 | I.
THE MOUTH OF WILD RIVER. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
1. I.
THE MOUTH OF WILD RIVER.
In the kitchen door of an old, weather-worn farm-house stood
Mr. Abimelech Jackwood, filling his pipe for an after-dinner
smoke, and looking up at the sky with an air of contemplative
wisdom.
“Is it go'n' to rain, think?” asked Abimelech the younger, —
commonly called Bim, — holding out his hand to see if he could
catch a sprinkle. “Say, father — Confound your pictur'!”
The anathema was addressed, not to the parent Jackwood, by
any means but to the dog Rover, who, seeing the boy's hand
extended in a manner which appeared provocative of sport, leaped
up from the door-stone, where he had been lying, with his chin on
his paws, snapping at the flies, and pounced upon the shoulder of
the younger Abimelech.
Mr. Jackwood preserved a circumspect silence, while his sagacious
eye seemed to explore every square yard of sky visible
between the two ranges of the Green Mountains that bounded
the valley.
“I never knowed the sign to fail,” he observed, after mature
deliberation, crowding the tobacco into his pipe-bowl with his
thumb, “that when you see a light mist, like the smoke of a
chimbly, movin' acrost the face of the Eagle Rocks, 'arly in
within four-'n-twenty hours. Them 'ere clouds is jest what I
expected; but mebby they 'll hold off all the arternoon. I don't
see no crows on the dead ellum yit.”
“I wish you 'd go a-fishin',” said Abimelech. “It 's Sat'day,
and we shan't do much work if we stay to hum.”
“I ben thinkin' a little about tryin' a hand at the fish, myself,”
responded Mr. Jackwood, lighting his pipe at the kitchen stove.
“But I guess, Bim'lech,” — puff, puff, — “we 'll finish hoein' that
little patch o' 'taters fust,” — puff, puff, puff, — “then see how
the weather looks. How 're ye on 't for hooks an' lines?”
Abimelech made haste to find the fishing-tackle, and submit it
to his father's inspection.
“How spry you be, Bim!” cried his sister Phœbe, — a brigt-eyed,
rosy-cheeked girl of sixteen, — over the dinner-dishes. “If
you 'd been asked to bring a pail of water, 't would have taken
you twice as long to start.”
“Tell her you don't go a-fishin' every day,” said Mr. Jackwood,
good-naturedly. “Where 's your sinkers, boy?”
Bim entered into a long and complicate history of the manner
in which, by various mischances, the sinkers had become lost or
destroyed.
“I can tell a straighter story than that,” laughed Phœbe, flirting
the table-cloth at the chickens. “He took the sinkers, and
all the other lead he could find, to run a cannon to shoot Independence
with. The top of the pewter tea-pot went the same
way.”
Bim looked troubled under his father's reproof.
“I don't care, for all that, though,” he whispered, winking at
his sister, “if he 'll only le' me go a-fishin'!”
“I don't know what we shall do for sinkers,” — and Mr. Jackwood
fumbled in the nail-box. “There an't a bit o' lead in the
house, 't I know on.”
“There is that 'ere Ticonderoga bullet,” suggested Abimelech,
meekly.
“Yes; and it 's lucky you did n't git holt o' that, when you
relic I 've ben lottin' on handin' down to futur' generations.”
Notwithstanding the patriotic desire, Mr. Jackwood, retiring
to the bed-room, opened the till of his chest, and produced the
famous bullet.
“I expect that 'ere ball killed a man, Bim'lech,” he remarked,
impressively, balancing the relic on the palm of his hand. “Your
Uncle Dani'l picked it out of a skull, to Ticonderoga. The heft
on 't can't be much short of a ounce; an' what a story it could
tell, children, if it could only talk!”
Mrs. Jackwood earnestly counselled her husband against sacrificing
so precious a memento of Revolutionary times. But, having
duly weighed it in his hand, and found it lighter than the present
necessity, he submitted it to the hammer, pounded it out flat on
the door-stone, and proceeded to the manufacture of sinkers.
Abimelech's industry that afternoon excited the surprise and
admiration of all who witnessed it. He hoed potatoes — to use
his father's expression — “like a major.” The anticipation of
piscatory sport inspired him; the stint was speedily accomplished;
and just as the noisy old kitchen clock was striking
three, father and son might have been seen passing through the
door-yard gate, with their fish-poles on their shoulders.
Huntersford Creek, a broad, clear-running stream, swept through
the valley within a stone's throw of Mr. Jackwood's house; and
far to the north the fringing willows on its banks, and graceful
elm-trees stationed here and there, marked its winding course.
One mile below, Wild River, dashing down from the mountains
like a savage bridegroom, hastened to the embrace of the more
gentle stream. But the coy creek eluded the approach of her
impetuous wooer, in a hundred coquettish curves, — now advancing
softly to meet him, or moving on serenely by his side, soothing
and taming him with song; then, when almost within his
reach, turning suddenly aside, and leading him a long and tortuous
chase through the green meadows; until, driven to the verge of
the interval, beneath the brow of a mountain that stood like a
solemn priest, blessing the union, the fair fugitive yielded, and
they twain became one stream.
Mr. Jackwood professed an acquaintance with the geography
of this region, which he proposed to explore. Abimelech, elated
with the idea, trotted along by his father's side, carrying his fish-pole
jauntily, and chattering incessantly.
“Here is a lesson for ye, Bim'lech,” said his father, as they
reached the vicinity of the river, pointing to an old-fashioned,
dilapidated house, in a wild-looking yard by the road-side.
“This used to be the fust best farm on the interval; an' the man
't lives here bid fair to be the richest man in the county. Fifteen
year' ago, where you see all them beds o' gravel an' rocks,
there was about the han'somest field of corn 't I ever set eyes on.
Wal, it got along to'ards the last of August, and the corn promised
to turn out nobly; everybody was praisin' on 't, an' Mr.
Hoodlett made his brags on 't, tellin' about the great crop he was
goin' to have, till it seemed to me su'thin' must happen to that
corn. So, one day, when I was passin' by, I spoke to Hoodlett.
Says I, `Hoodlett,' says I, `what if your corn should turn out
poor, arter all?' says I. `'T an't possible,' says he; `I know I
shall have the biggest crop ever raised on the crick, jes 's well 's
if I 'd seen it harvested.' `Don't be too sure,' says I. `Man
ap'ints, and God disap'ints.' `I tell ye what,' says he, `neighbor
Jackwood,' says he, `I would n't ask God Almighty to insure
me seventy-five bushels to the acre, any way,' says he; `I shall
have it, an' there 's no gittin' away from 't.' Wal, it was rainin'
a little that day; but it rained harder that night; an' all the
next day, an' the next night, it come down like forty-'leven Dutch
pedlers; an' the next mornin', when Hoodlett looked out o' the
winder, there wan't a stalk o' corn, nor a square foot o' corn-field,
to cure sore eyes with.”
“What had 'come on 't?”
“'T wan't insured, an' 't was gone. Wild River 's a terrible
fractious stream, time of freshets, but it never done noth'n' like
that 'fore nor sence. It come down through the Narrers with a
roar 't could be heerd miles away. It overflowed the hull
country 'bout here, an' brought down a grist o' trees an' rocks
from the mountains, with more gravel 'n a man could cart away
in a life-time. The corn-field took the wust on 't, an' got sarved
was ever so much as a road through the tanglements of trees,
roots, an' tops, that lay half buried and piled on to each other, all
up an' down the river. That was the ruination of Hoodlett. The
best part of his land was sp'ilt; an' it looked so much like a judgment
from Heav'm, 't he got discouraged, an' has ben runnin' down
hill ever sence.”
The adventurers had by this time reached the bank of the river,
which foamed and flashed, and plunged and bubbled, and shot in
swift, green currents amid the great round bowlders that lay scattered
up and down its bed, while the music of its plashing filled
the air.
Here they turned aside from the road, passing through a waste
and barren field; climbed a high bank lifted upon a perpendicular
wall of rock from the bed of the stream, and entered a thick grove
of young trees. Mr. Jackwood went forward with the poles, following
a path that led along the brink of the precipice. Abimelech
kept behind, sometimes stopping to pick from the young
spruces bits of gum, which stuck provokingly in his teeth; or
chewing leaves of the bitter hemlock; or peeling thin ribbons of
the silver birch.
“Is hemlock p'ison?” asked the boy, spitting out some leaves.
“P'ison? — no. What makes you ask that?”
“'Cause I jest happened to think my history-book says Socrates
drinked hemlock to kill himself.”
“O, wal,” replied Mr. Jackwood, “I 've no doubt 't would kill
a man, if he should take enough on 't; so would a good many
other things.”
“Socrates must a' took a perty good swig,” suggested Bim.
“Or perhaps 't was the ground hemlock; that 's p'ison. But
keep still now; you 'll scare all the fish.”
They reached a ledge which overhung a deep, narrow basin of
rock. Beneath them lay the water, clear and calm. Stones, and
pebbles, and fishes, could be seen in its transparent depths. Here
they threw in their hooks, with tempting baits; they tried alter
nately worms and flies; from the shallow falls, where the singing
water came rushing down from above, to the stony shelves at the
bubbles and sparkles of foam, they left no spot unvisited by their
lines. But neither perch, nor pickerel, nor trout, could be
allured.
“What fools they be!” cried the indignant Bim. “I put my
hook right up to their mouths, and they don't know enough to
swaller it. I don't believe but that we can ketch some of these
big fellers with a snare.”
It seemed possible. Accordingly, a few minutes later, in place
of hooks, wide round loops of copper wire went down into the still
basin. But now the fish grew suddenly very shy. Through the
snares and around them they darted, in a most tantalizing manner;
sometimes remaining quiet and watchful until the wire approached
within too dangerous proximity of their noses, then
shooting away in schools. Not one could be taken; and after
another half-hour's unsuccessful sport, Mr. Jackwood's patience
failing him, he reluctantly wound up his lines.
“I tell ye what, Bim'lech, there 's no use wastin' time in this
'ere wretched hole. We 'll be sure o' ketchin' suthin' at the
mouth of the river.”
Below the bridge, they undertook to follow the bed of the
stream. For some distance they experienced no difficulty; they
enjoyed excellent advantages for fishing, as they proceeded, with
the exception of the simple fact that no fish would bite; but at
length the narrow channel to which the stream had shrunk during
the dry weather began to widen and shift its course, and it
became necessary either to leave the river-bed altogether, or
cross over to the white fields of dry stones that now made their
appearance on the other side. First they tried the banks; but
the tall grass and the strong willows were found serious obstacles
in the way of comfortable fishing. Then they attempted to cross
the stream on the stones, selecting a shallow place for the execution
of the enterprise. But the round bowlders, covered with the
scum of dried slime, proved treacherous footholds, rolling and
turning on the slippery stones beneath them, and perilling the balance
even of the careful and sagacious Mr. Jackwood. Abimelech
followed his adventurous parent; when suddenly the latter
was floundering in the water, and endeavoring, in a great panic,
to regain a footing on the stones.
“Careless!” exclaimed Mr. Jackwood. “There, there, stan'
still! The water won't drownd ye; 't an't up to your knees.
Now, what need was there o' gittin' in all over?”
He was still speaking, when the bowlder on which he imagined
himself firmly planted began to revolve. To preserve his balance,
he stepped carefully forward; but the boy had spattered all that
side of the rock, and, Mr. Jackwood's foot resting on a spot as
slippery as glass, he slid, with a great splash, into the water, bringing
down the rattling fish-poles, in rather dangerous style, on the
crown of Abimelech's head.
“O, O, O!” screamed the boy, pitching about once more in
the water.
“Ketch holt o' my hand!” cried the elder Jackwood. “This
all comes o' your wantin' to go a-fishin'!”
Bim cried desolately; and, having reached the dry stones,
stood with distended hands and feet, dripping like a newly-washed
sheep.
“D' I hurt your head?” asked his father, touched with
remorse.
“Ye-e-s! You mos' broke it!” snuffled Bim. “O, you
h-u-r-t!” — as Mr. Jackwood, with paternal solicitude, examined
his crown. “It 's bad enough, I should think, to kill a feller,
'thout scoldin' him for 't afterwards.”
“Don't talk so!” said his father, sternly. “Ye an't hurt much,
I guess, arter all the fuss.”
“Yes I be, too!” whined Abimelech, holding his head in his
hands. “You 'd think so, if you 'd ben knocked over with a
couple o' thunderin' great poles.”
“There, don't swear! I guess now we 'll go hum; we 've had
about sport enough for one day.”
The injured Bim became suddenly pacified.
“I don't want ter go hum,” — giving his crown a final rub,
and putting on his straw hat. “I can get dry in a little while.
My head feels better now.”
Mr. Jackwood sat down and emptied the water out of his boots.
His hopeful heir followed his example; and afterwards divested
himself of his trousers, in order to wring them out and hang them
on the bushes to dry. Then, in a light and picturesque costume,
he went hopping about on the stones, with his fishing apparatus,
and caught a fine brace of trout during the ensuing half-hour.
“I declare,” said his father, “if you don't beat the Dutch! I
han't had a nibble yit.”
“O, my!” cried the excited boy, leaping recklessly upon an
unstable stone, “there is a smashin' big feller!”
Mr. Jackwood thought it must be indeed a “smashin' big feller,”
from the great commotion of waters. He looked up, and
saw an object flouncing in the river like a young whale. It was
Abimelech, however, not the fish.
“So you thought you 'd jump in arter him, did you? You 're
a smart boy!”
Abimelech's second ducking had been more thorough and extensive
than the first; so that, by the time his trousers were dry
enough to put on, his shirt was in a capital condition to go upon
the bushes in their place. But the charm was now broken; no
more luck had he; so he hastened to tie his freshly-washed garment
to his fish-pole, and, waving it in the air like a banner, followed
his father down the river.
In consequence of recent freshets, the river had changed its bed
a dozen times; the valley appeared ploughed up with ravines,
which branched out in every direction. The dry fields of stones
had disappeared; the stream became sluggish and dark, creeping
over the black ooze of the interval; and the grass on the banks
now grew so thick, and rank, and high, that the boy became
disheartened.
“I can't go no fu'ther!” he complained. “There 's brakes,
an' nettles, an' everything to bother a feller. I 'm afraid o'
snakes.”
“Keep up good pluck!” cried his father. “Here 's the crick,
close by.”
What was taken for the creek proved to be an old bed, with a
black and shining pool of dead water fast asleep in it, between
and difficulty. It led over flats full of dangerous sloughs; then
other such pools appeared, in the midst of which our adventurers
became confused. Sometimes they mistook the river for the
creek; more than once they mistook the creek for the river; and
finally there appeared to be numberless rivers and creeks winding
in every direction.
“There!” cried Mr. Jackwood, at length, “there 's the creek,
this time, 't any rate. We 'll find it nuff easier goin' on t' other
side to pay for crossin' over; then we can go up to Dunbery's old
bridge, an' so hum. It 's go'n' to rain; an' I don't see any gre't
chance for fishin' here, arter all.”
“But we can't cross here!” whined the disappointed Abimelech;
“the water 's a mile deep.”
It was a broad channel, filled with clear, still water, in the
depths of which could be seen great shining logs, lying tangled
and crossed on the black mud of the interval.
“What a boy you be to stretch a story!” exclaimed Mr. Jackwood.
“Here is a good place to ford.”
He rolled up his trousers above his knees, and carried Abimelech
over on his back; when, reaching the opposite bank, he sat
down to pull on his boots, which the boy had brought over in his
hands.
“Where 's my stockin's?” — thrusting his hand down one of
the legs.
“I d'n' know; I han't seen 'em,” replied the boy.
“You don' know! Why don't you know? I told you to take
care on 'em.”
“I guess you laid 'em down on t' other side.”
“An' I got to go back arter 'em! I wish you 'd larn to keep
your wits about ye!”
Mr. Jackwood arose, and, rolling up his trousers again, although
the water-mark was some inches above their utmost elevation, returned
to the opposite bank. But no socks were to be found.
“You let 'em drop in the water, sartin as the world!” he
exclaimed, giving up the search. Abimelech protested against
the injustice of this charge. “O, you 're a terrible innocent
“Now, what 's to pay, I wonder? What ye ben puttin' in this
boot?”
Mr. Jackwood withdrew his foot, put in his hand, and extracted
a stocking.
“If it don't beat all! I remember, now. I did tuck 'em in
my boots; an' they 're so wet they dropped clean down into the
toes.”
“Blame me, will ye, next time!” muttered Bim. “O, 'f course
I lost 'em in the river!”
“Is that the way to talk to your father?” asked Mr. Jackwood,
solemnly. “You better be careful!”
Abimelech continued to mutter; but, his father suggesting significantly
that he 'd do well to wait till he got his boots on, he
hushed, and contented himself with looking sullen. Resuming
their tramp, they had not proceeded far, when he began to grumble
again, very faintly.
“What 's that?” cried his father, sharply, looking around.
“I could a' ketched 'nough fish, if you 'd le' me staid where I
was. Might a' know'd we could n't do nothin' down here.”
“Where 's the fish you did ketch?”
“I d'n' know! — I guess I — I left 'em on the ground where
you put your boots on!” — beginning to cry.
“Wal, wal, never mind,” said Mr. Jackwood; “'t won't take
long to go back arter 'em. Cheer up, an' I 'll go on an' see what
them bushes look like, ahead here.”
Ten minutes later, Mr. Jackwood shouted.
“Hurrah, Bim'lech! where be ye?”
“I can't find my fish!” cried the boy; “somebody 's come an'
stole 'em!”
At that moment there was a vivid flash of lightning, which lit
up the entire canopy of the sky, and a heavy drop plashed upon
Abimelech's hand. He had explored the bank in vain; while all
the time the little willow bough, on which the fish were strung,
peeped out of the trampled grass before his eyes. Agitated and
blind with tears, he could not see it; and now, in a panic of fear,
abandoning the search, he attempted to return to his father.
“Here!” shouted Mr. Jackwood, sending up his hat on the end
of a pole as a signal, “do ye see this?”
Thrusting the pole into the ground, he was on the point of going
in pursuit of the boy, when his attention was attracted by a cry in
another direction. He paused and hallooed. The cry was repeated.
It sounded like that of some person in distress. Leaving Abimelech,
therefore, to make the best of his way out of the grass, Mr.
Jackwood advanced upon the rotting timber of a bridge thrown
across the creek.
Beyond was an old barn, that stood half hidden by the willows
and young elms, festooned with vines, that grew by the stream;
and as the voice sounded in that direction, he kept on, until there
arose suddenly before him out of the grass what seemed the bent
form of an old woman, leaning upon a staff.
“It 's some plaguy old witch or 'nother!” he muttered to himself.
She attempted to approach him, whereupon he made a deferential
step backwards towards the bridge. Mr. Jackwood had his
own opinions about witches.
“O, sir, if you will be so kind as to help me!” she faltered,
sinking down again in the tangled grass.
“Wal, I an't a man to pass by on t' other side when there 's
suff'rin' in the way,” said Mr. Jackwood, approaching; “though
I 'm a little grain skittish about stragglers. What 'pears to be
the matter, hey?”
“I have lost my way,” answered the woman, faintly, resting
her head upon her hand, “and I can go no further.”
“Tuckered out, hey? Wal, that 's bad! But you can manage
to git up to the road, can't ye?”
The woman replied that she was too much exhausted to walk.
“Hoity-toity!” cried Mr. Jackwood, cheerily. “This 'll never
do. Where there 's life there 's hope. Only think you can, and
you can, you know. B'sides, mebby I can help. You won't
be sorry; you 'll find a warm supper an' a good comf'table shelter
some'eres, I promise ye.”
He extended his hand: the woman clasped it convulsively.
“You will be my friend!” she articulated, with strange vehemence
— “something tells me that I can trust you!”
“My name 's Jackwood; I live on the crick, jest above here.
Everybody knows Bim'lech Jackwood,” replied the farmer.
“You are my only hope,” said the woman, “and I will have
faith that you have been sent to me.”
“I like that; that 'ere sounds han'some an' pious. But seems
to me you don't 'pear quite so old as I took you to be at fust.”
“I am not old. I have been obliged to appear so for safety.
You will not betray me!”
“Don't be afeared,” exclaimed Mr. Jackwood, with hearty
sympathy.
“Let me appear to you as I am, then.” And the stranger
removed a pair of spectacles that concealed her eyes; took off the
bonnet that almost covered her face; put back from her forehead
the old-woman's cap, with its wig of gray hair attached, and discovered
thick masses of dark hair loosened and falling down her
neck.
| I.
THE MOUTH OF WILD RIVER. Neighbor Jackwood | |