 | Hoosier mosaics |  |
The Legend of Potato Creek.
Big yellow butterflies were wheeling about
in the drowsy summer air, and hovering above
the moist little sand bars of Potato Creek. A
shady dell, wrapped in the hot lull of August,
sent up the spires and domes of its walnut and
poplar trees, clearly defined and sheeny, while
underneath the forest roof the hazel and wild
rose bushes had wrung themselves into dusky
mats. The late violets bloomed here and
there, side by side with those waxlike yellow
blossoms, called by the country folk “butter
and eggs.” Through this dell Potato Creek
meandered fantastically, washing bare the
roots of a few gnarled sycamores, and murmuring
among the small bowlders that almost
covered its bed. It was not a strikingly
romantic or picturesque place—rather the contrary—much
after the usual type of ragged
little dells. “A scrubby little holler” the neighborhood
folk called it.
Perched on the topmost tangle of the dry,
tough roots of an old upturned tree, sat little
Rose Turpin, sixteen that very August day;
pretty, nay beautiful, her school life just ended,
her womanhood just beginning to clothe
her face and form in that mysterious mantle
of tenderness—the blossom, the flower that
brings the rich sweet fruit of love. From her
high perch she leaned over and gazed down
into the clear water of the creek and smiled at
the gambols of the minnows that glanced here
and there, now in shadowy swarms and anon
glancing singly, like sparks of dull fire, in the
limpid current. Some small cray-fishes, too,
delighted her with their retrograde and side-wise
movements among the variegated pebbles
at the bottom of the water. A small sketch
book and a case of pencils lay beside her. So
busy was she with her observations, that a
fretful, peevish, but decidedly masculine voice
near by startled her as if from a doze. She
had imagined herself so utterly alone.
“Wo-erp 'ere, now can't ye! Wo, I say!
Turn yer ole head roun' this way now, blast
yer ole picter! No foolin', now; wo-erp, I tell
ye!
Rose was so frightened at first that she
seemed about to rise in the air and fly away;
sound discovered the speaker, who, a few rods
farther down the creek, stood holding the
halter rein of a forlorn looking horse in one
hand, and in the other a heavy woodman's
axe.
“Wo-erp, now! I hate like the nation to
slatherate ye; but I said I'd do it if ye did'nt
get well by this August the fifteenth; an' shore
'nuff, here ye are with the fistleo gittin' wus
and wus every day o' yer life. So now ye may
expect ter git what I tole ye! Stan' still now,
will ye, till I knock the life out'n ye!”
By this time Rose had come to understand
the features of the situation. The horse was
sadly diseased with that scourge of the equine
race, scrofulous shoulder or fistula, commonly
called, among the country folk, fistleo, and
because the animal could not get well the man
was on the point of killing it by knocking it on
the head with the axe.
Of all dumb things a horse was Rose's
favorite. She had always, since her very baby-hood,
loved horses.
“Wo-wo-wo-erp, here! Ha'n't ye got no sense
at all? Ding it, how d'ye 'spect me to hit yer
blamed ole head when ye keep it a waggin'
'round in that sort o' style? Wo-erp!”
The fellow had tied the halter rein around a
sapling about two feet from the ground, and
was now preparing to deal the horse a blow
with the axe between its eyes. The animal
seemed unaware of any danger, but kept its
head going from side to side, trying to fight
certain bothersome gad-flies.
“O, sir, stop; don't, don't; please, sir, don't!”
cried the girl, her sweet voice breaking into
silvery echo fragments in every nook of the
little hollow.
The man gazed all around, and, seeing no
one, let fall the axe by his side. The birds,
taking advantage of the silence, lifted a twittering
chorus through the dense dark tops of
the trees. The slimmest breath of air languidly
caressed the leaves of the rose vines. The
bubbling of the brook seemed to touch a
mellower key, and the yellow butterflies settled
all together on a little sand bar, their bright
wings shut straight and sharp above their
bodies. The man seemed intently listening.
“Tw'an't mammy's voice, nohow,” he muttered;
“but l'd like to know who 'twas, though.”
He stood a moment longer, as if in doubt,
then again raising his axe he continued:
“Must 'a' been a jay bird squeaked. Wo-erp
'ere now! I'm not goin' to fool wi' ye all
day, so hold yer head still!”
That was a critical moment for the lean,
miserable horse. It lowered its head and held
it quite still. The axe was steadily poised in
the air. The man's face wore a look of determination—grim,
stone-like. He was, perhaps,
twenty-five, tall and bony, with a countenance
sallow almost to greenness, sunken pale blue
eyes, sun burnt hair, thin flaxy beard, and
irregular, half decayed teeth. Although his
body and limbs were shrunken to the last degree
of attenuation, still the big cords of his
neck and wrists stood out taut, suggesting
great strength. The blow would be a terrible
one. The horse would die almost without a
struggle.
“O, O, O! Indeed, sir, you must not!
Stop that, sir, instantly! You shall not do it,
sir! O, sir!”
And fluttering down from her perch, Rose
flew to the spot where the tragedy was pending,
and cast herself pale and trembling between
the horse and its would-be executioner.
The axe fell from the man's hands.
His eyes became exactly circular.
His under jaw dropped so that his mouth
was open to its fullest gaping capacity. His
shoulders fell till their points almost met in
front of his sunken chest. He was a picture
of overwhelming surprise.
High up on the dead spire of a walnut tree
a woodpecker began to beat a long, rattling
tattoo. The horse very lazily and innocently
winked his brown eyes, and putting forth his
nose sniffed at the skirt of the girl's dress.
“I'm glad—O I'm ever so glad you'll not kill
him!” murmured the little lady when she saw
the axe fall to the ground.
The man stood a long moment, as if petrified
or frozen into position, then somewhat recovering,
he re-seized the axe, and flourishing it high
in the air, cried in a voice that, cracked and
shrill, rang petulantly through the woods:
“I said I'd kill 'im if that garglin' oil didn't
cure 'im, 'an I'm derned ef I don't, too!”
“O, sir, if you please! The poor horse is
not to blame!” exclaimed the excited girl.
“'Taint no use o' beggin'; he's no 'count but
to jist eat up corn, an' hay, an' paster an' the
likes; and his blasted fistleo gits wus an' wus
all the time. An't I spent more'n he's wo'th a
tryin' to cure 'm, an' don't everybody laugh at
me 'cause I've got sich a derned ole slummux
of a hoss? Jist blame my picter if I'll stand
it! So now you've hearn me toot my tin horn,
an' ye may as well stan' out'n the way!”
“But, sir, I'll take him off your hands, may
I? Say, sir? O please let me take him!”
“An' what in thunder do you want of him?
What good's he goin' to do you? 'Cause, you
see, he can't work nor be rid on nor nothin'.”
“O never mind, sir, just please give him to
me and I'll take him and care for him. Poor
horsey! Poor horsey! See, he loves me already!”
The beast had thrust its nose against the
maiden's hand.
“Well, I don't know 'bout this. I'd as soon
'at you have 'im as not if I hadn't swore to
kill 'im, an' I musn't lie to 'im. An' besides,
I've had sich a pesky derned time wi' 'im 'at it
looks kinder mean 'at I shouldn't have the satisfaction
of bustin' his head for it. I'm goin'
to knock 'im, an' ye jist mought as well stan'
aside!”
Just then the peculiarities of the man's character
were written on his face. His nose denoted
pugnacity, his lips sensuality, but not
of a base sort, his eyes ignorance and rough
kindness, his chin firmness, his jaw tenacity of
purpose, and his complexion the ague. He
had sworn to kill the horse, and kill him he
would. You could see that in the very wrinkles
of his neck. He evidently felt that it was a
duty he owed to his conscience—a duty made
doubly imperative by the horse's refusal to get
well by the exact time prescribed.
While he stood with his axe raised, Rose
was very diligently and nervously tugging at
the knot that fastened the halter rein to the
tree, and ere he was aware of her intent, she
had untied it and was resolutely leading the
poor old animal away.
The man's eyes got longest the short way as
he gazed at the retreating figure.
“Well now, that's as cool as a cowcumber
and twicet as juicy! Gal, ye'r' a brick! ye'r' a
knot! Ye'r' a born pacer! Take 'im 'long for
all I keer! Take 'im 'long!”
He put down his axe, placed his hands
against his sides and smiled, as he spoke, a
big wrinkling smile that covered the whole of
his sallow, skinny face and ran clear down to
the neck band of his homespun shirt.
“Pluck, no eend to it!” he muttered; “wonder
who she is? Poorty—geeroody!”
The wild birds sang a triumphant hymn, the
breeze freshened till the whole woods rustled,
and louder still rose the bubbling of the stream
among its bowlders.
“Well, I'll jist be dorged! The poortiest gal
in all Injianny! An' she's tuck my ole hoss
whether or no! She's a knot! Sort o' a cool
proceedin', it 'pears to me, but she's orful welcome
to the hoss! Howdsomever it's mighty
Jones!”
He laughed long and loud. The birds
laughed, too, and still the wind freshened.
The girl and the horse had quickly disappeared
behind the hazel and papaw bushes.
Zach Jones was alone with his axe and his reflections.
“Yender's where she sot—right up yender
on that ole clay root. She must 'a' been a
fishin', I reckon.”
Another admiring chuckle.
He went to the spot and clambered up among
the roots. There lay Rose's sketch book and
pencil case. He took up the book and curiously
turned the leaves, his eyes running with something
like childish delight over the flowers and
bits of landscape. He had never before seen
a drawing.
“Poorty as the gal 'erself, 'most,” he said,
“an' seein' 'at she's tuck my ole hoss, I spose
I'll have to take these 'ere jimcracks o' her'n.
I'll take 'em 'long anyhow, jist to 'member her
by!”
This argument seemed logical and conclusive,
and with a quick glance over his shoulder
he crammed book and pencil case into the
capacious depths of the side pocket of his
pants.
“Now then it's about time for my chill, an'
I'd better go home. Hang the luck; s'pose I'll
allus have the ager!” This last sentence was
uttered in a tone of comical half despair, and
accompanied by a facial contortion possible to
no one but a person thoroughly saturated with
ague in its chronic form.
After he left the dell, Zach had a hot walk
across a clover field before he reached the
dilapidated log house where he lived with his
widowed mother. In a short time his chill set
in, and it was a fearful one. His teeth chattered
and his bony frame rattled like a bundle
of dry sticks in a strong wind. After it had
shaken him thus for about an hour, his brother
Sammy, a lad of ten years, came in with a jug
of buttermilk brought from a neighbor's.
“Mammy, 'ere's yer buttermilk,” said he,
setting the jug on the floor. “Shakin' like
forty—a'n't ye, Zach?” he added, glancing
with a sad, lugubrious smile at his brother;
then, changing his tone and also his countenance,
he continued, with a broader grin: “Bet
ye a dollar ye can't guess what I seed over to
'Squire Martin's!”
“No, nor I don't care a cuss; so put off an'
don't come yawpin' round me!” replied Zach.
“Yes ye do, too; an' I know ye do, for 'twas
over there is havin' a man wash 'im an' doctor
'im.” Sammy winked and hitched up his pants
as he spoke.
“Do say, Sammy, is that so, now?” cried the
widow, holding up her hands. “How on 'arth
come she by the hoss? Zach, I thought you'd
killed that creater'!”
“Mammy, ef you an' Sammy 'll jist let me
'joy this 'ere ager in peace I'll be orful 'bleeged
to ye,” said Zach, making his chair creak and
quiver with the ecstasy of his convulsion.
But Sammy's tongue would go. He thought
he had a “good 'un” on Zach, and nothing
short of lightning could have killed him quick
enough to prevent his telling it.
“The gal says as how Zach gin 'er the ole
hoss for to 'member 'im by!” he blurted out,
shying briskly from Zach's foot, which otherwise
would have landed him in the door yard.
“Lookee here now, Zach, you jist try the
likes o' that ag'in an' I'll give ye sich a broom-stickin'
as ye a'n't had lately. Ye mought 'a'
injured the child's insides!” and as she spoke
the widow flourished the broom.
So Zach dropped his head upon his chest and
employed himself exclusively with his chill.
When his mother was not looking at him, however,
book partly out of his pocket and peep between
its leaves. When his fever came on he
got “flighty” and horrified the widow with
talk about an angel on a clay root and a sweet
little “hoss thief” from whom he had stolen
the “picters!”
I cannot exactly say how Zach got to going
over to 'Squire Martin's so often after this.
But his first visit was a compulsory one. His
mother happening to discover his possession
of the sketch book and pencil case, made him
return them with his own hand to Rose. He
at once became deeply interested in the progress
of his former patient's convalescence;
for, strange to say, the poor horse began almost
immediately to get well, and in two months
was sound, glossy and fat. Nor was he an ill-looking
animal. On the contrary, when Rose
sat on his back and stroked his mane, he arched
his neck and pawed the ground like a thoroughbred.
'Squire Martin was a good man, and seeing
how Zach seemed to enjoy Rose's company, he
one day took the girl aside and said to her:
“You must be somewhat of a doctor, my
dear, seeing how you've touched up the old
hoss, and I propose for you to try your hand
who's had the chills for six or eight years as
constant as sunrise and sunset, and no medicine
can't do him any good. Now I'll be bound
if you'll try you can cure him sound and well.
All you need to do in the world is to pet him
up some'at as you have the ole hoss. Jist take
a little interest in the feller an' he'll come out
all right. All he wants is to forget he ever
had the ager and take some light exercise and
have some fun. Fun is the only medicine to
cure the chills with. Quinine is no 'count but
to make a racket in a feller's head, and calomel
'll kill 'im, sure. Now I propose to let Zach
have a hoss and saddle and you must go out a
riding with 'im and try to divert his mind from
his sorrows and aches and pains—now that's
a good girl, Rosie.”
Rose, whose healthful, impulsive, generous
nature would not allow her to refuse so well
intended and withal so small a request, readily
agreed to do all she could in the matter, and
very soon thereafter she and Zach were the
very best of friends, taking long rides together
through woodlands and up and down the pleasant
lanes of 'Squire Martin's broad estates.
The young girl soon found the companionship
of Zach, novel and most awkward as it was at
freshness and sincerity. As for Zach himself,
he was the girl's slave from the start. He
could not do too much for her in his earnest,
respectful way. Women are always tyrants,
and their tyranny seems to be inversely as
their size and directly as the size of the man
upon whom it is exerted. Rose was a very
little chit of a maiden, and Zach was a great
big bony frame of a fellow. The result, of
course, was despotism. But, although Zach
was a democrat, he seemed to like the oppression,
and ran after big-winged butterflies,
opened gates, pulled down and put up innumerable
fences, climbed trees after empty bird
nests, gathered flowers and ferns—did everything,
in fact, required of him by his little
queen. He became a daily visitor at the
'Squire's, and seemed to have entirely forgotten
everything else or utterly submerged it in
his unselfish devotion to the girl. The good
'Squire saw this with unbounded delight.
So August quietly drifted by, and September
hung its yellow banner on the corn and said
farewell with a sigh that had in it a smack of
winter.
Rose's parents were wealthy and lived in
Indianapolis, and now came the time for the
remarkable change had taken place in the
health and spirits of Zach Jones. The ague
had departed, the sallowness was gone from
his skin, somewhat of flesh had gathered on
his cheeks, and in his eyes shone a cheerful
light. He was straight and almost plump, and
his hair and beard had assumed a gloss and
liveliness they had never before known. He
had thrown away quinine and calomel, and his
sleep at night was soft and sweet, broken only
by fair, happy dreams, that lingered long after
he was awake. At home his mother had far
less trouble with him, and Sammy never got
a kick even if he did occasionally mention old
fistleo in an equivocal way. The amount of
provender it required to satisfy Zach's appetite
now was a constant source of amazement to
the widow.
The evening preceding Rose's departure was
a fine one. The woods were gold, the sky was
turquoise. Instead of riding, as usual, the young
people took a stroll in the 'Squire's immense
orchard. The apples were ripe and ready to
be gathered into the cellars; their mellow fragrance
flavored the autumn air so delicately
that Zach said it smelt sweeter than an oven
full of sugar cakes.
When the young folk returned from their
walk the 'Squire was standing on the door
step of his house. His quick eyes caught a
glimpse of something unsatisfactory in the
faces of the approaching couple—Zach, particularly,
despite his evident effort to choke
down something, discovered unmistakable
signs of suffering. Rose was simply sober and
thoughtful.
“What now, Zach?” asked the 'Squire,
“sick, eh?” “D'know; guess I'm in for a
shake; wish to the Lord it 'd shake my back
bone clean out'n me!” was the reply, in a queer
gurgling voice. A bunch of fall roses fell
from his vest button-hole, but he did not pick
it up. A hot flush, in the midst of a ghastly
pallor, burned on the cheeks of the speaker.
Rose tapped the ground with the toe of her
kid boot, but did not speak.
The man and the girl stood there close
together a while, and the 'Squire did not catch
what they said as they shook hands and parted.
When Zach had gone home the 'Squire
told Rose that he wished she would stay a
little longer, till the ague season was over,
just on Zach's account. Rose quietly replied,
“I have already stayed too long;” but her voice
had an infinity of pity and sorrow in it that
the 'Squire did not detect.
Next morning Rose went home to the city
and soon after made a brilliant debut in society,
for she was really a charming little thing.
That winter was a festive one—a season of
great social activity—and some of its most
direct and prominent results were a few notable
marriages in the spring, among which was
that of Rose to a banker of P—, Kentucky,
the happy union being consummated in May.
On the very day of her wedding Rose received
from her uncle the following note:
“Come to see us, even if you won't stay but
one day. Come right off, if you're a Christian
girl. Zach Jones is dying of consumption and
is begging to see you night and day. He says
he's got something on his mind he wants to
say to you, and when he says it he can die
happy. The poor fellow is monstrous bad off,
and I think you ought to be sure and come.
We're all well. Your loving uncle,
Something in this homely letter so deeply
affected Rose that she prevailed on her husband,
a few days after their marriage, to take
her to 'Squire Martin's.
It was nearly sundown when the young
room of the dying man. He lay on a low bed
by an open window, through which, with hollow
hungry eyes, he was gazing into the blue distance
that is called the sky of May. Birds
were singing in the trees all around the house,
and a cool breath of violet-scented air rippled
through the window. The widow Jones, worn
out with watching by the sick bed, sat sleeping
in her rude arm-chair; Sammy had gone
after the cow—a gift from the 'Squire.
The visitors entered softly, but Zach heard
them and feebly turned his head. He put out
a bloodless hand and clasped the warm fingers
of Rose, pulling her into a seat by his couch.
A wan smile flitted across his face as he fixed
his eyes, burning like sparks in the gray
ash of a spent fire, on her's, dewy with rising
tears.
“The same little Rose you use to wus,” he
said, in a low faltering voice, that had in it an
unconquerable allegiance to the one dream of
his manhood. His unnaturally bright eyes
ran swiftly over her face and form, then closed,
as if to fasten the vision within, that it might
follow him to eternity.
“The same little Rose you use to wus,” he
repeated, “only now you're picked off the vine
a poor, no 'count dyin' man, Rose, but you'll
never—.” His voice choked a little and he
did not finish the sentence. Perhaps he thought
it were better not finished.
A few moments of utter silence followed,
during which, faintly, far out in the field behind
the house, was heard the childish voice
of Sammy, singing an old hymn, two lines of
which were most distinctly heard by those in
the house.
“Ah, yes—
This world it ain't my home,”
Then, by an effort that evidently taxed his
fading powers to the last degree, he fixed his
eyes firmly on those of the young woman.
Here was a martyr of the divine sort, true and
unchangeable in the flame of the torture.
“Rose, little Rose,” he said, glancing uneasily
at the 'Squire, “I've got something
private like to say to you.”
The young woman trembled. Memory was
at work.
“'Squire, go out a minute, will ye?” continued
Zach.
The sick man's request was promptly obeyed,
while the widow snored away.
Zach now more nervously clasped the hand
of the young woman. A spot of faint sunshine
glimmered on the pillow close by the man's
head. The out-door sounds of the wind in the
young grass, and the rustle of the new soft
leaves of the trees, crept into the room gently,
as if not to drown the low voice of the dying
man.
“It's been on my mind ever since we parted,
Rose, and I ort 'a' said it then, but I choked
an' couldn't; but I kin say it now and I will.”
He paused a moment and Rose looked pitifully
at him. His chin was thrust out firmly and
his lips had a determined set. He looked just
as he did when about to knock the poor old
horse on the head over in the dell that day.
How vividly the tragic situation was recalled
in Rose's mind!
“Yes, I will say it now, so I will,” he resumed.
“Since things turned out jist as they have,
Rose, I do wish I'd 'a' paid no 'tention to ye
an' jist gone on and knocked that derned ole
fistleoed hoss so dead 'at he'd 'a' never kicked
—I do—I do, 'i hokey! I don't want to make
ye feel bad, but I'm goin' away now, an' it
'pears to me like as if I'd go easy if I know'd
drew just one little fluttering breath. When,
after only a few minutes' absence, the 'Squire
came in, the widow still slept, the sweet air still
rippled through the room, but Rose held a dead
hand; Zach was at rest! The 'Squire placed
his hand on the bright hair of Rose and gazed
mournfully down into the pinched, pallid face
of the dead. How awfully calm a dead face is!
The widow stirred in her chair, groaned, and
awoke. For a moment she bent her eyes
wonderingly, inquiringly on the young woman;
then, rising, she clasped her in her great
bony arms.
“You are the Rose, the little Rose he's been
goin' on so about. O, honey, I'm orful glad
you've come. You ort jist to 'a' heerd him
talk about ye when he got flighty like—
but O—O—my! O Lor'! Zach—Zachy, dear!
O, Miss, O, he's dead—he's dead!”
“Dead, yes, dead!” echoed the 'Squire, his
words dropping with the weight of lead.
Across the fields of young green wheat ran
waves of the spring wind, murmuring and
sighing, while the dust of blossoms wheeled,
and rose and fell in the last soft rays of the
going sun. A big yellow butterfly flitted
through the room.
Presently Sammy entered. He came in like
a gust of wind, making things rattle with his
impetuous motion.
“O, mammy! O, Zach! I's got s'thin' to
tell ye, an' I'll bet a biscuit you can't guess
what 't is!” he cried breathlessly.
“O, Sammy, honey, O, dear!” groaned the
widow.
“S-s-h!” said the 'Squire solemnly.
“Well, I jist wanted 'm to guess,” replied
Sammy, “for it's awful doggone cur'u's
'at—”
“S-s-h!”
“The fistleo is broke out on Zach's ole hoss
ten times as wuss as ever!”
“S-s-s-s-h!”
“It's so, for I seed it. It's layin' down over
in the hollow by 'tater creek, where the ole
clay root is, an' its jist about to d—.”
“S-s-h!”
The child caught a glimpse of the face and
was struck mute. And darkness stole athwart
the earth, but the morrow's sun drove it away.
Never, however, did any sun or any season
chase from the heart of little Rose the shadow
that was the memory of the man who died in
that cabin.
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