HIS OWN STORY OF A ROMANCE AND ITS ENDING.
Dar ain't no frolic in whut I'm gwine ter tell. I know dat some folks thinks dat er nigger's life is made up o' laziniss an skylarkin', but dat belief, 'specially in my case, ain't de truf. Oh, I had my fun w'en I wuz er youngster. Bless you, dar wa'n't er pusson in de neighborhood dat hankered atter mischief mo' den Dave Summers did, but 'stead o' ole age bringin' dat peace an' rest, which, eben in de libely time o' youth, sensible pussons looks forward ter, dar come trouble o' de blackest sort.
W'en I wuz erbout fifty years ole, de notion got inter my head dat I aughter preach. I doan know how it got dar—sholy not becaze I had been thinkin'erbout it—fur de fust thing I know'd erbout it wuz wakin' up one mawnin' wid de idee. I talked wid some o' my frien's an' da said: "Dave, dat is er call, an' you better not be projickin' wid it. De speret wants yer ter fling yer voice inter de gospul work an' you better not make er Jonah o' yerse'f by tryin' ter run erway."
"But how's I gwine ter preach?" I axed. "It's 'bout ez much ez I ken do ter read."
"De Lawd ain't axed you ter read," one o' my frien's says. "He axes yer ter preach; ef you ken read er little, you ken l'arn how ter read mo'."
I went erway, mighty troubled in my mine. My wife had been dead fur sebrel years, an' not habbin' any chillum I libed by myse'f in er cabin on er big plan'ation. I shet myse'f up an' prayed. De naixt mawnin' my load 'peared ter be heavier. Dar wa'n't nuthin' left fur me, so I says: "I will preach. I will get somebody ter l'arn me how ter read mo' an' I will preach de gospul de bes' I knows how." Den Ithought o' my load, but it wuz gone. It wa'n't long till I stood up in de pulpit. Dar wuz sebrel smart men in de church, an' it 'peared ter 'muze 'em might'ly ter yere ez ignunt er man ez I wuz talk erbout heaben an' de souls o' men. Ah, Lawd! ignunce ken fling ez much light on some subjec's ez de greates' 'arthly wisdom ken. I went at my work in earnes', not tryin' ter git up er great 'citement, but 'deavorin' ter show de folks de right way to live in dis worl' so da would be better prepared for de life to come; an' ef dar eber wuz er man dat wuz hones' an' true ter his callin' I b'l'ebes dat I wuz de pusson.
'Mong de members o' my flock wuz er mighty likely 'oman named Frances. I wuz fust drawed toward her by her singin', an' one time when de sweetness o' her music died away, I looked at her an' 'knowledge ter myse'f dat I loved her. At fust she sung fur my soul an' I worshiped wid her, but atter w'ile she sung ter my heart an' I worshiped her. I tried ter think o' my ole wife lying' in de shade o'de sycamo' trees, an, in my min' I could see de rail pen round her grave an' de trees would be gone an' in dar place would stan' a likely 'oman smilin' at me. I went ter my ole wife's grave an' drapped down on my knees an' prayed. De broad sycamo' leaves waved and specks o' moonlight come siftin' down like de flyin' chaff o' new oats dat ketches de light o' de fresh-born day. Er makwin' bird sung in er tree close by, but, way ober on er hill, er night hawk cried. I thought how me an' my ole wife had wucked in the fiel', side by side, an' de bird seemed ter sing sweeter, but den, twixt me an' de grave dar hung er bright smile. I tried ter rub it out wid my han', but dar it hung, an' through its brightness I seed de worm-eat head-boa'd o' de grave. "O, Lawd," I prayed, "let dis tem'tation pass erway. Let dy sarvent in his ole age hab de strenth ter turn fum de high-strung follies o' de young man." I riz up, wid de damp, dead grass clingin' ter my knees. De lights gunter shine fum de church close by, an' de sad an' swellin' songo' de congregation peared ter lay er tremblin' han' on my heart. Why did I on er sudden lean ergin er tree? Becaze I heard her voice. I went inter de church an' ez I walked wid bowed head toward de pulpit I heard somebody whisper "He's been in de woods ter pray." I did not look up but I knowed who it wuz dat whispered, for my heart felt de tech o' de tremblin' han'. I preached dat night de best I could, an' it seemed dat I made my hearers feel some o' my own sadness, fur w'en I called fur de stricken in heart ter come up ter de mou'ners' bench, mo' come forward den had eber come befo' under de 'fluence o' my callin'. We stayed late in de church dat night. Nearly all de mou'ners, habin' wuck ter do de naixt day, had dun left de house w'en I noticed one po' feller whose heart, it 'peared like, wuz almos' broke. He lay flat on de flo' an' groaned like he suffered great pain. I went ter him, raised him up an' hil' his head on my knee. De congregation thinned out, one by one. I leaned over an'talked ter de po' man. Lookin' up I seed dat Frances was kneelin' wid us.
"Lady—Sister Frances," I said, "it's time dat you wuz goin' home. De can'les is all burned away an' de lamps is goin' out."
"I will stay an' he'p you poor de ba'm on dis po' sinner," she replied.
I didn' say no mo'; but w'en mo' den er hour afterwards de sinner got up ter go, I says ter her:
"Sister Frances, if you ain't got no 'jections, I'll walk home wid you."
She smiled—de same smile dat I had seed twixt me an' de worm-eat head-boa'd o' de grave—an' said dat she would be pleased for me ter 'company her. I doan know what I said ter her ez we walked erlong, but I know dat w'en we got ter de little gate in front o' de cabin w'ar her folks libed, she wuz leanin' on my arm. De moon had gone down, an' de flutterin' in de trees in de yard told me dat de mawnin' birds wuz fixin' ter begin dar twitterin'.
"Brudder Summers," said de lady, ez I wuz erbout ter bid her good-bye, "dar 'pears ter be sunthin' on yo' mine."
"Not only on my mine, Sister Frances, but dar is sunthin' on my heart."
I was goin' ter turn erway atter dis, but she put her han' on my arm—de same tremblin' han' dat had teched my heart—an' said:
"Tell me 'bout yo' troubles. Tell me whut is lyin' on yo' heart."
"Er tremblin' han', lady."
"Does you know dat it is er han'?"
"Yas, fur I keen see it in de light o' 'er bright smile."
"Is de han' cold?"
"No, lady."
"Is it ez wa'm ez mine?" she said, ez she put her han' in my own fever-like grasp. De naixt minit my arm wuz around her. De mawnin' birds twittered in de trees, light gunter wink ercross de bottoms, an' dar, ez de gold o' de day wuz chasin' de fleetin' silver o' de dawn, I axed her ter be my wife.
We wuz married. I tuck her ter my cabin an' bright light fell on my hearth-stone. She wanted ter he'p me in my work o' 'swadin' folks ter do right. "I know," she said, "dat folks all erround us will be makin' mo' money den we is, but money doan water de flowers o' de heart, nur broaden de 'joyment dat comes ter de soul." I lubbed her deeper atter she said dat, fur I seed dat her natur wa'n't vain nur her heart set upon de flesh-pots o' de world.
Two years passed erway—two o' de happies' years o' my life. One day dar was some bills stuck up 'nouncin' dat Andrew Hennifen, er colored politician dat libbed in town, would on de naixt Friday make er speech ter de folks. Er campaign wuz on han' an' gre't intrus' wuz felt in de outcome. W'en de day come de weather wuz so showery dat dacouldn' hol' de meetin' out do's, so some o' de men come ter me an' axed me ef da mout meet in de church. I didn' much think dat it wuz de right sort er meetin' ter be hel' in de house o' de Lawd, but seein' dat da wuz all so anxious, I tole em dat da mout. Den da axed me ter go ober an' lissen ter de gre't speech wut de generman wuz gwine ter make. I didn' like de idee o' settin' in my own church and lissenin' ter de skussion o' de erfairs o' de worl'. Den Frances spoke up:
"W'y, Dave," she said, "if we are gwine ter lib in de worl' we mus' take some intrus' in de erfairs o' de worl'. Ef de man had got anything wuth yearin', I doan see w'y we aughtenter go an' lissen ter him. Ef we finds dat wut he says ain't fit fer us, w'y den we ken come erway."
"Wut you says is true, Frances," I replied, "an you mus' scuse me ef I is holdin' you back in any way. Er ole man loves wid jes' es much wa'mth ez er young man does, an' it is er pity dat he doan lub wid ez much jedgment."
"You musn' talk dat way, Dave," she said, wid er laugh, "fur in lovin' me yo' jedgment ain't made no mistake."
Hennifen wuz er tall, yaller man, an' much younger den I 'spected ter fine him. In his speech he used a good deal o' strong talk, an' called er lot o' folks dat wa'n't present, liars an' thieves. I didn' like dis, but er man dat sat naixt ter me tole me dat it wuz all right, an' dat ef de speaker didn' do dater way, de folks would think dat he wuz erfeered ter 'nounce his principles. Atter de speakin' wuz over, de speaker come up ter me, hil' out his han' an' said:
"Mr. Summers, I has often hearn o' you, sah, an' I takes dis 'tunity o' shakin' han's wid you."
Wen I had shuck han's wid him, he said:
"Is dis yo' daughter wid you?"
"My wife, sah," said I.
"Ah, I's pleased ter meet de lady."
We walked on outen de house, an' Hennifen wuz so busy talkin' 'bout degre't principles o' his party dat he didn' seem ter notice dat he wuz walkin' erway fum de crowd wid us. Atter w'ile he stopped an' said dat he reckoned he better go back.
"Won't you walk on home wid us?" my wife said.
"I thanks you kindly; I b'l'ebe I will," he answered. "I would like ter see de inside o' my 'stinguished 'quaintance's house," makin' er sideways motion wid his head at me, "an' 'sides dat, I'se got er little bizness ter talk ober wid him."
"You will see er lowly household," said I, "fur I ain't been gaged in gederin' de shinin' goods o' de yeth, but at de do' you will see er vine dat is watered wid truf an' dat blooms in contentment."
"Dar ain't no reason why dar shouldn' be some o' de shinin' goods o' de yeth in yo' house," said he. "De fack dat da is o' de yeth doan meek 'em none de less de Lawd's, an' bein' shiny doan meck 'em de property o' Satan."
I seed my wife look at him wid erquick glance, an' I knowed dat she 'proved o' wut he said. I seed mo' den dat—I seed wut until dat time had 'scaped me—I seed dat de man wuz good lookin'. I felt er pang o' oneasiness, an' I cleared my froat deep, ez ef I would rasp de pang outen my bosom. W'en we got ter de house, he set down in er rockin' cheer an' made hisse'f look freer an' easier den I had eber felt in any house 'cep' my own. Frances went inter de little shed kitchin dat j'ined de house an' cooked dinner. It struck me dat she tuk er heep o' pains, specially w'en she fotch out er table clof dat I didn' know she had. Atter dinner Mr. Hennifen said dat he would git down ter bizness.
"Mr. Summers, you is too smart er man ter be wastin' yo' substance," wuz de way he started out. I didn' say nothin'. He went on: "You hab got de 'bility ter make yo'se'f mighty useful ter yo' country. De 'fluence dat you has 'stablished ober yo' fellerman ken be turned ter rich ercount. De bes' people in dis countywants ter 'lect Hillson fur sheriff. Dis ken only be done by good men puttin' dar shoulders ter de wheel. I is Hillson's right han' man, an I's got de 'thority for sayin' dat ef you'll turn in an' make speeches fur him dat he will pay you well."
My wife looked at me. "Mr. Hennifen," said I, "wut you say may be de truf, but I is makin' speeches fur de Lawd."
"Yes, but makin' speeches for de Lawd, Mr. Summers, needn' keep you frum speakin' in fabor o' Hillson."
"Dave," said my wife, "Mr. Hennifen is sholy right, an', mo'n dat, ef dar's er man in dis neighborhood dat needs money, you is de man. De folks dat lissuns ter you preach neber seems ter know dat we needs things in dis house."
"Frances," I replied, "Mr. Hillson ain't er man o' my choice. He has been mixed up in ugly erfairs, an' I kain't make no speeches fur him; so, let de subjeck drap right whar it is."
Hennifen 'sisted on sayin' mo', but I tole him it wa'n't no use. He didn' stay long atter dis, but sayin' dat he would see me ergin, went erway.
"Does you allus 'spect ter lib in poverty?" my wife axed.
"I doan 'spect ter meck speeches in fabor o' er dishones' man," I answered.
Hennifen come back inter de neighborhood de naixt week an' called at my house, but I wa'n't at home. When I axed Frances wut he had ter say, she said dat he didn' stay but er few minits an' didn' say much o' anythin'. Er few days atterwards I hearn dat he wuz in de neighborhood ergin, workin' wid de voters, but he didn' come ter my house, an' I didn' hunt him.
Nearly er munt must hab passed w'en one day I wuz called on ter preach de funul o' er man ober in ernuder 'munity. I didn' git back till late in de night. De house wuz dark, an' ez I went up ter de do' I tangled my foot in de vine, stumbled an' tore it up by de roots. I went in an' litde candle. Frances wa'n't dar. I called her—stepped to de do' an' called her till de echo o' my voice brought back wid it de cry o' er night bird. I went ober ter er neighbor's house. De women folks 'gun ter cry ez soon ez da seed me. I axed ef da had seen Frances.
"Oh, Brudder Summers, she's dun gone wid dat yaller raskil. He fotch er buggy an' tuck her erway."
I went down ter de sycamo' trees w'ar my ole wife wuz buried, an' got down on my knees. Dar wa'n't no bright smile 'twixt me an' de grave.
De women folks fotch flowers nearly ever' day an' put 'em in my house, an' de men folks tuck off dar hats w'en da come w'ar I wuz. I kep' on makin' speeches fur de Lawd, an' men dat wuz once noisy in church wuz now quiet.
De 'leckshun time come on, and I kotch up my old gray hoss an' rid up ter town. I went ter all de votin' places, but didn' see nobody dat I knowed. I heard one man say: "Wonder wut dat cuis-lookin' ole man is er pokin' 'roun' yere fur?" Den somebody answered: "Dar's er yaller man dodgin' 'round yere somewhar dat mout fling some light on dat question." Ever' time I hearn o' any p'litical ter-do anywhar, I rid dar, but didn' see nobody dat I knowed.
Winter time come, de col'est winter dat I eber felt. One Sunday dar come er heavy snow, an' dat night it turned so col' dat I couldn' hardly keep wa'm by de fire. De win' blowed hard. Suthin flapped ergin de winder. I hil' de candle, an' dar seed de great starin' eyes o' er night bird. I turned erway an' had jes' sot down by de fire w'en I hearn er noise at de do'; I lissened, an' den I hearn er groan. My heart felt de tech o' er col' hand, an' I knowed dat Frances had come back. I opened de do'; she lay on degroun' wid her face turned up. I tuck her in my arms an' laid her on de bed.
"Dave—Dave, won't you forgib me?"
I stood lookin' at her. "Oh, won't you forgib me? De Lawd has pardoned me, an' I has come back ter ax you—you—"
"Yas," I said, "yas, po' child. Go ter sleep in peace."
She looked at me an' tried ter smile, but de light wuz gone, an' dar wa'n't no smile 'twixt me and de grave.
We laid her under de sycamo' trees, but not w'ar my old wife wuz buried.
I kep' on goin' ter p'litical meetin's, an' some folks wondered why er ole man dat neber voted tuck such intrus' in sich erfairs.
One day I wuz ridin' 'long er road near w'ar er number o' convicts wuz at work. I seed er man dat I knowed 'cross de road in front o' me. I turned toward him. He flung up er gun and cried out:
"Stop, er I'll kill you. Been er huntin' me long ernuff."
I didn' stop, an' he fired at me, an' den, flingin' down de gun, he clim de fence an' 'gunter run ercross er fiel'. Er mighty yelpin' noise made de a'r ring, an' lookin' erway ter de right, I seed er lot er bloodhounds dat da kep' fur chasin' de convicts. Da wuz atter de man. Somebody yelled ter 'em ter stop, but da didn'. I got offen my hoss, an', wid seb'ral men, followed de dogs. We heard de man holler—we seed him tryin' ter fight off de dogs. "Mussyful God!" I hearn him cry, an' den his voice wuz swallowed up by de howlin' o' de dogs. W'en we come up ter w'ar de dogs wuz, I seed er man tore all ter pieces, an' I seed er dog, atter lookin' at me, bury his teeth in er yaller face.
Dat night ez I riz up frum my ole wife's grave, de dead, damp grass clung ter my knees.
Capt. Rilford is known as one of the bravest and most gallant officers of the United States army. He is one of those old bachelors to whom the passing years bring additional installments of romance. I have seen him go into ecstatic spasms over a spout spring in the mountains, and have known him to lie under a tree and shed tears over the misfortunes of a heroine drawn by some fourth-class romancer; but in action he was so fearless that his brother officers excused what they pleased to term his soft qualities.
A short time ago the captain was granted a leave of absence. He had long since grown tired of all the fashionable watering-places, and no longer could find anything in the cities to interest him, so the question of how he should spendthat time, which was all his own, began to perplex him.
"I am acquainted with both the wild and civilized life of our country," said he, addressing a friend. "I know the wild Indian and the Boston swell; and, to tell you the truth, I don't know what to do."
"Yes, you are acquainted with the extremes," the friend rejoined, "but do you know much of the intermediate? You have made a study of the Indian in his wild state, but do you know anything of him as a citizen? Why not go to the Indian Territory, the Cherokee Nation, for instance, and amuse yourself by studying the habits of the Indian farmer?"
The captain was so impressed with the idea that, the next day, he set out for the Indian Territory. He found the country to be beautiful, with hills of charming contemplation and valleys of enrapturing romance. Streams like moving silver thrilled him, and birds, whom it seemed had just found new songs, made the leaves quiver with echoing music. Afterseveral days of delightful roaming, the captain rented a small cabin, and, having provided himself with a few cooking utensils, settled down to housekeeping. With the rifle and the fishing rod he provided ample food, and as he soon became acquainted with several farmers he thought, over and over again, that his romantic craving had never before approached so near to (in his own words) sublime satisfaction. His nearest neighbor, four miles distant, was an Indian farmer named Tom Patterson. His family consisted of a wife and one daughter, a rather handsome girl. She had learned to read and write, and, as she seemed to be romantic, the captain soon became much interested in her.
Patterson was rather a kind-hearted old fellow, accommodating in everything but answering questions concerning his family, but this was not an eccentricity, for nearly all Indians are disposed to say as little as possible with regard to themselves. Ansy, the girl, was fond of fishing, and as norestraint was placed upon her actions, she and the captain (his words again) had many a delightful stroll.
There was, I had forgotten to mention, another member of the Patterson household, a negro named Alf. He was as dark as the musings of a dyspeptic, but he was good-natured and obliging.
"Rather odd that a colored man, so fond of political life, should live out here away from the States, isn't it, Alf?" the captain one day asked.
"Wall, no, sah, kain't say dat it is. Dar's er right smart sprinklin' o' us genermen out yare, an' dough we's mighty fur erpart we manages ter keep up good 'sciety, sah. Yes, sah, an' ef it wa'n't fur de cullud genermen in dis yare 'munity w'y de Territory would dun been gone ter rack an' ruin. Caze why? I'll tell yo', sah. De Ingin is a mighty han' ter furnish meat, but gittin' o' de bread is a different thing. In udder words, sah, he kin kill er deer but he ain't er good han' to raise co'n. Yes, sah, de nigger ken plowall roun' de Ingin, an' de Ingin knowin' dis, ginally gins de niggah er good chance."
"You work with Mr. Patterson on shares, don't you?"
"Yes, sah; ha'f o' dis crap 'longs ter me. W'y, fo' I come yare dar wa'n't hardly nuthin' raised on dis place but weeds an' grass. I happened to meet Patterson in Fort Smif one time. He hearn me talk erbout farmin' an' den he made a dead set at me ter come home wid him."
"Are the people throughout this neighborhood very peaceable?"
"Yas, sah, lessen da gits 'spicious o' er pusson, an' den look out. Da looks cuis at ever' stranger, thinkin' dat he's spyin' 'roun' an' tryin' ter talk de Injuns in faber o' openin' up this yare territory. Dar's er passul o' fellers ober de creek dat calls darselves de Glicks. Da is allus 'spicious, an' I tells you whut's er fack, I'd ruther hab er team o' mules run ober me an' den be butted by a muley steer—an' Idoes think way down in my cibilization dat er muley steer ken thump harder den anything on de face o' de yeth—den ter hab dem Glicks git atter me. Seed 'em hang er pusson once jes' fur nuthin' in de worl', an' da didn' ax him no questions, nuther."
As the days passed the girl seemed to be more and more pleased with the captain. One evening they sat on the bank of a stream, fishing. The sun had sunk beyond a distant hill, but continued to pour over his light, like a golden waterfall.
"Ansy," said the captain, "this is a beautiful and romantic country; but do you not grow tired of living here all the time?"
"If we don't know any other life we do not grow tired of this one," she replied.
"You are a little philosopher," the captain exclaimed.
"I don't know what that is, Captain, but if you want me to be one I will try to be."
The captain smiled and regarded her with a look of affection.
"The great cities would delight you for a time, Ansy, and then you could come back here with a heightened appreciation of the sublime surroundings of your own home."
"The sun has blown out his candle," she said, pointing. "It is time for us to go."
The captain could not sleep. He had extinguished his lamp, but on the wall there was a bright light. It grew brighter, and then he saw that it was the face of Ansy. A rap came at the door.
"Who's there?"
"Captain, for God's sake run away. The Glicks are coming after you."
It was the voice of Ansy.
The captain dressed himself and opened the door. The girl was gone. The moonwas shining. The officer was not the man to run away. He closed the door, took up a repeating rifle and opened a small window. He waited. A few moments passed and he saw several men enter the clearing in front of the cabin.
"What do you want here?" the captain shouted.
"We want you."
"What do you want with me?"
"Ask you some questions."
"You may ask questions, but don't come a step nearer."
"What did you come here for?"
"None of your business."
This reply created a commotion. The captain could hear the marauders swearing. "We'll break down the door," one of them said as he stepped forward. The next moment he had fallen to the ground. When the smoke cleared away the captain saw that the rascals were gone, but there soon came from the woods a shower of blazing arrows. It was time to get away. The captain made a hole in the roof,crawled out, sprang to the ground and hurried into the woods.
Early the next morning he went to Patterson's house. The family had heard of the fight.
"You neenter be 'larmed now, dough, sah," said Alf, the negro, "caze da foun' out dat you wuz er Newnited States ossifer, an' it skeered 'em putty nigh ter def. You gin it ter one o' 'em putty hard, I ken tell you. Shot him squar through, an' da doan think he gwine ter lib, da doan, but dat ain't no matter, fur he wuz de wust one in de bunch. Ef he dies, folks 'roun' yare will hol' er pra'r-meetin' thankin' de Lawd."
Patterson and his wife left the room, but the negro sat in the doorway.
"Ansy," said the captain, "I owe my life to you."
"Dat you does, sah," Alf replied.
The captain gave him a significant glance and again turned to the girl.
"Yes, you have saved my life, but that is not the cause of my deep—deep (heglanced at the negro)—deep regard for you."
The girl made no reply. The captain could have killed the negro. "I will ignore his black presence," the captain mused. He leaned over and took the girl's hand.
"Ansy," said the negro, "w'en dis yare generman gits through wid yo' han' I wants you ter sew er few buttons on dat ar hickory shirt o' mine."
"You scoundrel," exclaimed the captain, springing to his feet, "how dare you speak in such a manner to this young lady?"
"Why, boss," the negro replied, "what's de use'n makin' sich er great 'miration. Dat 'oman has been my wife fur putty nigh two years."
The captain's romance was ended.
In nearly every neighborhood of the South, there comes, in the fall of the year, a sort of religious wave. Men, who, during the summer swore at their horses and stopped but little short of blasphemy, in imprecatory remarks addressed to obdurate steers, turn reverently, after fodder-pulling time, to Mt. Zion, Ebeneezer, New Hope and Round Pond, to hear the enthusiastic pleadings of the circuit rider and the begging injunctions of the strolling evangelist. Robert's Cove, in East Tennessee, is a neighborhood typical of this peculiar religious condition. Last autumn, when the katydid shivered on the damp oak leaf and the raccoon cracked the shell of the pinching "crawfish," there suddenly appeared atEbeneezer meeting-house a young man of most remarkable presence. He was handsome, tall, graceful, and with hair as bright and waving as the locks of the vision that come toClarencein his awful dream. He said that his name was John Mayberry. He had come to preach the gospel in a simple, child-like way, and hoped that his hearers, for the good of their souls, would pay respectful heed to his words. A materialist would have called him a fanatic, but as there were no materialists in that neighborhood, he soon became known as a devout Christian and a powerful worker in the harvest-field of faith. He read hallowed books written by men who lived when the ungodly sword and the godly pen were at war against each other, and in his fervor his language bore a power which his rude hearers had never felt before.
One night, after a stormy time at the mourners' bench, and while women whose spirits were distressed still stood sobbing about the altar, Mayberry approached awell-known member of the church, and said:
"Who is that peculiar old woman, that wrinkled and strange-eyed dwarf who sits so near the pulpit every night?"
"We call her old Tildy," Brother Hendricks replied. "She has been a-livin' in this here neighborhood mighty nigh ever sense I kin ricolleck. She's a mighty strange old woman, but I never hearn no harm uv her."
"She may be a good woman," the preacher rejoined, "but she casts a chill over me every time I look at her. Goodbye, Brother Hendricks. Think of me to-night when you get down on your knees."
The preacher sought his temporary home. He lived about a mile from the church, in an old log cabin with one room. Many of the people had offered him a home, but, declining, he declared that he wanted to be alone at night, so that, undisturbed, he could pursue his studies or pray for inspiration.
The hour was late. The preacher had taken down "Fox's Book of Martyrs" and was looking at its thrilling illustrations, when a knock at the door startled him.
"Come in," he called.
Old Tildy stepped into the room, and, quickly closing the door, stood with her back against it. She nodded her head and smiled—a snaggle-tooth grin—and said:
"How air yer, Brother Mayberry?"
"I am very well, I thank you."
"Powerful glad ter know that folks air well."
"Thank you; but what business can you have with me at this time of night?"
"Mighty 'portant bizness, Brother Mayberry, mighty 'portant."
"Does it concern your soul?"
"Not ez much ez it do yourn, Brother Mayberry; not nigh so much ez it do yourn."
"I don't understand you!" the evangelist exclaimed.
"But I'll see that you do, Brother Mayberry. I reckon you've noticed me at church, hai'nt you?"
"Yes."
"Well, whut you reckon I went thar fur?"
"To hear the gospel, I suppose."
"Not much, Brother Mayberry; not much. I went thar to see you."
"To see me! Why on earth, madam, do you care to see me?"
"Would ruther see you on earth, Brother Mayberry, than anywhar else. I went to see you, Brother Mayberry, because I love you."
"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed the evangelist, throwing up his hands in a gesture of horror.
"Yes, Brother Mayberry, I love you, and I want you to be my husband."
"Oh, God forbid!" the disgusted preacher groaned.
"Yes, Brother Mayberry, but the Lawd hain't forbid. Let me tell you one thing: when old Tildy sets her head, w'ysuthin' is goin' ter happen. Does folks cross old Tildy? Yes, sometimes. Did old Patterson cross Tildy? Yes, Patterson crossed po', old, harmless Tildy. Whut did Tildy do? She grabbed Patterson's boy an' hil him under the water till he was drounded. Did Martin cross old Tildy? Yes, Martin crossed old Tildy. What did old Tildy do? She met old Martin in the woods an' killed him, an' folks thought he killed hisse'f. Now, air you, in the bloom o' yo' youth and beauty, goin' to cross po', old, harmless Tildy?"
The cold dew of horror gathered in beads on the preacher's brow. "Madam," said he, "I cannot marry you. Your request is preposterous; your presence is appalling. Go away."
"Not until I lead my husband with me, Brother Mayberry."
"Go, I tell you, or I will throw you out of the house."
"Throw po', old, harmless Tildy out of the house? Ha, ha! Brother Mayberry!"
She took a horse-pistol from under her apron. "Buckshot in this, Brother Mayberry; ha, buckshot."
The preacher sank down on a chair. He did not care to die. In life there was such a bright promise of the good he could accomplish. He could not marry the hag, but there she stood with her awful weapon. Could he not rush upon her?
"No, you can't, Brother Mayberry," she said, lifting the pistol. She was reading his thoughts. Could he not pretend that he would marry her, and afterward make his escape?
"No, you can't, Brother Mayberry," she said. "The jestice uv the peace is waitin' outside with the license. Oh, no, Brother Mayberry, I'll not give you a chance ter run away. Wouldn't it be awful fur the people ter come here ter-morrer an' find Brother Mayberry with a hole through his beautiful head? Must I call the jestice uv the peace, ur shoot you?"
"Merciful heavens, what is to become of me? I cannot die this way."
"Yes you can, Brother Mayberry."
"Oh, I cannot marry this hag."
"Not this hag, but yo' own true love, Brother Mayberry. Come, whut do you say?"
The preacher dropped upon his knees. The woman advanced a few steps. The preacher heard some one at the door. Was it the justice of the peace whom the woman had under her control? A man stepped into the room.
"What does this mean?" he asked
"This horrible creature is going to kill me if I don't marry her," the preacher replied. "Are you the justice of the peace?"
The man laughed. "No, I'm no 'squire. Goin' ter kill you, eh? But what with?"
"That awful horse-pistol."
"That's no pistol. It's simply a stick. W'y this is one of her favorite games.Kill you! Why she never hurt a thing in her life."
"How about Patterson's boy?" the preacher asked.
"He's all right. I seed him this mawnin'."
"Yes, but she killed old Martin."
"Did she? I saw him not more than three hours ago. Come, Tildy, go on away."
She put the crooked stick under her apron, and, without saying a word, glided out into the darkness. The preacher lifted his hands and uttered a fervent prayer.
Note.—Riders ofMonarch Bicyclessay they are the very "Poetry of Motion" and a never-ending delight.
Note.—Riders ofMonarch Bicyclessay they are the very "Poetry of Motion" and a never-ending delight.
View original imageTHE SONG OF THE "No. 9."My dress is of fine polished oak,As rich as the finest fur cloak,And for handsome designYou just should see mine—No. 9, No. 9.I'm beloved by the poor and the rich,For both I impartially stitch;In the cabin I shine,In the mansion I'm fine—No. 9, No. 9.I never get surly nor tired,With zeal I always am fired;To hard work I incline,For rest I ne'er pine—No. 9, No. 9.I am easily purchased by all,With installments that monthly do fall,And when I am thine,Then life is benign—No. 9, No. 9.To the Paris Exposition I went,Upon getting the Grand Prize intent;I left all behind,The Grand Prize was mine—No. 9, No. 9.At the Universal Exposition of 1889, at Paris, France, the best sewing machines of the world, including those of America, were in competition. They were passed upon by a jury composed of the best foreign mechanical experts, two of whom were the leading sewing machine manufacturers of France. This jury, after exhaustive examination and tests, adjudged that the Wheeler & Wilson machines were the best of all, and awarded that company the highest prize offered—the GRAND PRIZE—giving other companies only gold, silver, and bronze medals.The French government, as a further recognition of superiority, decorated Mr. Nathaniel Wheeler, president of the company, with the Cross of the Legion of Honor—the the most prized honor of France.The No. 9, for family use, and the No. 12, for manufacturing uses, are the best in the world to-day.And now, when you want a sewing machine, if you do not get the best it will be your own fault.Ask your sewing machine dealer for the No. 9 Wheeler & Wilson machine. If he doesn't keep them, write to us for descriptive catalogue and terms. Agents wanted in all unoccupied territory.WHEELER & WILSON MFG. CO., CHICAGO, ILL.
View original image
THE SONG OF THE "No. 9."
My dress is of fine polished oak,As rich as the finest fur cloak,And for handsome designYou just should see mine—No. 9, No. 9.I'm beloved by the poor and the rich,For both I impartially stitch;In the cabin I shine,In the mansion I'm fine—No. 9, No. 9.I never get surly nor tired,With zeal I always am fired;To hard work I incline,For rest I ne'er pine—No. 9, No. 9.I am easily purchased by all,With installments that monthly do fall,And when I am thine,Then life is benign—No. 9, No. 9.To the Paris Exposition I went,Upon getting the Grand Prize intent;I left all behind,The Grand Prize was mine—No. 9, No. 9.
My dress is of fine polished oak,As rich as the finest fur cloak,And for handsome designYou just should see mine—No. 9, No. 9.I'm beloved by the poor and the rich,For both I impartially stitch;In the cabin I shine,In the mansion I'm fine—No. 9, No. 9.I never get surly nor tired,With zeal I always am fired;To hard work I incline,For rest I ne'er pine—No. 9, No. 9.I am easily purchased by all,With installments that monthly do fall,And when I am thine,Then life is benign—No. 9, No. 9.To the Paris Exposition I went,Upon getting the Grand Prize intent;I left all behind,The Grand Prize was mine—No. 9, No. 9.
At the Universal Exposition of 1889, at Paris, France, the best sewing machines of the world, including those of America, were in competition. They were passed upon by a jury composed of the best foreign mechanical experts, two of whom were the leading sewing machine manufacturers of France. This jury, after exhaustive examination and tests, adjudged that the Wheeler & Wilson machines were the best of all, and awarded that company the highest prize offered—the GRAND PRIZE—giving other companies only gold, silver, and bronze medals.
The French government, as a further recognition of superiority, decorated Mr. Nathaniel Wheeler, president of the company, with the Cross of the Legion of Honor—the the most prized honor of France.
The No. 9, for family use, and the No. 12, for manufacturing uses, are the best in the world to-day.
And now, when you want a sewing machine, if you do not get the best it will be your own fault.
Ask your sewing machine dealer for the No. 9 Wheeler & Wilson machine. If he doesn't keep them, write to us for descriptive catalogue and terms. Agents wanted in all unoccupied territory.
WHEELER & WILSON MFG. CO., CHICAGO, ILL.
View original imageSCOTCH ROLLED OATSARE GOOD OATSPacked inTwo-pound packagesonly.ALL GROCERSHANDLE THEM.
View original image
SCOTCH ROLLED OATS
ARE GOOD OATS
Packed inTwo-pound packagesonly.
ALL GROCERSHANDLE THEM.
The LATESTACKNOWLEDGEDSTANDARD MANUALFORPresidents, Secretaries,DIRECTORS, CHAIRMEN,PRESIDING OFFICERS,And everyone in anyway connected with public life or corporate bodiesISReed's RulesBYTHE HON. THOMAS B. REED,Speaker of theHouse of Representatives."I commend the book most highly."WILLIAM McKINLEY,President of the United States."Reasonable, right, and rigid."J. STERLING MORTON,Ex-Secretary of Agriculture.CLOTH, 75 CENTS,LEATHER, $1.25.RAND, McNALLY & CO., Publishers,CHICAGO.
The LATESTACKNOWLEDGEDSTANDARD MANUAL
FOR
Presidents, Secretaries,
DIRECTORS, CHAIRMEN,PRESIDING OFFICERS,
And everyone in anyway connected with public life or corporate bodies
IS
Reed's Rules
BY
THE HON. THOMAS B. REED,
Speaker of theHouse of Representatives.
"I commend the book most highly."
WILLIAM McKINLEY,President of the United States.
"Reasonable, right, and rigid."
J. STERLING MORTON,Ex-Secretary of Agriculture.
CLOTH, 75 CENTS,LEATHER, $1.25.
RAND, McNALLY & CO., Publishers,CHICAGO.
View original imageBUILT LIKE A WATCHRound the WorldTheSterlingWins its WaySTERLING CYCLE WORKS CHICAGOSEND FOR CATALOGUEAGENCIES IN ALL CHIEF CITIES.]
View original image
BUILT LIKE A WATCH
Round the World
TheSterling
Wins its Way
STERLING CYCLE WORKS CHICAGOSEND FOR CATALOGUE
AGENCIES IN ALL CHIEF CITIES.]
View original imageRide aMONARCHand keep in frontMONARCH CYCLE MFG COCHICAGO·NEW YORK·LONDON·
View original image
Ride aMONARCHand keep in front
MONARCH CYCLE MFG COCHICAGO·NEW YORK·LONDON·
View original imageTAKE THEMONON ROUTELOUISVILLE, NEW ALBANY & CHICAGO RY. CO.BETWEENChicago,Indianapolis,Cincinnati,Lafayette,Louisville,AND ALL POINTS SOUTH.Through Sleeping Cars daily toWASHINGTON and BALTIMOREPullman Sleeping Cars.Parlor and Dining Cars.ONLY LINE TOFrench Lick andWest Baden Springs,"THE CARLSBAD OF AMERICA."W. H. McDOEL, CHAS. H. ROCKWELL, FRANK J. REED,Vice-Pres. and Gen'l Mgr. Traffic Mgr. Gen'l Pass'r Agt.
View original image
TAKE THE
MONON ROUTE
LOUISVILLE, NEW ALBANY & CHICAGO RY. CO.
BETWEEN
Chicago,Indianapolis,Cincinnati,Lafayette,Louisville,
AND ALL POINTS SOUTH.
Through Sleeping Cars daily to
WASHINGTON and BALTIMORE
Pullman Sleeping Cars.
Parlor and Dining Cars.
ONLY LINE TO
French Lick andWest Baden Springs,"THE CARLSBAD OF AMERICA."
W. H. McDOEL, CHAS. H. ROCKWELL, FRANK J. REED,Vice-Pres. and Gen'l Mgr. Traffic Mgr. Gen'l Pass'r Agt.
View original imageCHEW"Kis-Me"GumImportedKEY RINGSend us 3 cents and 3 "Kis-Me" Gum wrappers, or 10 cents in stamps or coin, and we will mail you an elegant imported steel key ring as shown by above cut. Throw your old ring away and get a fine one.KIS-ME GUM CO.,Louisville, Ky.
View original image
CHEW
"Kis-Me"
Gum
ImportedKEY RING
Send us 3 cents and 3 "Kis-Me" Gum wrappers, or 10 cents in stamps or coin, and we will mail you an elegant imported steel key ring as shown by above cut. Throw your old ring away and get a fine one.
KIS-ME GUM CO.,
Louisville, Ky.