University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.

The once neat and happy cottage, of which Old Tiff was
the guardian genius, soon experienced sad reverses. Polly
Skinflint's violent and domineering temper made her absence
from her father's establishment rather a matter of
congratulation to Abijah. Her mother, one of those listless
and inefficient women, whose lives flow in a calm, muddy
current of stupidity and laziness, talked very little about it;
but, on the whole, was perhaps better contented to be out
of the range of Polly's sharp voice and long arms. It was
something of a consideration, in Abijah's shrewd view of
things, that Cripps owned a nigger — the first point to which
the aspiration of the poor white of the South generally
tends. Polly, whose love of power was a predominant
element in her nature, resolutely declared, in advance, she 'd
make him shin round, or she 'd know the reason why. As
to the children, she regarded them as the encumbrances
of the estate, to be got over with in the best way possible;
for, as she graphically remarked, “Every durned young
'un had to look out when she was 'bout!”

The bride had been endowed with a marriage-portion,
by her father, of half a barrel of whiskey; and it was
announced that Cripps was tired of trading round the country,
and meant to set up trading at home. In short, the
little cabin became a low grog-shop, a resort of the most
miserable and vicious portion of the community. The violent
temper of Polly soon drove Cripps upon his travels
again, and his children were left unprotected to the fury of

their step-mother's temper. Every vestige of whatever was
decent about the house and garden was soon swept away;
for the customers of the shop, in a grand Sunday drinking-bout,
amused themselves with tearing down even the prairie-rose
and climbing-vine that once gave a sylvan charm
to the rude dwelling. Polly's course, in the absence of her
husband, was one of gross, unblushing licentiousness; and
the ears and eyes of the children were shocked with language
and scenes too bad for repetition.

Old Tiff was almost heart-broken. He could have borne
the beatings and starvings which came on himself; but the
abuse which came on the children he could not bear. One
night, when the drunken orgie was raging within the house,
Tiff gathered courage from despair.

“Miss Fanny,” he said, “jist go in de garret, and make
a bundle o' sich tings as dere is, and throw 'em out o' de
winder. I 's been a praying night and day; and de Lord
says He 'll open some way or oder for us! I 'll keep
Teddy out here under de trees, while you jist bundles up
what por clothes is left, and throws 'em out o' de winder.”

Silently as a ray of moonlight, the fair, delicate-looking
child glided through the room where her step-mother and
two or three drunken men were revelling in a loathsome
debauch.

“Halloa, sis!” cried one of the men, after her, “where
are you going to? Stop here, and give me a kiss!”

The unutterable look of mingled pride, and fear, and
angry distress, which the child cast, as, quick as thought,
she turned from them and ran up the ladder into the loft,
occasioned roars of laughter.

“I say, Bill, why did n't you catch her?” said one.

“O, no matter for that,” said another; “she 'll come of
her own accord, one of these days.”

Fanny's heart beat like a frightened bird, as she made
up her little bundle. Then, throwing it to Tiff, who was
below in the dark, she called out, in a low, earnest whisper;

“Tiff, put up that board, and I 'll climb down on it. I
won't go back among those dreadful men!”

Carefully and noiselessly as possible, Tiff lifted a long,
rough slab, and placed it against the side of the house.
Carefully Fanny set her feet on the top of it, and, spreading
her arms, came down, like a little puff of vapor, into the
arms of her faithful attendant.

“Bress de Lord! Here we is, all right,” said Tiff.

“O, Tiff, I 'm so glad!” said Teddy, holding fast to the
skirt of Tiff's apron, and jumping for joy.

“Yes,” said Tiff, “all right. Now de angel of de Lord 'll
go with us into de wilderness!”

“There 's plenty of angels there, an't there?” said
Teddy, victoriously, as he lifted the little bundle, with
undoubting faith.

“Laws, yes!” said Tiff. “I don' know why dere
should n't be in our days. Any rate, de Lord 'peared to
me in a dream, and says he, `Tiff, rise and take de chil'en
and go in de land of Egypt, and be dere till de time I tell
dee.' Dem is de bery words. And 't was 'tween de cock-crow
and daylight dey come to me, when I 'd been lying
dar praying, like a hail-storm, all night, not gibing de Lord
no rest! Says I to him, says I, `Lord, I don' know nothing
what to do; and now, ef you was por as I be, and I was
great king, like you, I 'd help you! And now, Lord,' says I,
`you must help us, 'cause we an't got no place else to go;
'cause, you know, Miss Nina she 's dead, and Mr. John
Gordon, too! And dis yer woman will ruin dese yer
chil'en, ef you don't help us! And now I hope you won't
be angry! But I has to be very bold, 'cause tings have
got so dat we can't bar 'em no longer!' Den, yer see, I
dropped 'sleep; and I had n't no more 'n got to sleep, jist
after cock-crow, when de voice come!”

“And is this the land of Egypt,” said Teddy, “that
we 're going to?”

“I spect so,” said Tiff. “Don't you know de story
Miss Nina read to you, once, how de angel of de Lord

'peared to Hagar in de wilderness, when she was sitting
down under de bush. Den dere was anoder one come to
'Lijah when he was under de juniper-tree, when he was
wandering up and down, and got hungry, and woke up;
and dere, sure 'nough, was a corn-cake baking for him on
de coals! Don't you mind Miss Nina was reading dat ar
de bery last Sunday she come to our place? Bress de Lord
for sending her to us! I 's got heaps o' good through
dem readings.”

“Do you think we really shall see any?” said Fanny,
with a little shade of apprehension in her voice. “I don't
know as I shall know how to speak to them.”

“O, angels is pleasant-spoken, well-meaning folks, allers,”
said Tiff, “and don't take no 'fence at us. Of course, dey
knows we an't fetched up in der ways, and dey don't spect
it of us. It 's my 'pinion,” said Tiff, “dat when folks is
honest, and does de bery best dey can, dey don't need to be
'fraid to speak to angels, nor nobody else; 'cause, you see,
we speaks to de Lord hisself when we prays, and, bress de
Lord, he don't take it ill of us, no ways. And now it 's
borne in strong on my mind, dat de Lord is going to lead us
through the wilderness, and bring us to good luck. Now,
you see, I 's going to follow de star, like de wise men did.”

While they were talking, they were making their way
through dense woods in the direction of the swamp, every
moment taking them deeper and deeper into the tangled
brush and underwood. The children were accustomed
to wander for hours through the wood; and, animated by
the idea of having escaped their persecutors, followed Tiff
with alacrity, as he went before them, clearing away the
brambles and vines with his long arms, every once in a
while wading with them across a bit of morass, or climbing
his way through the branches of some uprooted tree.
It was after ten o'clock at night when they started. It
was now after midnight. Tiff had held on his course in the
direction of the swamp, where he knew many fugitives were

concealed; and he was not without hopes of coming upon
some camp or settlement of them.

About one o'clock they emerged from the more tangled
brushwood, and stood on a slight little clearing, where a
grape-vine, depending in natural festoons from a sweet
gum-tree, made a kind of arbor. The moon was shining
very full and calm, and the little breeze fluttered the grape-leaves,
casting the shadow of some on the transparent
greenness of others. The dew had fallen so heavily in
that moist region, that every once in a while, as a slight
wind agitated the leaves, it might be heard pattering from
one to another, like rain-drops. Teddy had long been complaining
bitterly of fatigue. Tiff now sat down under this
arbor, and took him fondly into his arms.

“Sit down, Miss Fanny. And is Tiff's brave little man
got tired? Well, he shall go to sleep, dat he shall! We 's
got out a good bit now. I reckon dey won't find us. We 's
out here wid de good Lord's works, and dey won't none on
'em tell on us. So, now, hush, my por little man; shut
up your eyes!” And Tiff quavered the immortal cradlehymn,

In a few moments Teddy was sound asleep, and Tiff,
wrapping him in his white great-coat, laid him down at the
root of a tree.

“Bress de Lord, dere an't no whiskey here!” he said,
“nor no drunken critturs to wake him up. And now, Miss
Fanny, por chile, your eyes is a falling. Here 's dis yer
old shawl I put up in de pocket of my coat. Wrap it round
you, whilst I scrape up a heap of dem pine-leaves, yonder.
Dem is reckoned mighty good for sleeping on, 'cause dey
's so healthy, kinder. Dar, you see, I 's got a desput big
heap of 'em.”

“I 'm tired, but I 'm not sleepy,” said Fanny. “But,
Tiff, what are you going to do?”

“Do!” said Tiff, laughing, with somewhat of his old,
joyous laugh. “Ho! ho! ho! I 's going to sit up for to
meditate — a 'sidering on de fowls of de air, and de lilies
in de field, and all dem dar Miss Nina used to read 'bout.”

For many weeks, Fanny's bed-chamber had been the hot,
dusty loft of the cabin, with the heated roof just above her
head, and the noise of bacchanalian revels below. Now she
lay sunk down among the soft and fragrant pine-foliage, and
looked up, watching the checkered roof of vine-leaves
above her head, listening to the still patter of falling dew-drops,
and the tremulous whirr and flutter of leaves. Sometimes
the soft night-winds swayed the tops of the pines
with a long swell of dashing murmurs, like the breaking of
a tide on a distant beach. The moonlight, as it came sliding
down through the checkered, leafy roof, threw fragments
and gleams of light, which moved capriciously here
and there over the ground, revealing now a great silvery
fern-leaf, and then a tuft of white flowers, gilding spots on
the branches and trunks of the trees; while every moment
the deeper shadows were lighted up by the gleaming of
fire-flies. The child would raise her head a while, and look
on the still scene around, and then sink on her fragrant pillow
in dreamy delight. Everything was so still, so calm,
so pure, no wonder she was prepared to believe that the
angels of the Lord were to be found in the wilderness.
They who have walked in closest communion with nature
have ever found that they have not departed thence. The
wilderness and solitary places are still glad for them, and
their presence makes the desert to rejoice and blossom as
the rose.

When Fanny and Teddy were both asleep, Old Tiff knelt
down and addressed himself to his prayers; and, though
he had neither prayer-book, nor cushion, nor formula, his
words went right to the mark, in the best English he could

command for any occasion; and, so near as we could collect
from the sound of his words, Tiff's prayer ran as follows:

“O, good Lord, now please do look down on dese yer
chil'en. I started 'em out, as you telled me; and now whar
we is to go, and whar we is to get any breakfast, I 's sure
I don' know. But, O good Lord, you has got everything
in de world in yer hands, and it 's mighty easy for you to
be helping on us; and I has faith to believe dat you will.
O, bressed Lord Jesus, dat was carried off into Egypt for
fear of de King Herod, do, pray, look down on dese yer por
chil'en, for I 's sure dat ar woman is as bad as Herod, any
day. Good Lord, you 's seen how she 's been treating on
'em; and now do pray open a way for us through de wilderness
to de promised land. Everlasting — Amen.”

The last two words Tiff always added to his prayers,
from a sort of sense of propriety, feeling as if they rounded
off the prayer, and made it, as he would have phrased it,
more like a white prayer. We have only to say, to those
who question concerning this manner of prayer, that, if they
will examine the supplications of patriarchs of ancient
times, they will find that, with the exception of the broken
English and bad grammar, they were in substance very
much like this of Tiff.

The Bible divides men into two classes: those who trust
in themselves, and those who trust in God. The one class
walk by their own light, trust in their own strength, fight
their own battles, and have no confidence otherwise. The
other, not neglecting to use the wisdom and strength which
God has given them, still trust in his wisdom and his
strength to carry out the weakness of theirs. The one class
go through life as orphans; the other have a Father.

Tiff's prayer had at least this recommendation, that he
felt perfectly sure that something was to come of it. Had
he not told the Lord all about it? Certainly he had; and
of course he would be helped. And this confidence Tiff
took, as Jacob did a stone, for his pillow, as he lay down
between his children and slept soundly.

How innocent, soft, and kind, are all God's works!
From the silent shadows of the forest the tender and loving
presence which our sin exiled from the haunts of men hath
not yet departed. Sweet fall the moonbeams through
the dewy leaves; peaceful is the breeze that waves the
branches of the pines; merciful and tender the little wind
that shakes the small flowers and tremulous wood-grasses
fluttering over the heads of the motherless children. O,
thou who bearest in thee a heart hot and weary, sick and
faint with the vain tumults and confusions of the haunts of
men, go to the wilderness, and thou shalt find Him there
who saith, “As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I
comfort you. I will be as the dew to Israel. He shall grow
as a lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon.”

Well, they slept there quietly, all night long. Between
three and four o'clock, an oriole, who had his habitation in
the vine above their heads, began a gentle twittering conversation
with some of his neighbors; not a loud song, I
would give you to understand, but a little, low inquiry as to
what o'clock it was. And then, if you had been in a still
room at that time, you might have heard, through all the
trees of pine, beech, holly, sweet-gum, and larch, a little,
tremulous stir and flutter of birds awaking and stretching
their wings. Little eyes were opening in a thousand climbing
vines, where soft, feathery habitants had hung, swinging
breezily, all night. Low twitterings and chirpings were
heard; then a loud, clear, echoing chorus of harmony answering
from tree to tree, jubilant and joyous as if there
never had been a morning before. The morning star had
not yet gone down, nor were the purple curtains of the
east undrawn; and the moon, which had been shining full
all night, still stood like a patient, late-burning light in a
quiet chamber. It is not everybody that wakes to hear
this first chorus of the birds. They who sleep till sunrise
have lost it, and with it a thousand mysterious pleasures,
— strange, sweet communings, — which, like morning dew,
begin to evaporate when the sun rises.

But, though Tiff and the children slept all night, we are
under no obligations to keep our eyes shut to the fact that
between three and four o'clock there came crackling through
the swamps the dark figure of one whose journeyings were
more often by night than by day. Dred had been out on
one of his nightly excursions, carrying game, which he disposed
of for powder and shot at one of the low stores we
have alluded to. He came unexpectedly on the sleepers,
while making his way back. His first movement, on seeing
them, was that of surprise; then, stooping and examining
the group more closely, he appeared to recognize them.
Dred had known Old Tiff before; and had occasion to go to
him more than once to beg supplies for fugitives in the
swamps, or to get some errand performed which he could
not himself venture abroad to attend to. Like others of
his race, Tiff, on all such subjects, was so habitually and
unfathomably secret, that the children, who knew him most
intimately, had never received even a suggestion from him
of the existence of any such person.

Dred, whose eyes, sharpened by habitual caution, never
lost sight of any change in his vicinity, had been observant
of that which had taken place in Old Tiff's affairs. When,
therefore, he saw him sleeping as we have described, he
understood the whole matter at once. He looked at the
children, as they lay nestled at the roots of the tree, with
something of a softened expression, muttering to himself,
“They embrace the Rock for shelter.”

He opened a pouch which he wore on his side, and took
from thence one or two corn-dodgers and half a broiled rabbit,
which his wife had put up for hunting provision, the
day before; and, laying them down on the leaves, hastened
on to a place where he had intended to surprise some game
in the morning.

The chorus of birds we have before described awakened
Old Tiff, accustomed to habits of early rising. He sat up,
and began rubbing his eyes and stretching himself. He

had slept well, for his habits of life had not been such as to
make him at all fastidious with regard to his couch.

“Well,” he said to himself, “any way, dat ar woman
won't get dese yer chil'en, dis yer day!” And he gave one
of his old hearty laughs, to think how nicely he had out-witted
her.

“Laws,” he said to himself, “don't I hear her now!
`Tiff! Tiff! Tiff!' she says. Holla away, old mist'! Tiff
don't hear yer! no, nor de chil'en eider, por blessed
lambs!”

Here, in turning to the children, his eye fell on the provisions.
At first he stood petrified, with his hands lifted in
astonishment. Had the angel been there? Sure enough,
he thought.

“Well, now, bress de Lord, sure 'nough, here 's de
bery breakfast I 's asking for last night! Well, I
knowed de Lord would do something for us; but I really
did n't know as 't would come so quick! May be ravens
brought it, as dey did to 'Lijah — bread and flesh in de
morning, and bread and flesh at night. Well, dis yer 's
'couraging — 't is so. I won't wake up de por little lambs.
Let 'em sleep. Dey 'll be mighty tickled when dey comes
fur to see de breakfast; and, den, out here it 's so sweet
and clean! None yer nasty 'bacca spittins of folks dat
does n't know how to be decent. Bress me, I 's rather tired,
myself. I spects I 'd better camp down again, till de
chil'en wakes. Dat ar crittur 's kep me gwine till I 's got
pretty stiff, wid her contrary ways. Spect she 'll be as
troubled as King Herod was, and all 'Rusalem wid her!”

And Tiff rolled and laughed quietly, in the security of his
heart.

“I say, Tiff, where are we?” said a little voice at his
side.

“Whar is we, puppit?” said Tiff, turning over; “why,
bress yer sweet eyes, how does yer do, dis mornin? Stretch
away, my man! Neber be 'fraid; we 's in de Lord's diggins
now, all safe. And de angel 's got a breakfast ready

for us, too!” said Tiff, displaying the provision, which he
had arranged on some vine-leaves.

“O, Uncle Tiff, did the angels bring that?” said Teddy.
“Why did n't you wake me up? I wanted to see them. I
never saw an angel, in all my life!”

“Nor I neider, honey. Dey comes mostly when we 's
'sleep. But, stay, dere 's Miss Fanny, a waking up. How
is ye, lamb? Is ye 'freshed?”

“O, Uncle Tiff, I 've slept so sound,” said Fanny; “and
I dreamed such a beautiful dream!”

“Well, den, tell it right off, 'fore breakfast,” said Tiff, “to
make it come true.”

“Well,” said Fanny, “I dreamed I was in a desolate
place, where I could n't get out, all full of rocks and brambles,
and Teddy was with me; and while we were trying
and trying, our ma came to us. She looked like our ma, only
a great deal more beautiful; and she had a strange white
dress on, that shone, and hung clear to her feet; and she
took hold of our hands, and the rocks opened, and we
walked through a path into a beautiful green meadow, full
of lilies and wild strawberries; and then she was gone.”

“Well,” said Teddy, “maybe 't was she who brought
some breakfast to us. See here, what we 've got!”

Fanny looked surprised and pleased, but, after some consideration,
said,

“I don't believe mamma brought that. I don't believe
they have corn-cake and roast meat in heaven. If it had
been manna, now, it would have been more likely.”

“Neber mind whar it comes from,” said Tiff. “It 's
right good, and we bress de Lord for it.”

And they sat down accordingly, and ate their breakfast
with a good heart.

“Now,” said Tiff, “somewhar roun' in dis yer swamp
dere 's a camp o' de colored people; but I don' know rightly
whar 't is. If we could get dar, we could stay dar a while,
till something or nuder should turn up. Hark! what 's
dat ar?”

'T was the crack of a rifle reverberating through the
dewy, leafy stillness of the forest.

“Dat ar an't fur off,” said Tiff.

The children looked a little terrified.

“Don't you be 'fraid,” he said. “I would n't wonder but
I knowed who dat ar was. Hark, now! 't is somebody
coming dis yer way.”

A clear, exultant voice sung, through the leafy distance,

“Yes,” said Tiff, to himself, “dat ar 's his voice. Now,
chil'en,” he said, “dar 's somebody coming; and you
must n't be 'fraid on him, 'cause I spects he 'll get us to dat
ar camp I 's telling 'bout.”

And Tiff, in a cracked and strained voice, which contrasted
oddly enough with the bell-like tones of the distant
singer, commenced singing a part of an old song, which
might, perhaps, have been used as a signal:

The distant singer stopped his song, apparently to listen,
and, while Tiff kept on singing, they could hear the crackling
of approaching footsteps. At last Dred emerged to
view.

“So you 've fled to the wilderness?” he said.

“Yes, yes,” said Tiff, with a kind of giggle, “we had to
come to it, dat ar woman was so aggravating on de chil'en.
Of all de pizin critturs dat I knows on, dese yer mean white
women is de pizinest! Dey an't got no manners, and no
bringing up. Dey does n't begin to know how tings ought
fur to be done 'mong 'specable people. So we just tuck
to de bush.”

“You might have taken to a worse place, said Dred.
“The Lord God giveth grace and glory to the trees of the

wood. And the time will come when the Lord will make a
covenant of peace, and cause the evil beast to cease out
of the land; and they shall dwell safely in the wilderness,
and shall sleep in the woods; and the tree of the field
shall yield her fruit, and they shall be safe in the land,
when the Lord hath broken the bands of their yoke, and
delivered them out of the hands of those that serve themselves
of them.”

“And you tink dem good times coming, sure 'nough?”
said Tiff.

“The Lord hath said it,” said the other. “But first the
day of vengeance must come.”

“I don't want no sich,” said Tiff. “I want to live
peaceable.”

Dred looked upon Tiff with an air of acquiescent pity,
which had in it a slight shade of contempt, and said, as if
in soliloquy,

“Issachar is a strong ass, couching down between two
burdens; and he saw that rest was good, and the land that
it was pleasant, and bowed his shoulder to bear, and became
a servant unto tribute.”

“As to rest,” said Tiff, “de Lord knows I an't had
much of dat ar, if I be an ass. If I had a good, strong packsaddle,
I 'd like to trot dese yer chil'en out in some good
cleared place.”

“Well,” said Dred, “you have served him that was
ready to perish, and not bewrayed him who wandered;
therefore the Lord will open for you a fenced city in the
wilderness.”

“Jest so,” said Tiff; “dat ar camp o' yourn is jest what
I 's arter. I 's willin' to lend a hand to most anyting dat 's
good.”

“Well,” said Dred, “the children are too tender to
walk where we must go. We must bear them as an eagle
beareth he young. Come, my little man!”

And, as Dred spoke, he stooped down and stretched
out his hands to Teddy. His severe and gloomy countenance

relaxed into a smile, and, to Tiff's surprise, the child
went immediately to him, and allowed him to lift him in his
arms.

“Now, I 'd tought he 'd been skeered o' you!” said
Tiff.

“Not he! I never saw child or dog that I could n't make
come to me. Hold fast, now, my little man!” he said, seating
the boy on his shoulder. “Trees have long arms;
don't let them rake you off. Now, Tiff,” he said, “you
take the girl and come after, and when we come into the
thick of the swamp, mind you step right in my tracks.
Mind you don't set your foot on a tussock if I have n't set
mine there before you; because the moccasons lie on the
tussocks.”

And thus saying, Dred and his companion began making
their way towards the fugitive camp.