University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Smart.

About a year after the events recorded in the
last chapter, night fell upon two travelers in the
vicinity of the “Queen City of the West.” Both
were seated outside the coach; both wore shaggy
overcoats which seemed to have been made of the
hide of some animal, and heavy boots suited to the
rough and difficult ways through which, from their
conversation, they appeared to have passed.

The horses were jaded, and plashed with mud,
and a mist curled from their nostrils as they dragged
the heavy vehicle along the ascent, terminating
in a small village still some miles ahead, where
relays were to be obtained. A yellow border of
woods edged one side of the way, and along the
other ran a creek, between high, steep banks, portions

of which were broken and hanging downwards,
but kept together by roots and the grass
with which they were covered, and thickly growing
shrubs, that leaned to the water's edge. Here and
there large masses had slid away, and borne with
them trees, the tangled roots of which and the
upturned earth about them made rude hillocks on
shore, while the main portion of the trunk and
half the broken boughs were sunken in the stream,
sluggish and shallow now, but of much depth and
turbulence in places, as the fallen timber indicated.
A few intervals of clearing had been opened in the
woodland, and cabins had been erected, the doors
of many of which stood open, for the season was
mild; and within them, lighted as they were by
logs on the hearth and by candles, whatever work
was going forward might be seen by every passer
along the road. On such exposures of primitive
and pioneer life one of our travelers commented
largely for the amusement of himself and his friends.

In one dwelling sat the wife, midway between
the door—from near which three or four urchins
looked curiously at the stage-coach—and the fire,
before which the good man lay stretched on the
bare floor, and holding and playfully shaking the
baby, almost above his head.

“Is that your mother?” asked one of the outside
travelers of a slim-faced and red-haired boy, who,

bolder than the rest, sat astride the bars, endeavoring
to count the passengers; “if it is, go in, for
heaven's sake, and tell her to let that suffering
child come out and see us.”

“Yes, my little man, go and tell her, go,” echoed
the person at the side of the last speaker; “but I
did not see,” he continued, “what she was doing—
pinching the child's ears?”

“No: she was combing its hair, and holding it
between her knees, as in a vice, while it screamed
lustily—I suppose to see the coach.”

Our border mothers were not very particular
about appearances, and if they combed their children's
hair at all it was as likely to be at night as
in the morning. There were some better dwellings,
but not many, nor were the surroundings of these
such as taste and refinement would dictate. Instead
of a smooth grass plat in front, which would have
cost little time or trouble, the ground was most
likely to be covered with pig-sties, log stables for
the horses, and rail pens for the calves. Indeed,
one of the last achievements of civilization is that
cultivation of trees and flowers, that tasteful elegance
of arrangement, and neatness, which people
who are poor, in town or country, persist in regarding
as luxuries of the rich, though gentle
natures always may have these blessings, without
money, and almost without care, or any toil, if they

will. The road we describe was neither macadamized
nor planked, and recent rains had so softened
it that the motion of the coach made little sound,
not enough to drown even the wild low music of
the whippoorwills that to-night made all the woods
vocal.

Just as the full moon pushed its red disk above
the tree-tops, the eminence along which the horses
had climbed so slowly was gained; the woods gradually
thinned away into cultivated land; substantial
houses were seen, with some, indeed, that might be
termed elegant; the road, which had been narrow
and uneven, widened to a smooth level, with strong
fences on either side, instead of being open to the
wood and water, as but a little distance back; the
creek wound itself off among the hills and meadows;
and wheat-fields, waving with their beautiful
wealth, added at the same time to the picturesqueness
and the appearances of thrift along the highway.

A mile in advance shone the village lights. The
neighborhood had evidently within it a large degree
of refinement, with means for the indulgence
of elegant tastes. The horses trotted briskly to the
whistle and whip of the driver, the sleepy passengers
awoke, and there was a general hum of
voices.

“Stop at the cross-roads,” said one of the two

outside passengers, who had sat for some time silently
and with folded arms.

“Is this the termination of our journey?” asked
his companion, preparing to descend, as they reined
up. “This is not your home, surely?”

“Yes, all the home I shall ever have;” and
motioning the questioner to keep his seat, and
directing the coachman where to set him down,
he left his friend, and all the company, in silent
speculation as to the significance of his proceeding.

The person thus unceremoniously deserted, turned
backward and, leaning over the mail-bag, gazed
earnestly on the moonlighted scene.

Two of the corners were open stubble fields: in
one some cattle had made their beds; in the other
nothing was visible save the guidepost, near the
road, with its two strips of white board and black
lettering, reaching toward the four points of the
compass. In a third division grew clumps of walnut
and maple trees, and near them stood a ruinous
cabin, the roof sunken, the windows broken out, the
door remaining open, and with a great heap of clay
and stones where had been the chimney. And the
last of the four looked dreariest of all, for there
stood the ancient meeting-house, of rough stones,
with its steep, mossy roof, double doors, and little
prison-like windows. A few forest trees—oak, and
elm, and walnut—stood about it, one or two so

near that their limbs creaked against the wall with
every gust; and others were against the fences, and
about the yard, which was ridged with the graves
of those who in other years had gone there to sing
psalms.

One monument, and only one, lifted itself proudly
among the low head-stones half hidden in the
long white grass. Sunken places among the mounds
there were, holding their gloom away from the cold
moonlight, with rough unlettered pieces of granite
at the head and the feet; and around them curious
school boys walked carefully when they came to
read the names and dates, and simple legends,
spelled by the homely muse, which were to the
sleepers instead of fame, or more ambitious epitaphs,
or elegies.

Very desolate and neglected the place seemed to
be. Thistle-stocks and mullen-rods, dry and seedy,
now grew between the graves; red briers crept
along the walks; and brush-wood, and chance fragments
of boards, and decayed posts, and rough
strips of bark, had been used in mending the
broken picket-fence; and over all streamed the
moonlight, which, in itself, is melancholy.

While the old meeting-house was yet in full
view, and the young man was still gazing back, the
coachman checked his horses, saying, “This is where
I was directed to leave you,” and, with his luggage,

he was put down, outside the front gate of a comfortable
looking farm-house.

Having seen his effects inside, he hesitated, not
knowing how to proceed; and after a moment he
seated himself on a block, to which was attached a
chain, with its other end made fast to the gate and
with a large weight in the middle, to draw the gate
together as often as it should be opened.

While thus awaiting the approach of his friend,
he surveyed the scene about him, more by way of
amusing himself, than from any idle curiosity; for
it mattered little to him whether he lived in a cottage
or a castle, so that he found shelter and society,
and a soft bed and well furnished table—which
indeed he suspected were most likely to greet him
in habitations somewhat more ambitious than the
one by which he lingered.

A narrow path, strewn with pebbles and bordered
with flowers, led from the gate to the house—
a wooden building, two stories in height, and containing
on the first floor, in front, two square rooms
and an entrance hall. Sheltering the door was a
small portico, having a very steep roof, supported
by columns not much larger than a man's wrist, or
rather by posts, and only two of these, one half of
it resting against the house.

Curtains of green paper hung at the windows,
but they must have been of little use, as each one

was rolled two thirds of the way from the sill of
the window to which it should have served as a
blind. In one of the upper chambers a light was
burning, near which sat a woman, upright, and
engaged apparently neither with books nor work,
for her arms were folded together across her bosom.
Her dress had the plain appearance which
distinguishes that of a country girl, and her hair
was combed straight back from her forehead.

A snug barn stood in the rear of the house,
where horses were heard stamping, and about which
cattle were seen standing or lying.

Near where the kitchen was supposed to be, for
it was out of sight, an old fashioned well-sweep
was seen, the proper balance of which there appeared
to have been some difficulty in adjusting, as
a portion of it had been hewn away—too great
a portion, it seemed, from blocks of timber artificially
attached, in various places, and a kettle of
stones hung on the extreme lower end. The well-curb
was all wrecked and gone, or nearly all, enough
remaining only to tell where the well was, and on
the grape-vine which served to lower it, swung the
bucket, shriveled in the sun, and with the hoops
almost fallen off.

The young man would gladly have entered the
house, but for a belligerent guard, in the shape of a
great yellow dog, whose low and warning growls

kept him still. Now and then he glanced at the
lighted chamber, and smiled to see the upright
woman, motionless as a corpse.

“Ah, Fred, here you are,” said the deserter,
pulling at the gate, which the stone weight made
difficult to open. “I had forgotten all about you.
How long have you been waiting?”

“Not more than two hours; but come, let's get
in; I have looked at the exterior as long as I care
to.”

“Just wait till we settle that question. Two
hours, you say, you have waited? No, Mr. Frederick,
you know it is not more than one.”

“You are right, Jo—just about one,” answered
Mr. Wurth, endeavoring to drag the trunk, while
his friend, not inclined to assist him, but standing
still, repeated, “No, it has not been an hour.”

“Not quite an hour,” echoed the yielding gentleman.

“I know that by the moon,” said the first affirmative.

“Yes, I know it—by the moon, too,” said the
second affirmative; and then, taking up the trunk,
the two walked toward the house.

They passed the front door, where all was dark
and still, and also a side door of the rear building,
which was but one story high, and contained a
dining-room and kitchen. A light streamed from

the window of the last, revealing a group of which
the chief personage seemed an exceedingly large
and fat woman, who sat on the floor near the fire,
picking leisurely at a fleece of wool which she held
in her lap, and looking very good natured.

“My sister, Mrs. Yancey, Mr. Wurth,” said Joseph
Arnold, opening the door without having
rapped, and before making any salutation on his
own account.

“Why, Josey, is—is that you?” said the woman,
rising from her recumbent posture as fast as her
corpulency would permit; and, throwing her arms
about him, she kissed him over and over, laughing
all the while, and quite hiding a little active man,
who, close behind her, waited his turn to give the
strangers a welcome.

David, and John, and Maria, and two or three
more, were then called up to shake hands with uncle
Josey, and told to say “Yes sir, I thank you,” when
he asked them if they were well; after which they
were required to shake hands with the other gentleman,
and to say “Yes sir, I thank you,” again;
a performance which they seemed to dread, and
which was soon accomplished, fortunately, as the
active little man was kept in the background meanwhile.

“Nancy, Nancy,” he exclaimed, at last, pushing
himself in front of Mrs. Yancey; and taking or

rather seizing the hand of Arnold, he continued
shaking it at intervals for five minutes, at first with
great energy, which grew less with each renewal of
the exercise.

The stranger then underwent a similar infliction,
but somewhat more brief, and less violent. There
was a heartiness in the tone of the little man, which
made you both like him and feel at home with him
in a moment.

“Nanny,” called the fat woman to a pale and shy
girl, of fourteen, who was rocking the cradle and
looking in the fire, “go up stairs and tell Eunice
that her brother has come.” And, seating herself,
this time on a chair, she said she was never so
glad in all her born days, and ordered Johnny to
carry her wool away, for she was going to enjoy
herself.

“Where shall I put it, mother?” said the boy,
taking it in his arms.

“Into the garret, or under the shed, or to any
place that comes handy,” the good woman answered,
in a soft and loving tone.

“I will take care of it,” interposed the active
little man, who, with a market-basket on his arm,
was exchanging whispers with the girl Nanny, in
a corner of the room. These members of the family
quickly disappeared, the sun-burnt face of the
one shining with the sudden excitement, and the

colorless features of the other radiant for the moment
with an expression of weighty purposes, which
were soon to be realized for the satisfaction of all
the party.