“That’s the way I done me courtin’ day after day all that summer. It was slow. Mighty, but it was slow! Sometim’s I got discouraged an’ thot the eend was never comin’ an’ I’d better give up. Then she’d drop a word or a look or somethin’ that kind o’ kep’ me hangin’ on. It seemed like she was gittin’ used to me. We seldom sayd anything, fer she was a thinkin’ woman. Fer me, I remembered how Pap allus allowed it was less dangerous fer a man to put a boy in charge o’ his saw-mill than to let his heart run his tongue. So I set an’ sayd nawthin’, but looked a heap.
“It was October ’hen I concided I’d make a trial, fer even ef nawthin’ come of it no petickler harm ’ud be done. So I ast her. She jest th’owed back her head, folded her arms an’ looked at me.
“‘Well?’ I sais.
“She looked a leetle harder an’ a leetle sterner. Her eyes kind o’ snapped.
“‘Well?’ I sais agin.
“‘I hevn’t no petickler dislike,’ sais she, ‘but ye ain’t my idee of a man. A man should move sometim’s.’
“‘Pet,’ I sais, ‘I know I ain’t much on leetlethings, but wait tell they’s big things to do. Then I’ll startle ye!’
“I turned an’ walked out o’ the gate an’ ’long the road toward home.
“She didn’t hev to wait long. That wery night ez I set on the porch, I seen a big snake o’ fire come pokin’ his head over the mo’ntain top to the north’ard of us. Fer a time he laid ’round in the huckleberry shelf there, rollin’ an’ floppin’ about the bushes, like he was takin’ in the walley an’ wonderin’ what was the easiest way down the side to the chestnut flats where they was big piles o’ leaves, laurel bushes dry ez chips, an’ hundreds o’ dead trees, all waitin’ to be devoured. Mighty fine the ole snake looked, an’ a heap o’ pleasure it give me watchin’ him.
“The thin line o’ fire begin to spread ez it adwanced, an’ soon the whole side o’ the mo’ntain was ablaze. It was jest a solid bed o’ red. Now an’ then the flames ’ud jump to the top o’ some ole pine, the tree ’ud beat wild like, to an’ fro, tryin’ to shake ’em off, an’ showers o’ sparks ’ud go whirlin’ away inter the sky.
“‘Mighty souls!’ I sais to meself. ‘It’s jest like a monstrous big band festival ’hen all the boys is out with torches an’ they hes a bonfire an’ fireworks an’ music.’
“Music? I hear agin the rat-tat-tat o’ the hammer an’ the shingle nails; an’ I thot o’ her.
“The fire hed reached the flats. It was movin’right on the clearin’ where she was all alone, fer Andy was workin’ in the saw-mill in Windy Gap.
“You uns otter seen me an’ Major skippin’ up the lane then. They was no loafin’ about it. Never oncet did we stop tell we reached the ridge. There we left the road an’ cut th’oo the fiel’s. Soon we was over them an’ in the woods. We stumbled on an’ on, tumblin’ over lawgs an’ stones, an’ fallin’ inter bushes tell we reached the top o’ the hill an’ looked right down inter the gut.
“There we stopped, fer we was spelled like—me an’ Major—an’ jest stood an’ stared. The smoke filled the whole leetle walley. Th’oo it we could see the glare o’ the burnin’ chestnut flats. Big tongues o’ flame was shootin’ up an’ lickin’ ’round in the air. We could hear the snappin’ an’ crashin’ o’ the trees. We could hear the scream o’ the wild cats ez they was tearin’ fer the open country. A coon run right inter Major, an’ scampered away agin, snarlin’, but the hound never oncet lifted his eyes offen the gut. A loud snortin’ startled me, an’ a razor-backed pig come gallopin’ over the hill. Then they was a bellerin’ an’ a crashin’ o’ bushes, below us. The broken-horned cow run pantin’ up the ridge, an’ by us an’ on th’oo the woods. ’Hen me an Major seen her we jumped for’a’d together an’ tore down th’oo the blindin’ smoke to the clearin’.
“She was standin’ in the doorway, her head buried in her apron, cryin’ like her heart ’ud break. The minute I set eyes on her I forgot all about the fire an’ thot unly o’ her. I jest stood there awkward an’ looked at the girl, fer I was spelled agin, unly worse.
“‘Pet,’ I sais, after a bit, ‘what’s wrong?’
“‘Wrong,’ she cries th’oo her apron. ‘They’s all gone—the cow, the pig, the chickens—gone fer the walley. Soon the clearin’ ’ll go too.’
“With that she raised her hand an’ pinted th’oo the woods, over the flats to the solid wall o’ fire.
“Then I laughed. An’ I hed the right to laugh, fer ez I looked at them flames dartin’ among the trees it seemed like they was the best friends I ever had.
“‘It’s mean to cheat sech good fellers out o’ sech a nice clearin’,’ I sais to meself ez I run along the wood road puttin’ the torch to the dry leaves. ‘It’s mean, but I can’t spend the rest o’ me life settin’ on the pump-trough watchin’ the moon.’
“An’ cheat ’em I did. The leaves an’ the under-brush cot like powder, an’ the counter-fire went runnin’ over the flats towards the mo’ntain to tell the ole fire snakes that it wasn’t no uset to try to git to the clearin’ fer they was no path to it ’cept over ashes.
“We stood there in the wood-road watchin’ it—Pet on one side, then Major, then me. Fer along time we sayd nawthin’, tell I couldn’t stand it no more.
“‘Pet,’ sais I, wery abrupt, ‘do you think now I’m so awful slow?’
“‘It ain’t them ez runs fastest allus goes the straightest an’ truest,’ she answers.
“It wasn’t wery much to say. Any girl might ’a’ done jest the same thing. But from the way she looked, I knowd I’d got my Missus.”
The Chronic Loafer sat upon the anvil. A leather apron was tied about his neck, and behind him stood the Blacksmith, nipping at his great shock of hair with a tiny pair of scissors. He was facing the Tinsmith and the Miller, who had climbed up on the carpenter bench, and by twisting his neck at the risk of his balance, he could see the tall, thin man standing by the mule which the helper was shoeing. The stranger had hair that reached to his shoulders, a clean-shaven upper lip, a long beard and a benign aspect that denoted him a Dunkard. He had been telling a few stories of the recent events in Raccoon Valley, whence he hailed.
“So it ain’t sech a slow-goin’, out-o’-the-way placet ez you unsez think—still,” he said.
The Blacksmith thoughtfully turned to address him.
“Well, stranger——”
“Ow—ow!” cried the Loafer. “Is you a barber or a butcher?”
“Sights!” exclaimed the worthy smith. “Now that was a jag I give ye, wasn’t it?”
He resumed his task with redoubled vigor. The Loafer closed his eyes and commenced to sputter.
“Mighty souls! Go easy. Are you tryin’ to choke me?”
“Sights!” said the other in apologetic tones, “I didn’t notice. Now I did come near chokin’ ye, didn’t I? I was interested in Raccoon Walley.”
Then he began to clip very slowly.
The Loafer opened one eye cautiously and fixed it on the stranger.
“What was that awful thing I heard ye tellin’ ’bout snakes, jest afore I was smothered under that last hay-load o’ hair?”
“Oh, hoop-snakes,” replied the Dunkard. He paused from his work of brushing the flies from the mule’s legs with a horse-tail. “We hev plenty o’ them ’round our placet. They don’t trouble no one tho’ tell ye bother them. Then they’re awful.”
He turned his attention to the beast’s hoofs and began sweeping them. A smile was lurking about the corners of his mouth.
“Did ye ever run agin any o’ these hoop——”
The Blacksmith’s query was cut short by a loud “Ouch!”
“See here,” said the Loafer with emphasis.“Either he’ll hev to quit tellin’ stories or I quit gittin’ me hair cut.” Then to the stranger, “Is hoop-snakes so wery pisonous?”
“Pisonous!” replied the Dunkard. “Well, I should say they was. One o’ the awfullest things I ever seen was jest the ozzer day ’hen I was workin’ in the fiel’. All o’ a suddent one o’ these wipers jumps outen the hay an’ strikes. I seen it jest in time to step aside. Its fangs struck the han’le o’ me fork.”
The stranger fell to brushing flies again.
“Well, what happened that——”
“There ye go,” the Loafer cried, ducking forward and almost tumbling from the anvil. “Keep your eye on my head an’ not on every Tom, Dick an’ Harry in the shop.” He readjusted himself on his perch and blew away a bunch of hair that had settled on his nose.
“What happened?” he inquired, fixing his least exposed eye on the man from Raccoon Valley.
“Quick ez a flash the han’le o’ my pitch-fork swole up tell it was thick ez my arm.”
The Dunkard had fixed his gaze intently on the forefeet of the mule and was beating them industriously with the horse-tail.
The smith wheeled about abruptly and gazed at the stranger.
“That was an awful thing to experience,” he said. But there was a ring of doubt in his voice.
The Loafer peered over his shoulder and ventured. “Yes. It was the worst jag yit. But I don’t mind. I’m gittin’ accustomed.”
The rattle of the pile of wheels upon which the G. A. R. Man was sitting announced that the veteran was getting restless and was preparing for action. For a long time he had been smoking in silence, listening to the strange tales of the strange man from Raccoon Valley. Now he spoke.
“If your story is true then that was an awful thing.” He seemed to be weighing each word. “Still, it wasn’t so awful ez a thing that happened to me durin’ the war.”
“There ye are agin,” cried the Loafer. “Can’t a man tell a story ’thout you tryin’ to go him one better? I don’t believe ye was in the war anyway.”
“Don’t I git a pension?” The veteran closed one eye and stuck out his lower jaw threateningly.
“That ain’t no sign,” ventured the Miller from the carpenter bench.
“Well, what fer a sign does you unsez want?” roared the G. A. R. Man. “Does you expect a felly to go th’oo life carryin’ a musket? Ef ye does——”
“See here,” said the Blacksmith, “youse fellys is gittin’ that mule all excited. Ef you’re goin’ to quarrel you’d better go outside where there’s lots o’ room fer ye to run away in.”
“Now—now—now!” said the Dunkard, wagging the horse-tail at the company. “Don’t git fightin’. Ef he knows anything awfuller then that hoop-snake wenture let him out with it.”
“I do,” said the veteran. “But I don’t perpose to hev it drug outen me fer you uns to hoot at.”
His tone was pacific, and his companions promised not to hoot.
“The awfullest thing I ever hed to do with,” he said, “was down in front o’ Richmon’ durin’ the war. Our retchment—the Bloody Pennsylwany—was posted kind o’ out like from the rest o’ the army. We lay there fer th’ee weeks doin’ nawthin’ but eatin’, sleepin’, drinkin’ an’ listenin’ to the roar o’ the guns over to the front. Still it wasn’t pleasant, fer we was allus expectin’ somethin’ to happen. It’s a heap sight better to hev somethin’ happenin’ then to be waitin’ fer it to come. But final it come.
“One mornin’ at daybreak the guard was bein’ changed, an’ down on one post they found the picket dead, but not a mark was they on him. It looked wery queer. We’d seen no enemy fer a week an’ yit here was a felly killed plumb on his post, within stone th’ow of our camp. It made the boys feel clammy like, I tell ye, an’ they wasn’t many a-hankerin’ to go on that beat at night. It was a lonely placet, anyway, right on the edge o’ a leetle clump o’ woods in a hollerth’oo which run a creek, gurglin’ in a way that made ye creep from your heel-taps to your hat. But the post hed to be covered. Ez luck ’ud hev it, my tent-mate, Jim Miggins, ez nicet a man ez ever shouldered a musket, was stationed there. Next mornin’ the relief goes around, an’ Jim Miggins is lyin’ dead be the stream—not a mark on him nowhere. Still they was no sign o’ the enemy, an’ we’d a clean sweep o’ fiel’s five miles acrosst the country. Mebbe we wasn’t puzzled.”
“Why didn’t the general put a whole regiment in them woods an’ stop it?” asked the Loafer.
“That wasn’t tactics,” answered the veteran. “Ye may think you knows better how to run a war then our general, but ye don’t. It wasn’t tactics, an’ even ef it hed ben it wasn’t the way the Bloody Pennsylwany done things. One man takes the post next night ez usual, young Harry Hopple o’ my company, a lad with more grit then a horse that cribs. In the mornin’—Harry’s dead—no mark on him—no sign o’ the enemy nowhere. Don’t tell me that wasn’t awfuller then hoop-snakes. Why, every man knowd now that ef he drawed that post he was a goner. That was a recognized rule—he was a goner. ’Hen a felly gits it he sets down an’ packs up his duds; then he writes home to his ma or his girl, sais good-by to the boys an’ goes out. Mornin’ comes—he’s dead be the stream—not a mark on him—no enemy in sight. That was the way Andy Young,leetle Hiram Dole, Clayton Binks o’ my company, an’ a dozen others was tuk off.”
“I can’t see, nuther, why the general didn’t fill them woods with soldiers,” the Miller interrupted.
“Why! It wasn’t tactics; that’s why,” the G. A. R. Man replied brusquely. “The Bloody Pennsylwany didn’t do things that way. No, sir. The general he cal’lated that we couldn’t be in that placet more’n four weeks more, which would cost jest twenty-eight men. He sais it wasn’t square to order a man there, so he calls fer wolunteers. What does I do? I wolunteers. I goes to the general an’ sais I’m willin’ to try my luck first. An’ he sais, sais he, a-layin’ one hand on me shoulder, ‘Me man, ef we’d a few more like you, the war ’ud soon be ended. An’——’”
“Meanin’ the other side ’ud ’a’ licked,” the Loafer interposed.
The veteran paid no attention to this remark but continued: “He promised me a promotion ef I come out alive. That night I packs up me things, writes a letter to me wife, an’ sais good-by to the boys. Then I gits me gun, pours in th’ee inches o’ powder, puts in a wad; next, th’ee bullets an’ a wad; next a half dozen buckshot an’ a wad. An’ on top o’ it all, jest fer luck, I rammed a bit o’ tobacky. At twelve o’clock I relieved the man on post in the holler. Mebbe me heart didn’t beat. Mebbe it wasn’t awfuller thenhoop-snakes. The wind was sighin’ mournful th’oo the leaves; a leetle slice o’ moon was peekin’ down th’oo the trees ’hen the clouds give it a chancet; an’ there gurglin’ along was the creek be which I expected I’d be found in the mornin’ layin’ dead, no mark on me nowhere.
“I’d made up me mind, tho’, that I was goin’ to come out of it whole ef I could. I wasn’t no fool to set down an’ be tuk off without raisin’ a rumpus about it. No, sir. I kept a sharp eye in every direction ez I walked to an’ fro, down the holler on one side, up on the other, back agin, an’ never stoppin’. It come one o’clock, an’ I give number eight an’ all’s well. I hear the report go ’long the posts; then everything was quiet. It come two o’clock an’ I give all’s well agin. Hardly was everything still ’hen I hear a rustlin’ noise, right out in the fiel’ beyant the creek, not twenty feet away, an’ yit me eyes had ben coverin’ that petickler spot fer an hour an’ not a hate hed I seen. But there it was, a standin’ hazy-like in the dark, the awfullest thing I ever laid eyes on.”
The veteran had arisen from the pile of wheels and was glaring at the company, “What does I do? Does I set down an’ be tuk off like the other fellys? No. I ups an’ fires an’ hits it right atween the eyes.”
He resumed his seat and began refilling his pipe. An expectant silence reigned in the shop.The Blacksmith waited until he saw the veteran light a match and fall to smoking.
“Go on,” he cried, making a threatening movement with his scissors.
“They ain’t no more to tell,” said the G. A. R. Man nonchalantly. “Wasn’t that awfuller then a dozen hoop-snakes?”
“Well, what was the thing ye shot?” asked the Loafer, slipping off the anvil and facing the pile of wheels.
The old soldier’s clay pipe fell from his hand and crashed into a hundred pieces on the floor. He opened wide his mouth in vain effort to speak, but the words failed to come.
“What was it?” shouted the Loafer.
“Well, I’ll swan ef I know,” replied the veteran meekly.
The village had awakened from its long winter of sleep. It had shaken off its lethargy and stepped forth into the light and sunshine to take up life in the free air until the months should speed around and the harsh winds and the snows drive it back again to a close kitchen and a stifling stove. The antiquated saw-mill down by the creek buzzed away with a vim that plainly told that the stream was swollen with the melted snows of the winter just passed. The big grist-mill bumped and thumped in deep melodious tones, as though it were making an effort to drown the rasping, discordant music of its small but noisy neighbor. From the field beyond the line of houses came the melancholy “haw, gee, haw, gee-up” of the man at the plow and the triumphant calls of the chickens, as they discovered each luscious worm in the newly-turned furrow. A few robins flitted among the still leafless branches of the trees, and down in the meadowsbeyond the bridge an occasional venturesome lark or snipe whistled merrily.
The double doors of the store were wide open. Had all the other signs of spring been missing, this fact alone would have indicated to the knowing that if the snows had not melted and the birds not come back, it was high time they did. Those doors never stood open until the Patriarch felt it in his bones that the winter was gone and he could with safety leave the side of the stove within and migrate to the long bench without, to bask in the sunshine. This morning the old man arose from his accustomed chair with a look of wonderment on his face. He swung one leg to and fro for a moment, then rapped on his knee gently with the heavy knob of his cane. He tapped his head mysteriously with his forefinger and gazed in silence out of the window, taking in the outward signs.
“Boys,” he said at length, “it’s time we was gittin’ out agin. Spring has come.”
With that he hobbled toward the door.
“Good, Gran’pap,” said the Chronic Loafer, rolling off the counter and following.
Then the Storekeeper opened both doors.
The old oak bench that had stood neglected through the long winter, exposed to wind and warping rain, gave a joyous creak as it felt again on its broad, knife-hacked back the weight of the Patriarch and his friends. It kicked up its oneshort, hickory leg with such vehemence as to cause the Storekeeper to throw out his hands, as though the world had dropped from under him and he was grasping at a cloud for support.
“Mighty souls!” he cried, when he had recovered his equilibrium and composure.
“My, oh, my!” murmured the old man, his face beaming with contentment as he sat basking in the sun. “Don’t the old bench feel good agin? Why, me an’ this oak board hes ben buddies fer nigh onter sixty years.”
The season seemed to have imposed new life into the Chronic Loafer as it had nature. He suddenly tossed off his coat, with one leap cleared the steps and began dancing up and down in the road.
“It jest makes a felly feel like wrastlin’, Gran’pap,” he shouted, waving his arms defiantly at the bench. “Come on.”
The Patriarch stroked his long beard and smiled amusedly at this unexpected exhibition of energy. The Miller’s nose curled contemptuously skyward, and he fell to beating the flour out of his coat to show his indifference to the challenge. The Tinsmith puffed more vigorously at his pipe, so that the great clouds of smoke that swept upward from the clay bowl, enveloped the Storekeeper and caused him to sneeze violently.
At this indisposition on the part of the four to take up the gauntlet he had thrown down, the Loafer became still more defiant.
“Hedgins!” he sneered. “You uns is all afraid, eh?”
“Nawthin’ to be afraid of,” snapped the Miller. “Simple because spring’s come, ez it’s ben comin’ ever since I can remember, I hain’t a-goin’ to waller ’round in a muddy road.”
The School Teacher laid his left hand upon his heart, and fixing a solemn gaze on the roof of the porch, recited: “In the spring the young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”
“There ye go agin,” cried the Loafer, “quotin’ that ole Fifth Reader o’ yourn.”
“That,” said the pedagogue, “is Tennyson.”
“I thot it was familar,” exclaimed the Storekeeper. A smile crept into his usually vacant face, and he slapped the Teacher on the knee. “You mean ole Seth Tennyson that runs the Shingletown creamery. He’s a cute un.”
The reply was a withering, pitying glance.
“It sounds a heap more like Seth’s brother Bill,” ventured the Miller.
“Don’t git argyin’ on that,” said the Loafer. “There’s nawthin’ particular new or good in it any way. The main pint is I bantered ye an’ you uns ’s all dead skeert.”
“Come, come,” said the Patriarch, beating his stick on the floor to call the boaster to order. “Ef I was five year younger I’d take your banter; I’d druv yer head inter the mud tell you’d be afraid of showin’ up at the store fer a year, ferfear some un’d shovel ye inter the road. That’s what I’d do. I hates blowin’, I do—I hates blowin’. Fur be it from me to blow, particular ez I was somethin’ of a wrastler ’hen I was a young un.”
“I bet I could ’a’ th’owed you in less time ’an it takes me to set down,” the Loafer said, as he seated himself on the steps and got out his pipe.
“Th’owed me, would you? Well, I’d ’a’ liked to hev seen you a-th’owin’ me.” He shook his stick at the braggart. “Why, don’t you know that ’hen I was young I was the best wrastler in the walley; didn’t you ever hear o’ the great wrastlin’ me and Simon Cruller done up to Swampy Holler school-house?”
“Did Noar act as empire?” asked the Loafer.
“What does you mean be talkin’ of Noar an’ sech like ’hen I’m tellin’ of wrastlin’? Tryin’ to change the subject I s’pose, eh?” cried the Patriarch, reddening with anger. “Don’t you know——”
“Tut-tut, Gran’pap,” said the Storekeeper, gently taking the raised cane in his hand and forcing it back into an upright position, one end resting on the floor, while on the other were piled the old man’s two fat hands. “Don’t mind him. Go on with your story.”
The Patriarch’s wrath passed as quickly as it had come. He speedily wandered back into his youth, and soon was so deep in the history ofSimon Cruller, of Simon Cruller’s family and of Becky Stump as to be completely oblivious to his tormentor’s presence.
“Me an’ Sime Cruller was buddies,” he began at length. “That was tell we both kind o’ set our minds on gittin’ Becky Stump. You uns never seen her, eh? Well, mebbe you never seen her grave-stun. It stands be the alderberry bushes in the buryin’-groun’, an’ ef you hain’t seen it ye otter, fer then ye might git an idee what sort o’ a woman she was. Pretty? Why, she was a model, she was—a perfect model. Hair? You uns don’t often see sech hair nowadays ez Becky Stump hed—soft an’ black like. Eyes? Why, they sparkled jest like new buggy paint. An’ mighty souls, but she could plough! She wasn’t none of your modern girls ez is too proud to plough. Many a day I set over on the porch at our placet an’ looked down acrosst the walley an’ seen her a-steppin’ th’oo the fiel’, an’ I thot how I’d like to hev one han’le while she’d hev the other, an’ we’d go trampin’ along life’s furrow together.”
“Now Gran’pap, I ’low you’ve ben readin’——”
“Can’t you keep still a piece?” roared the Miller.
The Loafer returned to his pipe and silence.
“The whole thing come to a pint at a spellin’ bee up to Swampy Holler school,” continued the Patriarch, unmindful of the interruption. “Becky Stump was there an’ looked onusual pretty, fer itwas cold outside an’ the win’ hed made her face all red on the drive over from home. Sime was there, too, togged out in store clothes, his hair all plastered down with bear ile, an’ with a fine silk tie aroun’ his collar that ’ud ’a’ ketched the girls real hard hed I not hed a prettier one.
“Ez luck ’ud hev it, me an’ Sime Cruller was on opposite sides. It wasn’t long afore I seen he was tryin’ to show off with his spellin’. It’s strange, but it’s a failin’ with men that ez soon ez they gits their minds set on a particular girl they wants to show off before her. Why most of ’em taller up their boots, put on their Sunday clothes an’ go walkin’ by their girl’s house twicet a day fer no reason at all but jest to be seen lookin’ togged up an’ han’som. Men allus seems to want the weemen to know they is better spellers, or better somethin’ else ’an some other feller. They ain’t no reason fer it. No common-sense woman is goin’ to merry no man simple because he can spell or wrastle better or husk more corn than anybody else. An’ yit men’ll insist on showin’ off in them wery things ’henever they gits a chancet.
“It didn’t take me five minutes to see that Sime Cruller was tryin’ to show off afore Becky Stump; was tryin’ to prove to her that he was a smarter lad than me. An’ it didn’t take me that long to concide I’d hev none of it. I seen him every time he spelled a hard un, look triumphant like ather, settin’ ez she was down be the stove; then he’d grin at me. I seen it all, an’ I spelled ez I never spelled afore, an’ a mighty fine speller I was, too, ’hen I was young. Mebbe I didn’t set all over Sime Cruller. Mebbe I didn’t spile his showin’ off. I don’t jest exactly remember what the word was, but it must ’a’ ben a long un with a heap of syllables, fer he missed it an’ set down lookin’ ez mad ez a bull ’hen he steps inter a bees’ nes’. Three others missed it, an’ it come to me. Why do you know them letters jest rolled off my tongue ez easy. You otter ’a’ seen the look Becky Stump give me an’ the look Sime give me. Huh!
“When intermission come, Sime he gits off in one corner an’ begins blowin’ to a lot of the boys. I heard him talkin’ loud ’bout me, so I steps over. He sayd it was all a mistake; that he could beat me at anything—spellin’, wrastlin’ or fishin’. He was showin’ off agin, fer he talked loud like Becky Stump could hear. I makes up me mind I wouldn’t stand his blowin’.
“‘See here, Sime Cruller!’ I sais, sais I, ‘you uns is nawthin’ but a blow-horn,’ I sais. ‘You claims you can wrastle. Why, I can th’ow you in less time than it takes to tell it, an’ if you steps outside I’ll prove me words.’
“That kinder took Sime Cruller down, fer wrastlin’ was his speciality an’ he’d th’owed every felly in the walley ’ceptin’ me, an’ him an’ mehed never clinched, fer I wasn’t considered much at a fight. But me dander was up an’ I wasn’t in fer lettin’ him show off.
“‘You th’ow me!’ he sais. Then he begin to laugh like he’d die at the wery idee.
“With that we went outside, follered by the rest of the boys. They was a quarter-moon overhead, an’ the girls put two candles in the school-house winders, so, with the snow, we could see pretty well.
“At it we went. Boys, you otter ’a’ ben there! You otter ’a’ seen it! That was wrastlin’! ’Hen Sime an’ me clinched I ketched him ’round the waist with my right arm an’ got a hold of the strap of his right boot with the forefinger of me left hand. He gits his left arm ’round my neck an’ down my back somehow, an’ with his right hand tears the buttons off me coat an’ grabs me in the armhole of me waistcoat. Over we goes, like two dogs, snarlin’, an’ snappin’, while the boys in a ring around us cheered, an’ the girls crowdin’ the school-house porch trembled an’ screamed with fright. We twisted, we turned, we rolled over an’ over tell we looked like livin’ snowballs. Sime got off the boot I’d a holt on, an’ give me a sudden turn that almost sent me on me back. But I was quick. Mighty souls, but I was quick! I ups with me foot an’ lands me heel right on his chist, an’ he went flyin’ ten feet inter a snow-bank, kerryin’ me coat-sleeve with him. He was lookin’ up at themoon ’hen I run up to him, an’ I’d hed him down, but he turned over, an’ they wasn’t nawthin’ fer me to do but to set on his back. I ’low I must ’a’ set there fer half an hour, restin’ an’ gittin’ me wind. Anyway, I was so long I almost forgot I was wrastlin’, fer he give me a sudden turn, an’ ’fore I knowd it he hed the waist holt an’ hed almost th’owed me.
“But I was quick. Mighty souls, but I was quick! I keeps me feet an’ gits one hand inter his waistcoat pocket an’ hung to him. ’Henever you wrastles, git your man be the boot strap or the pocket, an’ you has the best holt they is. Ef I hedn’t done that I might not ’a’ ben here to-day. But I done it, an’ fer a full hour me an’ Sime Cruller rolled ’round, even matched. Time an’ agin I got sight o’ Becky Stump standin’ on the porch, her hands gripped together, her face pale, her eyes almost poppin’ outen her head, she was watchin’ us so hard, an’ the wery sight of her urged me on to inhuman efforts. It seemed to hev the same ’fect on Sime. Me heart beat so hard it made me buttons rattle. Still I kep’ at it. Sime was so hot it was fer me jest like wrastlin’ with a stove, an’ still we kep’ at it. Then all of a sudden—it was two hours after we hed fust clinched—everything seemed to swim—I couldn’t feel no earth beneath—I only knowd I was still holdin’ onto Sime—then I knowd nawthin’.
“‘Hen I come to, I was layin’ be the school-housestove, an’ Becky Stump was leanin’ over me rubbin’ a snowball acrosst me forehead. The other folks was standin’ back like, fer they seemed to think that after sech an exhibition it was all settled an’ they didn’t want to disturb us.
“‘Becky,’ I whispers, ‘did I win?’
“‘You did,’ she sais. ‘You both fainted at oncet, but you fainted on top.’
“‘An’ now I s’pose you’ll hev me,’ I sais, fer it seemed like they was somethin’ in her eyes that kinder urged me on.
“She was quiet a piece; an’ then she leans down an’ answers, ‘Do you think I wants to merry a fien’?’”
The Patriarch ceased his narration and fell to stroking his beard and humming softly.
“Well?” cried the Loafer.
“Well?” retorted the old man.
“Did she ever merry?”
The Patriarch shook his head.
“Go look at the grave-stun,” he said, “an’ on it you’ll see wrote: ‘Here lies Becky Stump. Her peaceful soul’s at rest!’”
“Was you ever dissypinted in love?” inquired the Chronic Loafer of the Tramp.
A light summer shower had driven the traveller to the shelter of the store porch for a few hours, and he was stretched easily along the floor with his back resting against a pillar. In reply to the question he brought the butt of his heavy hickory stick down on the loose boards with such vigor as to raise a small cloud of dust from the cracks, and cried, “Wull, have I!”
“Come tell us about it, ole feller,” said the Tinsmith.
“Not muchy.”
“We ain’t surprised at your hevin’ ben dissypinted,” said the Loafer, “but it’s your persumption catches me. What’s her name?”
“I called her Emily Kate,” answered the Tramp, wiping one of his eyes with his sleeve. “She’ll allus be Emily Kate to me, though to other folks she ain’t nothin’.”
“A truly remarkable state of affairs,” said theTeacher. “I presume that the young woman must have been a mere chimera, a hallucination.”
“Mebbe she was; mebbe she wasn’t,” the traveller replied. “I never knowd her well enough to git acquainted with all her qualities. In fact I’ve allus kept Emily Kate pretty much to meself an’ have never said nothin’ ’bout her to nobody. But youse gentlemens asts so many questions, I s’pose yez might ez well know the hull thing. ’Bout three year ago I was workin’ th’oo this valley toward the Sussykehanner River, an’ one fine day—it was one o’ them days when you feels like settin’ down an’ jest doin’ nothin’—I come th’oo this very town an’ went up the main road ’bout two mile tell I reached Shale Hill. I never knowd why I done it—it must ’a’ ben fate—but I switched off onter the by-road there ’stead o’ stickin’ to the pike. I walked on ’bout a mile an’ didn’t meet no one or see no houses tell I come to a farm wit’ a peach orchard sout’ o’ the barn.
“They was a nice grassy place under an apple tree on the other side the road, an’ ez it was one o’ them warm, lazy, summer days I made up me min’ to rest, an’ lay down there. Ye kin laugh at folks who allus talks weather, but I tell ye it does a powerful sight wit’ a man. I know ef that had ’a’ ben a rainy day I’d never had that fairy-core, ez the French calls it, that hit me then an’ come near spoilin’ me life.
“I was layin’ there watchin’ the clouds overhead, an’ listenin’ to the plover whistlin’ out in the fiel’s, an’ to the tree-frawg bellerin’ up in the locus’, when all of a sudden I see a blue gleam in an apple tree in the orchard ’crosst the way. I watched it an’ pretty soon made out that it was a woman. She was settin’ there quiet an’ still, like she was readin’, an’ down below I see the top of a chicking coop an’ hear the ole hen cluckin’. I couldn’t see much fer the leaves an’ didn’t git sight o’ her face, but I made out the outlines o’ that blue caliker dress an’ jest kind o’ drank ’em in.
“It was the day done it all. ’Fore I knowd it I begin to imagine the face that must ’a’ fit that form. I pictured her like the girls that rides the mowin’ machines in the agricult’ral advertisemen’ chromos—yeller hair an’ all. I wanted to try an’ git sight o’ her face but didn’t dast, fer she’d ’a’ seen me an’ that ’ud a spoilt my chancet. So I lay there dreamin’ like, an’ ’fore I knowd it I could think o’ nothin’ but that girl in the tree, who I figured must ’a’ ben a heap better-lookin’ than a circus lady.
“It come sundown, an’ ez I had to hustle to git supper I dragged meself together an’ moved on. I went up the valley fer three days an’ got ’bout thirty mile nearer the river. But I didn’t have no peace. The hull time I was thinkin’ o’ nothin’ but the girl in the blue caliker dress. I never feltso queer before, an’ didn’t know jest what to do. Last I decided I’d hev to go back an’ hev another look at her, so I turned ’round an’ kivered me tracks.
“‘Bout one day later, in the afternoon, I reached the orchard. Hanged ef she wasn’t there an’ settin’ in a tree closer to the road! I didn’t dast go near her, fer I knows how ’fraid the weemen is of us men. But I slid inter me ole placet, an’ lay there watchin’ her blue dress wavin’ in the breeze. Then when I seen ez how she’d changed trees, I begin to think mebbe she’d seen me an’ moved up a tree nearer the road kinder so ez we’d be closer.”
The Tramp’s voice broke and he paused.
“Now quit yer blubberin’, Trampy,” cried the Loafer, “an’ git to the end o’ this here yarn.”
The vagrant rubbed his sleeve across his eyes and continued,
“Wull, ez I lay there watchin’ her so still an’ quiet, I begin to think. I wondered what her name must be, an’ ’lowed it orter be a pretty one. I kind o’ thought, bein’ ez I didn’t know it, I might give her one—the prettiest I could git up. I racked me brain an’ final’ sot on Emily Kate—that sounded high-toned. Then I begin to wonder who’d be so fort’nit ez ter git Emily, an’ cussed meself for bein’ sich a bum. I kind o’ thought I might reform, but last I ’lowed ef she’d take me without me havin’ to reform, it ’ud be a sightpleasanter all ’round. I see how she’d moved up a tree an’ kind o’ wondered ef she’d notice me. The more I thought on it, the worse I got. I begin to think mebbe ef I cleaned up I wouldn’t be so bad—in fact a heap better ’an lots o’ folks I knows. By the time it come sunset I had concided to resk it, an’ was thinkin’ o’ crawlin’ over the fence an’ interducin’ meself. But me heart failed me. I put it off tell the next day an’ slid over the fiel’s to a barn an’ spent the night.
“I didn’t eat no breakfas’. I couldn’t. When it come sun up I went down to the spring an’ washed up. Then I cut fer the orchard, tendin’ to wait tell she come. I didn’t expect she’d be there so airly sence she’d likely do up the breakfas’ dishes.
“I climbed the fence inter the road. Then what a sight I seen! I near yelled. A great big feller had his arm ’round her wais’. She was layin’ all limp like, wit’ her head pitched for’a’d so I couldn’t see it, an’ her feet was draggin’ th’oo the timothy, fer the man was pullin’ her ’long down the orchard. First I was fer runnin’ to her resky, but I thought mebbe I’d better wait tell I see what come of it.
“The big feller, he pulled her, all limp, down to the other side, an’ leaned her up agin a tree, an’ hit her a punch wit’ his fis’. The blue caliker sunbonnet drooped. Then he jumped the fence an’ started away over the meddy.
“Me heart was a-thumpin’ awful. I waited tell he was out o’ sight. Then I slipped down to where Emily Kate lay half dead agin the tree. I seen a chicking coop there an’ hear the ole hen cluckin’. I stepped up an’ raised the girl’s head. She had a straw face an’ was keepin’ hawks away from them chickings. My Emily Kate was a scare——”
The Tramp’s voice grew husky and he faltered.
“See here, you ole fool,” cried the Loafer, “it’s quit rainin’ this ten minutes an’ you’ve kep’ me from splittin’ to-morrer’s wood with yer bloomin’ story.”
The wanderer picked up his bandana and stick, arose and replied,
“Youse gentlemen ’sisted that I tell ye ’bout it. I tol’ ye. Now I must be movin’.”
A moment later he disappeared around the bend in the road just beyond the mill.
“I know that I travels slow,” said the Chronic Loafer, “but ’hen a felly travels fast, it keeps him so busy watchin’ the horses, he sees mighty leetle o’ the country an’ gits awful jolted besides. It’s a heap sight better to go slow, stoppin’ at a stream to fish trout, or in the woods to take a bang at a coon, or at the store fer a leetle discussion—it’s a heap sight easier.”
He was sitting at the end of the porch, his back against the pillar; one leg stretched along the floor, the bare foot resting on its heel and wiggling to and fro in unison with his words; the other leg hanging down and swinging backward and forward like a pendulum.
The Patriarch had the end of the bench nearest him. Next sat the Miller meditatively chewing his forefinger. Then there was the Tinsmith smoking thoughtfully, and beside him, a stranger. This last person was a young man. His jauntygolf cap, fresh pink shirt, spotless duck trousers and canvas shoes marked him as a barbarian. In fact he had swooped down from the mountains to the north but a few days before on a bicycle, taken board at the Shoemaker’s, fixed a short briar pipe between his teeth and seated himself on the bench. At first he had been coldly received. The Store was suspicious. It closed its mouth and waited until it could find out something of the character of the newcomer. He volunteered no explanation, but sat and smoked. The Store grew desperate. At length it could stand the suspense no longer and nudged the stranger and inquired if he might not be a detective? The stranger laughed, said no, and busied himself with the making of smoke rings. Three days passed. Then the Store allowed maybe he might not be a drummer? No, he was not a drummer. The mystery was deepening. There were two things he was not. Now the Store smoked and smoked, and watched the mountains many days, until it had drawn an inspiration therefrom. It winked at the young man and guessed he had run away from his wife. But the stranger answered that he had never married.
Knowing that he was not a detective, a drummer, or a fugitive from some domestic hearthstone, the Store felt that it had learned something of his history and could afford to melt just a little. So now it was talking before him.
As the Loafer finished speaking, the stranger drew forth a leather case, carefully tucked his pipe away in it and returned it to his pocket. Then he remarked calmly, “I cannot agree with you. What would the world be to-day if all men held such ideas as you?”
The Patriarch, the Miller and the Tinsmith pricked up their ears and gazed at the speaker. At last the truth would be out.
The Loafer saw his opportunity.
“What do you do fer a livin’?” he asked.
“I’m a college man,” was the bland reply.
Drawing his pendulum leg up on the porch, the Loafer clasped both knees in his arms. “Well,” he drawled, “I ’low ef you is a kawledge man, they ain’t nawthin’ young enough to be a kawledge boy, is they?”
The Patriarch dropped his cane, clasped his hands to his fat sides, leaned back so that his head rested against the wall, and gagged. The Tinsmith and the Storekeeper laughed so loud that the School Teacher tossed aside the county paper and came running to the door to inquire what the joke was.
“I’m blessed ef I know,” said the Miller, he being the only one of the party who had retained his powers of speech. He laid a hand on the student’s knee and asked, “Did you make a joke?”
But the young man had dived into his pocketand got out his pipe again, and was busy filling it and lighting it and smoking it, by this act asserting his manhood. He now joined good-naturedly in the laughter.
“How much does a kawledge man git a week?” asked the Loafer. “It must pay pretty well, jedgin’ from your clothes.”
“He gets nothing,” was the reply. “I am studying, preparing myself for my work in life.”
“My, oh, my!” murmured the Patriarch. “Preparin’—preparin’? Why, ’hen I was your age I was prepared long ago. I was in full, complete charge o’ me father’s saw-mill.”
The student was nettled, not at the reflection on his own intellectual attainments which this remark seemed to contain, but he felt that in this company he was the representative of modern ideas, of education and enlightenment. The Middle Ages were attacking the Nineteenth Century, and it was his duty to combat the forces of Ignorance. So he removed his briar from his mouth and sent a ring of smoke floating away on the listless air. He watched it intently as it passed out from the shelter of the porch into the great world, and grew broader and bigger and finally disappeared altogether. There was something very impressive in the young man’s act. His voice had fallen an octave when he turned to address the Patriarch.
“Had I chosen a saw-mill as my career, I thinkI too should have long since been prepared for it. But to fit oneself for work in the world as a lawyer, a doctor, a minister, requires preparation. It takes years of study.”
“How many?” asked the Loafer, turning around and eyeing the student over his knees.
“Well, I’ll be twenty-four when I get through studying and become a lawyer.”
“Then what’ll ye do?”
“I’ll work at my profession and make money.”
“How long’ll ye do that?”
“Why, I don’t know particularly—till I have a fair fortune, I suppose.”
“How old’ll ye be then?”
“Around sixty, I guess.”
“Then what’ll ye do?”
“What does every man do eventually? Die.”
“Then ye’ve spent all them years learnin’ to die, eh? Does a felly go off any easier ef his head is crammed full of algebray or physical g’ography? Mighty souls! Why my pap couldn’t ’a’ tol’ ye, ef ye dewided an apple in two halves an’ et one how many was left, yit ’hen his time come he jest emptied out his ole pipe, leaned back in his rocker, stretched his feet toward the fire an’ went.”
“Well, what are you tryin’ to prove anyway?” asked the Teacher, who had seated himself on an egg-crate. His furrowed brow, one closed eye and forefinger resting on his chin, showed that he wasstruggling hard to catch the thread of the discussion.
“I was jest sayin’ that the best life, the sensiblest life, was the slow easy-goin’ one, ’hen this young man conterdicted me,” said the Loafer.
His air was very condescending and it angered the student. The inquisition just ended had left him in a rather equivocal position, he could see by the way the Patriarch and the Tinsmith nodded their heads.
“You misunderstood me,” he said. “You have shown, I see, that from a purely selfish standpoint, ambition is senseless. In the end the man who works hard is no better off than the man who loafs. But remember there is another call—duty.”
“That’s the idee,” cried the Teacher. “The sense of duty moves the world to——”
“Hol’ on!” the Loafer exclaimed. “Hol’ on! Duty to who?”
“Why, duty to society,” the student, answered. “Every man is endowed with certain faculties, and it is his duty to use those faculties to the best of his ability for the advancement of himself and his fellow-man.”
“Certainly—certainly,” said the pedagogue. “It’s the old parable of the talents all over agin.”
“Yes, they is some argyment in that,” said the Loafer. “Yit they ain’t. Pap allus used to say that too many fellys was speckilatin’ in their talents,an’ ’hen their employer called an accountin’ they was only able to pass in a lot o’ counterfeit coin.”
“But suppose all men sat down and folded their hands and lived as you would have them. What would happen?” asked the college man.
“D’ye see yon pastur’ down there?” The Loafer pointed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the meadow below the bridge, where half a score of cattle were grazing.
The student nodded. The bony forefinger was pointed at him now.
“Well, now s’posin’ ye was a hog an’——”
“I object to such a supposition,” was the angry retort.
“Well then s’posin’, jest fer argyment—ye know ye can s’pose anything ’hen ye argy—s’posin’ ye was a cow. Yon fiel’ ’ll pastur’ ten head o’ cattle comf’table all summer, ’lowin’ they is easy-goin’ an’ without no ambition. Now you uns gits the high-flyin’ idee ye must dewelop your heaven-given faculties fer the benefit o’ your sufferin’ fellys. The main talent a cow has is that o’ eatin’; so ye dewelop it be grazin’ night an’ day. ’Hen the other cows is friskin’ up an’ down the meadow or splashin’ ’round the creek, you are nibblin’ off the choice grass an’ digestin’ all the turnip tops ye can reach th’oo the holes in the fence. Mebbe you’ll git to be a slicker animal, but fer the life o’ me, I can’t see how you’re benefitin’ the rest o’ the cattle.”
“See here,” interrupted the Miller, “you are the onsenselessest argyer I ever set eyes on. Ye starts but on edycation an’ lands up on cattle-raisin’.”
“No—no, you misunderstand him,” said the student. “His method of argument is all right, but it seems that the figure is bad. It doesn’t quite apply. Every man who leads an industrious, upright life, every man who in so doing prospers and raises himself, does an incalculable service to the community in which he lives. His example inspires others.”
“I jedge, then,” replied the Loafer, “that this here petickler cow we’ve ben speakin’ of, in eatin’ night an’ day an’ fattenin’ itself, is elewatin’ the rest o’ the cattle be its example. They’ll be encouraged to quit sloshin’ ’round the creek an’ friskin’ ’bout the pastur’ an’ ’ll be after grass night an’ day, an’ the grass’ll git skeercer an’ they’ll take to buttin’ one another, an’ your efforts at elewatin’ ’em ends in turnin’ a peaceful pastur’ inter a battle-fiel’.”
The student sent three rings of smoke whirling from his mouth in rapid succession, but he made no reply.
“Did ye ever hear o’ Zebulon Pole?” asked the Loafer.
“I never did. But what has he to do with this matter?”
“Zebulon Pole was a livin’ answer to it, he was.He used to have a shanty up in Buzzard Walley near me an’ Pap, an’ was young an’ full o’ all them noble idees. No—he wasn’t allus full of ’em. They hed ben a time ’hen he was easy-goin’ an’ happy, askin’ nawthin’ better o’ his Maker than a trout stream, a hook an’ a line, an’ a place to borry a shot-gun. All o’ a sudden he bloomed out full o’ ambition an’ high notions. He hed a call. He was wastin’ his life loafin’ ’long the creeks or settin’ day after day on a lawg, whistlin’ fer wild turkeys. The world needed Zebulon Pole, an’ he answered by comin’ out ez candidate fer superwisor. He was elected. From that day the citizens o’ our township hed no peace. They’d allus ben used to goin’ out on the roads in the spring, stickin’ their shovels in the groun’, leanin’ on ’em an’ gittin’ paid a dollar a day fer it. The new superwisor was ambitious, an’ the good ole system o’ makin’ roads seemed a thing o’ the past. So the boys put their heads together an’ concided that a man o’ Pole’s parts was too good fer his place an’ should hev a higher an’ nobler job. They made him a school-director, an’ leaned on their shovels oncet more an’ drawed a dollar a day fer it ez usual.
“Zebulon hed never gone beyant the Third Reader in school or th’oo fractions, an’ yit ’hen he become a school-director, he seen the hand o’ a higher power instead o’ the wotes o’ citizens who wasn’t agin improvin’ the roads, but wasagin hevin’ it done ’hen they was workin’ out their road tax. He was called to the service o’ his felly-man. He was sacrificin’ his own happiness, givin’ up his fishin’ an’ huntin’ that he might dewote his life to helpin’ others. He hedn’t ben school-director a month tell he concided it was an honor, a great honor, yit the sphwere was too narrer fer a man o’ his talents. Zebulon Pole was learnin’. He’d found out they was better an’ higher things in this worl’ then a mountain stream full o’ trout, a soft bed o’ moss on the bank, a half cloudy day, a pipe an’ a hook an’ line. He’d found out they was nobler things, so he come out ez candidate fer county commissioner, ’lowin’ that after that he’d be Gov’nor, an’ then Presydent. But the woters remembered how they’d over-exerted themselves in his days ez superwisor; they minded how in his first week ez school-director, he’d changed the spellin’ book an’ cost ’em twenty-five cents a head fer every blessed child in the district. They jest snowed him under. He was plain Zeb Pole agin. He’d tasted the sweets o’ power an’ lost his appytite fer fishin’. His hopes o’ bein’ Presydent was gone. They was nawthin’ left fer him to look for’a’d to but dyin’.”
The student shook his head gravely.
“There is some argument in what you have been saying,” he said slowly. “I admit that. But you know your ideas are not new. You simply carry one back to the Stoics of Greece.”
The Loafer was puzzled. “What did you say they was?” he asked.
“The Stoics of Greece. You remind me of the Stoics of Greece.”
“Is that a complyment or a name?” The Loafer leaned sharply forward and thrust his long chin toward the speaker ominously.
“Why, a compliment,” was the reply. “The Stoics were a great school of philosophers. They taught simplicity in life. Diogenes was a Stoic.”
“Who?” asked the Patriarch, bending over and fixing his hand to his ear.
“Diogenes.”
“D’ogenes—D’ogenes,” said the old man. He paused; then added, “D’ogenes—yes, I’ve heard the name but I can’t exactly place him.”
“Well, you certainly never met him,” said the collegian. “He lived a couple of thousand years ago in Athens. His idea was to get as close as possible to nature, so he lived in a tub.”
“Didn’t they hev no suylums in them days?” asked the Loafer.
“Diogenes wasn’t crazy,” cried the student. “He was a great philosopher. They tell one story of how he went walking around Athens carrying a lantern in broad daylight. When asked what he was doing, he said he was looking for an honest man.”
“What was the lantern fer?” the Miller inquired.
“Why, he was looking for an honest man,” shouted the collegian.
“I s’pose it never struck him to go to the store fer one,” drawled the Loafer.
“You miss the point—the whole of you. Diogenes was a man who spurned the material things of this world. He tried to forget the body in the development of the mind and soul, so he lived in a tub, and——”
“See here, young felly,” interrupted the Loafer, “fer an argyer you beat the band. First off ye conterdicted me fer sayin’ a man should take his time. Now ye come ’round my way, only worse. I never sayd a man should keep house in a tub. Why, his missus ’ud never give him no peace. No, sir; don’t ye git no fool idees like that in your head.”
“But that is the truest philosophy——”
“I know. Zebulon Pole got that wery idee after he was defeated fer county commissioner. He moped ’round the walley fer a year an’ final one day come to me an’ sayd he was goin’ to dewote the rest o’ his life to religious medytation. ‘It’s less trouble to git to heaven then the White House,’ he sayd, ‘fer a good deed is easier to do then an opposin’ candidate.’ It happened that at this time they hed ben a woman preacher holdin’ bush-meetin’s in our walley an’ he was a reg’lar attendant. She pounded away at wanity. All was wanity, she sayd. They wasn’t nawthin’in this world wuth livin’ fer. Fine houses, fine clothes, slick buggies, fast horses, low-cut waist-coats—all them things was extrys which was no more needed fer man’s sperritual comfort then napkins fer his bodily nourishment. It didn’t take long fer them idees to spread in our walley, an’ Pole was one o’ the first to catch ’em. I mind comin’ home from fishin’ one day, I seen him a-settin’ on a fence chewin’ a straw an’ watchin’ the clouds scootin’ ’long overhead.
“‘Ho, Zeb!’ I sais, shakin’ a nice string o’ trout under his nose. ‘Why ain’t ye out? They’s bitin’ good.’
“He looks at me outen the corner o’ his eye wery solemn.
“‘Fishin’?’ he sais.
“‘Yes, fishin’,’ I yells, kind o’ s’prised. ‘They’s bitin’ good.’
“‘All them things is wanity,’ sais he, straightenin’ up an’ pintin’ a finger o’ scorn at me. ‘Wanity o’ wanities. Let me warn ye, man. I’ve give up all them worldly pleasures. I’m set on higher things.’
“‘Six-rail fences,’ I answers, ‘all day long—chewin’ a straw—watchin’ clouds—wery elewatin’.’
“He give me a sad look.
“‘What are ye doin’ now?’ sais I, not intendin’ to be put down even ef he hed ben school director.
“‘I’m a lily,’ he sais. ‘I’m followin’ the wordso’ that dear sister who has cast her lot among us. Henceforth I no longer considers the morrer. I toil not, nuther spin.’
“‘See here, Zeb,’ sais I. ‘You ain’t a bit my idee of a lily.’
“‘I don’t ast the approval o’ the world,’ sais he.
“‘An’ ye wouldn’t git it ef ye did,’ sais I. ‘But still I s’pose ye might do pretty well in this new ockypation ef it wasn’t fer one thing.’
“‘What’s that?’ he asts.
“‘Lilies don’t use tobacker,’ I answers.
“That kind o’ jolted him. His eyes opened wide, an’ I seen a few tears.
“‘I never thot o’ that,’ sais he.
“‘Oh, it’s unimportant,’ sais I. ‘You’ll make a fair lily. It’ll come hard fer ye first off, after your last suit of clothes is wore out. Let’s hope that happens in summer so ye’ll break in fer winter easier. You’ll git used to not eatin’,’ I sais. ‘Eatin’ is wanity. An’ ez fer tobacker—I never seen a lily smokin’. But still, Zeb, ’hen ye runs out o’ cut an’ dried, they is allus a placet ye can git a leetle ’hen ye takes a rest from bloomin’ in the fiels.’
“That wery night Zebulon ’cepted my inwite an’ come over to our placet an’ got a handful o’ cut an’ dried. He borryed a loaf o’ bread an’ a can’le beside. I didn’t begrudge it a bit. Nuther did Pap. But this lily business begin spreadin’,an’ all o’ Hen Jossel’s folks tuk to toilin’ not nuther spinin’, ’long o’ Herman Brewbocker’s family an’ Widdy Spade an’ half a dozen others. They was dependin’ on us fer flour, matches, tobacker an’ sech wanities, an’ it come a leetle hard. We stood it a month but things got goin’ from bad to worse. They wasn’t a day passed ’thout a lily or two droppin’ in at our placet an’ ’lowin’ mebbe we mightn’t like to loan a piece o’ ham, a tin o’ zulicks or a bit o’ oil. It worrit Pap terrible.
“One night I come home from store an’ found all the doors locked. The shutters was tight closed an’ they was no sign o’ life ’cept a leetle bit o’ smoke dancin’ up an’ down on the chimbley top. I give a loud knock. They was no answer. I knocked agin an’ yelled. The garret winder slid up an’ out come the bawrel o’ a gun, then Pap’s head.
“‘Hello!’ sais he. ‘Is you a friend or a lily o’ the walley?’
“‘Pap,’ I sais, ‘it’s your own lovin’ son,’ sais I. ‘Don’t leave me out here unprotected, the prey to the next lily that comes along lookin’ where-withal he shall borrer.’
“The ole man opened the door an’ let me in. Then he locked it agin an’ barred it. He picked up his musket wery solemn like an’ run the rammer down the bawrel to show it was loaded half way to the muzzle.
“‘They was ten lilies here, one after the other,to-day,’ he sais. ‘They’ve left us the bed, the dough tray, three chairs, a table, an’ a few odds an’ ends. ’Hen I seen the last foot o’ our sausage disappearin’ down the road under Widdy Spade’s arm I made a wow. The next lily that blooms about this clearin’ gits its blossoms blowed off.’
“It didn’t take long fer the news o’ Pap’s wow to fly from one eend of Buzzard Walley to the other. Zeb Pole got a job in the saw-mill. Hen Jossel went back to bark-peelin’ an’ cuttin’ ties. Widdy Spade planted her garden.”
“Well,” exclaimed the Miller, as the Loafer closed his account of the idiosyncracies of Zebulon Pole, “I can’t see any way why your pap was raisin’ sech fool things ez lilies. They’s only good to look at.”
“I understand that all right,” said the student. “What I want to know is, what have you demonstrated by all this talk?”
“I ain’t demonstratened nawthin’,” replied the Loafer. “You conterdicted me because I sayd a man should travel slow an’ take things easy in this world, an’ I proved that them ez travels fast is fools, gainin’ nawthin’ in the eend fer themselves or other folks. Then ye switches right ’round an’ adwises livin’ in a tub. I showed ye what that led to.”
“Then are we all to commit suicide?”
“No. Travel comf’table th’oo this world. Travel slow but allus keep movin’. Ye can seethe country ez ye go, stoppin’ now an’ then to fish trout, or take a bang at a coon, or at the store to discuss a leetle. Don’t live too fast—don’t live too slow—live mejum.”