf)t^

(I

of you go to your seats and your lessons.
I'm thankful for your kindness; I'll be all
right in a minute, when my head stops spin-
ning."

Nancy started to obey with the rest, but
found herself held fast.

Don't go, Nancy," pleaded Sam, softly.
I thought it was all over with you, and I'd
never have a chance to tell you I loved you.
That's why I fainted afterward."

Nancy, wholly unprepared for such an
avowal, and fast weakening with pain, dropped
into a seat beside him.

*'What a brute I am!" he whispered, trying
in vain to rise. "Say you forgive me, Nancy,
for forgetting your bad burn and keeping you
here when you ought to be on your way to
the doctor's to get it dressed."

"Yes, yes," replied Nancy, softly; "I ain't
blaming you, teacher" (Sam winced at the
word); "but it's all come on me so sudden
that I've got to get away by myself to think.
I'll go to the doctor's now. My arm does
hurt awful," she added, rising, while the tears
began to stream down her cheeks.

"You sha'n't go alone, Nancy," replied
Sam. "Wait just a minute till I can stand,
and I'll go along. I need medicine myself,"

ij&ettmg an ^"bucation 271

added the artful youth. She waited, but
with averted face.

They took the short cut through the woods,
and Sam drew her hand through his arm,
gently wiping her fast-welling tears with his
handkerchief; but not till they neared their
destination did he speak.

'*I don't ask you to say anything to-day,
Nancy," he said at last. *'It came on me
most as suddenly as it has on you. I knew
I cared for you, but I thought you didn't like
me, and I didn't mean to speak. Just say
you forgive me for startling you so when you
were so badly burned."

"Yes, yes, I do, Sam" (Sam smiled, as his
name slipped out); but please don't say any-
thing more," replied Nancy, in an agitated
voice.

They were silent the rest of the way.
When the doctor set Sam to cutting the sleeve
from Nancy's injured arm, it was she who
broke the silence between them.

"It's all right, Sam," she said, as she saw
him turn deadly pale when the great burn
was revealed. "It ain't so powerful bad.
Doctor's got such kind hands he won't hurt a
mite more than he can help, and I can bear it. "

The doctor glanced at Sam over his spec-

272 iEortib d^aroltna Sfe^tcfies

tacles. "It seems to me you're easy upset,
young man; you wouldn't do for a doctor.
Here, I'll give you something that will set you
up," he said.

"That's good of you," returned Sam. "I
haven't felt right well lately. I came along
with Nancy to consult you."

Glancing kindly from one to the other, the
doctor replied, with a smile, "I don't think
you need any more of my medicine, Sam."
Nancy's face flushed, and Sam laughed nerv-
ously, but the doctor was at that moment
giving his whole attention to the dressing of
Nancv's burn.

She was quite feverish and ill for three or
four days, unable to sit up, and her parents
were much flattered that the teacher should
stop night and morning to inquire about
her, but Nancy made no comment. On the
afternoon of the fifth day there was a gentle
"Come in," in response to his knock, and
on pushing open the door, he saw that Nancy
was alone, sitting near the fire. He hurried
to her side, and with gallantry born of love,
raised her hand to his lips and kissed it rever-
ently.

"Oh, no, don't! don't, Sam!" cried Nancy,
in distress.

letting an (l^tiucation 273

'*And why not?" he demanded, still hold-
ing the hand.

"Because I've done thought it all over since
I've been sick, and you must quit thinking
about me. Your people would never give in
to your marrying me," Nancy replied.

''And suppose they wouldn't?" queried
Sam, releasing her hand long enough to get
a chair on which to seat himself beside her,
when he promptly resumed its custody, and
kissed it again.

"But you mustn't do that, Sam, and you
mustn't sit so close, either; somebody might

come in."

t<T»

Let 'em come," returned Sam, cheerfully.
I've only been waiting to get a chance to
see you alone before making a clean breast
of it to your father and mother, and then I
don't care who knows."

"But I'm too young," began Nancy. *'And
you needn't think I don't know how folks
look down on we-uns for living like we do,"
she added, rapidly, her improved English tak-
ing to itself wings.

"I don't see what that's got to do with you
and me," answered Sam, sturdily.

He had had his struggle in the days of his
dawning love for Nancy, and as is often the

274 iEorti^ (Earolma Sfe^tctieg

case, love had speedily silenced reason and
prudence.

"It's got a heap to do with us," returned
Nancy. *'I don't allow as anything will ever
change Pa and Ma; but I'm bound to get an
education first-off, and after that I've got to
help the children to get one, too. So you
see I couldn't marry you if I wanted to."

**I know you're young, Nancy, but I'm
afraid you will have time enough to grow
older, and to educate yourself and the chil-
dren, too, before I can afford to marry; but
just say you want to marry me, and we'll settle
all the rest afterward," replied Sam, regard-
ing her earnestly. Nancy's frank eyes re-
turned his gaze for an instant, and then fell
before his more ardent ones. She flushed
deeply, and paled again, but did not speak.

*'Say it, Nancy, dear," pleaded Sam, press-
ing her hand between his own.

"I can't," faltered she; '*I heard right
queer things about you before you — before
the day I got burned, so what you said came
too sudden, and I'm all scared-like ever since. "

"Yes," replied Sam, "I can guess what you
heard. I don't want to talk against Amorita,
but it was her doings, I know." Nancy made
no reply.

letting an (Stjucation 275

t (

I'll tell you the whole story," Sam went
on. *'I haven't got any sisters, and I never
knew or cared much about girls till I began
to teach. Then, I'll own up, I was mightily
taken with Amorita, and we got engaged, but
she wouldn't let me tell. That ought to
have opened my eyes, for there was nothing
to be ashamed of, but it didn't. Then Evans
Dower came to school, and because he was
so taken with you — "

"Oh! Sam, that isn't true, for I hardly
know him to speak to," put in Nancy.

*' Never mind, Miss Innocence; let me tell
my story. Because he was so taken with you,
and didn't notice her, Amorita got jealous,
and determined to make him like her. Then
she began to play fast and loose with me, and
to run after him, and I got mad, and we fell
out. She broke the engagement, and when
I found how glad I was, I knew I had never
really loved her. It frightens me when I
think how near I came to spoiling my own
life, and hers, too."

*'I knew about part of it," said Nancy,
quietly, *'but I thought most of it was very
different; and I'm afraid of fellows that don't
treat girls as they'd ought to."

You're right there, Nancy, but I'm not

( (-

276 iRortS (Carolina Sfeetcfies

that kind. I've told you the whole truth.
I'll own up, I hardly noticed you when you
first came to school, I was so taken up with
Amorita. And I confess, to my shame, that
I did look down on you; but you worked so
hard, and got on so fast, that I couldn't help
respecting you. Then I saw all along how
good and kind you were to the little children.
I saw you helping them with their lessons,
many's the time, when I knew you wanted to
study your own. And I suppose," added
Sam, laughing, "you thought nobody knew
how you fed the stray dogs that came into
the schoolroom."

Nancy glanced up in surprise.

"You forgot that their wagging tails
showed over your desk," said he; at which
Nancy joined in the laugh.

"Poor things!" she said; "some of *em are
half-starved. They've got feelings, just like
us. A heap of dogs are better than them that

owns 'em."

"I wish to heaven I'd loved you first,
Nancy," Sam said, fervently; "but perhaps
I shouldn't have had the sense to appreciate
a girl like you if I hadn't had a chance to find
out what the other kind was like."

I'm not so good as you think," spoke up

4' T».

d&etting an ^tiufation 277

Nancy, quickly. "I'm not always nice to
my own folks. I made a big fuss and was
right sassy to Por 'cause he wouldn't give in
to my going to school first-off. "

"I don't reckon you made any bigger row
than I did at home about the same thing,"
interrupted Sam, with a grim smile. "I was
set on getting an education, too, and my
father thought I'd had schooling enough
because I had been to school three terms.
He wanted me to go to work on the farm
for my board and clothes till I was twenty-
one, and I just wouldn't. That's how I came
to leave home. I hated to leave mother,
but she thought I was in the right. I'd
got to earn money if I was to go to school,
so I hired out to Mr. Blackwood, and saved
up my wages till I had enough to go two
winters to Dexter College. I worked for him
those two summers, too. Then I took this
school, so as to get money enough to go to
the Highbridge Academy next year. I'm
finding out how little I know, and I've got a
lot of hard work before me if I am ever to
know enough to amount to anything."

"Oh, Sam, you know such a heap now, and
I'm so ignorant, and you'll keep on getting
further and further ahead of me. Can't you

278 i^octf) OTaroIina S^etdjes

see I'm not the kind of a girl you ought to
marry? And I oughtn't to marry, nohow,"
put in Nancy, as an afterthought.

This recalled Sam to his starting-point.
"But you haven't told me yet whether you
want to marry me, Nancy. Everything de-
pends on that."

Nancy hung her head in silence.

"Don't you think it is rather hard on me,"
continued Sam, "for you not even to admit
that you like me, after I've told you I loved
you and asked you to marry me?"

"Yes, I do like you, Sam," replied Nancy,
earnestly.

Sam smiled. He had scored a point.

"But liking isn't loving, little girl. Just
say once that you love me."

"I can't say that," Nancy replied, trying
to withdraw her hand, as she suddenly became
conscious of Sam's tightening grip upon it.
He held it fast.

"Can't say what, Nancy?" he asked, de-
murely.

"I can't say I love you, Sam."

"But you have this moment said it, dear,"
he interrupted, hastily, "and you surely won't
take it back. Don't look so troubled,
Nancy; I was only teasing you; but couldn't

©fttmg an ©tiucation 279

you try to say it in earnest just once? If you
know how my heart aches for your love you'd
give me the comfort of hearing you say it was
mine, if you cared for me."

Silence again. Then Nancy stirred un-
easily, and slipping her hand out of Sam's,
put it over her eyes.

"What is it, dear?" he whispered, bending
his head to hers.

"I love you, Sam," came softly from her
lips, and "God bless you, dear!" from his, as
he reverently kissed her golden hair.

After a long silence, Sam said: "You
haven't said it quite all yet, Nancy. Do you
want to marry me?"

"Yes, Sam; I know now I love you, and
want to marry you," she replied, meeting his
eager eyes fearlessly; and the next moment
she was in his arms and his kiss upon her lips.

Her burned arm was still in a sling, but
neither of them had spoken of it till now, and
with quick understanding they both laughed
when Sam began to reproach himself for hav-
ing forgotten it.

"It's dreadful at school without you, Nancy;
do hurry up and come back."

"Yes, dear, I will; but don't you allow it's
going to be hard for us when they all know?"

2So lacrtft <2Iarolma S^kttc\)tB

'*I can stand it if you can, Nancy. I only
know I'm lost when you're not there," Sam
replied.

"Then I sha'n't care how much fun is poked
at us," said Nancy, happily.

When her parents came in from the field,
Sam manfully told them his story. They
were too much taken by surprise to offer any
opposition. In truth, they thought it a very
good match for Nancy, whose one concern
now was about Sam's people; but he made
light of her uneasiness. All the obstacles she
had raised on her own side had melted away.
She only knew that she felt light-hearted and
happy, and sure that everything would turn
out all right, since Sam had said so.

When she looked off at the mountains at
sunset she thought she had never seen them
so lovely. They seemed to quiver in coppery
haze before settling into purple shade. Her
eyes filled with tears at their inexpressible
charm, and beautiful verses from the Psalms
floated through her mind.

As the light faded, the world about her fell
into shadow; but her own heart was aglow
with that divine light which shall never fade
from earth till time shall be no more,

letting an (S^ucation 281

IV

Nancy's arm was long in healing. By the
time she returned to school, her engagement
had ceased to be a nine-days' wonder, so
things were easier for her and Sam than they
had anticipated.

Amorita had left school in disgust when she
heard of the engagement, and Evans Dower,
finding himself hard hit, left also. He bade
Sam good by with many good wishes, but
frankly owning that he couldn't stand by and
see Nancy carried off by another; and Sam
thought the more of him for it.

Now that spring was approaching, most of
the older pupils had left to work in the fields.
A very little extra work on the farm always
gave the parents the excuse they wanted to
keep the children at home. Anxious to make
up for lost time, Nancy plunged eagerly into
her school work. The number of pupils being
now so small, Sam had plenty of time to help
her with her lessons. Her rapid progress
was a constant surprise to him. He laugh-
ingly told her he believed she'd get ahead of
him yet. When alone they discussed their
future,

282 iaortf) (Carolina ^ktttf)t^

'We can't marry for three years, I'm afraid,
dear," said Sam; ''and I feel bad to have to
keep you waiting so long."

"It won't seem so long," returned Nancy,
with a happy smile. '*Now I can write,
there'll always be your letters to think about,
and we've both got a heap of hard work be-
fore us, and that will keep us from pining."

"That's true, Nancy. If I am to be a
teacher, or get any kind of a situation worth
having, I've got a lot to learn, and I mean to
do my very best at the Academy this winter.
It is hard and slow work getting an education,
Nancy. I wonder if it pays. "

"Oh, don't say that, Sam, dear! You
never talked like that before."

"No," laughed Sam; "because I was never
really in love before. Now," he added, seri-
ously, "it seems as if nothing that separated
you and me is worth having."

"I know," replied Nancy, softly, her eyes
filling with tears, "but it's like what the Bible
says about putting your hand to the plow and
not looking back. I ain't always sure what
the kingdom of God means, but I reckon love
and doing what's right is part of it. "

As the time of the separation so dreaded by
them both drew near, they walked together

Q^tttinq an (f^tmcation 283

in the woods, feigning an interest in Nature's
ever-new miracles, but their thoughts were
upon other things. While the new galax
leaves were shooting everywhere underfoot,
they noted the old ones growing sere and the
flower-stalks rising in soldierly array among
them. "They'll soon be in blossom, Sam,"
Nancy would begin, brightly, but she would
end with a quick sob as she suddenly remem-
bered that when that time came he would be
far away.

"Look down into the coves, Nancy," said
Sam; "you can see the spring beginning to
creep up the mountains."

"No, no, I don't want to see it; when it
gets to the top you'll be gone," and Nancy
hid her face against his shoulder. Sam kissed
the bowed head, and they went on in silence.

When Sam turned the key for the last time
in the schoolhouse door, Nancy found cour-
age to tell the story of the offerings she had
placed upon his desk.

"And you didn't really care for me all that
time, Nancy? After I found out it wasn't
Amorita, I was fool enough to think it was
some other girl who was in love with me, but
I never thought of you. Afterward I got so
interested in you that I forgot all about it."

284 iaorti& Otarolina Sfeetcjeis

( i

No, Sam, I didn't care for you; I was
only sorry for you because you seemed so
unhappy."

'*Well, Nancy, I'm glad it was you who
befriended me those hard days — for they were
hard, I can tell you."

Sam was to leave on the morrow, and Nancy
had cried herself to sleep. Long before day
she awoke with sudden pang of loss, and
youth's intolerance of misery. Except for
the gleam of smoldering coals in the fire-
place, the homely room was in darkness, and
the rest of the family were asleep. Nancy
rose, and dressing herself quietly, threw
a shawl over her head and slipped out of
doors. Nip, the hound, came running to
meet her, and followed her to the spring, glad
to have the long night-watch shared by
another.

As she bent over the stream and dashed the
cold water into her face, her hands clung to
her eyes, and she began to sob afresh.

Nip pawed imperatively at her arm, but she
took no notice till he began to whine. "Don't
do that, good old Nip; we mustn't wake up
the rest," she said, patting him; and he lay
down, reassured. Nancy leaned against the
old maple-tree that overhung the spring,

letting an (if^^ucation 285

staying her sobs for the sake of keeping the
dog quiet, but talking softly to herself the
while. "Oh, why did I let him go? He would
have staid if I had said the word. He's right;
nothing is worth while that parts us. It was
easy enough to be brave for both of us so long
as I had him. I didn't know it could be like
this," she murmured, brokenly. ''If I had —
well, if I had, I'd have done just the same,
for I knew it was the right thing. I mustn't
let Sam know what a coward I've been," she
said, beginning to walk restlessly to and fro.
It was good to be out in the frosty air under
the stars, but she could not remain long in
one place. She listened mechanically to the
creaking of dead limbs on the trees, and she
heard the sharp bark of a fox in the distance
and the nearer jangle of cow-bells, but none
of these noises seemed to belong to her world
any more.

j/ Suddenly a sound as of one in distress set
her senses at attention. As she stopped short
to listen, Nip bounded past her to the seat
under the big spruce pine, and Nancy caught
the words, "Good old Nip! Is that you?"
softly spoken. She sprang toward the voice,
and the next instant her arms were about
Sam's neck, and they were weeping together

286 iaortj atarolina Sfeetc^es

as if the lights of heaven had been eternally
extinguished for them.

Nancy, in whom the first flush of grief was
wellnigh spent, was the first to regain self-
control.

"Don't Sam, darling; I didn't know a man
could cry so," she said.

"Nor I either till now, Nancy," he replied,
with an attempt to laugh.

"I can't go, dear," he said, presently.

Nancy caught her breath. Was not this the
answering note to her heart-cry, "I can't let
him go!" which had rung through her brain
for hours at a time? What should she do?
Sam was older, and knew so much more than
she did; perhaps, after all, he was right, and
nothing which parted them was worth while.
Life was so short and so uncertain! What
could she do against fate? And this seemed
like the hand of fate turning them back.

All this and much more swept through her
mind while she grew outwardly calm and tried
to comfort Sam by silent caresses. Then she
spoke: "I'm only a girl, Sam, and I'm awfully
ignorant, but I've had some hard things to
go through. I never seem to know what's
right at the time, and I get all mixed up.
Then I try to think how I sensed it before

(Srettmg an (^^ncation 287

I was in the thick of it, and to go by that.
I reckon that's what we've got to do now. It
was like death when I got awake this morning,
and I had to come out of doors to get my
breath ; but I know we are in the right, and
we must hold fast to that, no matter what
comes. If you stayed now because of me, it
would mean that I had spoiled your life, for
there's nothing here for a man like you to
do."

Sam, still sobbing at intervals, said nothing,
and she continued, "I didn't mean you ever
to know how I'd broke down."

"Nor I you, Nancy," he interrupted, "but
the mischief's done now."

"It's no mischief, Sam," Nancy replied,
more cheerfully. "It's done us both a sight
of good; and while you are away I shall never
love you better than when I think how we
cried here together. But you must go now,
dear, or you'll miss the train at the Junction. "

For an instant Sam's sobs mastered him.
Nancy clung to him, but her own eyes were
dry. Then he strained her to his breast, kiss-
ing her eyes and lips.

"It needn't be good-bye quite yet, Nancy.
Come with me as far as Eagle's Crag, and
wave to me across the gorge. It will be

288 iaortf) OtaroUna Sbtttcf^e^

sun-up by the time I get round to the Knob,"
he said.

When Sam was gone, Nancy, sitting on the
mossy rocks, waiting for sunrise, swayed back
and forth with her head bowed upon her knees.
Nip thrust his nose under her arm, but she
pushed him away. She could not yet tolerate
a living touch in this chaos of misery that
enveloped her. The tide of sorrow which she
hoped had ebbed for good had turned, and
only the feeling that it would be like disloy-
alty to Sam to give way again kept her from
crying aloud.

From one of the coves at the foot of the
gorge there came up the cry of a child. It
touched her strangely. "Is there a wave of
misery spreading over the whole earth?" she
thought, "and was the child's cry a part of
it? God help us all!" she exclaimed, as
she felt herself one of this brotherhood of
sorrow.

When the sun rayed on the eastern horizon,
the coldness of the night melted suddenly
into the soft balminess of the new spring.
The mountain-peaks stand forth in silver
armor, sending up welcoming tongues of mist
as the sun touches their snowy summits.

Nancy stood upon Eagle's Crag, and as

©etting an (Ktiucation 289

she did so Sam stepped forth into the sunshine
upon a similar bowlder on the other side of
the great chasm which now divided them.
From the depths below, smoke was struggling
above the trees from unseen chimneys, and
the sounds of a new day awoke the echoes.
Here a belated ax rang upon the wood for the
morning fire; there the bleat of a stray sheep
mingled with the lowing of cattle, the crowing
of cocks, and the barking of dogs. Nor were
human notes wanting. But these two, stand-
ing above it all, were blind and deaf to every-
thing but their own misery.

With a show of bravery they answered one
another's signals, and Nancy stood firm till
Sam went on his way and a turn in the road
hid him from her sight. Then a black mist
seemed suddenly to drop between her and the
world. The next two hours were a blank to
her. At the end of that time she went wearily
home. Her mother, who a moment before
had stood in the doorway looking anxiously
up and down the road, met her with cheerful
unconcern.

*'I thought you'd be along right soon," she
said. "I sot the coffee and the pone nigh the
fire to keep hot for you. Better bile yourself
a new-laid egg. The children's gone to Aunt

290 iH^ortft (Carolina ^ktUf)t^

Maria's to spend the day. She's been pes-
terin' me to let 'em come. For, he's gone
to help Mr. Burns plow, and he done took his
snack along with him. I 'lowed you and me
could do all as wants doing at home."

Nancy kissed her mother, without a word.

V

"I was so heartsick over leaving you,"
Sam's first letter to Nancy ran, "that I
thought every moment I must turn back; but
when I saw you on Eagle's Crag you seemed
like my good angel, encouraging me to go
forward, and I plucked up heart again."

Later he wrote: "I shall accomplish more
this year than I thought I could. I got more
education out of teaching last winter than
I realized, and now everything comes that
much easier. I'm away ahead of a lot of the
fellows already. Nobody here knows about
my little Nancy. I keep her picture locked
up in my trunk, but she never misses a good-
night kiss, I can tell you."

Nancy, in her turn, wrote: "You do write
such a fine hand, and such a beautiful letter,
dearest Sam, that I'm ashamed of mine. It's

(^tttiuQ an drtjucation 291

good of you to like them, though. I'm trying
hard to write better, and I study the lessons
you marked out for me every chance I
get."

During the first year of their separation
Nancy attended every school session within
her reach. At the end of that time she was
given a certificate which entitled her to apply
for a position as teacher of one of the county
free schools. This placed her upon the same
footing as that held by Sam when he took the
Wren Hill school. It made her a proud and
happy girl, but, like Sam, she had discovered
that her feet were only upon the lowest rounds
of the ladder of knowledge.

At this time she had what she regarded as
a great stroke of luck. She was offered
a scholarship in one of the best of the moun-
tain mission schools.

*'Isn't it almost too good to believe?" she
wrote Sam. "It isn't only what I shall learn
from books I think of. There's cooking and
sewing and all kinds of useful things taught
there. The best of it is, the teachers are real
ladies, and I shall learn more lessons from
them than they know of. I am so anxious to
be worthy of you, dear Sam. You shall have
no cause to be ashamed of me, if I can help

292 laorti^ Olarolina Sfeetcjes

it. I thought Pa would oppose my leaving
home for so many months, but he is so taken
up with some plans of his own just now that
he don't seem to care. I'll tell you about
that another time."

Nancy spent the better part of the next two
years at this school, while Sam, after gradu-
ating from the Academy, got a position as
bookkeeper in a town in the eastern part of
the state. It was too far away to permit of
his return home during his brief holidays, so
he and Nancy did not meet during the three
years. If it sometimes crossed his mind,
amid his new surroundings, that he had prob-
ably made a mistake in choosing for his wife
a girl like Nancy, he did not harbor the
thought. Despite these occasional misgivings,
he remained loyal to her, determined in the
depths of his heart to make her happy and to
accept manfully for himself whatever of the
worse, as well as the better, of marriage
should befall them.

He had seen no one from home, and since
the death of his mother, in the first year of
his absence, he rarely received a letter, except
from Nancy, so his only knowledge of the
home happenings came through her.

She had sent him no new photograph of her-

iSfettmg an (llrtjucatfon 293

self, although he had begged for one. So he
thought of the girl he loved as looking just
as she did when he bade her good-bye, and in
his mind's eye he always saw her amid the
same humble surroundings.

When the time came to write and ask her
to name an early day for their marriage,
Nancy's reply was a surprise to him. After
telling him how glad she was that their long
waiting was at an end, she added: "I've
never told you that I was not the only one of
my people getting an education. I thought
it better to wait and see how things turned
out; but now that the time of our reunion is
at hand, my heart misgives me lest you think
I haven't been frank with you, dear Sam.
That's why I am spoiling the fine surprise
I had for you by telling you the story now

After I began to read papers and books to
Pa and Ma, they looked at some things in a
new light, and wanted to live better. It did
me good to see the change, and I was often
on the point of speaking of it in my letters.
Afterward I wanted to surprise you.

There was no good reason for our living as
we did, for Pa had money laid by; but he was
always saying that what had been good
enough for his father was good enough for

294 iflortf) 0!aroltna 5feetcf)es;

him. The year you left, some of the summer
boarders offered him a good price for the
ridge land, where the view is so fine; so he
sold it, and they put up three pretty cottages
there. All that building going on put Pa in
the notion of building a new house himself.
When he makes up his mind to do a thing
there's no stopping him, you know; so the
house was soon finished. And what is more,
it is comfortably furnished, even to a good
organ. I've learned to play and sing quite
respectably. That was another surprise I
had for you. After the new house was done,
Pa said he wanted the family to dress better,
and that has made a great difference in their
appearance. The children go to school regu-
larly, so you see we are all, old and young,
getting an education. I'm the only thing
about the old place, dear Sam, that isn't much
changed." That was all she said about her-
self.

When Sam went home to claim his bride,
he was met at the door of her father's smart
new house by a young lady with a gentle
gravity of manner, who invited him into the
best room. He was sure he had seen her be-
fore, but where? While trying to remember,
he asked, "Is Miss Nancy Rivers at home?"

Q^ttiinq an drtjucation 295

*'Yes, " she replied, sedately, and left the
room.

She returned in a moment with radiant face
and outstretched hands, which, in some con-
fusion, he took in his own. Then as the light
fell full upon her laughing face, it was
revealed to him where he had seen her
before.

"My God, Nancy, what a lovely girl
you've grown to be!" he cried, drawing her
into his arms and kissing her; "and to think
I didn't know you, darling."

"That's the best of it, Sam. I was so
afraid I wasn't really improved, and that folks
who said I was were flatterers. I wanted so
to be worthy of you, dear. And oh, Sam!
how handsome you are yourself! I'm so
proud of you!"

"Proud of me, indeed, Nancy! Why, I'm
nothing beside you. How have you done it
all?"

"I suppose it is all part of getting an edu-
cation," replied Nancy, soberly. "It brings
the tears to my eyes sometimes when I think
how my determination to get an education
has educated my whole family, too. You
needn't be ashamed of any of us now, Sam."
'Great heavens, child, I'm so proud of you

(t i

296 i^ortj Otarolma ^tttti)ts

that my head is quite turned! Now that I
have a good look at you, Nancy, I don't know
how I dared to kiss you when you came in."

'^Nonsense, Sam," Nancy replied, lightly
kissing his cheek. *'You see I'm not afraid
of kissing you."

*'I should hope not, dear," returned Sam;
*'but you've been just my little Nancy to me
all these years. Now you're grown into such
a" — Nancy playfully put her hand over his
mouth. He kissed the hand and took it in
his own. "Yes, let me say it, Nancy. You've
grown into such a beautiful young woman
that I feel all at sea."

"But you love me just the same?" Nancy
asked, in a troubled voice.

Sam's reply satisfied her.

Presently he took a tiny box from his vest-
pocket, saying: "See, Nancy, here's your
wedding ring. Try if it will fit you." She
slipped it on. "Yes," he said, raising her
hand to his lips and kissing the ring. "My
blessing on it, and you, my darling," he
whispered.

"How like your dear old self !" said Nancy,
laying her head on his shoulder. "Don't
be foolish about me any more, Sam. You
made me feel quite strange at first."

(&tttmq an Q^^ucaiwn 297

I (

Did I? Well, I felt quite strange myself,"
he replied, with a happy laugh.

"And I am really to put that ring on your
finger for good day after to-morrow?" he
added, seriously. *'It's all like a beautiful
dream coming true. "

LIKE OTHER CHILDREN

LIKE OTHER CHILDREN

It was not to be expected that a mountain
■town with a boom in the offing should take
thought for free schools. Such at least was
the opinion held by the authorities of Red-
bank. That was twenty years ago. If poor
people would persist in being drawn into the
town by interest or curiosity, their swarming
hordes of children must take their chances.

The talk was all of how everything would
"float" when the boom struck. Small heed
fell to the share of a floating population, a
large contingent of which belonged to the
great unwashed.

Fortunately, there were benevolent stran-
gers also within the gates. As a drop in the
bucket of educational need, some of these
started a sewing-school for girls. Among the
pupils was a little girl named Rosie Blake.
She was a quaint little figure in her dark stuff
gown reaching to her heels. Her faded light
hair, strained back from a high, narrow fore-

301

302 iBtort^ CItarolina Sfeetcftes

head, was braided into a long, thin pigtail,
tied at the end with a white string. She
might have stepped out of one of those queer
sketches of Porte Crayon's of ante-bellum
days.

Her gentle ways, and a quick, responsive
smile that relieved her angular face from
plainness, made her a very attractive little
person in the school. It was called a sewing-
school, but lessons in manners and household
duties played a very important part in its
work.

Rosie proved so apt a pupil that she was
much missed when she suddenly disappeared
from the school. None of the other children
knew anything about her, except where she
lived. This was so far out of town that it
was nearly a month before Miss Dollard, one
of the teachers, could spare the time to visit
her. She found Rosie's family living in a new
cabin, built in the woods, on as primitive
principles as though no growing town were
near at hand.

"I allowed when I see you comin that you
was one o' the teachers Rosie set sich store
by in sewin'-school, " said Mrs. Blake, coming
forward to shake hands. "Have a chair."

Rosie placed a chair for Miss Dollard.

Hike (Bii^tx (^f}iVtixtn 303

Then with a bob of her head and a duck of
her lank figure intended for a curtsy, she
withdrew behind her mother.

Mrs. Blake, viewing Rosie's fine manners
with pride, exclaimed : " You-uns done learned
Rosie a sight! I were plum sorry she had to
quit school."

"I hope she hasn't left for good," replied
Miss Dollard. ^'That's what I came to see
you about."

'"Bleeged to you, I'm sure," Mrs. Blake
rejoined; "but I don't guess you-all heard
what a sight o' trouble we-uns been havin'?"

"No," answered Miss Dollard; "we have
heard nothing since Rosie left school."

"I can't rightly talk about it yet," said
Mrs. Blake, with a choke in her voice. "We-
uns buried our Nancy last week — our gal next
older nor Rosie. She had pneumony fever.
She were sick nigh on to a month. Her and
the older gals worked in the mill. Rosie and
two o' the least ones has been right bad off,
too. Rosie took sick 'tendin' on Nancy, and
she ain't been right peart since."

While expressing her sympathy, Miss Dol-
lard looked kindly at the little group gathered
about the mother. Besides a baby in arms
there were two younger than Rosie.

304 i^ortf) (Carolina Sfeetcjes

Following her glance, Mrs. Blake said:
**This ain't all. Sammy's done hid; he's
ashamed."

"Ashamed?" said Miss Bollard.

"His face is queer," she explained. "He
were born that way. Folks laughs at him, and
looks at him so sharp 'pears like he can't
stand it, nohow. He's a right peart little
chap, and the lovingest you ever see. I didn't
reckon he'd be afraid of you, 'count o' the
way Rosie's always talkin' about you, but I
don't guess he knowed who you was. He
mostly hides when he sees anybody comin'.
Mirandy and Rushy's away at the mill. We-
uns is powerful lonesome without Nancy,"
added she, wiping her eyes on her apron ;
"she were the peartest of 'em all."

Rosie was quietly crying into a little hand-
kerchief, which Miss Bollard recognized as
a product of the sewing-school. The other
children were snivelling sympathetically, ap-
pealing at intervals to Rosie for the loan of
her handkerchief, which was evidently a great
novelty to them all.

"I don't guess you knowed Miss Bayton
from Ohio, did you?" inquired Mrs. Blake,
presently.

Say you didn't? Well, she stopped at the

( ( I

Hike (Bt^tx Otfjilliren 3^5

Hill House all winter, and she were mighty
good to we-uns. She come every Sunday
evening and had Sunday-school. She most
learned them least ones to spell and read.
She's done gone away now," Mrs. Blake
added, with a sigh. *'First we-uns see of
her she come every Sunday evenin* to read
the Bible to Aunt Dinah, a pore old nigger
that lives in yon house," she continued, point-
ing to a wretched cabin in the pines near by.

"The children sets a heap o' store by Aunt
Dinah, and they kept a-runnin' in and out
when Miss Dayton were there. They sot by
when she were readin', and she were right
friendly with *em. Sometimes she brung 'em
candy. The children liked her splendid.
After a bit she came in to see me. She said
weren't we-uns goin' to give the children no
schoolin*, and why didn't they go to Sunday-
school. I done told her the plain truth;
we-uns was too poor to send 'em. She allowed
as they might go to Sunday-school, and talked
somethin' out o' the Bible about without
money and without price.

I up and told her how Nancy and Rosie
here done tried it, and the rich folks' children
laughed at their poor clothes and plain ways.
When they was comin' along home, some on

3o6 iaortf) (Carolina ^ttttf^t^

'em hollered out to t'others to look at some
o* father Noe's family, and axed 'em did they
just come out o' the ark. Nancy and Rosie
felt mighty mean 'count o' havin' fun poked
at 'em, but they didn't know who Noe was
then. That were before Miss Dayton read
'em Bible stories. That's how Rosie come to
go to sewing-school. She allowed as you-uns
would learn her manners, so she needn't be
shy of folks. She done learned a sight, ain't
you, Rosie?"

"Yes, marm," replied Rosie, smiling
through her tears at Miss Dollard.

"Arter a bit," Mrs. Blake resumed, "Miss
Dayton said did we-uns want a Sunday-school
every Sunday evenin'. I done told her yes,
and be thankful. That's how she got to
comin'. She done learned the children a
sight out o' the Bible, and Nancy were that
peart she could tell a heap of it over to her Pa
afterwards. When she took sick Miss Day-
ton come to see her, and set with her. She
talked mighty pretty and consolin' to her and
we-uns when Nancy were a-dyin'. It were a
sight o* comfort," said the mother, with a
heavy sigh.

"Miss Dayton allowed as Nancy were one
o' the Lord's little ones the Bible talks about,

Hifee <©tfter (Ej^ilbren 307

and we needn't be afraid He wouldn't take
care of her. Nancy died smilin' up into her
face, listenin' to her pretty talk," Mrs Blake
added, crying quietly into her apron. After
a pause she said: "Rosie knows a right smart
o' stories Miss Dayton read out o' the Bible,
don't you, Rosie?" Rosie's cheeks flushed
deeply, but she made no reply. Her mother,
taking no notice of her, went on: **Last
night, when we all was in bed, and the fire
burnin' low, so the room were all shadows,
she were tellin' such a pretty one. It were
about "Mary and Marthy. Tell it to the lady,
Rosie, " said her mother in a tone of authority.

Miss Dollard, who had been looking at the
three beds the room contained, and wonder-
ing if the whole family slept in such close
quarters, glanced kindly at poor Rosie, who
had turned pale at her mother's abrupt
request.

*'Do, Rosie; I should so like to hear it,"
she said, taking the child's hand in hers.

The lessons in manners whch Rosie had so
valued at sewing-school came to her aid.
Swallowing hard, she began, in a shaky voice:
*'Onct there was two sisters. Their names
was Mary and Marthy. They was friends of
the Lord, and He were comin' to see 'em.

3o8 iEortf) (Earolma Sfeetcl)es

Marthy heard it when she were doin' a errand
at one o' the neighbors. She run home right
quick, and done told Mary, and axed her
would she help her slick the house up a bit
before he come. But Mary wouldn't. She
just sot round, sayin' how pleased she were,
but Marthy went hoppin' about pickin' the
crumbs off the floor," said Rosie, bringing her
story to an abrupt termination.

Her mother nodded smilingly at Miss Bol-
lard to express her admiration for Rosie's
gifts as a story-teller, while Miss Dollard, pat-
ting the child's hand and thanking her, rose

to go.

Before leaving she asked Mrs. Blake if they
would like their Sunday-school continued, if
one of the other teachers and herself could
take charge of it. The offer was gratefully
accepted, and for many months Miss Dollard
and Miss Nelson devoted their Sunday after-
noons to the Blakes. The young people from
a household close by were regular attendants,
so that the Sunday-school often numbered
fifteen or twenty pupils, varying in age from
the baby up to young women of twenty-five.

Miss Dayton's plan of following the usual
Sunday-school work with a lesson in reading
and writing was continued. The elder pu-

Hifee <©ti)cr (E|)iltiren 309

pils, who had never been to school, learned
with difficulty, but the eagerness of the
younger ones to master the three R's gave
zest to the work. Tommy, the baby, sat
on the bare floor, finding endless amusement
in poking crumbs of green soda biscuit
through the gaping cracks. He laughed with
glee when the chickens under the house
noisily squabbled for them. If a greedy one
nabbed his finger, Sunday-school took a recess
till he was pacified.

Poor little Sammy, with his disfigured face
and dreadful stutter, was the brightest of all
the pupils. It was painful to look at him, but
he soon won the affections of his teachers,
who decided that something must be done to
prevent his going through life bearing so dis-
figuring a birth-mark. After learning that he
could be successfully operated upon at the
new hospital near Redbank, Miss Dollard
broached the subject to his mother.

To her consternation, Mrs. Blake exclaimed :
"No, sir! The Lord made him that way,
and we-uns ain't goin' agin the Lord! If
He'd 'a' meant Sammy to be like other chil-
dren, why didn't He make him so in the first
place? Besides, supposin' he should die? Me
and his Pa wouldn't never forgive ourselves

3IO iHiorti) (Earolma S^etcjeg

for givin' in to what you-uns is talkin*
about."

Arguments and pleadings were of no avail.
The more the teachers saw of the child, how-
ever, the more determined they were to save
his sensitive spirit future suffering. They had
seen little of the father, but were told that he
was even "more sot agin a operation" than
the mother. Sunday after Sunday they re-
turned to the charge, but were constantly met
by the humiliation of defeat.

Sammy listened with eager interest when-
ever the subject was broached. The teachers
had at first feared his opposition, but they
little knew what pluck he had.

One Sunday Mrs. Blake said, reproachfully:
"Sammy says if his Pa and me won't let him
get his face fixed, he's bound to run off to the
hospital and beg the doctors to do it right
quick, before we-uns knows where he's
at."

To her surprise and disgust. Miss Dollard
laughed. Then turning to Sammy she said:
"That's right, my boy. It is you who will
have to suffer all your life if it isn't done, and
your parents will be glad by and by that you
had your way in this."

Although the father and mother still with-

fltfee (^i^tt artiltJttn 3^1

held their consent, the teachers felt from that
hour that the victory was won. When the
parents finally yielded, Miss Bollard hurried
the child to the hospital, where the operation
was performed almost immediately.

The mother was permitted to act as nurse
during Sammy's convalescence. "Ain't it
just wonderful how easy-like the doctors done
it?" she said, when the teachers visited the
patient. "I ain't never had no use for doc-
tors and doctors' stuff before, but I ain't
a-goin' agin 'em no more. Just to think that
Sammy'll look like other children now, and
needn't hide hisself for shame no more! And
it's all along o' you-uns. I used to have hard
feelin's agin you, 'count o' your not givin' in
about Sammy, but I can't tell you how thank-
ful I be to you now. I sha'n't never forget
what you-uns and the doctors done for
Sammy. "

They were sitting beside the child's cot, full
of thankfulness and relief themselves that all
was well. The poor little face was so envel-
oped in bandages that only the eager eyes
could speak, but at his mother's words
Sammy stretched out his hands to his teach-
ers, who clasped them in their own. The
mother, quick to interpret the child's ges-

312 iaortt OTaroIina Sfeetcjes

tures, said: "He's a-tryin' to thank you-uns
the best he knows how, now he can't talk."

Dear little man! How patiently he had
borne, and was still bearing, all the pain and
discomfort.

To be like other children had been the haunt-
ing desire of his life. He had been as one in
bondage, and now he was free. By many
little arts and dumb gestures he made his
teachers understand that he felt that it was
to them, first of all, that he owed his freedom.
As soon as he could talk, he said to them:
"Now I can go to free school when it starts,
and not be ashamed no more. If it hadn't
been for you-uns I wouldn't never have looked
like other children. "

The mother was fairly crying for joy.
"I can't never thank you-uns enough for not
givin' in to my contrariness about Sammy,"
she said. "I hated it that bad to see him
like that I'd 'a' given my right hand to cure
him. Folks allowed as it were goin' agin the
Lord to meddle with such things, though, and
we-uns reckoned he'd die if we give in to have
the operation. 'Feared like we just couldn't
stand it."

Not long after Sammy's recovery, Miss

ILi'fee (©tier (EJiltiren 313

Dollard and Miss Nelson were obliged to leave
Redbank.

The opening of free schools about that time,
however, gave the Blakes and other poor
children a coveted chance for "eddication. "

There was also started near the Blakes a
mission Sunday-school, which the poorest and
humblest might attend, unabashed by their
lack of fine raiment.

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i