Читать книгу Crestlands - Mary Addams Bayne - Страница 6

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CHAPTER I.

THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER

The spirit of Indian Summer, enveloped in a delicate bluish haze, pervaded the Kentucky forest. Through the treetops sounded a sighing minor melody as now and then a leaf bade adieu to the companions of its summer revels, and sought its winter's rest on the ground beneath. On a fallen log a redbird sang with jubilant note. What cared he for the lament of the leaves? True, he must soon depart from this summer home; but only to wing his way to brighter skies, and then return when mating-time should come again. Near a group of hickory-trees a colony of squirrels gathered their winter store of nuts; and a flock of wild turkeys led by a pompous, bearded gobbler picked through the underbrush. At a wayside puddle a deer bent his head to slake his thirst, but scarcely had his lips touched the water when his head was reared again. For an instant he listened, limbs quivering, nostrils dilating, a startled light in his soft eyes; then with a bound he was away into the depths of the forest. The turkeys, heeding the tocsin of alarm from their leader, sought the shelter of the deeper undergrowth; the squirrels dropped their nuts and found refuge in the topmost branches of the tree which they had just pilfered; but the redbird, undisturbed, went on with his caroling, too confident in his own beauty and the charm of his song to fear any intruder.

The cause of alarm was a horseman whose approach had been proclaimed by the crackling of dried twigs in the bridle-path he was traversing. He was an erect, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed young man with ruddy complexion, clear-cut features, and a well-formed chin. A rifle lay across his saddle-bow, and behind him was a pair of bulky saddle-bags. He wore neither the uncouth garb of the hunter nor the plain homespun of the settler, but rather the dress of the Virginian cavalier of the period, although his hair, instead of being tied in a queue, was short, and curled loosely about his finely shaped head. The broad brim of his black hat was cocked in front by a silver boss; the gray traveler's cape, thrown back, revealed a coat of dark blue, a waistcoat ornamented with brass buttons, and breeches of the same color as the coat, reaching to the knees, and terminating in a black cloth band with silver buckles.

He rode rapidly along the well-defined bridle-way, and soon emerged into a broader thoroughfare. Presently he heard the high-pitched, quavering notes of a negro melody, faint at first and seeming as much a part of nature as the russet glint of the setting sun through the trees. The song grew louder as he advanced, until, emerging into an open space, he came upon the singer, a gray-haired negro trudging sturdily along with a stout hickory stick in his hand. The negro doffed his cap and bowed humbly.

"Marstah, hez you seed anythin' ob a spotted heifer wid one horn broke off, anywhars on de road? She's pushed down de bars an' jes' skipped off somewhars."

"No, uncle, I've met no stray cows; but can you tell me how far it is to Major Hiram Gilcrest's? I'm a stranger in this region."

"Major Gilcrest's!" exclaimed the darkey. "You'se done pass de turnin' whut leads dar. Didn' you see a lane forkin' off 'bout a mile back by de crick, close to de big 'simmon-tree? Dat's de lane whut leads to Marstah Gilcrest's, suh."

"Ah, I see! but perhaps you can direct me to Mister Mason Rogers' house? My business is with him as well as with Major Gilcrest."

"I shorely kin," answered the negro, with a grin. "I b'longs to Marse Mason; I'se his ole uncle Tony. We libs two mile fuddah down dis heah same road, an' ef you wants to see my marstah an' Marstah Gilcrest bofe, you might ez well see Marse Mason fust, anyways; kaze whutevah he say, Marse Hiram's boun' to say, too. Dey's mos' mighty thick."

The stranger turned his head to hide a momentary smile.

"You jes' ride straight on," continued Uncle Tony, pointing northward with his stick; "fus' you comes to a big log house wid de shettahs all barred up, settin' by itse'f a leetle back frum de road, wid a woods all roun' it—dat's Cane Redge meetin'-house. Soon's you pass it, you comes to de big spring, den to a dirty leetle cabin whar dem pore white trash, de Simminses, libs. Den you strikes a cawnfiel', den a orchid. Den you'se dar. De dawgs an' chickens will sot up a tur'ble rumpus, but you jes' ride up to de stile an' holler, 'Hello!' an' some dem no-'count niggahs'll tek yo' nag an' construct you inter Miss Cynthy Ann's presence. I'd show you de way myse'f, on'y Is'e bountah fin' dat heifer; but you carn't miss de way."

With this he hobbled off down the road in search of the errant heifer. Meanwhile our traveler rode steadily forward until, in another half-hour, he came in sight of a more prosperous-looking clearing than any he had seen since leaving Bourbonton. To the right of the road some long-horned cattle and a mare and colt were grazing in a woodland pasture; to the left, in a field, several negroes were gathering the yellow corn from the shock and heaping it into piles. In an orchard adjoining the cornfield a barefooted, freckled-faced little girl was standing under an apple-tree with her apron held out to catch the fruit which another barefooted, freckled-faced little girl in the branches overhead was tossing down to her. In the center of a tree-shaded yard stood the house, a spacious, two-story log structure, with a huge rock chimney at each end.

As the stranger drew rein at the stile, he was greeted by a chorus of dogs, followed instantly by the cries of a number of half-clad, grinning little darkeys who came running forward from the negro quarters in the rear.

"Doan be skeered o' Ketchum, Mistah; he shan't tech you," called the largest of them, a bright-skinned mulatto, quieting the snarling dog with a kick.

"Reckon Marse Mason's somewhars 'roun' de place, suh," added the darkey in answer to the traveler's inquiry. "Miss Cynthy Ann she's in de settin'-room. Jes' walk in dar tru de passage-way, an' knock at de fust door you comes to. I'll tek yo' hoss, suh."

The stranger crossed the low, clapboard-covered porch and entered a wide, dusky hall running through the entire length of the house. The hum of a spinning-wheel guided him to a side door, at which he knocked. In answer to a loud "Come in," he stepped into a large room made cheerful by a gay rag carpet on the floor. A comely, middle-aged woman sat at a side window, at work with her needle on some coarse homespun material. Near her a bright-faced, rosy-cheeked girl, clad in short, linsey dress and homespun apron, had charge of the spinning-wheel in the center of the room. In one corner a negro girl was carding wool; and on the wide rock hearth two little boys were parching corn in a skillet.

"Glad to see you, suh," exclaimed Mrs. Rogers heartily, hastening toward the stranger with outstretched hand. "Susan," she said to the spinner, who came forward with a modest courtesy and a shy "Good evenin'," "set a cheer an' tek the gentleman's hat. Rache"—to the negro—"put by yer cardin' an' tek thet spinnin'-wheel out to the loom-room. Tommy an' Buddy, stop litt'rin' up the h'arth, an' run wash yer faces. Heah, tek this skillet with you, an' then see ef you kin find yer pap. He's down whar they're geth'rin' cawn, I reckon."

Seizing a split broom as she spoke, she brushed the hearth, then gave a tap with her foot to the smouldering logs, which broke into a blaze and sent a shower of sparks up the wide chimney.

"The days is gittin' cooler, 'spesh'ly ez night comes on. Draw up to the fire, suh—an', heah, tek this cheer; it's comf'tabler then that'n'," she said hospitably, ejecting a big tortoise-shell cat from the depths of a cushioned rocker which she pulled forward.

"My name is Dudley, madam; Abner Dudley," said the guest as he exchanged the straight, split-bottom chair for the rocker. "I learned from Squire Osborne, of Bourbonton, that a teacher was wanted in this neighborhood. I had intended going to Major Gilcrest's to-night, but made the wrong turning, and then met your old servant, who directed me here."

"You're welcome, I'm shore, 'spesh'ly ef you're a schoolmastah. We'd begun to think we warn't to hev no school a'tall this wintah. Folks 'roun' heah air beginnin' to tek big stock in schoolin'," she went on as she resumed her seat and began to sew.

"So Squire Osborne told me," answered Dudley. "I'm glad the people are interested in educational matters."

"Yes; Mr. Rogers, Hirum Gilcrest an' John Trabue air plum daft about it. Preachah Stone said last time he preached fur us thet we sartainly air progressin', an' I'm glad on it, too, though I never hed edvantiges myse'f. When I wuz a little gal down in Car'liny, I went to school long 'nough to l'arn my a-b-c's. Then the redskins broke up the school, an' we didn't hev no more tell I wuz a big gal an' 'shamed to go an' l'arn my a-b abs 'long with the little shavers. When I wuz 'bout sixteen, 'long comes Mr. Rogers, an' I didn't keer nothin' more 'bout school. You know, when a gal gits marryin' in her haid, thar ain't no room left in it fur book-l'arnin'. Mason he wuz a sprightly, well-sot-up young fellah, an' soon's I laid eyes on him (it wuz at a house-raisin' party), I wuz ready to say 'snip' ez soon ez he'd say 'snap.' Folks them days didn't fool 'way much time a-courtin'. A man'd see a likely gal, an' soon's he'd got a piece o' ground cl'ared an' a cabin raised, they'd be ready to splice. So Mason an' me wuz married, an' moved up to Kaintuck. Thet fust wintah, while we wuz a-livin' in the fort, Mason he broke his laig out huntin', an' while he wuz laid up a spaill, he l'arned me to read an' write an' ciphah some. I reckon ef it hadn't 'a' been fur thet crippled laig o' his'n, I'd nevah l'arned even thet much." She dropped her work for a moment as she reviewed this incident of her early married life.

"Doubtless, madam, you underrate your stock of learning. I dare say you made rapid progress," said Dudley, politely.

"Oh, I l'arned the readin' an' writin' all right, but, la! I nevah hed no haid fur figgahs. I jogged 'long purty brisk with the addin' an' subtractin', but them multiplyin' tables floored me. To this day I allus staggers at the nines, an' ef you wuz to ax me how much wuz seven times nine, I'd haf to count on my fingahs before I could tell whuthah it made forty-eight or fifty-seven—though I know it's one or tuthah. But times is changed, an' I want my childurn edicated in all the accompaniments."

"How many children have you?"

"Six livin'. We lost our fust two. Henry is goin' on seventeen, an' he jes' natch'ally teks to books—knows more'n his pap now, I reckon. Why, he kin figgah ez fast ez I kin ravel out a piece o' knittin', an' I nevah in my borned days heard nobody, 'cept mayby Preachah Stone, whut could read lak him. He kin run 'long ovah them big names in the papah an' them generalgies in the Bible lak a racin' pony. Susan, our eldest gal, is a little the rise o' fourteen, an' wuz counted the best spellah in the school last wintah. The twins, Lucindy an' Lucy, air real peart, too, fur ther age, jes' turned intah ther ninth year. Tommy, he's only five, but his pap'll sign him, too; fur we want him brung 'long fast in his books befoh he's big 'nough to holp with the wuck."

"That leaves only your youngest, I believe," said Dudley. "What is his name?"

"His real name is Barton Warren Stone, aftah our preachah. Mason he sets a big store by Preachah Stone—says he's the godliest man to be so smart an' the smartest man to be so godly he evah seen; an' you know them two things don't allus jump togethah."

"No, indeed," acknowledged Dudley; "they're not so often found in company as one might wish."

"Jes' so," assented Mrs. Rogers. "Well, ez I was a-sayin', Brothah Stone hed been preachin' fur us onct a month at Cane Redge meetin'-house 'bout a year when our youngest wuz borned; an' nothin' would do Mason but he must be called fur the preachah. It's a well-soundin' name, I think myse'f. So we writ it down in the big Bible, but, la! he might ez well be called aftah Ebenezer or Be'lzebub or any the rest o' them Ole Testament prophets. 'Bart,' or 'Barty,' is all he evah gits o' his big name, an' most times it's jes' 'Sonny' or 'Buddy.' But I reckon you're nigh 'bout starved, aftah ridin' so fur," she added, folding her sewing and rising briskly. "Heah, you kin look ovah last week's paper tell the men folks gits in. We air mighty proud o' that paper. It's the fust evah printed in Kaintuck. Mason an' Henry sets up tell nigh onto nine o'clock readin' it, the fust night aftah it comes. It's printed at Lexin'ton by John Bradford. He usetah live out heah, but, ten or twelve year ago, he moved intah Lexin'ton an' started up the 'Gazette,' an' I reckon it's 'bout the fines' paper whut evah wuz; leastways, it makes mighty fine trimmin's fur the cup'od shelves."

When his garrulous hostess had departed, Dudley, instead of reading the paper, looked about him. The chinked log walls of the room and the stout beams overhead were whitewashed, and the four tiny windows were curtained with spotless dimity. The high-posted bedstead was furnished with a plump feather bed, a bright patchwork quilt, and fat pillows in coarse but well-bleached slips. Underneath the four-poster was a trundle-bed with a blue and white checked coverlet. In an angle by the fireplace was a three-cornered cupboard, and between the front windows stood a chest of drawers with glass knobs. On the chest lay a big Bible, a hymn-book, and several more well-thumbed volumes. A large deal table with hinged leaves, a rude stand covered with a towel, several rush-bottomed chairs, and the rocker constituted the chief items of furniture. On the tall mantel, beside a loud-ticking clock, shone several brass candlesticks, flanked by a china vase, a turkey wing, and a pile of papers. Suspended from a row of pegs near the bed were various garments, and over the back doorway a pair of buck horns supported a rifle, near which hung a powder-horn.

Presently a heavy step was heard on the loose boards of a back porch. "Lucy," called a loud voice from without, "fotch some hot watah and the noggin o' soap. Lucindy, find me a towel." Further commands were lost in a loud splashing and spluttering; and in a few minutes Mason Rogers, red-faced, red-haired, and huge of frame, entered the room, pulling down the sleeves of his coarse shirt as he came.

"Howdy? howdy? Glad to see you, suh," he exclaimed, extending his hand. "My wife says you're a schoolmarster; and you air ez welcome ez rain to a parched cawnfield. Whar'd you say you hailed frum?" He seated himself as he spoke, tilting his chair against the mantel.

"From Virginia, sir."

"From Virginny! Then you're twict ez welcome. I wuz borned an' raised in the old State myse'f; and I'll allus hev a sneakin' fondness fur her, though she wouldn't loose her holt on us ez soon ez she oughter, an' she hain't treated us egzactly fair 'bout thet Transylvany College bus'ness, nuther."

"Oh," Dudley said pleasantly, "Virginia's the mother State, you know, and Kentucky a favorite child whom she grieved to have leave the parental roof."

"Well, hev it your own way, suh," answered Rogers, genially, drawing from the pocket of his butternut jeans trousers a twist of tobacco and helping himself to a generous chew. "'Pears to me, though, she acted more lak a stepmother—couldn't manidge us herse'f, but wuz jealous uv us settin' up fur ourse'ves. Still, that's all past an' gone. We got our freedom ez soon ez it wuz good fur us, I reckon; so I shan't hold no gredge agin her—'spesh'ly ez it won't mek a mite o' diffruns to her ef I do. Whut part o' Virginny air you frum, suh?"

"Culpeper County, near——"

"Culpeper County!" ejaculated Rogers, bringing his chair to a level with a bang and planting a hand on each knee. "Why, thet's my county, an' thar ain't another lak it on the livin' airth. Cynthy Ann," he called, striding to the back door, "you an' Dink skeer up somethin' extry fur suppah, can't you? This young feller's frum Culpeper County.—Hi, thar, Eph, give the gentleman's hoss a rubbin' down an' a extry good feed, an' let him have the best stall—Whut you say? Dandy an' Roan in the best stalls? Turn 'em out, then. Don't stand thar scratchin' yer haid an' grinnin' lak a 'possum, but stir yer stumps 'bout thet hoss!" Returning to his chair and resuming his former attitude, he said in a milder tone: "I 'low you b'long to the lawyer-makin' class o' schoolmarsters; all the teachers we've had yit b'longed to one o' two kinds. Either they wuz jes' school-keepers, kaze they wuz too 'tarnal lazy to do anythin' else, or they wuz ambitious young fellers whut aimed to mek the schoolmarster's desk a steppin'-stone to the jedge's bench. Now, you don't look lak one o' the lazy kind; so I reckon you air a sproutin' lawyer, hey?"

"No, sir, I've no ambition of that kind. My intention is to look about, while teaching, for a good tract of land. I want to settle in Kentucky, not as a lawyer, but as a farmer."

"Now you're talkin' sense! Lawyers an' perfessionals air gittin' ez thick in Bourbon an' Fayette ez lice in a niggah's haid. Ev'ry othah young fellah you see, ef he hez any book-l'arnin', thinks he's a second Patrick Henry or John Hancock. But whut we need hain't more lawyers an' sich lak, but more farmahs an' carpentahs an' shoemakahs. An', ez fur land, thar's a track uv 'bout three hundurd acres back thar on Hinkson Crick whut ole man Lucky, I heah, will sell fur one dollah an' two bits a acre—lays well, is well watered an' well timbered, an' the sile fairly stinks with richness. All it needs is cl'arin' up. I've been castin' longin' eyes on it myse'f, but I couldn't manidge no more land jes' now, I reckon. So my advice fur you is to buy uv Lucky right away. An', I tell you whut, ef you hain't got money 'nough by you jes' now, I'll lend it to you, an' tek a morgitch on the land. I tell you this is the fines' country in the univarse—healthy climit, sile thet'll grow anything, an', to cap all, the fines' grazin' in the world. Nevah seed nothin' lak it! Talk 'bout yer roses an' honeysuckles! they can't hold a candle to the grass 'roun' heah. It has a sortah glisten to it an' a bluish look when it heads out thet beats any flower thet blows fur purty. I hain't no Solomon, nor yit among the prophets; but, mark my word, in twenty year from now, this'll be the gairden spot o' creation. A clock-tinkah frum Connecticut, whut wuz heah last spring, got sortah riled at us, an' said we Kaintucks wuz ez full o' brag ez ef we wuz fust cousins to the king of England; but, Lawd! hain't we got reason to brag? Hain't ourn a reasonabler conceit then thet uv them ole 'ristercrats 'roun' Lexin'ton an' Bourbonton, allus talkin' o' ther pedergrees, an' ez proud ez though they wuz ascended frum the Sultan o' Asia Minor or the Holy Virgus hisse'f?"

"Indeed, you have reason to be proud," agreed Dudley, warmly; "in only a few years you have made a howling wilderness to blossom as the rose."

"You may well say this wuz a howlin' wilderness. Why, suh, jes' twenty year ago, in the spring o' 1780, when Dan'l Boone come to Kaintuck frum Car'liny, 'bout fifty uv us frum thet State come with him, through Cumberlan' Gap by the ole Wilderness road, an' we fit Injuns an' painters an' copperhaids all 'long the way."

"Did you settle at Boonesborough first?"

"Some did; but me an' Cynthy Ann (we wuz jes' married then) an' the Houstons an' Luckys an' Finleys an' Trabues pushed on up to whar Bourbonton is now. We built a fort near a big spring, an' called it an' the crick near by aftah ole Matt Houston. Thar wuzn't anothah house in this region, 'cep' at Bryant Station; and look at us now! Lexin'ton, nearly two thousand population—the biggest town in the State—an' Bourbonton a-treadin' right 'long on her heels—ovah four hundurd people now, an' a-growin' lak a ironweed. But in them ole days the only road wuz a big buffalo trail whut hez sence been widened an' wucked up inter 'Smith's wagon road,' runnin' 'long nigh Fort Houston; an' we settlers would kill buffalo an' sich like, an' tan the hides. Then 'long in 1784 some uv us concluded, ez the Injun varmints hed 'bout all been kilt or skeered away, that we'd open up farms. Boone come 'long agin, an' we axed him whar to settle—you know, he'd roamed all ovah these parts, an' knowed all the best places. He told us to come out to this redge whut sep'rates the waters o' Hinkson an' Stoner Cricks; an' he named it Cane Redge, fur, ez he said, the biggest cane an' the biggest sugar-trees in Kaintuck growed on it. So we come; an' a rough-an'-tumble life it wuz at fust." He crossed the room and drew back the curtain from one of the windows. "Thet ole smoke-house out thar undah the buckeye-tree wuz my fust home heah, suh. Until aftah the fust craps wuz in, none o' the settlers' cabins hed anythin' but dirt floors.

"Cissy," he said to Susan, who had just entered, "tell yer ma to git out the boughten table-cloth an' them blue chaney dishes—an' say, honey, you must set the table in heah. I hain't gwineter sot Mr. Dudley down to eat in the kitchen the fust night he breaks bread with us.

"Welt, ez I wuz a-sayin'," he continued to Dudley, resuming his seat, "our cabins hed dirt floors, an' the walls warn't chinked; an' ez fur winder glass, why, bless yer soul, we hardly knowed thar wuz sich a thing. The only cheers we had wuz stools made o' slabs sot on three laigs. Our table wuz made the same, an' our bed wuz laid on slabs whut rested on poles at the outsides, with the othah eends o' them let in between the logs o' the hut. Henry wuz a baby then, an' he wuz rocked in a sugar-trough cradle. But, pshaw! heah my tongue's a-runnin' lak a bell clappah; I reckon these ole 'membrances don't intrust you much, an'——"

"Indeed they do. It is more interesting than a romance. But tell me, how did you acquire so many negroes? You surely didn't bring them with you?"

"Lawd, no! Why, we wuz pore ez Job's turkey, an' hardly owned a shut to our backs, let 'lone niggahs. Aftah the country wuz more cl'ared up, folks moved in frum Virginny an' even Pennsylvany, an' brought slaves with 'em. Then the Yankee dealers begun to fotch 'em in an' sell 'em at Lexin'ton an' Louisville an' Limestone. Rube an' Dink wuz the fust I owned—bought 'em o' ole Jake Bledsoe in the spring o' '87. Now I own nigh on to twenty darkeys, big an' little. The place is fairly runnin' ovah with the lazy imps, an' it keeps me an' Cynthy Ann on the tight jump frum sun-up tell dark lookin' aftah 'em."

"How long have you owned Uncle Tony? He talks like a Virginia darkey."

"So he is. He's not only frum my own State, but frum my county an' town—ole Lawsonville. Cynthy Ann 'lows Tony's done got the measure o' my foot, an' thet I spile him dreadful. I reckon I hev got a sneakin' likin' fur his ole black hide; but whut could you expaict when he's the only pusson, black or white, I've laid eyes on frum Lawsonville sence I run away to Car'liny nigh thirty year ago? I'll tell you sometime how I happened on Tony; hain't time now, fur I smell the bacon a-fryin', an' I reckon suppah'll be dished up in no time now."

"Did I understand you to say Uncle Tony was from Lawsonville?"

"Egzactly! Do you know the place?"

"Why, it's my native town," said Dudley.

"Whut!" exclaimed Rogers. "Shake agin, suh," striding over to Dudley, who also had risen. "Then you're jes' lak my own kin frum this time on. Frum Lawsonville!" he repeated, a tear on each swarthy cheek as he grasped the young man's hand.

"Say," he continued eagerly, after a moment's silence, "is the ole forge whut stood at the crossroads, jes' on the aidge o' the town, still thar? And the little brown house jes' behind it with the big mulberry-tree in the yard? That's whar I wuz borned, an' many's the hoss I've shod at the ole forge.—Tommy." addressing the little boy who was passing the door of the room, "run to the spring-house branch an' fotch some mint, an' then a gourd o' watah. We'll celebrate with a toddy, I reckon, suh," he said to Dudley, as he went to the cupboard for a glass, sugar, and a demijohn of whiskey. "Tell me, is ole Jeems Little still livin'? He usetah keep the red tavern in the middle uv the town. An' say, whut's become o' Si Johnson an' Mack Truman? We wuz boys together, an' many's the game we've—Good Lawd!" he broke off joyfully as he mixed the toddy, "I hain't been so happy sence the day I wuz convarted an' chased the devil outen the persimmon-tree!"

Presently the family and their guest were seated at the supper table bedecked in all the splendor of the "boughten cloth" and "blue chaney" dishes, and loaded with corn dodgers, roasted potatoes, bacon, hominy, pickled cabbage leaves and honey. Just as the others were taking their places, Henry Rogers entered, and, after bashfully greeting the stranger, took his place at the table. He was a tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired lad of seventeen, with stooping shoulders, slouching figure, big feet and toilworn hands. His large-featured, freckled face was kept from commonplaceness by its frank gray eyes, broad brow, firm chin and refined mouth.

"Try an' mek out yer suppah, suh," Mrs. Rogers urged as she handed Dudley a cup of steaming coffee. "I'm feared thar ain't much fittin' to eat. Ef we'd knowed in time, we might hev killed a shoat."

"Try some o' this middlin'," chimed in Rogers on the other side, passing the dish. "Tilt up the plattah an' git some gravy; it's better'n the meat. Wish 'twuz time fur 'possum. My mouth fa'rly watahs fur a taste o' possum meat. 'Tain't jes' a fashionable dish now, I reckon," he continued, reaching out for a potato; "Susan heah kindah turns up her nose et 'possum, an' I reckon Mar'm Gilcrest would die away et the sight uv 'possum meat on her table, but——"

The mention of Mrs. Gilcrest acted as a challenge to Mrs. Rogers. "Jane Gilcrest's a fine somebody to turn up her nose et 'possum! A purty mess her table'd be, fur all its silver spoons an' fine chaney, ef she hed the settin' uv it.—Tommy, don't spill thet gravy on the tablechoth. I'll send you'n' Buddy to the kitchen ef you can't eat lak white folks!—She puffs herse'f on bein' a Temple, an' claims they wuz uv the bluest blood in Virginny. Frum the way she spouts 'bout her generalgies, her fambly tree must be ez fine an' big ez thet ole elm down thah by the spring-house; but be thet ez it may, she's a pore limb offen any fambly tree, with her sheftless ways.—Rache, fotch in some moah hom'ny.—Gilcrest's got the finest house in these parts, and——"

"Yes," interrupted her husband, "the logs is weathahboa'ded an' the walls plarstahed, an' thah's big porches with pillahs an' lots o' fine fixin's 'roun' the cornish. The weathahboa'din' an' shingles an' door an' windah frames wuz brung frum Pittsburg to Limestone on flatboats, an' wagoned through frum thah. Sam Carr did the wag'nin'! 'Twuz a big undahtakin', but he made money on it."

"The furnicher's ez fine ez the house," went on Mrs. Rogers. "Thar is a boughten cairpit in the parlor, an' mahog'ny sofy an' cheers.—Lucindy, wipe yer knife on yer bread befoh he'pin' yo'se'f to buttah. Can't I nevah l'arn you no mannahs?"

"They have a big music-piece with ivory keys, and Miss Abby's teaching Betsy to play on it," said Susan, forgetting her shyness, and her blue eyes shining at the recollection of this wonder.

"Yes, it's all mighty fine, an' I'm shore I don't begrudge any uv it: an' now thet Miss Abby hez come to live thar an' Betsy's gittin' to be a big gal, things is bettah looked aftah," Mrs. Rogers conceded. "The heft o' manidgment falls on Betsy an' Miss Abby, fur Jane hain't no more faculty then a grasshopper.—Lucy, don't eat with yer fingers lak a niggah. Whut's yer knife fur, ef it ain't to eat with?—I wuz ovah there last spring, 'long in April or May, an' axed Jane ef she'd got her soap grease made up. She looked et me onconsarned lak, an' says she really didn't know; ole Dilsey allus looked aftah sich things. Think on it! a wife an' mothah an' housekeepah not knowin' ef the year's soap grease wuz wucked up—an' it late on in spring, too. Jane she knits some, an' she kin do a lot o' fine herrin'-bonin' an' tattin' an' tambour wuck; but spinnin' an' weavin' an' mekin' candles an' soap, an' sich useful emplements, she don't consarn about no more'n my Lucindy an' Lucy.—Henry, ef you eat any more o' thet bacon, you'll be squealin' lak a pig, befoh mawnin'. Hev some more honey, Mistah Dudley."

After supper was over, the table cleared, and the two little boys stowed away in the trundle-bed, the rest of the family gathered about the broad hearth.

"Heah." Mrs. Rogers said to the twins, "you don't go to the kitchen to play. You fooled 'way so much time out in the orcha'd this evenin' thet yer stent hain't nigh done. Set right down on them stools, an' don't let me heah a word outen you tell them socks is ready to hev the heel sot. Ha'f a finger length more you've both got to knit." She measured the unfinished socks, and then handed each little girl her task. "Henry, you'll put yer eyes out readin' by thet fire, an' me an' Susan needs all the candle-light fur our wuck. 'Pears lak you ain't nevah happy 'less you've got yer nose in some book. Heah, Cissy, them britches' laigs is ready to seam up. Mek yer stitches good an' tight, else you'll haf to rip it all out an' do it ovah. Snuff the candle, fust, an' hand me thet hank o' thread an' the shears, befoh you set down."

"Le's see," said Rogers to his guest, taking a corncob pipe from the mantel and lighting it with a fire coal. "This is Friday, an' school oughtah begin Monday. Bettah draw up a subscription paper to-night, an' ride 'roun' with it airly to-morrow. I'll send Henry 'long to show you the way. Set right down heah by the table an' draw up yer writin's. Henry, light anothah candle." As he spoke, he went to the tall chest of drawers and took out paper, a bottle of pokeberry ink, and a bunch of quills.

"I see you kin mek a pen," he continued, as Dudley took out his knife, selected a quill, and proceeded in a businesslike way to point it. "Now, whut kind uv a fist do you write? Hope you kin mek all the flourishes; ha'f the folks in Bourbon County jedge a man's book l'arnin' by the way he writes. That's hunkey-dorey!" he exclaimed, looking over the writer's shoulder. "Thet'll fetch 'em!"

When the clock pointed to half-past eight, Mrs. Rogers rolled up her work, declaring it time for all honest folks to be abed. "Thar's lots o' wuck to be did to-morrow, an' the only way to git it did, is to tek a good holt on the day at the start, an' set it squarely on its laigs."

CHAPTER II.

GETTING TO WORK

"This process of 'setting the day on its legs' is certainly a noisy one," was Abner's first thought next morning as he awoke in the gray dawn to find that the place beside him in the big feather bed had already been vacated by Henry.

Above the clatter made by dogs, chickens and geese in the yard below, could be heard the stentorian tones of Mason Rogers evoking his black myrmidons. "Hi, thar, Rube, Tom, Dink, Eph! Wake up, you lazy varmints!" From the negro quarters came, in answer to each name, "Yes, suh! Comin', Marstah!" The creaking boards of the back porch, the slamming of doors, the clatter of cooking utensils, and the admonishing voice of Mrs. Rogers attested that she, too, was taking "holt on the day" in earnest.

Dudley slipped into his clothes and hastened down the steep stairway in search of such toilet accessories as his attic apartment did not afford. When he reached the porch, the twins provided him with a basin of water, a "noggin" of lye soap, and a towel; and telling him he would find the "coarse comb on the chist of drawers in the settin'-room," hurried to the poultry-yard, where the chickens were already off their roosts and clamoring for their morning meal.

His toilet completed, Dudley started for a ramble before breakfast. At first a faint pink light began to tinge the eastern sky, but presently, from over the crest of the hills across the road, the sun arose like a red ball, dispersing the chill gray mist, and the new day, fresh and radiant and vibrant with the songs of birds, the crowing and cackling of chickens, and the lowing of cattle, was fully inaugurated.

If the stranger found the scene in front of the house quietly beautiful, no less interesting was the more homely one to the rear. In the stable lot Susan and Rache were each stooping beside a long-horned cow, milking. In another enclosure Eph was struggling to head off a determined little calf from its mother, a fierce-looking spotted cow which a negro woman was trying to milk. At the window of the barn loft could be seen a negro man tossing down hay to the horses; and in a lot across the way a number of hogs, in answer to Henry's loud "Soo-e-ey, soo-e-ey!" came clamoring and squealing for the corn "nubbins" he was tossing from the sack across his shoulders.

Soon after breakfast, Abner, accompanied by Henry, set out with the subscription paper.

"How many signers did you git?" inquired Rogers that night when the family were again assembled around the fire.

"Forty-three down, four more doubtful, and two more promised conditionally."

"Who air the conditionals?"

"The Hinkson children."

"Whut's Bushrod Hinkson mekin' conditions fur, I'd lak to know?" exclaimed Mrs. Rogers. "I'll bet it's jes' his stinginess. He'd skin a flea fur its hide an' taller, any day."

"He will send his children only on condition that I work out a certain problem which it seems the last two schoolmasters could not solve."

"Pshaw!" ejaculated Rogers. "Is he still pipin' on thet ole sum? It's in po'try, ain't it?"

"Yes," replied Dudley, taking a slip of paper from his pocket and reading therefrom: