IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN.
IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN.
IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN.
Edwin O. Grover.
{Illustrations by W. B. Plummer.}
drop-cap
Thenarrow valley which nestled in the lap of the Ossipee and Sheep mountains had already begun to awaken from its summer reverie. The early September days had touched it with their first faint suggestiveness of autumn glories, and the second growth maples in the lowlandshad answered with a few crimson leaves and golden boughs. The little Bear Camp brook, which had hardly moistened the sands of its sinuous banks during the long, dry summer, had begun to flow again. Farther up the valley the saw-mills of Forest City could be heard, starting up after their summer’s idleness.
It were strange if the two shanties, which adorned in their ugliness the western side of Sheep mountain, had not participated in the new life of the little valley. To the passerby they were the same patched and dilapidated huts which they were the day Pete Larkim and Lize Simonds had made that memorable “weddin’tower” to Bear Camp a couple of months ago. Pete’s “ole man” and “Ria” had flattered themselves that their bit of diplomacy, which had prearranged and carried out Pete’s marriage to Lize, would bring them a happy old age of ease and indolence.
To Pete and Lize, however, their “gittin’ merred” was but a part of their day’s outing at Bear Camp and the Bluff. It meant nothing more than the enjoyment of the peanuts together and the satisfying of their parents’ wishes. Pete still lived with his “paw” and “maw,” and spent his days in hunting, while Lize remained in the Simonds shanty and scolded the half dozen youngerchildren as they quarrelled over hoecake and hominy. Pete’s “ole man” objected to his spending his whole time in hunting, and Pete had taken to crawling quietly from his bed of straw in the loft long before Bill Larkim was up, and starting on his day’s tramp over the steep sides of Black Snout or Sheep mountain.
Two men talking
This morning, however, Pete had overslept, and as he took down his gun, Bill Larkim rose from the low bench by the door, where he had taken his accustomed seat to watch for driftwood.
“Naow look er hyar, Pete,” he said; “there hain’t no call fer yo’ ter go a huntin’ ev’ry day an’ leave me ter do the hull o’ the work. Yo’ got ’nough plovers yisterday ter las’ a week.”
“Naw thar wa’n’t nuther,” said Pete, with a grin. “They’re all gone a’ready.”
Bill looked up angrily, and blew a cloud of smoke from between his clenched teeth.
“Yo’ can’t fool yer old paw,” he said, with an emphatic gesture toward the Simonds shanty. “I ’low I know who et them plovers yisterday. Jack Simonds got ter feed hisself er starve!” and Bill shook his bushy head of hair and his massive fisttoward the dilapidated shanty, which seemed to tremble in very fear.
Pete, who had been leaning on his gun, tightened his belt as he muttered, “Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve ef Jack Simonds does.”
“Ef Lize hed ruther starve than come ter live with us, as she’d orter, I ’low we can stan’ it,” continued Bill, without noticing the interruption. “What ’d yo’ git merred fur, ef Lize hain’t goin’ ter help me’n yer maw, naow we’re gittin’ old an’ rickety? D’ yo’ hyar, Pete Larkim?” he almost yelled, in his anger. “Thar hain’t one o’ that Simonds gang ez gits another drap from me. Ef yo’ ’re goin’ huntin, yo’ can go; but ef yo’ ’re to feed that cuss of aJack Simonds, don’t yo’ never let me ketch yo’ round hyar agin. Yo’ kin take yo’r chice ter s’port yo’r paw an’ maw, ez yo’ orter, or them shiftless Simonds.’”
Pete had stood leaning on his gun, and digging with the toe of his cowhide boot a miniature crater in the soft earth. As his “ole man” sat down sullenly on his bench, Pete buttoned up his leather jacket, and, his gun on his shoulder, shambled down across the brook and out into the clearing beyond.
“Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve,” he kept saying to himself all day, as he tramped through the rocky woods of Sheep mountain in search of game.
It was early evening when Petecame down with his brace of plover from the open summit of the mountain into the shadows which had settled on the narrow valley.
Music symbols
Just where he was going he did not know; but whenever he thought of returning to his old home, he would seem to hear some one say, “Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve,” and he would stop, as if to listen. He was nearer the shanties than he thought, for once as he paused he heard the voice of some one singing down the mountain path. A moment later Lize appeared, and Pete greeted her with, “Hello, Lize; I’m moughty glad ter see yo’. It’s been kinderlonesome on the mounting ter day.”
Woman standing
To most, Lize would not have been good looking, but Pete thought he had never seen so beautiful a picture as that of Lize standing in the rocky pathway in her soiled and ragged gown of calico. The leafless twigs of the pathside had caught her hair, and tangled it till it floated bewilderingly about her freckled face. A moment before, Pete was thinking of going home; but now, whenLize questioned him, he answered quickly, “Goin’ up to Forrest City. Paw ’lows I can’t go home no more ’thout I quit givin’ yo’ game, Lize. An’ yo’ hain’t goin’ to starve, not ef Pete Larkim knows it. Hyar, Lize, take these plovers; they’ll feed yo’ for a day or two. Game’s moughty scarce on the mounting, but I’ll git yo’ suthin, Lize.”
As they walked down the path together, Pete could not help wondering what made him feel so tenderly for Lize. Ever since he could remember, they had made mud pies together, and quarrelled over their dams of dirt and rocks which they had built across the little stream. In fact, their life acquaintance hadnot been a particularly pleasant one. But since his father’s interference, Pete had discovered an attraction in Lize as simple, yet as strong, as love can create.
Pete had no difficulty in finding a home among the shanties of the mountain “city.” Day after day he would go after game for Lize, and every evening she would meet him, and they would walk together to the turn of the road, in the cold November twilight. These walks made Pete very happy, for he had never before experienced the joy of doing a kind deed, and Lize was very thankful in her simple way.
The December days had brought the first scuds of snow down thelittle valley from the already whitened summits of Ossipee mountains. The walks with Lize became less and less frequent as the snow became deeper, but she never failed to meet Pete at the turn of the mountain road, to receive his gift of game.
As they met one evening in late December, Pete hung his head in shame. His hands were empty.
“’T ain’t my fault, Lize,” he said, hardly daring to look up. “I hed moughty fine luck up ther mountingter-day, an’ war goin’ ter give yo’ a real surprise, fur tomorrer’s Christmas, yo’ know. But paw jest laid fur me up hyar in the brush, and stole ever plover I hed. I’m moughty sorry, Lize, but p’raps”——
“’Tain’t no matter, Pete,” interrupted Lize. “Maw can make a hoe-cake fur Christmas. You’ve ben moughty good ter me, Pete, an’ some day mebbe I can do sumthin’ fer yo’,” and Lize looked at him in simple thankfulness.
“I’m moughty sorry, Lize,” repeated Pete. “But bein’ yo’ hain’t got nothin’ ter eat, can’t yo’ come up ter the celebrashun ter-night? They’re goin’ ter hev a real Christmas tree at the school-house, an’the parson’s comin’ up from Bar Camp an’ bring er lot o’ presents with him. Mebbe we’ll get one, Lize.”
The deep-set black eyes of Lize lighted up with evident pleasure at the thought.
“Mebbe we will,” she answered. “At enny rate, Pete, I’ll come, shore,” she called after him, as he started towards his “city” home.
It was a great event in the history of the little mountain hamlet, for it was the first time that Christmas had ever condescended to visit the cluster of half a dozen shanties. The lights were all extinguished, save in the ten by twenty school-house where the celebration was being held.
As Pete and Lize came in from the cold night air to the warmth and glow of Christmas which filled the stuffy little school-house, they were silent in surprise. It was something unheard of, this giving of presents to friends, much less to strangers; but as they heard the story of the first Christmas, and the message it brought, they began to realize the true meaning ofLove. As if it were contagious, it dawned upon Pete for the first time, that his affection and regard for Lize was nothing less thanlove. He felt as if with the distribution of the presents and the strings of popcornsomething new and strange had come into his rough life.
“I ’low we must er got it, Lize,” said Pete, as together they ate their string of corn. “Maw ’lowed I hed the measles, but she never said nothin’ ’bout my gettin’ in love.”
“’Tain’t no disease, Pete,” said Lize, who had a woman’s intuition and tenderness in her childish heart. “Lovin’ hain’t catchin’ no more’n nothin’. It’s jest er hevin’ er big heart an’ lettin’ er loose, thet’s all.” And Lize flushed a little at her evident display of knowledge. “The parson ’lowed ez how nobody who wa’n’t in love orter git merred,” Lize continued. “’Tain’t that way hyar; leastwise, I hain’t never heard er nobodybein’ in love up hyar on the mounting.”
Pete was very quiet now. His hat was drawn over his deep-set eyes, and he was playing nervously with the folds in Lize’s calico gown. He was evidently thinking. “Lize,” he said, at length, “I ’low ez we’ve got it, sartin; an’ we’re gittin’ ole, too. I’ve known yo’ fur a long spell, Lize. It’s nigh sixteen year, hain’t it?”
Lize, who could hardly tell her own age, ’lowed it war a moughty long time.
“Wa-al,” said Pete, hesitatingly, “bein’ ez how we’re in love, Lize, let’s git merred fur keeps. Thet wa’n’t no weddin’ last summer, whenpaw and maw sent us daown ter Bar Camp, was it, Lize?”
“A weddin’?” asked Lize, “naw; we jest got merred. Thar hain’t no weddin’ ’thout yo’’re in love; an’ we’ve got it naow, Pete, sartin;” and Lize looked surprised at the new thought.
Pete needed no more encouragement, but taking his slouch hat in hand he walked nervously to where the parson was distributing the last of the Christmas presents.
“Me’n Lize ’low ez we hain’t got no call ter bother yo’, parson,” he said, as he looked attentively at a hole in his old hat. “But me’n Lize wan’ ter git merred fur keeps, an’ we ’lowed ez mebbe you’d do itfur nothin’, ez we hain’t got no present ter-night. It only costs half er dollar,” Pete suggested, as the surprised parson seemed to hesitate.
U.S. half dollar coin
The mention of the fact that it only cost half a dollar seemed to recall something to the good parson. Before he could answer, however, Pete continued:
“Thet wa’n’t no weddin las’ summer, daown ter Bar Camp, ’cause we wa’n’t in love. But we’ve got it naow, sartin; an’ we wan’ ter git merred fur keeps.” Pete looked up pleadingly.
A moment later, Pete and Lize stood blushingly, hand in hand, beforethe group of rough mountaineers. As the parson put this question to Pete, “Do you take this girl for your Christmas present for keeps?” his dark eyes lighted up with a new happiness, and he answered quickly, “I ’low I does, fur keeps.”
There was a movement of surprise in the audience as Pete and Lize went down the narrow aisle, and one or two of the uncouth mountaineers instinctively drew their slouch hats from their heads.
“Whar yo’ goin’, Pete?” inquired Lize, timidly, as they went out of the school-house into the Christmas night.
“Goin’ home, uv co’rse,” he said.“Paw’ll be moughty pleased, fur I ’low ez he hain’t hed nothin’ ter eat fur mor’’n a month. I tell yo’ what, Lize, I’ll su’prise him with er Christmas present. ’Tain’t allus ez paw gits er Christmas present.”
As Pete and Lize plodded down the valley road, they were very happy in their plans for the future. The dilapidated Larkim shanty seemed a mansion in their unrestrained happiness.
It was nearly midnight when Pete and Lize reached the two shanties which for sixteen years had been all that “home” meant to them. Pete pounded loudly on the rough door of the Larkim shanty, eager to present his angry “ole man” hisChristmas present, which had brought so much happiness to him. In a moment there was a big bushy head thrust out the little square window at the side, and Pete called,—
“Haow are yo’, paw? I’s got a Christmas present fur yo’.”
“Naw yo’ hain’t, nuther,” broke in Bill. “What yo’ doin’ ’round hyar ennyways, yo’ young rascal, yo’? Be that Lize?” he yelled, as he recognized the shivering form at Pete’s side.
“Uv co’rse,” replied Pete. “We’ve got merred for keeps, an’”——
“Merred!” exclaimed Bill, from his window. “Hain’t yo’ been merred all summer, an’ then yo’ lighted out and left yo’ paw and maw terstarve. Yo’ don’t wan’ ter come sneakin’ ’round hyar, Pete Larkim; if yo’ do, I’ll shoot yo’. I don’t want none o’ yo’ Christmas present.” And the window dropped with a crash.
For a moment Pete was silent with astonishment, till Lize, taking him by the hand, said,—
“Don’t yo’ keer, Pete. It’s moughty hard luck. But I ’low ez haow Bill Simonds hain’t fergot. Yo’ come er long with me, Pete;” and together they sought refuge under the roof of the Simonds shanty.
“Paw hain’t no call ter kick us out,” said Pete, at length. “But I’m moughty glad we went ter thecelebrashun, hain’t yo’, Lize?”