The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe StarbucksThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The StarbucksAuthor: Opie Percival ReadRelease date: August 3, 2006 [eBook #18984]Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by David Garcia, Emmy, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STARBUCKS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The StarbucksAuthor: Opie Percival ReadRelease date: August 3, 2006 [eBook #18984]Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by David Garcia, Emmy, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Title: The Starbucks
Author: Opie Percival Read
Author: Opie Percival Read
Release date: August 3, 2006 [eBook #18984]
Language: English
Credits: E-text prepared by David Garcia, Emmy, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STARBUCKS ***
E-text prepared by David Garcia, Emmy,and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net/)from page images generously made available byKentuckiana Digital Library(http://kdl.kyvl.org/)
"SHE WAS THE ONLY MOTHER I KNOWED.""SHE WAS THE ONLY MOTHER I KNOWED."
Author of"The Jucklins," "Old Ebenezer,""My Young Master," "A TennesseeJudge," "A Kentucky Colonel,""Len Gansett," "On the SuwaneeRiver," "Emmett Bonlore,"Etc.
Character Illustration, True to Life, Reproduced in Colors
Laird & Lee, ChicagoEntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1902,By William H. Lee,in the office of the Librarian of Congress, atWashington, D. C.
chapterpageI.The People of the Hills,9II.Jim, the Preacher,17III.Getting Acquainted,32IV.At the Post Office,50V.Couldn't Quarrel in Peace,63VI.Hadn't Listened,84VII.Not So Far Out of the World,102VIII.The Spirit that Played with Her,111IX.At Dry Fork,118X.Tied to a Tree,134XI.Reading the News,148XII.Didn't Do Anything Heroic,166XIII.Might Wipe her Feet on Him,183XIV.An Old Man Preached,198XV.The Girl and the Churn,207XVI.The Appointment Comes,220XVII.Not to Tell Her a Lie,234XVIII.Down the Road,252XIX.Old Folks Left Alone,263XX.Met it in the Road,271XXI.Into the World beyond the Hills,279XXII.Came to Weep,287XXIII.A Trip Not Without Incident,296XXIV.Two Fruitful Witnesses,303XXIV.Too Proud to Beg,312
Reproduced in Colors from Photographs
page"She was the only mother I knowed,"Frontispiece"Them what hain't had trouble ain't had no cause to look fur the Lord,"48"Yes, I d-d-d-do say so, a-a-a-atter a f-f-f-fashion."80"Kotch 'em stealin' hosses, I reckon."128"Well," Margaret exclaimed, "I never was so surprised."208"Go on erway an' let me talk ter myse'f. You kain't talk."240"If you air the Jedge, I am sorter diserp'inted in you."288"Jedge, there ain't no better man than he is, an' for the Lord's sake don't hang him."304
In every age of the world people who live close to nature have, by the more cultivated, been classed as peculiar. An ignorant nation is brutal, but an uneducated community in the midst of an enlightened nation is quaint, unconsciously softened by the cultivation and refinement of institutions that lie far away. In such communities live poets with lyres attuned to drollery. Moved by the grandeurs of nature, the sunrise, the sunset, the storm among the mountains, the tiller of the gullied hill-side field is half dumb, but with those apt "few words which are seldom spent in vain," he charicatures his own sense of beauty, mingling rude metaphor with the language of "manage" to a horse.
I find that I am speaking of a certain community in Tennessee. And perhaps no deductions drawn from a general view of civilization would apply tothese people. Some of their feuds, it is said, may be traced back to the highlands of Scotland, and it is true that many of their expressions seem to come from old books which they surely have never read, but they do not eat oats, nor do they stand in sour awe of Sunday. What religion they have is a pleasure to them. In the log meeting-house they pray and sing, sometimes with a half-open eye on a fellow to be "thrashed" on the following day for not having voted as he agreed; "Amen" comes fervently from a corner made warm by the ardor of the repentant sinner; "Hallelujah!" is shouted from the mourner's bench, and a woman in nervous ecstasy pops her streaming hair; but the average man has come to talk horse beneath the trees, and the young fellow with sun-burnt down on his lip is there slily to hold the hand of a maid frightened with happiness and boastingly to whisper shy words of love.
"Do you like Sam Bracken?" he inquires.
"Not much."
"If you like him much, I bet I can whup him. Like Steve Smith?"
"Not so powerful well."
"I can whup him."
"Bet you can't."
"You wait."
And the chances are that unless she modifies her statement the Smith boy will be compelled to answer for the crime of her compliment.
In this community, in the edge of what is known as East Tennessee, the memory of Andrew Jackson is held in deepest reverence. To those people he was as a god-like hero of antiquity. Single-handed he defeated the British at New Orleans. Nicholas Biddle, a great banker somewhere away off yonder, had gathered all the money in the land, and it was Jackson who compelled him to disgorge, thus not only establishing himself as the master of war, but as the crusher of men who oppress the poor.
Prominent in the neighborhood of Smithfield, a town of three or four hundred inhabitants, was Jasper Starbuck. Earlier in his life he had whipped every man who stood in need of that kind of training. Usually of a blythesome nature, he was subject to fits of melancholy, only to be relieved by some sort of physical entanglement with an enemy. Then, his "spell" having passed, he would betake himself to genial affairs, help a neighbor with his work, lend his chattels to shiftless farmers, cut wood and haul it for widows, and gathering children about him entertain them with stories of the great war.
And how dearly that war had cost him. East Tennessee did not tear itself loose from the Union; Andrew Johnson and Parson Brownlow, one a statesman and the other a fanatic, strangled the edicts of the lordly lowlanders and sent regiment after regiment to the Federal army. Among the first to enlist were old Jasper Starbuck and his twin boys. The boys did not come back. In the meantime their heart-broken mother died, and when the father returned to his desolate home, there was a grave beneath the tree where he had heard a sweet voice in the evening.
Years passed and he married again, a poor girl in need of a home; and at the time which servesas the threshold of this history, he was sobered down from his former disposition to go out upon a "pilgrimage" of revenge. His "spells" had been cured by grief, but nothing could kill his humor. Drawling and peculiar, never boisterous, it was stronger than his passion and more enduring than the memory of a wrong. He was not a large man. A neighbor said that he was built after the manner of a wild-cat. He was of iron sinew and steel nerve. His eyes were black with a glint of their youthful devilishness. His thick hair was turning gray.
Margaret, his wife, was a tender scold. She was almost a foundling, but a believer in heredity could trace in her the evidences of good blood. From some old mansion, long years in ruin, a grace had escaped and come to her. An Englishman, traveling homeward from the defunct colony of Rugby, declared that she was an uncultivated duchess.
"This union was blessed,"—say the newspapers and story-books, speaking of a marriage,—"with a beautiful girl," or a "manly boy." Often this phrase is flattery, but sometimes, as in this instance, it is the truth. Lou Starbuck was beautiful. In herearlier youth she was a delicious little riot of joy. As she grew older, she was sometimes serious with the thought that her father and mother had suffered. She loved the truth and believed that bravery was not only akin to godliness, but the right hand of godliness.
In Starbuck's household, or at least attached to his log-house establishment, there were two other persons, an old black mammy who had nursed Jasper, and a trifling negro named Kintchin.
One day in summer there came two notable visitors, Mrs. Mayfield, and her nephew Tom Elliott, both from Nashville, sister and son of a United States Judge. When they came to Jasper's house, they decided to go no further.
"Tom," said the woman, "this is the place we are looking for."
Tom caught sight of Lou Starbuck, standing in the doorway, and replied: "Auntie, I guess you are right."
The mere suggestion of taking boarders threw the household into a flurry, but Mrs. Mayfield, tall, graceful, handsome, threw her charm upon opposition and it faded away. Old Jasper was not over cordial to "store clothes," at least he was not confidential, and with the keen whip of his eye he lashed Tom Elliott, but the boy appeared to be frank and manly.
"Of course you can stay as long as you want to," said Jasper, "but I reckon you'll have to put on some homespun and a checked hickory shirt or two, befo' you kin put up with our fare."
"Now, please, don't worry about that," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. "We can eat parched corn if necessary. We have come from the city to rest, and—"
"Rest," Jasper broke in, looking at the young fellow. "Why, he don't look like he ever done anythin'. Never plowed a day in your life, did you?"
"I must confess that I haven't," Tom replied.
"Thar, I knowed it." And then speaking to Mrs. Mayfield, he added: "All right, mam, we'll do the best we kin fur you. Got the same names here that you had down whar you come from?"
Tom laughed. His aunt reproved him with a look. "Why, of course. What object would we have in changing them?"
"Don't ask me, mam. I never know what object nobody has—ain't my business. Here, Kintchin," he called to the negro, "take them trunks outen the wagin and then you may go to sleep ag'in."
Kintchin came round a corner of the house, rubbing his eyes. "Talkin' ter me, suh?"
"You hearn me."
"Said suthin' erbout gwine ter sleep. I jest wanter tell you dat I ain't slep' none fur er week, an' ef you 'sinuate at me—"
"Go on there. Now mam, ef you'll jest step in we'll do the best we kin."
"Oh, thank you. How courteous you are."
"How what? I reckon you better git along without much o' that. Don't want nobody put on a strain. Margaret, here are some folks," he continued as his wife made her appearance. "Jest tell 'em howdy and let 'em alone."
She bowed to Tom and to Mrs. Mayfield. "And befo' you make yo'selves at home," she said, "I hope you'll l'arn not to pay no attention to Jasper. Lou, haven't you spoke to the folks?"
"No'm, but I can. Howdy."
During the rest of the day the visitors were permitted to amuse themselves. Lou was shy, Margaret was distantly respectful and the old man went about in leisurely attendance upon his affairs, not yet wholly unsuspicious. A week before the arrival of the "folks from off yander," as the strangers were termed, there had come to Jasper's house a nephew, Jim Starbuck, a mountain-side preacher. His air bespoke that gentleness resultant of passion bound andgagged. At eighteen he had been known as the terror of the creek. Without avail old Jasper had argued with him, with fresh scalps dangling at his own belt. One night Jim turned a revival meeting into a fight with bench legs, beat a hard-hearted money lender until he was taken home almost a mass of pulp. At nineteen he turned a hapless school teacher out of the school house, nailed up the door, and because the teacher muttered against it, threw the pedagogue into thecreek. At twenty he seemed to hear a voice coming from afar. A man going to mill said that he saw Jim beside a log on his knees in the woods, praying; he was called a liar, knocked down his insulter and went on with his grist. He had spoken the truth, for on the night following, Jim arose in the congregation, renounced his reckless ways, and with a defiance of the world that among the righteous awaked applause, he came forward and knelt at the mourners' bench. His religion "took," they said, as if speaking of vaccination, and before long he entered the pulpit, ready gently to crack the irreligious heads of former companions still stubborn in the ways of iniquity. From behind a plum bush, in the corner of the fence, he had seen Mrs. Mayfield and had blinked, as if dazzled by a great light. Nor was it till the close of day that he had the courage to come into her presence, and then for a moment he gazed—and vanished. Old Jasper found him mumbling beneath the moon.
"Lost anythin', Jim?"
"Nothing that I ever thought I had, Uncle Jasper."
"Look like a man that is huntin' fur his terbacker."
"I've quit tobacco long ago, Uncle Jasper."
"Huh, give that up, too? Then you have been hit hard. But atter all, my boy, a lick that ain't hard don't count fur much. Understand I believe in yo' Book all right, but not as the most of 'em reads it. The most of 'em reads it so as to make you do the things you don't want to do, and what they want you to do. A good many of 'em think it was writ fur them ag'in you. Findin' new picturs on the moon, Jim? I don't see nuthin' new; same old feller a burnin' of his bresh, allus a puttin' 'em on the fire an' never gittin' through."
"I'm thinking, that's all, Uncle Jasper."
"Comes from readin' them books up on the hill-top, I reckon. They make me think, too, when I git a holt of 'em, 'specially them about the war—looks like it's a mighty hard matter for a man to tell the truth the minit he grabs holt of a pen. Don't see why a pen is such a liar, but it is. And yit, the biggist liar I ever seed couldn't more thanwrite his name. What do you think of them folks in thar, Jim?"
Jim strode off, came back and standing with one hand resting on the rail fence that surrounded the old man's door yard, hung his head and replied: "Old Satan sometimes puts good clothes on his temptations, Uncle Jasper."
"Why, you don't think that young feller's a nosin' round to—"
"I don't see anything mysterious in him, Uncle Jasper. It's the woman that—that strikes so hard."
"Huh. I didn't think you cared anythin' about women, Jim."
"Oh, I don't and you musn't think I do. Did you ever have a feller catch a spear out of the sun with a lookin' glass and shoot it through yo' eyes? That's the way she done me, as she was a standing there at the door."
"Wall, as game a feller as you are ain't afeared of a woman."
"I don't know about that. The gamer a feller is among men the fearder he is among women, it seems like. But what am I talking about? Shewon't take any notice of me and in fact it won't make any difference if she does. I tell you, though, I don't like to be treated that way by a woman."
"Why, how did she treat you?"
"Looked something at me that made me dissatisfied with myself. I reckon I must be a good deal of a fool, Uncle Jasper."
"Wall, I don't reckon you are as smart as old Henry Clay was. Still you ain't no slouch. Come on in and I'll give you a knockin' down to her. She can't no mo' than hit you with somethin'."
When introduced Jim shied off into a corner and there during the evening he remained, gazing at the woman from "off yander," with scarcely courage enough to utter a word. Mrs. Mayfield inquired as to his church among the hills, and his countenance flared with a silly light and old Jasper ducked his head and snorted in the sleeve of his home-spun shirt. But the next morning Jim had the courage to appear at the breakfast table, still gazing; and later when Tom and his aunt went out for a walk, he followed along like a dog waiting to be scolded.
Several days later, while old black mammy was ironing in the sitting room, Kintchin came in at the door which always stood open, and looking about, slowly went up to the old woman and inquired if she needed any more wood.
"No," she answered, not looking at him, "I's nearly done."
Kintchin scratched his head. "Wall, I jest come ter tell you dat ef you does need any mo' I knows er man dat'll git it fur you. Me. An' w'en er man fetches er lady de sort o' wood I'd fetch you, w'y she kin tell right dar whut he think o' her. Does you hyarken ter me?"
Mammy, slowly moving her iron, looked at him. "Whut de matter wid you, man? Ain't habin' spells, is you?"
"I's in lub, lady, dat's whut de matter wid me."
"In lub? In lub wid who?"
He leaned toward her. "Wid you."
"W'y you couldn't lub me," she said. "I's eighty odd an' you ain't but sixty. I's too old fur you. I doan want ter fool wid no chile."
Kintchin came closer and made an attempt totake her hand, shrewdly watching the hot iron slowly moving over the bosom of a shirt. "I'll burn da black hide ef you doan git erway. You bodders me."
The old rascal assumed an air of great astonishment. "Whut, er man bodder er lady dat he lubs?"
"Didn't I tole you you couldn't lub me?"
"Couldn't lub you? Ain't you been er savin' yo' money all deze years, an' ef er man kain't lub er lady dat's been er savin' her money, who kin he lub?"
She gave him a look of contempt. "Oh, I knowd dar wuz er bug in de milk pan. It's my little bit o' money you's atter, but you ain't gwine ter git it. Dat money's ter bury me wid." And in a self-satisfied way she nodded at him and resumed her work.
Kintchin stepped back, the word 'bury' having thrown a temporary pall upon his cupidity, but soon he rallied and renewed his attack. "Funny dat er lady will save all her life long jest ter be buried. I doan blebe in deze yere 'spensive funuls nohow. Huh, an' you oughter hab ernuff by dis time terbury bof o' us. An' ef you says de word I'll be buried side o' you ter keep you comp'ny."
She ceased her work and looked at him. "I won't need no comp'ny. I'll be busy tellin' de Lawd 'bout de folks down yere. An, I gwine tell him, w'in I goes home."
She gathered up the clothes basket and went into an adjoining room, leaving Kintchin to muse alone. He heard the low whistle of a backwoodsman's improvised tune, and looking up, saw a man leaning against the door-facing. To the old negro the new comer was not a stranger. Once that big foot had kicked him out of the road, and lying in his straw bed the poor wretch had burned with resentment, cowed, helpless; and sleeping, had dreamed of killing the brute and awoke with a tune on his black lips. He knew Lije Peters, neighborhood bully without being a coward, a born black-mailer, a ruffian with the touch of humor, ignorant with sometimes an allegorical cast of speech. As he entered the room he looked about and seeing no one else, spoke to Kintchin:
"Whar's Jasper Starbuck?"
"I seed Miss Margaret an' Miss Lou out yander jest now," Kintchin answered, backing off as Peters advanced toward him.
"I didn't ask about them. Whew, what you got sich a hot fire in here for?"
"Mammy's been ironin'."
"Yes. Been a meltin iron I should think. Is Starbuck at home? Answer me, you scoundrel." He made a threatening gesture and Kintchin, backing further off, cried out, "Doan rush me, suh. Ef I'se er scoundul you hatter give me time. Er scoundul hatter be keerful whut he say. I seed Mr. Starbuck dis mawnin', suh."
Peters turned as if to go out, but halted and looked at Kintchin. The old negro nodded. "Say, is that young feller and that woman here yit?"
"Gimmy time—gimmy time. I's er scoundul, you know."
"Do you want me to mash your head?"
Kintchin put his hand to his head. "Whut, dis one right yere? No, suh, I doan blebe I does."
"Well, then answer me. That woman and young chap here yet?"
"Yas, suh, da's yere."
"She's his aunt, I understand."
"Yas, suh, dat's whut you un'erstand."
"Why did they come here? What are they doin'?"
"Gimmy time. Da come caze da wanter ter, an' now dat da's yere, da's jest er bo'din'; dat's all."
"You are an old fool."
"Yas, suh," replied Kintchin, "dat's whut I yere."
Mammy came in and said to Kintchin, "De steers broke down de fence an' is eatin' up de co'n. See, through de winder?"
"Dat won't do," Kintchin exclaimed with hurry in his voice but with passive feet. "No, it won't do. Steer ain't got no right ter come roun' er eatin' up de co'n."
"But w'y doan you go on, man? Mars Jasper'll git arter you."
"I's gwine. Allus suthin' ter make er man work his j'ints," he moved off toward the door, and turning just before going out, said to Peters: "Yere come Miss Lou now."
The girl came in singing, but seeing Peters, hushed, and turned to go out.
"One minute, Miss Lou," said Peters, bowing awkwardly.
She halted, looked at him and said, "Well?"
"Won't you sit down," said Peters, making a great show of politeness.
"I'm not tired," Lou replied.
Peters smiled. "I've got suthin' I want to say to you."
"Then I may be tired," she said, sitting down. "Well?"
Peters stood for a moment, looking at her and then inquired: "Did yo' father tell you suthin' I said to him?"
Slowly rocking she looked up at him. "He always has enough talk of his own without repeatin' what other folks say."
"But what I told him was about you."
"Well, if what you said wasn't good you wouldn't be here to tell about it, so it don't concern me."
He attempted to smile, but failed. "I don't know about that."
"You don't know about anything—much."
"Enough to know what I think of you."
"Hope you know what I think of you."
"Ah," said Peters, "I don't reckon you think of me very often."
Lou got up and went to him, looked straight into his eyes and said: "Think of you! Why, I never know you are on earth till you come where I am and then I spend my time tryin' to forget you are there."
"Well, now," replied Peters, "that ain't very polite."
She stepped back and looked at him in pretended astonishment. "Was anybody ever polite to you?"
"Well, not many of the Starbucks, that's a fact—none, come to think of it 'cept yo' cousin Jim, the preacher, and he believes that the Lord made all things for a purpose."
"Yes, he believes that God made the devil."
Peters laughed as if he really enjoyed her contempt of him. He pulled at his whiskers, cleared his throat, took a turn about the room and looking at her again, he appeared as if he had attempted to soften his countenance with a sentiment urgently summoned. "Yes, that is all true, I reckon. Andnow let me tell you. I mout not look like it—like I'm hard to please, but I am. Thar ain't one woman out of a hundred that can make me wake up when I'm sleepy and think about her, but you can. And ever sense you was a child I've said I'd never marry till I could git you." He saw the anger in her eyes and hesitated. "Ah, you may not think very much of me now," he continued, "but that can all be changed. A woman's like a mornin' glory flower—always a changing; an' I know you could learn to love me."
"Oh, you do. Well, what you know and what's the truth won't never know each other well enough to shake hands."
Peters smiled upon her, "Wall, if nuthin' else did, that of itself would prove you air old Jasper's daughter."
Margaret Starbuck came in, with a pan of turnips. Peters bowed to her. "Er good mornin', ma'm."
She put the pan on the table and giving him an unconscious grace bade him good morning. "Is mammy done ironin'?" she asked, speaking to Lou.
"Yes'm, I reckon so." Then she added, speaking to Peters, "Is there anythin' else you wanted?"
"Why, Lou," Margaret spoke up, "is that the way to talk?"
"Yes'm, sometimes," and nodding at Peters she added: "And this is one of them." She laughed, turned away and sat down with her elbows resting on a battered old melodeon.
"Oh, she's jest a jokin' with me ma'm," said Peters. "I wanted to see yo' husband. Reckon he's out some whar on the place."
"I think so," Margaret replied,peelingthe turnips. "I heard him calling the hogs just now."
Lou looked at Peters and said: "Then why don't you go?"
"Why, daughter," exclaimed Margaret, "you musn't talk that way. Mr. Peters is in yo' house."
She came forward and to the visitor bowed with mock humility. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Peters—"
"Oh, that's all right, Miss Lou."
"For bein' honest with you."
Peters cleared his throat. She returned to themelodeonand sat down with her back toward him.Peters started out but halted and spoke to Margaret. "Suthin' I have been workin' fur a long time is about to come—an app'intment I've been tryin' to git, and when I git it there air folks that ought to be skeered."
Lou glanced round at him and replied, "And then again, there are folks that won't be."
"Ah," said Peters, "an' them that won't be air them that ought to be." And then to Margaret he added: "If I don't find Jasper I'll be back. When he comes tell him I want to see him. Good day."
When he had gone out into the road Margaret inquired of her daughter what he had said to give such offense.
"He said I could learn to love him. And I as much as told him he was a liar."
"But, daughter, you musn't talk like that. You'll have to be more careful with him, for in some way he's got the upper hand of yo' father."
"Well, I don't envy him his job."
"Hush," said Margaret. "Here come the folks."
In came Mrs. Mayfield and her nephew, with Jim, the preacher, following them. Margaret began industriously to dust a rocking chair. She bade them come in, if it were not too warm, "Mammy has been ironing but the fire's dyin' down. And I do hope she irons yo' clothes to suit you, Miz Mayfield," she added.
"Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Mayfield, glancing round at the preacher who with hat in hand sat on the melodeon stool, gazing at her. "I am not hard to please," she continued, speaking to Margaret. "I have passed that stage."
Margaret bowed to her. "Well, I'm mighty glad to hear it. So many folks are hard to please. There come a woman from away off yander sometime ago and took up over at Fetterson's and they couldn't do a thing to please her—grumbled all the time; the water wasn't even good, when heaven knows we've got the best water on the yeth. So I am glad you ain't hard to please."
"Oh, I should indeed be finical to find fault with anything in this delicious air," said Mrs. Mayfield, smiling at Lou, "this new life, among these God-worshipping hills, these—"
"Oh, auntie brought her romance with her," Tom broke in, and Lou gave him a look of tender reproof.
"Oh, let her talk, please. I like to hear her." And standing beside Mrs. Mayfield's chair she said: "You told me you were something. What was it?"
"An echo from the world," the city woman answered.
Lou looked at her mother who in turn gave her a look in which the girl read an ignorance as profound as her own. "Well, is sounds mighty putty," she said, "but what do you mean by it. I don't understand."
"Why Lou!" exclaimed her mother. "You musn't talk that way."
"Oh, let her go ahead," Tom spoke up. "The fact is auntie says a good many things I'd like to have explained to me."
"Tom," she said, "please don't be any more wayward than you can help."
At this moment old Jasper's voice was heard without. "Git down from here. Got less sense than any dog I ever seed, come a jumpin' on me with yo' muddy feet. Howdy everybody, howdy," he greeted them as he entered, with a set of harness on his arm. Every one spoke to him and after surveying the party he drew a chair out from the table, sat down and began to tug at the harness, pulling hard against the resistance of a rusty buckle. "Whar's that luther string?" he inquired of his wife.
"What luther string?"
"The one I told you to put away for me some time last fall—mebby fall a year ago. Whar is it?"
"Gracious alive Jasper, I don't know. What did you bring that gear in here for? Can't you fix it at the stable?"
"Yes, could. Could also sleep and eat out thar, but I don't want to."
"Now what on the yeth do you want to talk that way fur?"
Jasper chuckled. "Wall, a man ain't hardlyresponsible for what he says when he's talkin' to a woman."
"Then you don't believe, Mr. Starbuck, that woman inspires truth," said Mrs. Mayfield, and Jim leaned forward, still gazing at her.
"Oh, yes, all the putty truths," Jasper replied, and Tom who, with Lou, was standing over near the fire-place, sang out: "There, auntie, he is meeting you on your own ground."
Jim's countenance flared and he struck in: "Yes, in the shade where the soft air is stirring."
Mrs. Mayfield turned to him. "Oh, thank you Mr.—I shall have to call you Mr. Reverend."
He gave her a smile and then as if afraid of too much light shut it off; but he had the courage to reply: "Anything you call me, ma'm, will be music."
"Oh, I tell you," said Jasper, tugging at the buckle, "Jim ain't been preachin' ten years fur nothin'. Wall, mighty fur nothin', too; for I ricolleck that one winter all he got was a pa'r of blue jeens britches an' fo' pa'r of wool socks. And if I don'tcuss this thing in a minit more I'll be about fitten to preach."
"Mr. Starbuck," Mrs. Mayfield inquired, "was that you shooting so early this morning?"
"Yes'm, killin' them squirrels we had fur breakfus'."
"And you saw the sun rise?"
He left off working with his gear and looked at her. "Ah, hah. Ever see the sun rise?"
"I have seen the moon set," she said, half musing.
"And so have I," said Jasper. "I have seen the moon set and hatch out the stars."
And still musing, Mrs. Mayfield replied: "Yes, and they peeped at one another in their heavenly nest until the sun, man-like, came and spoiled it all."