The wedding came off so exactly as Judy had planned it that it seemed to her to be a proof of the theory of transmigration of the soul, and that in a previous incarnation she had been to just such a wedding. The eldest brother, Ernest, arrived from the far West just in time to change his clothes and give the bride away. There were three understudies for his part, so there was not much concern over his non-arrival until he got there with a blood-curdling tale of wrecks and wash-outs that had delayed him twenty-four hours. Then all of them got very much concerned and Mrs. Brown reproached herself for being so taken up with Mildred’s wedding that she had forgotten to worry about the absent one for the time being. Ernest resembled Sue morethan any of the rest of them, and had a good deal of her poise and dignity. “But I’ll wager that he is not as serious as he seems,” thought Judy, detecting a twinkle in the corner of his sober eyes.
Mildred looked lovely, and she had such a sweet, trusting look in her eyes as she came down the steps and up the tan-bark walk on Ernest’s arm, that Crittenden Rutledge, waiting for her at the end of the walk, broke away from his best man and went forward several yards to meet his bride. Sue and Molly brought up the rear; Sue, composed and calm with her sweet dignity; but Molly, so deeply moved by this beloved sister’s marriage and the break in their ranks, the very first, that she felt her knees trembling and wondered if it could be possible that she was going to ruin everything and burst into tears or fall in a faint or do something terrible. But she didn’t. The familiar voice of their old minister in the opening lines of the Episcopal marriage service brought her to her senses, and she was able to follow the ritual in her mind, but shedared not trust herself to look up. She kept her eyes glued to her bouquet of “love-in-the-mist,” that Miss Lizzie Monday had brought her that morning, picked from her own old-fashioned garden.
“I know the groom will send the bridesmaids flowers, but somehow, Molly, I don’t want you to carry hothouse flowers. These ‘love-in-the-mists’ will look just right with your dress and your eyes and your ways.”
So Molly carried Miss Lizzie’s “bokay” and put the flowers that the groom sent her in a vase in the parlor. But Molly was not thinking of her dress or her eyes, except to try to keep the tears in them, since come they would, and not let them run out on her cheeks. Mildred’s responses were inaudible except to dear old Dr. Peters, the minister, but Crittenden’s were so loud and clear and resonant that it was almost like chanting, and Judy had to smile when she could not help thinking of the stammering man’s “Your house is on fire, tra la, tra la.”
“I pronounce you man and wife.”
All is over. Molly can let the tears fall now if she wants to, but, strange to say, she does not seem to want to any more. Such a rejoicing is going on. Everybody seems to be kissing everybody else. Aren’t they all more or less kin? Mildred and Kent, the center of a gay crowd, are fondly kissing the ones they should merely shake hands with, and formally shaking hands with their nearest and dearest, just as in a fire people have been known to carry carefully the pillows downstairs and throw the bowls and pitchers out of the window. Kent has his wits about him, however, and kisses Judy, declaring it is all in the day’s work.
A stranger standing on the outskirts of the crowd during the whole ceremony seemed much more interested in the bridesmaid dressed in blue than in the bride herself, and when this same bridesmaid felt herself swaying a little as though her emotion might get the better of her, if one had not been so taken up with the central figureson the stage he might have noticed the stranger start forward as though to go to her assistance. But he, too, was brought to his senses by the calm voice of Dr. Peters in the opening words of the service, and saw with evident relief that the bridesmaid had gained control of herself. He was a tall young man with kind brown eyes and light hair, a little thin at the temples, giving him more years perhaps than he was entitled to.
When the service was over and the general confusion ensued, he made his way swiftly to where Molly stood, and without saying one word of greeting he put his arm around her and tenderly kissed her. Molly was so overcome with astonishment that she could only gasp, “Professor Green! What are you doing here?”
“I am having a very pleasant time, thank you, Miss Molly. I got your mother’s kind invitation to attend your sister’s wedding, and—here I am. Didn’t your brother Paul tell you that I had come?”
“No, we have been so occupied, I believe I have not seen Paul to-day.”
“I went to his newspaper office in Louisville to find out something about how to get here, and he asked me to drive out with him. Are you sorry I came, Miss Molly?”
“Sorry? Oh, Professor Green, you must know how glad I am to see you! But, you see, I was a little startled, not expecting you and thinking of you as still at Wellington.”
“If you were thinking of me as being anywhere at all, I feel better. Were you really thinking of me?”
“Yes,” said the candid Molly, “and wasn’t it strange that I was thinking of you just as you came up—and—and——” but, remembering his manner of greeting her, she blushed painfully.
“You are not angry with me, are you, my dear child? I felt so lonesome. You see everybody seemed to know everybody else, and there was such a handshaking and so forth going on that before I knew it I was in the swim.”
“Almost every one here is kin or near-kin, and weddings in Kentucky seem to give a great deal of license,” said Molly, recovering her equanimity. “Of course I am not angry with you. I could not get angry with any one on Mildred’s wedding day.”
But Molly felt that in a way Edwin Green had paid her back for the hug she had given him. She had hugged him because he was so old that she could do so with impunity, and he in turn had kissed her because he felt lonesome, forsooth, and she was so young that it made no great difference. His “My dear child” had been a kind of humiliation to Molly. What is the use of being a senior and graduating at college if a man very little over thirty thinks you are nothing but a kid?
“Professor Green is not so very much older than Ernest,” thought Molly, “and I wager he will not treat Judy with that old-enough-to-be-your-father air! Here am I getting mad on Mildred’s wedding day when I just said I could not!And, after all, Professor Green has been very kind to me and means to be now, I know.” Turning to him with one of “Molly’s own,” as Edith Williams termed her smile, she said, “Now you must meet my mother and all the rest of them.”
Mrs. Brown looked keenly and rather sadly at the young professor. This coming of men for her daughters was growing wearisome, so the poor lady thought; but she liked Edwin Green’s expression and found herself trusting him before he got through explaining his sudden appearance in Kentucky.
“After all, maybe he is only thinking of Molly as one of his pupils. His buying the orchard meant an interest in her college course and nothing else.”
Mrs. Brown introduced him to the relatives and friends near her, and Molly had to leave him and make herself useful, as usual, in seeing that the refreshments were forthcoming.
When they had decided to have the wedding out of doors, it had seemed best to have the supperal fresco, and now brisk and very polite colored waiters were busy bringing tables and chairs from a side porch and placing them on the lawn. An odor of coffee and broiled sweetbreads, mingling with that of chicken salad and hot beaten biscuit, began to rival the fragrance of the orange flowers and roses.
The crowd around the bride thinning out a little to find seats at the tables, Professor Green was able to make his way to Mildred and Crittenden. After greeting them, he espied Judy talking sweetly to a stern-looking woman with a hard face and a soft figure, who was dressed severely in a stiff black silk, with most uncompromising linen collar and cuffs. Her iron-gray hair was tightly coiled in a fashion that emphasized her hawk-like expression, but with all she looked enough like Mrs. Brown to establish an undeniable claim to relationship with that charming lady. Mrs. Brown herself, in a soft black crêpe de Chine and old lace collar and cuffs, with her wavy chestnut hair, was more beautiful thanany of her daughters, the bride herself having to take a second place.
Judy was delighted to see the professor, and not nearly so astonished as Molly had been, the truth being that Paul had told that young lady of Edwin Green’s arrival, with the expectation that she would inform Molly. But Judy, realizing the state of excitement that Molly was in, determined to keep the news to herself and not give Molly anything more to feel just then, even if in doing so she, Judy, would appear to be careless and forgetful. Judy understood the regard that Molly had for Professor Green—better than Molly herself did. She remembered Molly’s expression and misery when little Otoyo, their Japanese friend at Wellington, had told them of his being so dangerously ill with typhoid, and how Molly had lost weight and could neither sleep nor eat until the crisis had passed.
“Did you ever see such a beautiful wedding in your life?” said Judy.
“Never, and I am told it was all your plan, even to the holly-hock background.”
“Well, you see the idea was floating around in the air, and I was just the one who had her idea-net ready and caught it. Ideas are like butterflies, anyhow—all flying around waiting to be pounced on—but the thing is to have your net ready.”
“Yes, and another thing, not to handle the butterfly idea too roughly. Many an idea, beautiful in itself, is ruined in the working out,” said her companion.
“That is where taste comes in.”
Judy would have liked to chase the metaphor much farther with the agreeable young man, but she remembered that she had set out to fascinate Aunt Clay, and it was Aunt Sarah Clay to whom she had been talking when Professor Green had come up. She introduced him, and Mrs. Clay immediately pounced on him with a tirade against innovations of all kinds.
Looking very much as we are led by the cartooniststo expect a suffragist to look, Mrs. Clay was the most ardent “anti.” Opposed to all progress and innovations, and constantly at war on the subject of higher education of women, she carried her conservatism even to the point of having her grain cut with a scythe instead of using the up-to-date machinery. Professor Green was her natural enemy, for was he not instructor in a girls’ school where, she was led to understand, belief in equal suffrage was as necessary for entrance as the knowledge of Latin or mathematics?
Professor Green, ignorant of the antagonism she felt for him and his calling, endeavored to make himself as agreeable as possible to Molly’s aunt. He listened with seeming respect to her attack on modernism and then turned the subject to the wedding, her pretty nieces and fine-looking nephews.
“I never heard of any one getting married out of doors before in my life, and had I known they were contemplating such a thing I certainlyshould not have set my foot on the place, nor would I have sent them the handsome wedding present I did. I shall not be at all astonished if the bishop reprimands that sentimental old Dr. Peters for allowing anything so undignified in connection with the church ritual. They had much better jump over a broomstick like Gypsies and not desecrate our prayer book in such a manner. Mildred Carmichael has brought all her children up to have their own way. The idea of none of those boys being willing to stay on the farm where their forefathers managed to make a living, and a very good one! They, forsooth, must go as clerks or reporters or what not into cities and let their farm go to rack and ruin, already mortgaged until it is top-heavy. Then when they do make a little, they must squander it in this absurd new-fangled machinery, labor-saving devices that I have no use for in the world. And now Molly, not content with four years wasted at college, to say nothing of the money, says she wants to go back to fit herselfmore thoroughly for making her living. Living, indeed! Where are her brothers that she need feel the necessity of making her living?”
“But, Mrs. Clay,” Judy here broke in, “my father says that there are only three male relatives that a woman should expect to support her: her father, her husband and her son. Since Molly has none of these, she, of course, wants to do something for herself. Even with a father, unless the father is very well off, it seems to me a girl ought to help after a lot has been spent on her education. I certainly mean to do something, but the trouble is, the only thing I can do will mean more money spent before I can accomplish anything.”
“And what does such a charming person as Miss Kean expect to do?” asked the irascible old lady.
“I want to go to Paris and study to become a decorator.” This was too much for Mrs. Clay. Without saying a word, she turned and stalkedacross the lawn where the waiters were carrying trays of food.
“Hateful old thing! I hope food will improve her temper. It would certainly be acceptable to me. See, here comes Kent with a table! I’ll find Molly and we can have a fine foursome, and you shall taste Aunt Mary’s beaten biscuit, hot from the oven. No wonder Molly is such an angel. If, as the cereal ads. say, we are what our food makes us, any one raised on Aunt Mary’s cooking would have to be good. Goodness knows what Aunt Clay eats! It must be thistles and green persimmons!”
Mildred, dressed in her pretty brown traveling suit, off to Iowa; the last slipper and handful of rice thrown; the last lingering guest departed; daylight passed and the moon well up; and at last Mrs. Brown and Judy and Molly were free to sink on a settle on the porch, realizing for the first time how tired and footsore they were.
“Oh, my dears, I feel as though I could never get up again! It is a good thing I am so tired, for now I shall have to sleep and can’t grieve for Mildred all night. I begged Professor Green to stay, but he had to go back to Louisville. However, he is coming out to Chatsworth to-morrow to pay us the promised visit. We shall have to pack the presents in the morning to send to Iowa, and glad I’ll be to get them out of the house. DidI tell you, Molly, that Aunt Mary, Ca’line and Lewis are all going off to-morrow to Jim Jourdan’s basket funeral? We shall be alone, you and Judy and I. Sue goes to your Aunt Clay’s for a few days, and Kent starts back to work, the dear boy. Such a comfort as he has been! Ernest has to look up some friends in town, but will be out in time for supper. I fancy he will drive Professor Green out from Louisville. Good night, my dear girls, I know you are dead tired.”
So they were, so tired that Judy overslept in the morning, but Molly was up betimes to help the servants get off on their gruesome spree.
“Now ain’t that jes’ like my Molly baby? She don’ never fergit to be he’pful. Th’ ain’t no cookin’ fer you to do to-day, honey; they’s plenty of bis’it lef’ from the jamboree las’ night; they’s a ham bone wif ‘nuf on it fer you and yo’ ma an’ Miss Judy to pick on; they’s a big bowl er chick’n salid in the ‘frigerater that I jes’ bodaciously tuck away from that black Lewis. I done tol’ him that awlive ile my’naise ain’t no eatin’sfer niggers. If his insides needs a greasin’ he kin take a good swaller er castor ile. Tell yo’ ma I made that lazy Ca’line churn fo’ sun-up ’cause they wa’nt a drap er butter in the house, an’ the buttermilk is in the big jar in the da’ry. They’s a pot er cabbage simperin’ on the back er the stove, but that ain’t meant fer the white folks, but jes’ in case we needs some comfort when we gits back from the funeral. I tried to save some ice cream fer my honey baby from las’ night an’ had it all packed good fer keepin’, but looked like in the night I took sech a cravin’ fer some mo’ I couldn’ sleep ‘thout I had some, an’ by the time I opened up the freezer an’ et some, it looked like the res’ of it jes’ melted away somehow.”
“Well, Aunt Mary, I am so glad you got some more. Have a good time and don’t worry about us. We shall get along all right. You see there are no men on the place to-day, and women can eat anything the day after a party. You know my teacher, Professor Green, is going to be herefor a visit. He is coming this evening in time for supper, and I do hope you won’t be too tired after the basket funeral to make him some waffles.”
“What, me tired? I ain’t a-goin’ to be doin’ nothin’ all day but enjyin’ of myself; and if I won’t have the stren’th myself to stir up a few waffles fer my baby’s frien’s, I’s still survigerous ’nuf to make that Ca’line do it. I allus has a good time at funerals an’ a basket funeral is the mos’ enjyble of all entertainments.”
Judy came on the scene just then and begged to be enlightened as to the nature of a basket funeral.
“Well, you see, honey, when a member dies at a onseasonable time, or at the beginning of the week an’ you can’t keep him ‘til Sunday, or in harvestin’ time when ev’ybody is busy an’ the hosses is all workin’, why then we jes’ bury the corpse quiet like. And then when work gits slack an’ there is some chanst to borrow the white folks’ teams, we gits together an’ ev’ybody takesa big lunch an’ we impair to the seminary an’ have a preachment over the grave and then a big jamboree.” The old woman stopped to chuckle, and such a contagious chuckle she had that you found yourself laughing with her before you knew what the joke was.
“I ‘member moughty well when this here same Jim Jourdan, what is to be preached over an’ prayed over an’ et over to-day, was doin’ the same by his second wife Suky Jourdan, an’ that was after I had buried my Cyrus an’ befo’ I took up wif my Albert. It was a hot day in July when fryin’-size chick’ns was jes’ about comin’ on good an’ fat, an’ I had a scrumptious lot of victuals good ‘nuf fer white folks. Jim looked so ferlorn that I as’t him to sit down an’ try to worry down some eatin’s with us. He was vas’ly pleased to do so, an’ look like he couldn’ praise my cookin’ ‘nuf; an’ befo’ we got to the pie, he up an’ ast me to come occupy Suky’s place in his cabin. I never said one word, but I got up an’ fetched a big pa’m leaf fan out’n the waggin an han’ it tohim. ‘What’s this fer, Sis Mary?’ sez he, an’ sez I, ‘You jes’ take this here fan an’ fan you’ secon’ ‘til she’s col’, and then come a seekin’ yo’ third.’”
The girls laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks over Aunt Mary’s unique courtship. The red-wheeled wagon came up driven by Lewis with Ca’line sitting beside him, dressed within an inch of her life. Molly got a box for Aunt Mary to step on to climb into the vehicle, but the old woman refused to budge until Lewis took out the back seat and got a rocking chair for her to sit in.
“You know moughty well, you fergitful nigger, that I allus goes to baskit funerals a-settin’ in a rockin’ cheer! Go git the one offen the back po’ch, the red one with the arms to it. Sho as I go a-settin’ on a back seat some lazy pusson what can’t borrow a team will come a-astin’ fer to ride longside er me, an’ I don’ want nobody a-rumplin’ me up, an’ ’sides ole Miss never lent this waggin fer all the niggers in Jeff’son Countyto come a-crowdin’ in an ben’in’ the springs. Then when we gits to the buryin’ groun’, I’ll have a cheer to sit in an’ not have to go squattin’ ‘roun’ on grabe stones.”
“Good-by, Aunt Mary, good-by, Ca’line and Lewis.”
The girls waved until they were out of sight and then went laughing into the quiet house. It seemed quiet, indeed, after the hub-bub of the day before.
“Everything certainly stayed clean with all of the guests out of doors. I have never had an entertainment with so little to do when it was over,” said Mrs. Brown. “It was a good day for the servants to go away, with the house in such good order and enough left-overs from the wedding supper for three lone women to feed on for several meals. I wonder how your Aunt Clay is getting on with her harvesting? She is so headstrong not to borrow my cutting machine! Why does she insist that flour made from wheatcut with a scythe makes better bread than that cut with modern machinery?”
“She declared yesterday, mother, that she was not going to feed her hands until they got through mowing, if it took them until nightfall. She says you spoil all darkeys that come near you, and she is going to show them who is boss on her place. Kent infuriated her by telling her she would get herself into trouble if she did not look out; that her wheat was already overripe, and if she attempted to make her hands work over dinner hour they would leave it half cut; but advice to Aunt Clay always sends her in the opposite direction.”
“I wish I had not let Sue go over there. Most of those harvesters are strangers from another county, and they might do something desperate if Sarah antagonized them.”
“Don’t worry, mother, Cyrus Clay is over there, and he is sure to take good care of Sue.”
The morning was spent with much gay talk as they packed the presents. Mrs. Brown was thekind of woman who could enter into the feelings of young people. She seemed to be of their generation and was never shocked or astonished when in their talk she realized that things had changed since her day. She usually made the best of it and put it down to “progress” of some sort. They worked faithfully, and by twelve o’clock had tied up and labeled the last parcel to go in the last barrel.
“Come on, girls, let’s have an early lunch and then we can have our much needed and hard-earned rest. A good nap all around will make us feel like ourselves again.”
How good that lunch did taste! Molly had been so excited that she could not swallow food the evening before, and Mrs. Brown had been so busy looking after guests that she had forgotten to eat. Judy was the only one who had done justice to the supper, but, having tested it, she was more than willing to try the chicken salad again.
“Never mind washing the dishes; put them ina dish-pan for Ca’line. Get into your kimonos and take a good nap. I am sick for sleep,” yawned Mrs. Brown.
In five minutes they were dead to the world, lost in that midsummer afternoon sleep, the heaviest of all slumber. Everything was perfectly still except the bees, buzzing around the honey-suckle. A venturesome vine had made its way through Molly’s window, ever open in summer, and as Judy lay, half asleep, she amused herself by watching a great bumble bee sip honey from the fragrant flowers, and his humming was the last sound that she was conscious of hearing. It seemed like a minute, so heavily had she slept—it was really several hours—when she was awakened with a nightmare that the bee was as big as a horse and his humming was that of a thousand bees.
“Molly, Molly, listen, what is that noise?”
Molly, ever a light sleeper, was out of bed in a trice and at the front window. What a sight met her eyes! Coming up the avenue was acrowd of at least forty negroes, all of them carrying scythes and whetstones, the sweat pouring from their black faces and bared necks and hairy chests, their white teeth flashing and eyeballs rolling, the sun glinting on the sharp steel of their scythes, menace and fury darkening the face of every man and coming from them a mutter and hum truly like the buzzing of a thousand bees.
Judy, although she was weak with fear, could not help thinking, “That is the noise on the stage that a mob tries to make.”
“Aunt Clay’s hands have struck work, and to think there is not a man on this place! I believe the blackguards know it! Load your pistol, Judy, and let us go to mother.”
Mother was already up, hastily gowned in her wrapper, and opening the front door when the girls came down the stairs. The intrepid lady walked out on the porch with seemingly no more fear than she had had the day before when she came forward to meet the wedding guests. Headerect, eyes steady and piercing, with a voice clear and composed, she said, “Why, boys, you look very tired and hot, and I know you are hungry. Sit down in the shade, on the porch steps and under the trees, and I will see what we can find for you to eat. Molly, go get that buttermilk out of the dairy. The jar is too heavy for you to lift, so take Buck and let him carry it for you.”
Mrs. Brown, with all of her courage, was never more scared in her life. All the time she was talking she had been looking in the crowd of black faces for a familiar one, and was glad to recognize Buck Jourdan, a good-natured, good-for-nothing nephew of Aunt Mary’s. At her command Buck stepped forward, and then a dozen more of the men came to the front, unconsciously separating themselves from the rest. Mrs. Brown saw that they were all negroes belonging in her neighborhood. At her calming words and proffer of food such a change came over the faces of the mob that they hardly seemed to be the same men. Their teeth showednow in grins instead of sinister snarls; they stacked their murderous looking weapons against the paulownia tree and sat down in the shade with expressions as peaceful as the wedding guests themselves had worn.
Molly and the stalwart Buck were back in an incredibly short time with the five-gallon jar of buttermilk and a tray of glasses not yet put away from yesterday’s feast. Mrs. Brown herself dipped out the smooth, luscious beverage, seeing that each man was plentifully served, while Molly went into the house to bring out all the cooked provisions she could find. Mrs. Brown beckoned the trembling and wondering Judy to her and whispered, “Go ring the farm bell as loud as you can. All danger is over now, I feel sure, but it is well to let the neighbors know that we are in some difficulty; and I fancy I heard a horse trotting on the turnpike, and whoever it is might hasten to us at the sound of a farm bell at this unusual hour.”
Judy flew to the great bell, hung on a highpost in the back yard. She seized the rope, and then such a ding-dong as pealed forth! The bell was a very heavy brass one, and at every pull Judy, who was something of a lightweight, leaped into the air, reciting as she jumped, “Curfew shall not ring to-night.”
“That is enough, my dear. There is no use in getting help from an adjacent county, and I fancy every one in Jefferson County has heard the bell by this time,” said Mrs. Brown, stopping her before she had quite finished the last stanza, which Judy said was like interrupting a good sneeze.
Molly had found all kinds of food for the hungry laborers, who were more sinned against than sinning. They had gone in all good faith to the Clay farm to harvest the wheat according to the antiquated methods of the mistress, with scythes and cradles. When twelve o’clock, the dinner hour everywhere, came, they were told that they could not eat until they had finished. They had worked on until two, and then, infuriatedwith hunger and goaded on by the thought of the injustice done them, they had struck in a body and gone to the mansion to try to force Mrs. Clay to feed them; but they had been held back at the point of a pistol, by that lady herself. Then they had determined to get food where they could find it.
Mrs. Brown gathered this much from the men as, their hunger assuaged, they talked more connectedly.
“Th’ ain’t nothin’ like buttermilk to ease yo’ heart,” said Buck Jasper. “Mis’ Mildred Carmichael kin git mo’ outen her niggers fillin’ ’em full er buttermilk than her sister Mis’ Sary kin fillin’ ’em full er buckshot.”
Mrs. Brown was right; she had heard a horse trotting on the turnpike. The men were wiping their mouths on the backs of their hands and coming up one at a time to thank the gracious lady for her kindness in feeding them, when Ernest and Edwin Green came driving into the avenue.
“Mother! What does this mean? I thought I heard the farm bell when I was about two miles from home, and now I find the yard full of negro men. Have you had a fire?”
Mrs. Brown explained that Aunt Clay had made things pretty hot for her hands, but so far there had been no other fire. She welcomed Professor Green to Chatsworth and called the grinning Buck to take his suitcase to the cottage porch. Judy wondered at her calm manner and at her saying nothing to Ernest about their being so frightened, not realizing that one hint of the trouble would have sent Ernest off into a rage, when he might have reprimanded the negroes and all the good work of the buttermilk have been undone. Molly was pale and Professor Green, ever watchful of her, asked Judy to give him an account of the matter, which she did in such a graphic manner that he, too, turned pale to think of the danger those dear ladies had been in. He made himself at home by making himself useful, and helped Molly to carry backinto the kitchen the empty glasses and plates from the feast of the hungry darkeys. She laughingly handed him a great, iron pot in which cabbage had been cooked.
“I am wondering what Aunt Mary will say about her cabbage. Mother sent me into the house to get all available food, when she realized that the hands were simply hungry and that food would be the best thing to quell their rage. Aunt Mary had this huge pot of cabbage on the back of the range; she said in case Lewis jolted down the lunch she was going to eat at the basket funeral she would have it cooked in readiness. The poor dogs will have to go hungry, too, or have some more corn bread cooked for them. I found this big pan full of what we call dog-bread, made from scalded meal and salt and bacon drippings, baked until it is crisp. The men were crazy about it with pot liquor poured over it. You can see for yourself how they licked their platters clean.”
“The Saxon word ‘lady’ means bread-giver,but I think that you and your mother have given it a new significance, and the dictionaries will have to add, ‘Dispenser of cabbage and buttermilk and dog-bread.’”
More wheels, and Aunt Mary and Lewis, with Ca’line much rumpled and asleep on the front seat, her shoes and stockings in her lap and her bare feet propped gracefully on the dashboard, had returned. Aunt Mary was much excited.
“What’s all dis doin’? Who was all dem niggers I seen a-streakin’ crost the fiel’s? Buck Jourdan, ain’t that you I see hidin’ behine that tree? I thought I hearn the farm bell as we roun’ed the Pint, but Lewis lowed ’twas over to Miss Sary Clay’s. Come here, Buck, an’ he’p me out’n dis here waggin. You needn’t think you kin hide from me, when I kin see the patch on yo’ pants made outen the selfsame goods I gib yo’ ma to make some waistes out’n, two years ago come next Febuway.” Buck came sheepishily forward to help his old aunt out of the vehicle. “Nex’ time you wan’ ter hide from me you’dbetter make out to grow a leettle leaner, or fin’ a tree what’s made out to grow some wider so’s you won’t stick out beyant it. What you been doing, and who’s been a-mashin’ down ole Miss’s grass, and what’s my little Miss Molly baby a-doin’ workin’ herself to death ag’in to-day?”
Buck endeavored to explain his appearance, and told the story of the strike at Mrs. Clay’s and how they were just passing through Mrs. Brown’s yard when she had come out and invited them all to dinner. His story was so plausible and his voice so soft and manner so wheedling, that Professor Green, who overheard the conversation, was much amused, and had he not already got the incident from Judy might have believed Buck, so convincing were his words and manner. Not so Aunt Mary, who had partly raised the worthless Buck and knew better than anyone how he could use his silver tongue to lie as well as tell the truth, but preferred the former method.
“Now, look here, you Buck Jourdan, you ain’tno count on Gawd’s green yearth ‘cep to play the banjo. What you been doin’ hirin’ yo’self out to Miss Sary Clay, jes’ like you ain’t never know’d that none of our fambly don’ never work fer none er hern? Yo’ ma befo’ you an’ yo’ gran’ma befo’ her done tried it. Meanin’ no disrespect to the rest er the Carmichaels, der’s the ole sayin’, ‘What kin you expec’ from a hog but a grunt?’ I knows ‘thout goin’ in my kitchen that Miss Molly done gib all you triflin’ niggers my pot er cabbage an’ the dog-bread I baked fer those houn’s an’ bird dogs what ain’t no mo’ count than you is, ‘cept’n they can’t play the banjo.”
“Buck Jourdan, is that you?” said Ernest, coming forward and interrupting Aunt Mary’s tirade. “I am going to get Miss Molly’s banjo and you can sit down and give us some music. I haven’t heard a good tune since I went West.”
Buck, glad to escape any farther tongue lashing from his relative, and always pleased to play and sing, tuned the banjo and began:
“‘Hi,’ said the ’possum as he shook the ‘simmon tree,‘Golly,’ said the rabbit; ‘you shake ’em all on me.’An’ they went in wif they claws, an’ they licked they li’l paws,An’ they took whole heaps home to they maws.”
After several stanzas sung in a soft melodious voice, Buck, at Molly’s request, gave them, to a chanting recitative the following song, composed by a friend of Buck’s, and worthy to be incorporated in American folk-lore, so Professor Green laughingly assured Mrs. Brown.
THE MURDER OF THE RATTAN FAMILY.“One evening in September, in eighteen ninety-three,Jim Stone committed a murder, as cruel as it could be.’Twas on the Rattan family, while they were preparing for their bed.Jim Stone, he rapped upon the door, complaining of his head.The first was young Mrs. Rattan. She come to let him in.He slew her with his corn knife—that’s where his crime begin.The next was old Mrs. Rattan. Old soul was feeble and gray.Truly she fought Jim Stone a battle till her strength it give way.The next was the little baby. When he, Jim Stone did see,He raised up in his cradle. ‘Oh! Jim Stone, don’t murder me!’Next morning when he was arrested—wasn’t sure that he was the one.Till only a few weeks later he confessed to the crime he done.They took him to Southern Prison, which they thought was thesafetes’ place.When they marched him out for trial, he had a smile upon his face.And after he was sentenced, oh! how he did mourn and cry.One day he received a letter, saying his daughter was bound to die.Next morning he answered the letter and in it he did say,‘Tell her I’ll meet her there in Heaven, on the sixteenth of Februway.’They led him upon the scaffold with the black cap over his head.And he hung there sixteen minutes ‘fore the doctors pronouncedhim dead.Now wouldn’t it have been much better if he’d stayed at homewith his wife,Instead of keeping late hours, and taking that family’s life?”
The next week was a very quiet and peaceful one at Chatsworth. There had been so many excitements, with burglars and negro uprisings and what not, that Molly was afraid her visitors would think Kentucky deserved the meaning the Indians attached to it—“the dark and bloody battle-ground.”
Ernest, home for a vacation from his labors in the West, endeavored to keep Judy from missing the attentions of Kent, who was back at his grind in Louisville in the architect’s office, and did not get home each day until time for a late supper. Judy liked Ernest very well, as she did all of the Browns, but Kent and Molly were her favorites still, and the evenings were the best ofall when Kent came home and, as he put it, “relieved Ernest.”
Molly found herself on easier terms with Professor Green than she had ever imagined possible. If he did not consider her quite an old lady, she at least was beginning to look upon him as not such a very old gentleman. He played what Kent designated as a “cracker-jack” game of tennis, and turned out to be as good a horseman as the Brown boys themselves.
“If he only had a little more hair on his forehead,” thought Molly, “he would look right young.”
Aunt Mary was the unconscious means of consoling her for his lack of hair. “Honey, I likes yo’ teacher mo’n any Yankee I ever seed. He’d oughter rub onions on his haid to stimilate the roots. Not but what he ain’t han’some, baldish haid an’ all, with them hones’ eyes an’ that upstandin’ look. I done took notice that brains don’ make the best sile to grow ha’r on an’ lots er smart folks is baldish. Mindjer, I wouldn’go so fer as to say bald haided folks is all smart. It looks like some er them is so hard-haided the ha’r can’t break th’ough the scalp.”
Of course, the first day at Chatsworth he had to be taken out to view his possessions, the two acres of orchard land. It was a possession for any man to be proud of. It lay on the side of a gently sloping hill covered with blue grass and noble, venerable, twisted apple trees, that Molly said reminded her of fine old hands that showed hard, useful work.
“And these trees always have done good work. You know my father called these his lucky acres. He was always certain of an income from these apples. The trees have been taken care of and trimmed and not allowed to rot away as some of the old orchards around here have, Aunt Clay’s, for instance. She is so afraid of doing something modern that she refused to spray her trees when the country was full of San José scale, and in consequence lost her whole peach orchard andmost of her apples. This is where our ‘castle’ used to be.”
They were in a grassy space near the middle of the orchard, where a stump of an old tree was still standing. The land, showing a beautiful soft contour, sloped to the worm fence at the foot of the hill, where the grass changed its green to a brighter hue and a beautiful little stream sparkled in the sun.
“All of us, even Sue, who is not given to such things, cried when in a big wind storm our beloved castle was twisted off of its roots. It was a tree made for children to play in, with low spreading branches and great crotches, the limbs all twisted and bent and one of them curving down so low you could sit in it and touch your feet to the ground. We had our regular apartments in that tree and kept our treasures in a hole too high up for thieves to have any suspicion of it. It was so shady and cool and breezy that on the hottest day we were comfortable and often had lunch here. We played every kind ofgame known to children and made up a lot more. ‘Swiss Family Robinson’ when they went to live up the tree was our best game. I remember once Kent gathered a lot of peach-tree gum and ruined my slippers trying to make rubber boots out of them as the father in Swiss Family Robinson did. Our castle had wonderful apples on it, too. They grew to an enormous size, and if any of them were ever allowed to get really ripe they turned pure gold and tasted—oh, how good they did taste.”
Edwin Green listened, enchanted at Molly’s description of her childhood and the beloved play-house. He half shut his eyes and tried to picture her as a little girl in a blue sun-bonnet—of course she must have had a blue bonnet—climbing nimbly up the old apple tree, entering as eagerly into the game of Swiss Family Robinson as she was now playing the game of life, even letting her best little slippers be gummed over to play the game true. He had a feeling of almost bitter regret that he hadn’t known Mollyas a little girl. “She must have been such a bully little girl,” thought that highly educated teacher of English.
“Miss Molly, do you think that this would be the best place to build my bungalow? Place it right here where your castle stood? Maybe I could catch some of the breezes that you used to enjoy; and perhaps some of the happiness that you found here was spilled over and I might pick it up. It could not be so beautiful as your tree castle, but it is my ‘Castle in the Air.’ If I put it here I should not have to sacrifice any of the other trees; there is room enough where your old friend stood for my modest wants. Would it hurt your feelings to have me build a little house where your childish mansion stood?”
“Why, Professor Green, the idea of such a thing! It would give me the greatest happiness to have your bungalow right on this site. I would not be a dog in the manger about it, anyhow. Are you really and truly going to build?”
“I hope to. Of course, I shall have to askyour mother if she would mind having such a close neighbor.”
“Well, I hardly think mother would expect to sell a lot and then not let the purchaser build. She may have to sell some more of the place. I wish it could be that old stony strip over by Aunt Clay’s. You know our home, Chatsworth, is a Brown inheritance, and the Carmichael place adjoining belonged to mother’s people. They call it the Clay place now, but until grandfather died it was known as the Carmichael place. Aunt Clay married and lived there and somehow got hold of grandfather and made him appoint her administratrix and executrix to his estate. She managed things so well for herself that she got the house with everything in it and the improved, cleared land, giving mother acres and acres of poor land where even blackberries don’t flourish and the cows won’t graze. The sheep won’t drink the water, but they do condescend to keep down the weeds. I really believe that Aunt Clay is the only person in the worldthat I can’t like even a little bit. I fancy it is because she has been so mean to mother. I believe I could get over her being cross and critical with me, but somehow I can’t forgive the way she has always treated mother.”
“I found her a very trying companion at your sister’s wedding, and she looks as though she had brains, too. But how anyone with sense could be anything but kind to your mother I cannot see.”
Molly beamed with pleasure. “Ah, you see how wonderful mother is. I thought you would appreciate her. She likes you, too, Professor Green. Mother says she believes she understands boys better than girls and can enter into their feelings more.”
“Oh, what am I saying?” thought Molly. “I wonder what the Wellington girls would say if they could know I forgot and as good as called their Professor of English a boy! Well, he does look quite boyish out of doors, with his hat on.”
They strolled on down toward the brook,Molly patting each tree as they passed and telling some little incident of her childhood.
“I truly believe you love every one of these trees. You touch them as lovingly as you do President or the dogs, and look at them as fondly as you do at old Aunt Mary.”
“Indeed, I do; and, as for this little stream, it makes to me the sweetest music in the world.”
“Miss Molly, when I build my little bungalow, will you come and have lunch with me as you used to with your brothers in the old castle? I’ll promise you not to let you eat at the second table as you did when you took breakfast with me last Christmas.”
They both laughed at the thought of that morning; and Molly remembered that it was then that she had overheard Professor Green tell his housekeeper of his apple orchard out in Kentucky, and had realized for the first time that it was he who had bought the orchard at Chatsworth.
“Indeed, I will take lunch with you, and wouldlike to cook it, too, as I did your breakfast that cold morning. Do you know, when you came downstairs and I peeped at you through the crack in the pantry door, you looked and sounded almost as fierce as the mob of colored men who came hungry from Aunt Clay’s last week? The nice breakfast I fixed for you seemed to soften your temper just as mother’s buttermilk did the darkies’. Aunt Mary says, ‘White men and black men is all the same on the inside, and all of them is Hungarians.’”
Edwin Green laughed, as he always did when Molly got on the subject of Aunt Mary. The old woman was a never failing source of wonder and amusement to him; and Molly mimicked her so well that you could almost see her short, fat figure with her head tied up in a bandanna handkerchief, vigorously nodding to punctuate each epigram.
“Next winter I hope to have my sister with me at Wellington, and she will see that this ‘Hungarian’ is fed better than my housekeeper has.You will come to us a great deal, I hope. I am overjoyed that you are to take the postgraduate course. That was the one pleasant thing your aunt, Mrs. Clay, had to tell me when I conversed with her at the wedding, and she little dreamed how pleasant it was, or I doubt her giving me that joy.”
“I am truly glad. I hated to give up right now. It seemed to me as though I could see the open door of culture but had not reached it, and had a lot of things to learn before I had any right to consider myself fit to pass through it. Mother and Kent together decided it must be managed for me. They are both bricks, anyhow.”
The young people had come to the little purling brook during this conversation, and at Molly’s instigation had turned down the stream and entered, through a break in the worm fence, a beautiful bit of woods. The beech woods in Kentucky are, when all is told, about the most beautiful woods in the world. No shade is so dense, no trees more noble, not even oaks. With thegrace of an aspen and the dignity of an oak, the beech to my mind is first among trees.
“Of all the beautiful picturesThat hang on Memory’s wall,Is one of a dim old forestThat seemeth the best of all.“Not for the gnarled oaks olden,Dark with the mistletoe,Not for the violets goldenThat sprinkle the vale below.“Not for the milk-white liliesLeaning o’er the hedge,Coquetting all day with the sunbeamsAnd stealing their golden edge.”
Molly quoted the verses in her soft, clear voice, adding:
“I say ‘gnarled oaks olden’ for euphony, but I always think ‘beech.’ I don’t know what Miss Alice or Phœbe Gary, whichever one it waswho wrote those lovely verses, would think of my taking such a liberty, even in my mind.”
“No doubt if Miss Alice or Phœbe Cary could have seen this wood, she would have searched about in her mind for a line to fit beeches and let oaks go hang. This is really a wonderful spot. Can’t we sit down a while? I hope your mother will let me have right of way through these woods when I build my nest in the orchard. This makes my lot more valuable than I thought. I have never seen such beech trees; why, in the East a beech is not such a wonderful tree! We have an occasional big one, but here are acres and acres of genuine first growth. You must love it here even more than in the orchard, don’t you?”
“Well, you see the orchard period is what might be known as my early manner; while the beech woods is my romantic era. I used to come here after I got old enough to roam around by myself, and a certain mystery and gloom I felt in the air would so fill my soul with rapture that(I know you think this is silly) I would sit right where we are sitting now and cry and cry just for the pure joy of having tears to shed, I suppose! I know of no other reason.”
Professor Green smiled, but his eyes had a mist in them as he looked at the young girl, little more than a child now, with her sweet, wistful expression, already looking back on her childhood as a thing of the past and her “romantic era” as though she had finished with it.
“Oh, Miss Molly, let’s stay in the ‘beech wood period’ forever! None of us can afford to give up romance or the dear delight of tears for tears’ sake. I love to think of you as a little child playing in the apple orchard, and as a beautiful girl wandering in the woods. But do you know, a still more beautiful picture comes to my inward eye, and that is an old Molly with white hair sitting where you are now, still in the ‘romantic era,’ still in the beech woods; and, God willing, I’ll be beside you, only,” he whimsically added, “I am afraid I’ll be bald-headed instead of white-haired!”
The days went dreamily on. Edwin Green lengthened his stay in Kentucky until he really became touchy on the subject, and one day when some one spoke of the old Virginia gentleman who came in out of the rain and stayed six years, he told Mrs. Brown that he felt very like that old man. She was hospitality itself, and made him understand that he was more than welcome, and, every time he set a date for his departure, some form of entertainment was immediately on foot where his presence seemed both desirable and necessary, and his going away was postponed again. Once it was a coon hunt with Ernest and John and Lewis, the colored gardener; once it was a moonlight picnic at a wonderful spot called Black Rock.
On that occasion they drove in a hay wagon over a road that was a disgrace to Kentucky, and then up a dry creek bed until they came to the great black boulder that stood at least twenty feet in the air; there they made their temporary camp. Kent confided to Professor Green that they never dared to come up that creek bed unless they were sure of clear weather, as it had been known to fill so quickly with a big rain that it drowned a man and horse. It was innocent enough then, with only a thin stream of water trickling along the rocks, sometimes forming a pool where the horses would go in almost to their knees; but, as a rule, they went dry shod along the bed. It was rough riding, but no one minded. There was plenty of hay in the wagon for young bones, and Mrs. Brown, who was chaperoning, had a pillow to sit on and one to lean against. When they got to the sylvan spot every one agreed it was worth the bumping they had undergone.
“Oh, it looks like the Doone Valley,” said Judy.
And so it did, except that the stream of water was not quite so big as the one John Ridd had to climb up.
There were sixteen in the party, which filled the big wagon comfortably so that no one had room to bounce out. Paul and Ernest had invited two girls from Louisville, who turned out to be very pleasant and attractive and in for a good time. The only person who was not very agreeable was John’s friend, the girl visiting Aunt Clay, a Miss Hunt from Tennessee. She was fussy and particular and afraid of spoiling her dress, a chiffon thing, entirely inappropriate for a hay ride. She complained of a headache, and, besides, as Molly said, “she didn’t sit fair.” That is a very important thing to do on a hay ride. One person doubling up or lolling can upset the comfort of a whole wagon load. You must sit with your feet stretched out, makingwhat quilt makers call “the every other one pattern.”
“I am glad she acts this way,” whispered Mrs. Brown to Molly. “I know now why I can’t abide her. I couldn’t tell before.”
Miss Hunt’s selfishness did not seem to worry her admirers any. John was all devotion, as were the two other young men who came along in her train. They were sorry about her headache and wanted to make room in the wagon for her to lie down; but Mrs. Brown was firm there and said it was a pity for her to suffer, but she thought it might injure her back unless she sat up going over the rough road. That lady had no patience with the headache, and thought the girl would much better have stayed at home if she were too ill to sit up. She did not much believe in the headache, anyhow, and was irritated to see poor Molly with her long legs doubled up under her trying to make room for the lolling little beauty.
“She is pretty, no doubt of that,” said EdwinGreen to Mrs. Brown, whom he had elected to sit by and look after for the ride, “as pretty as a brunette can be. I like a blonde as a rule. But it looks to me as though Miss Molly is getting the hot end of it, as far as comfort goes.”
He would have offered to change places with Molly, but had a big reason for refraining. That was that no other than Jimmy Lufton, Molly’s New York newspaper friend, was occupying the seat next to Molly, and Professor Green was determined to do nothing to show his misery at that young man’s proximity. Jimmy had arrived quite unexpectedly that afternoon and seemed to be as intimate with the whole Brown family in two hours as he, Edwin Green, was after weeks of close companionship. He tried not to feel bitter, and, next to sitting by Molly, he was sure he would rather sit by her mother than any one in the world, certainly than anyone in the wagon.
Jimmy was easily the life of the party. He had a good tenor voice and knew all the newsongs “hot off of the bat” from New York. He told the funniest stories, and at the same time was so good-natured and kindly and modest withal that you had to like him. He was not the typical funny man. Edwin Green felt that he could not have stood Molly’s preferring a typical funny man to him. She did prefer Jimmy, he felt almost sure, and now he was trying to steel himself to take his medicine like a man. He was determined not to whine and not to make Molly unhappy. He had seen the meeting between Molly and Jimmy, and it was the flood of color that had suffused Molly’s face and her almost painful agitation that had convinced him of her regard for that brilliant young journalist. Had he heard the conversation as well as seen the meeting, he might have been spared some of his unhappiness. Jimmy had said, “Where’s my lemon?” and Molly had answered, “Done et up.”
They piled out of the wagon. John, the woodsman of the crowd, busied himself making a fire,demanding that the two “extra men” should come and chop wood, determined that they should not get in too many words with the beautiful Miss Hunt while he was working. Miss Hunt then exercised her fascinations on Jimmy Lufton, on whom she had had her eye ever since they left Chatsworth. Jimmy was polite, but had a “nothing-doing” expression which quite baffled the practiced flirt. Poor Molly’s foot had gone so fast asleep that she was forced to hop around for at least five minutes before she could get out of the wagon and begin to make herself useful. Kent, who had driven, with Judy on the front seat with him, was busy taking out the four horses to let them rest for the heavy pull home. The other young men were occupied in various ways, lifting the hampers out of the wagon and getting water from the beautiful spring at the foot of the huge black rock. Professor Green came to Molly’s assistance.
“I was afraid your foot would go to sleep. You are too good to let that girl crowd you so.She was the most deliberately selfish person I ever saw.”
“Oh, there is always somebody like that on a hay ride. I have never been on one yet that there wasn’t some girl along with a headache who took up more than her share of room. I am too long to double up; but it is all right now. The tingle has stopped, and I can bear my weight on it, I see.”
“Did you ever see anything more beautiful than this valley? How clever Miss Kean is in hitting off a description! I haven’t thought of the Doone Valley for years, and now I can’t get it out of my head; these overhanging cliffs and this green grass, green even by moonlight; and the sensation of being in an impenetrable fortress! And the great black rock might be Carver Doone petrified and very much magnified, left here forever for his sins. It must be a magnificent sight when the creek is full.”
“So it is; but I hope we shall not see that sight to-night. Lorna Doone in the big snow was ina safe place to what we would be in a big freshet up this valley with no way to get back but by the creek bed,” said Molly, jumping out of the hay wagon and beginning to make ready the supper.
Such a supper it was, with appetites to match after the long ride and good jolting! Mrs. Brown was an old hand at picnic suppers and knew exactly what to put in and how to pack the baskets in the most appetizing way. There were different kinds of sandwiches, thin bread and butter, all kinds of pickles, apple turnovers and cheese cakes; but the crowning success of one of these camp picnics was always the hot coffee and bacon cooked on John’s fire. The Browns kept a skillet and big coffee pot to use only on such occasions. The cloth was soon spread and the cold lunch arranged on it, and then in an incredibly short time the coffee was boiling and the bacon sizzling.
“Oh, what a smell is this?” said Jimmy Lufton, emerging from behind Black Rock, where Miss Hunt had been doing her best to captivatehim. (Kent said he bet on Jimmy to give her as good as he got.) “Mark Twain says, ‘Bacon would improve the flavor of an angel,’ and so it would.”
“Well, I’m no angel, but I certainly do smell like bacon,” said Molly with flushed face and rumpled hair as she knelt over the fire with a long stick turning the luscious morsels. “Sue and Cyrus are responsible for the coffee and the bacon is my affair.”
“As Todger’s boy says, ‘Wittles is up,’” called Jimmy to the strolling couples, who lost no time in hurrying to the feast. Mrs. Brown was installed at the head of the cloth, but not allowed to wait on any one. “For once, you shall be a guest at your own table,” said Kent, taking the coffee pot out of her hands. “Miss Judy, don’t you think we can serve this?”
“Mostly cream for me and very little coffee,” drawled Miss Hunt.
“If you have such a bad headache you had better take it black,” said Judy, who was aware ofthat young lady’s selfish behavior on the trip. “The people who want a great deal of cream will have to wait until the rest are served, as some of the cream got spilled; and, while there is enough for reasonable helps, there is not enough for exorbitant demands.”
John and the two “extras” offered their shares to the spoiled beauty, but Judy was adamant.
“Those sandwiches with olives and mayonnaise are very rich for any one with a liver,” said Judy later on as Miss Hunt was preparing to help herself plentifully to the delectable food; “these plain bread-and-butter ones would be much more wholesome for you, my dear. What, cheese cakes for any one who is too ill to sit up straight! Goodness gracious, Miss Hunt, do be careful! Your demise would grieve so many it is really selfish of you not to take better care of yourself.”
“You seem to be very much concerned about my health, Miss Kean. I wonder that you knew I did not feel well; you seemed to be fully occupiedon the journey with Mr. Kent Brown,” snapped Miss Hunt.
“So I was,” answered Judy, nothing daunted. “But whenever Kent had to turn his attentions to the four horses when we came to rough spots in the road and he was trying not to jolt the ambulance too much, then I could turn around and get a good bird’s-eye view of the passengers, and you always seemed to be on the point of fainting.”
“I know you are better now,” said Molly, who could not bear for even Miss Hunt, who was certainly not her style of girl, to be teased. “I know these apple turnovers won’t hurt you, and Aunt Mary makes such good ones. Do have one, and here is some more cream if you want it in your coffee.”
“What a sweet girl your sister is,” said Miss Hunt in an audible whisper. “I can’t see what she finds in that Miss Kean to want her to make her such an interminable visit.”
The ill-natured remark was heard by everyone. For did you ever notice that the way to make yourself heard in a crowd of noisy talkers is to whisper? Molly looked ready for tears, and Kent bit his lips in rage, but Judy, as spunky as usual, and feeling that she deserved a rebuke from Miss Hunt, but rather shocked at the ill-bred way of delivering it, spoke out: “Mrs. Brown, when we were laughing the other day over your story of the old Virginia gentleman who came in out of the rain and stayed six years, I had another one to tell, but something happened to interrupt me. Might I tell it now?”
Mrs. Brown gave a smiling consent. She was not so tender-hearted as Molly and, while she felt it a mistake to wrangle, she was rather curious to see who would get ahead in this trial of wits.
“I bet my bottom dollar on Miss Judy, don’t you, mother?” said Kent in an undertone.
“I certainly do,” whispered his mother.
“A little Southern girl we knew at college, Madeline Pettit, told in all seriousness about aneighbor of hers who was invited to go on a visit. She accepted, but they had to sell the cow for her to go on, and then she had to prolong her visit for the calf to get big enough for her to come home on. I am afraid our calf is almost big enough and papa may come riding in on it any day and carry me off.” There was a general roar of laughter, and then the picnickers, having eaten all that they uncomfortably could, made a general movement toward adjournment.
“Where is the moon?” they all exclaimed at once. While they were eating and drinking and making themselves generally merry, the proverbial cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand, had grown and spread and now the moon was put out of business. The cliffs were so high that a storm had come up out of the west without any one dreaming of it.
“This creek can fill in such a hurry when a big rain comes we had better start,” said Kent.
“Oh, don’t be such a croaker, Kent. It can’t rain. The sky was as clear as a bell when weleft home,” said Mrs. Brown, as eager as any of the young people to prolong the good times.
“All right, mother, just as you think best, but I am going to get the horses hitched up in case you change your mind.”
Change her mind she did in a very few minutes, as large drops of rain began to fall. The crowd came pell-mell and scrambled into the wagon. Mrs. Brown noticed in the confusion that she had lost her cavalier and that Professor Green had attached himself to Molly. She was pleased to see it, as she had felt sorry for the young man. He was evidently so miserable, and yet at the same time so determined to make himself agreeable to her that he had been really very charming. She loved to talk about books, and, as she said, seldom had the chance, for the people who knew about books and cared for them never seemed to realize that a busy mother and housekeeper could have similar tastes.
“I get so tired of swapping recipes for pickles and talking about how to raise children. AuntMary makes the pickle and my children are all raised,” she had confided to Edwin Green. “We had a very interesting guest on one occasion, a woman who had done a great many delightful things and knew many delightful literary people, and I hoped to have a real good talk with her about books; but she seemed to feel she must stick to the obvious when she conversed with me. I often laugh when I think of Aunt Mary’s retort courteous to this same lady. She was constantly asking me how we made this and what we did to have that so much better than other people, and I would always refer her to Aunt Mary.
“Once it was bread that was under discussion. You know how difficult it is to get a recipe from a darkey, as they never really know how they do the things they do best. Aunt Mary told her to the best of her ability what she did, but the woman was not satisfied. ‘Now, tell me exactly how many cups of flour you use.’ ‘Why, bless you, we done stop dolin’ out flour with acup long ago an’ uses a ole broken pitcher.’ Another time it was coffee. ‘Now, you have told me about the freshly roasted and ground coffee, please tell me how much water.’ Aunt Mary gave a scornful sniff. ‘You mus’ think we are stingy folks ef you think we measure water!’ At another time she said, ‘Aunt Mary, you must have told me wrong, because I did exactly what you said and my popovers were complete failures.’ ‘Laws a mussy, I did fergit to tell you one thing, an’ that is that you mus’ stir in some gumption wif ev’y aig.’”
“De rain kep’ a-drappin’ in draps so mighty heavy;De ribber kep’ a-risin’ an’ bus’ed froo de levvy,Ring, ring de banjo, how I lub dat good ole song,Come, come, my true love, oh, whar you been so long?”
It was Jimmy who broke into this rollicking song, and when all of the Brown boys, who hadhad an experience with this old dry creek bed once on a ’possum hunt, heard him, they felt that the song was singularly appropriate. They also thanked their stars that they had with them some one who would “whoop things up” and keep the crowd cheerful, and perhaps the ladies would not realize the danger they were in. This wet-weather creek was fed by innumerable small branches, all of them dry now from something of a drought that had been prevalent, and John, the woodsman, noticed that before they had much rainfall in the valley those small branches had begun to flow, showing that there had already been a great storm to the west of them.
“If the rain were merely local, old Stony Creek could not do much damage in itself, but it is the help of all of these wet-weather springs and branches that makes it play such havoc,” whispered John to Jimmy Lufton. “I have known it in two hours’ time to rise four feet, which sounds incredible; and then in two hours more subside two feet, and in a day be almost dry again. Ispent four hours up on top of Black Rock once in a sudden freshet. I would have scaled the hills, but I had some young dogs hunting, and they were so panic-stricken and I was so afraid they would fall down the cliffs in the creek, that I just took them up on top of the rock; and there we sat huddled up in the driving rain until the water subsided enough for us to wade home. Swimming is out of the question for more than a few strokes, the current is so swift; and as for keeping your feet and walking, you simply can’t do it.”