Stories of the SoilThe Little Things of Life, Happening All Over the World and Caught in Ink for Trotwood’s Monthly.
The Little Things of Life, Happening All Over the World and Caught in Ink for Trotwood’s Monthly.
The most gigantic struggle of modern times was the American Civil War. In no other country but this, with its breadth of conservativeness and its dearth of caste, could the bitterness of such a war have been so quickly forgotten. As it is in a few more decades, if the same spirit of good feeling continues to prevail, and the fanatics be allowed to die a natural death, it will be a question as to which side will have the most respect for the brave men of the other. A striking feature of the great war, to me, has always been the unanimity with which the entire country, with the probable exception of the military leaders themselves, expected the war to speedily terminate. In the South the enlisted men all feared it would end before they had time to get into a rousing good battle, and the same feeling appears to have existed among the Northern volunteers.
As an illustration of this feeling in the South, in talking to an old farmer the other day, and he a gallant cavalryman, who belonged to Forrest’s immortal command, he laughingly remarked, that the greatest number of colts he ever saw at one time was a certain Tennessee cavalry regiment the first year after the war. “You see,” he said, “none of us expected the war to last over three or six months, and never dreamed it would go over a year. Nearly every man in our regiment went in on his pet saddle mare or half thoroughbred, and fully two-thirds of us were horse breeders, on a greater or less scale, while at home. But the war went on, we were ordered here and there, hundreds of miles from home with plenty of fighting and little else to think of. We were kept so busy that many of us, in fact, had forgotten all about the spring breeding, and would have been glad if it had forgotten about itself. But not so; the next spring there came the colts—war babies, to be sure—dropped into a hard world at a cruel and unmotherly time, and before we knew it our regiment had more colts than we knew what to do with. I had to send my mare home and get a fresh mount, and the others traded around, or left dam and colt to shift for themselves in strange and foreign lands. I have often wondered what became of that crop of colts, the first breeding venture of our regiment.”
There is a young darky downtown, at a livery stable, who has been priding himself on his ability, as he expressed it, “ter fling English.” But he takes no pride in it any more. Old Wash cured him, and it happened this way:
“Wheneber I goes down dar arter yo’ mare,” the old darky said, “dis heah young niggah gins ter fling his English ’roun’ scan’lus. I tell you, boss, I’m gittin’ tired ob dat, an’ I’m gwi’ teach ’im how ter talk English sho’ nuff some day. I sw’ar to you, sah,” said the old man, as he mopped his face with his red handkerchief, “It’s so hot I’ve mighty nigh multerplied, an’ I’ve got de commissary rumertism, ter boot; but jes you watch out fur me de naixt time dat nigger ’gins ter fling his jaw-bone ’roun’ whar I’m standin’—jes you watch me riddle ’im wid sintax an’ orfrography an’ sich! Jes you watch!”
For several days after that I noticed the old man studying an old Davies Geometry and an obsolete work on synonyms, which I had sent to the attic long ago—looking, as he expressed it, for “some good cuss-words to fit de ’casion.” But I had forgotten all about it until one evening I drove into the stable with him. A sprightly young darky ran out, took the mare by the bit, and patronizingly remarked:
“Gentermen, condescen’ to disintergrate frum de vehicle, an’ de quadruped shall hab my unqualified solicertashun, wid abundance ob nutrititious ellerments.” And he smirked at the old man as much as to say: “Don’t dat parlyze you, old man?”
“Hold on dar,” exclaimed Old Wash, andhis eyes flashed as he rose quickly to the occasion: “Sonny,” he began witheringly, “it is transparent to de interlactual apprehension ob eny disinterested individual dat de gravertashun of special conceits described on de hypotonuse of your simeon-headed eclipse, am entirely too cumbershum fur de horizontal vinculum dat circumscribes de radius ob yo’ cocoanut-shaped trapezium, sah!”
“Wha—wha—what dat you say, Unker Wash?” gasped the young darky as his jaw began to drop.
“I merely riz ter interjec’ de mental reservashun,” remarked the old man indifferently, “dat de interlectual hemmerage of verbosity procedin’ from de vacuum produced by de metermorphosis ob de origonal superstructure of de san’-stones ob yo’ cranium, am entirely incumpatabul wid de consterpastion of ideas generated by de paralysis ob yo’ interlectual acumen, sah!”
“Gord, what is he sayin’?” remarked the young negro sheepishly to the crowd that had gathered to enjoy his discomfiture.
“In udder words,” shot out the old man again, “ter make hit entirely incomprehensibul to de conglommerated hypothesis ob yo’ trapezoidal interlec’, I simply remarked dat de corporeal superfluerty ob yo’ physical insigniferkance am entirely too cumbersome fur de belly-band ob yo’ mental confermashun, sah!”
Here the crowd shouted, the young darky’s eyes looked like moons, his legs shook, and he gasped out: “Wha—wha—what dat old man talkin’ ’bout, man?”
“How long since this nigger wus cotch in the jungles of Africa,” asked Old Wash quietly of the proprietor of the stable, “dat he can’t understan’ de simples’ remark in de plaines’ of English?”
And then the old man tried again. He rolled up his sleeves, and with the air of one who was trying to make himself exceedingly plain he began laying it off on his fingers and palm:
“Sonny, de equilateral altertude of de comprehenserbility ob my former observations wus to de effect dat, if in de course of a cummercial transacshun, I shu’d onexpectedly negotiate fur yo’ habeas-corporosity at its intrinsic invalidity an’ quickly dispose of it at de exaggerated hifolutiness of yo’ own colossal conceitability an’ hipnartic expectashun I’d have sufficient commercial collateral to transpose my present habitation to de perennial localization of de avenue called Easy.”
By this time the young darky was fairly groveling in the dust.
“Do yo’ comprehen’ dat,” yelled the old man, “yo’ po’ benighted parallelergram, distended from de apex of a truncated coon (cone), yo’ bow-legged son of a parallelopipedon—”
But the old man got no further with his geometrical swearing, for amid the shouts of the spectators his opponent had vanished, and as he went up the street to have the old man arrested for swearing in public, he remarked to the policeman as he told his tale: “I didn’t keer, Cap’n, ’bout ’im outgineralin’ me er flingin’ English, an’ outcussin’ me in mo’ kinder newfangled cuss words den eber cum out ob Turkey, but when he ’flected on my mother by callin’ me de bow-legged-son-ob-a-parrot-an-er-pigeon-roost, de nigger don’t lib dat I gwi’ take dat frum!”
It was a week later before Old Wash and I had occasion to drive into the stable again. We were met by the same darky, who took the mare by the bit and meekly remarked: “Light, gentlemen; I’ll take de mair.”
And the old man said: “I am so excruciatinly rejoiced, sonny, to recognize de rejuvernated resurrection ob de exhileratin’ perception dat an infinertesermal ray ob common sense has penertrated de comatose condition ob yo’ fibrous misunderstanding’. In other words,” he winked, “I’se saved an ebononic interlec frum er new-bohn grave.”
Pioneer days in Texas, and the prairies unbroken by the smoke of a single cabin. To the south the Brazos, and to the west the buffalo lands, the herds crawling in the distance, like huge mud-waves on land, toward their fall feeding grounds.
There had been raids by the Comanches, then hot fighting with the troops and every settler west of the Brazos had run into the fort, each with his family, his man-servant and maid-servant, eachwith his cattle and his asses. For the Comanches are wily devils and born horsemen. One day they are here, and the next they are not. And they go on ponies that are as tough as their riders, and as fast and as fearless, and no man knows when and where they will strike.
Three full companies of troops had gone north on the track of the desperate band who, but a few days before, had surprised the settlers on the upper Brazos and, after killing and scalping and plundering, had fled, as the troops thought, northward. The stricken settlers had been coming in for two days, all plundered, tired, many wounded and some still sobbing with the grief that would never die.
There were little children—motherless, fatherless. There were mothers and fathers who but a day before held loving ones in their arms.
Troop H, 7th Regiment, was holding the fort while the other companies went north to avenge.
The First Lieutenant of Troop H was a beardless youth just from West Point. He had been shot out of West Point into the saddle and to the front. Two months of it had bronzed him and added two years to his looks; but sentiment was still in him and Romance claimed his for her own. He had had enough fighting for any ordinary trooper, but to-day he felt sad that three companies had gone north after the marauders and he—he held the peaceful fort.
The sun was setting across the great plains and shadows had lengthened to their uttermost when a man on a cow-pony galloped in, not from the north, but from the west.
His pony was reeling at the first gate. It was dead in the fort ten minutes later. The man himself carried two Comanche arrows sticking through a shoulder and an arm. A gash was in his head from a glancing arrow and blood ran from another that had cut across his forehead.
He was unconscious before the surgeon could extract the arrows from his body, but he said enough. The Comanches were not north, but west—they had attacked him in his little squatter cabin forty miles west—they had killed all his stock but one pony—he had no family but a little girl—he had escaped on the pony. “An’ the little gal—God knows—I seed her cut for a dug-out in the side of a hill—a kind of a cellar—where I kept pertatoes an’ sich—then—wal—”
He went to sleep.
“Let him sleep,” said the surgeon, “he is nearly gone as it is—forty miles and blood leakin’ out of him every jump of the pony.”
Ten minutes later the bugler called “boots and saddles,” and when Company H wheeled in the fort’s square, the Captain said:
“Well, men, the boys are on a cold trail. You have heard where the devils are; we can’t all go. Half of us must stay behind to hold the fort. I’ll be fair to all, for I know you all want to go, so count by twos.”
“One,”
“Two.”
“One,”
“Two.”
It went down the line, one hundred strong.
“Numbers Two, ten paces forward, march!”
There was a happy smile on Numbers Two as they spurred forward—they knew what it meant. They were lucky.
“Now, boys, you know I want to lead you,” went on the Captain, “but it isn’t fair. I must take my chances, too, and tote fair with the First Lieutenant. Lieutenant Troup will toss up with me,” he said with a laugh as he tossed a coin from his saddle into the air. It flashed high up in the sunlight.
“Heads for me, Lieutenant, and here’s wishing you—”
“Tails!” said the soldier who picked it up.
The Lieutenant flushed as he spurred forward saluting. Then men cheered again and the Captain wheeled, saying:
“Take them out, Lieutenant Troup—it’s your luck, and maybe—ah, well, you can’t tell how many there are, you know, and half a company is mighty few after sending out three troops. Leave your trinkets, men, and any message you may wish to send home. Yes, it’s a nasty bit of a fight you’ll be having, likely, and I wish it had been my luck to be in it. I have been in service a little longer, you know, perhaps the Lieutenant might—”
But the Lieutenant only smiled and saluted again.
“I’ll do my best, Captain—war is on and it’s my time, you know.”
The Captain pressed his hand as the Company filed out of the fort.
And all the time the Lieutenant kept thinking of the half-dead man who kept saying even in his delirium: “An’ my little gal—God knows—I seed her cut for a dug-out—”
The Lieutenant was young—very young—and he was romantic. He could see the little girl—of course she was about sixteen—all settlers called their grown girls little. Perhaps—well—if she hadn’t been killed—
The troup wanted to gallop, but the Lieutenant brought them to a steady trot:
“It’s all right, men, and ten miles an hour is fast enough. We may need our horses for all that’s in them. We’ll be there by midnight as it is.”
The moon arose and drifted higher and higher and still the troopers struck grimly across the plain. The wind brought the howl of wolves—big greys—and the yelp of coyotes, but the troopers turned neither to the right nor left, and the Lieutenant rode at their head, and all the time he was wondering what had become of the pretty girl—helpless—alone. “An’ my little gal—God knows—I seed her cut for a dug-out!”
It was the first streak of day. The men and horses had been resting for four hours—those not on picket, and some had even slept and were fresh. But the young officer could think of nothing but the little girl, and wonder at her fate.
They had lined in behind a few willows that skirted a small stream and were concealed from the view of the Indians. Then they looked well to rifles and Colts. The light came slowly and as they peered through the mist where the cabin stood only a burnt place blurred the dry grass of the prairie. There were no Indians in sight.
“Thar—look!”
It was an old Indian fighter whose keen eyes saw it first—a thing which looked like a potato-house butting out of a clay bank.
“Thar’s life in thar—see—it’s the little gal, an’ she’s alive yit—see!”
From the protection of small rises on the right three Comanches galloped out encircling the dug-out in a very generous circle. They had slipped on the off-side of their ponies and clung to mane and neck, with one leg and heel thrust over the flank.
The old fighter snarled: “The cowardly coyotes! They seem ter be mighty skeered of a little gal. Say, but they’ve got a whole lot o’ respect for her; she must have a weep’n o’ some sort in thar an’ tort ’em a crackin’ less’n with it, or them dogs ’ud et her up befo’ now; why—thar, by gad—”
He gripped the Lieutenant’s shoulder as a puff of smoke leaped out of the clay bank and the foremost pony stopped so quickly that it went down, Comanche under.
“She’s killed that Indian sho’,” cried the old hunter in a whisper. “No live Comanche was ever cocht under a fallin’ pony. See.”
The pony sprang quickly up—the bullet had creased him; but marvelous the shot!—it had gone to the exact spot where it would bring down a pony creased and a rider with a hole through his head.
“That’s shootin’ some,” cried the old hunter as the young officer gave the quick commands:
“Ready!”
“Mount!”
“Charge!”
“An’ remember the little gal!” they shouted as they broke across the plains.
It was a running fight and the Indians taken by surprise, for they were after the thing in the dug-out. And they paid for it—sixteen dead ones in the first half mile. The others—they had enough to get away from the forty troopers who shot as they rode and shot to kill.
Then the Lieutenant and ten men rode back to the dug-out. They approached it slowly—reverently, and all the time the young officer was thinking of dark eyesand auburn curls and the beauty and bravery of the little girl.
“Hello!” he shouted, his voice trembled in spite of himself. “Hello!—we’re your friends.”
“Hello, yo’self—mighty glad to see you.”
“It’s the little girl, men,” shouted the Lieutenant, boyishly, as he rushed up. “She’s safe! hurrah!” and they gave it with a ring.
At the door he stopped short and looked into the hole under the potato-house.
Then his romance went out as the tide to the sea.
A woman at least thirty-five stood there. Her hair was red, her features hard, her face burned by the sun. Grim, square jaws set off her face. There was a line only to show where her lips met in deadly determination. She wore moccasins and leggins, a short skirt of deer skin and she held in her hand a rifle that had sent a dozen Indians to death in the twelve long hours she had held the little fort. Stuck in her belt were two good pistols. A thousand Comanches with arrows and antiquated guns could not have taken her.
“Oh!” she said, “but I’m glad to see you. Say, but I stood ’em off all right, didn’t I? It was awful—’specially last night, but the moon riz an’ saved me, for a Comanche with an arrow or a old gun is kinder techus ’bout a rifle. Is Pap safe?”
They told her he was.
“I tried to git the old fool to stay. I told him all hell couldn’t git us out o’ this hole, armed as we wus, lessen they come with bilin’ water,” she laughed, “but he got panicky an’ vamoosed on the only pony left. Dad allers was a gal.”
“Good gad,” cried the old hunter bluntly at last, “an’ is you the little gal he kip talkin’ ’bout?”
“Oh, he allers called me that,” she smiled.
“Well, you’re the gamest little gal I ever seed,” and he wrung her hand while the others followed suit. “An’ you’re our little gal now,” went on the old hunter, proudly, “an’ as I ain’t seed one like you since mine died years ago, I’d—I’d—I’d lak to kiss you jes onct for her,” he stammered.
“Oh, you shet up,” she said hotly. “D’ye think I stood off a lot o’ Comanches all night to be rewarded by kissin’ a old grizzly like you? But say,” she added, hesitating, and with a laugh, “I wouldn’t mind kissin’ that pretty little boy thar!”
There was a wild shout from the men, but the young Lieutenant had turned to mount his horse.
“Any way you belong to Company H,” said the old hunter.
At the request of the ladies of a church in Marion, Alabama, Trotwood wrote the following Preface, a few weeks ago for a cook-book which the ladies are publishing with a view of paying off a church debt:
The climate, the soil, the very air play their part in the art of good recipes. The cooking of the North and West is very different from that of the South, for Southern recipes are the products of sunshine and Southlands, of culture, of rest, of the Old South.
And nowhere has the Old South flowered to sweeter perfume than in my native town of Marion. Macaulay’s New Zealander, if placed in Delmonico’s would straightway beckon for cold clam, and good King Edward, if stranded in New Zealand, would soon fish an oyster cocktail out of some unruffled kiss of the sea.
Recipes, indeed, are a test of one’s civilization—one’s religion—one’s mentality. They are the products of the centuries beginning with the primitive clam and ending with the thousand glories of the oyster. They are the literature of the laughter which comes with good eating, the bon mots of jolly stomachs, the sparkle of centuries of good cheer, the morals of mucous membranes, the religion of healthy livers.
Charles Lamb tells us that roast pig, for instance, was accidentally discovered by the primitive man in the burning of his crude stable in which was a litter of pigs. After that, fires were frequent and log stables few. And I doubt not if the history of every good recipe in this splendidcollection were traced to its birth, it would show an unbroken line of progress as clearly defined as Magna Charta.
Think not lightly, then, of the book, for you have in your hand the concentrated perfection of the culinary ages. The dash of Caesar into Briton, the strength of the Dane, the brilliancy of the Norman, the excellency of Angle and Saxon, the glory of the English and the old Scotch. It is history, religion, progress. It is a novel more interesting than all novels, a poem which made Tennyson possible.
I have not read these recipes. I speak from higher authority. I have tasted them. From my infancy up I have known them. They are part of my life and this article returned to them is a feeble result of their cause. They are interwoven with the memory of my home, in the song of the pine tree, in the opal gleam of the old red hills, in the sweetness, the culture, the religion of Marion. And to-night, should Abou Ben Adhem’s Angel come to me and ask for the name of one blessed beyond his dues, I would answer: “It is I, O Angel, blessed beyond words in the mother I had, in the father; blessed in my birthplace, in the people among whom I grew up, in the moral sweetness of their schools and churches, blessed that I was born in
MARION.An opal sky and a sea of green,Marion.And ruby-red the hills between,Marion.Twilight tints that blend and shineThrough sinking clouds and sighing pine—Dear native land—sweet mother mine—Marion.Rest and peace and sweet release,Marion.Home and the loves that never cease,Marion.O, cradling stars from out the glen—O, sweet moon-mother, come again—O, Peace that passeth human ken—Marion.
MARION.An opal sky and a sea of green,Marion.And ruby-red the hills between,Marion.Twilight tints that blend and shineThrough sinking clouds and sighing pine—Dear native land—sweet mother mine—Marion.Rest and peace and sweet release,Marion.Home and the loves that never cease,Marion.O, cradling stars from out the glen—O, sweet moon-mother, come again—O, Peace that passeth human ken—Marion.
MARION.
MARION.
An opal sky and a sea of green,Marion.And ruby-red the hills between,Marion.Twilight tints that blend and shineThrough sinking clouds and sighing pine—Dear native land—sweet mother mine—Marion.
An opal sky and a sea of green,
Marion.
And ruby-red the hills between,
Marion.
Twilight tints that blend and shine
Through sinking clouds and sighing pine—
Dear native land—sweet mother mine—
Marion.
Rest and peace and sweet release,Marion.Home and the loves that never cease,Marion.O, cradling stars from out the glen—O, sweet moon-mother, come again—O, Peace that passeth human ken—Marion.
Rest and peace and sweet release,
Marion.
Home and the loves that never cease,
Marion.
O, cradling stars from out the glen—
O, sweet moon-mother, come again—
O, Peace that passeth human ken—
Marion.