Читать книгу Voices; Birth-Marks; The Man and the Elephant - Mathew Joseph Holt - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Knowest thou only the language of man?

Hast never heard the plaintive flute of Pan,

Or those gladsome carols that greet the light?

Or the wild, strange voices of darkest night?

Each of earth’s creatures when at work or play,

Each of nature’s force in some strange way,

Has a manner of attaining to God’s ear,

And a voice which those attuned may hear.

Voices of spring are love songs of the birds,

Fragrant poems of lilacs, lacking words;

Summer voices are of riper, mellower strain;

Autumn’s, sing of harvest and life not vain;

Winter tells the story of what has been,

Season of reflection, of the voice within,

Promise of tomorrow, freedom from sin.

Big Creek bisects the narrow valley and the road to Hyden follows the bank, crossing from side to side as the sheerness of the mountain side makes necessary. Here and there the valley broadens until there is almost enough level land for a farm; and always where there is a little width of valley you find a mountain home. The mountain tops and sides are great wildernesses, though sometimes in a cove or on the plateau a hermit or outcast family makes its home.

At old man Litman’s place the valley is quite narrow, except below the “Rock House,” where there is an old field cleared by his grandfather, who came from Virginia [pg 8] in 1795. A sprawling rail fence, hedged about by thrifty bush growth, encircles the old field; pawpaw bushes growing in the fence corners encroach to the ruts of the road; and each year new growth of sumac and persimmon appropriate yet more of the old field; which having been cultivated for near a century and grown unproductive, is given over to a volunteer crop of broom sedge, which furnishes meager pasturage for an old mule and two cows.

On the edge of the road at the fence corner nearest the cabin, Litman’s granddaughter has a doll house; if mere tracings of pebbles and shells gathered from the creek shallows can be called partitions and the bushes and vines, walls and a roof. The white room is traced in white pebbles the red room in red pebbles and the kitchen in the commoner blue ones. The furnishings are bits of broken crockery, glass and shell. The dolls are small bleached bones or bits of peeled pawpaw sticks, dressed in blouses made from a worn out sleeve of grandpa’s red undershirt and skirts from scraps of worn and faded calico. She has never seen a doll house, never a real doll, only pictures. This, her creation, was suggested by instinctive motherhood and love for home.

A passing traveler would have thought several children were playing at the fence corner. The little make-believe mother was talking to her babies and answering for them in even thinner and more subdued voice than her own; though she had the low voice of a child accustomed to play alone.

“Now Jeanne, let’s make grandpa some nice pone bread; the meal is fresh and sweet. When it is ready you run to the spring and bring him a cup of cold milk.”

“Granny, while you are mixing the bread maybe I can find an egg in the loft. I heard Old Speck cackling.”

[pg 9] “There is grandpa calling, I will go and see what he wants.”

“He says, would you mind moving him a wee bit? His bones shore do ache.”

Here the dialogue ended, the girl’s attention having been caught by the voice of an old friend; except for which the valley had the quietude not alone of a warm mid-afternoon but of a great solitude, so profound that you might even fancy hearing the smoke curling up from the chimney of the cabin, a hundred yards away. Yet, if you listen you may hear the chirping of the grass creatures and the rippling water washing along the pebbly bed of the creek.

A lone tree, long dead, and bleached to bony whiteness, stands in the center of the old field and from its topmost snag a lark gives voice to a series of pensive, dreamy, flute-like notes. The girl, after listening for some time, resumes the dialogue.

“Children, we will climb on the fence and hear what Yellow Vest has to say. I think he is whistling to his wife, who hunts crickets in the broom sedge.”

“Maw, tell us what he says?”

“‘Love, thou art safe! art safe! I watch for thee! for thee! and babies.’ It is not so much what he says as the way in which he says it.”

The feeble voice of the old grandmother calls: “Jeanne, come help your granny;” and placing her dolls in their little beds of sticks, moss and bird feathers, and the little baby in its cradle, the half of a mussel shell, she goes to the house.

————

John Morgan Allen lived in Lexington, Kentucky. His father was a lawyer of considerable prominence; his mother, a Morgan, granddaughter of a distinguished soldier; [pg 10] his grandmother was the daughter of John Calvin Campbell, an eloquent pioneer preacher; her husband, a lawyer when she married him, afterwards became a professional gambler and, an exception to the rule, accumulated a considerable fortune.

It was young Allen’s mother’s desire that he should be a soldier; his father’s that he should be a lawyer, and his grandmother’s that he should be a preacher. When he finished high school, his mother insisting, he was sent to Culver Military Institute, where he remained a year. Then his grandmother, having promised to give him $25,000.00 the day he should graduate at the Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary; he was sent to that institution. In the beginning of his senior year she died intestate, leaving an estate of only $60,000.00 to be divided between three living children and the heirs of three dead children. As there was no chance of the fulfillment of her promise when he should graduate at the seminary; and his conduct had been such that his professors had suggested a reformation in conformity with his prospective calling, he wrote asking his father’s consent to leave the seminary and take the law course at the University of Virginia; and he cheerfully consented. In spite of the fact that he gave much of his time to a local military company and enjoyed the reputation of being the best poker player at the university, he graduated with class honors in 1912.

Several weeks after his return home, on his twenty-second birthday, his father took him to the office and with great gladness in his heart, pointed to the name, Allen & Allen, which had been painted on the office door the day before; showed him the new embossed stationery on which his name appeared as a member of the firm; and his own room, newly painted, carpeted and furnished, [pg 11] with the name John Morgan Allen (Private) on the door. Though John’s face wore a smile of appreciation, it was merely reflective of his father’s love and enjoyment; disposition and temperament suggested rebellion, but were overcome by a sense of gratitude and duty.

In the early summer of 1913 the firm were employed by the Lockard heirs to clear the title to a large boundary of land in Leslie county; and it became necessary for John and the executor to go to Hyden for that purpose.

Just at sundown as they were riding by Litman’s old field, John’s horse shied and backed through the pawpaw bushes into Jeanne’s doll house. He dismounted and patched the partition walls into shape; then parting the bushes, showed it to Mr. Lockard.

To John, the little bone and stick dolls, dressed in rags and resting in their beds of moss and feathers were pathetic. He picked several up, and was examining them when a slender girl of twelve, in an outgrown, worn and faded dress, which did not reach to her knees, ran up crying: “Do not hurt my babies.” John rose hastily, somewhat disconcerted by the accusation, and lifting his hat and gravely bowing, assured her he had no such intention; whereupon without uttering another word, she turned and ran into the Litman cabin.

The cabin, built in the days when the family was relatively prosperous, had a spare room for visitors. As it was now sundown the men asked and were given shelter for the night.

Jeanne showed them where their horses were to be stabled; and then went into the house to help with supper. Her grandmother noted that she was very exact in setting the table; getting out the only white cloth they had and doing her best with their meager stock of china to make it attractive. This special attention was due to [pg 12] the lifted hat and formal bow with which John had greeted the child. It was the first time a man had ever tipped his hat to her.

After supper John and Mr. Lockard seated themselves for a smoke on a great rock that jutted into the creek and enjoyed not only the profound repose but the mystic beauty of the scene, which was accentuated by the light of a full moon and the deep shadows made by the trees and mountain.

John, a person of moods and imagination—possibly due to his complex ancestry—gave expression to his thoughts: “How soothing, how delightfully peaceful, how homelike, is this humble home. There is no place here for sorrow and tears, no room for envy, no cause for covetousness or discontent. Some people, and I believe I am one, might be happy here, happier than in a city, just getting his part of the sunlight, just breathing his part of this untainted air.”

While he was talking in this strain, Jeanne, coming up, stood listening; and when he had finished said:

“We have our troubles. You have not seen grandpa. He’s sick in bed. He can’t move except his hands and head and they shake all the time. He says he is a corpse with a chill and lies in his bed with nothing to do but wait. When I ask ‘Wait for what?’ He answers, ‘Tomorrow.’ To me tomorrow is like today. The cows will go to pasture, the creek will run over the same pebbles, the mail man will come at noon and stop for dinner, the lark will sing the same song; but if I stump my toe it will be well tomorrow. Go in and talk to grandpa. He likes to hear things. He lies on his bed until his bones ache. He looks out at the same trees and rocks and the same reach of the creek. I hope when he sleeps there is a change and he has dreams like mine and hears voices [pg 13] sweeter than those of the day; though I love the voice of the lark and the red bird and the wren; the murmur of the water on the rocks and most of all the little creatures we do not see and will not hear, unless we are very still. They are hidden in the grass and in the rocks. Alone not one of them can be heard, but together they make soft music, a chorus of glad hearts. One little blackbird makes a noise, but when a thousand speak at once it makes a song. So it seems to me, if I should live here always, with just grandpa and granny, what I said would be as the chirp of one little bug or the call of a lost blackbird; but if I chirp or call out with a thousand, my voice is the thousandth part of a song.”

“Jeanne, we will go in and talk with your grandpa. Can he read, or do you read to him?”

“He used to read before he broke his specks. I am trying hard to learn to read good, so I can read to him. The teacher sometimes boards with us; she says I will soon know how. It will be nice then. I try to read his Bible to him but the words are too big. Teacher says I need a book to tell me the meaning of big words. I know just the part of the Bible he loves and I am learning it by heart. I stand and say it to him, looking in the book and he thinks I read it.”

“What do you say to him, Jeanne?”

“‘And God shall wipe all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death; neither sorrow nor dying; neither shall there be any more pain.’ And I know all of the fourteenth chapter of John, which tells us not to let our troubles worry us, because in the Father’s house there is a home of many rooms and one is for me. And when I say, ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you;’ he makes me read it again. * *”

[pg 14] They went in and spent an hour with the old man. Seeing them was a break in his bedridden monotony, shifting scene and introducing new characters.

His had been a calm, relatively happy life until he was seventy years of age; then misfortune overwhelmed him. He lost his savings; his son, Sylvester, Jeanne’s father, died; a few weeks later he had a stroke of apoplexy and now a shivering palsy possessed his limbs. For more than five years he had lain in his bed, nursed by wife and granddaughter.

His wife by most rigid economy had managed to feed the family of three; though they were poorly clad and were frequently denied many things deemed essential to life.

————

Simeon Blair for ten years had been carrying the mail from the mouth of Big Creek to Hyden, going up one day and returning the next. He usually ate his noon-day meal at Litman’s, which he called the “Half-way House.”

About ten days after Mr. Allen and his client had spent the night at the Litman cabin, Blair rode up on his old gray mare and seeing Jeanne coming from the spring, took from a gunny sack a parcel post package about a foot square; and holding it above his head called out: “Guess whose this is?”

“Grandpa’s.”

He shook his head, saying: “Guess again.”

“Granny’s.”

“Wrong, guess again.”

“Is it for us?”

“Yes.”

“Then it must be for me; but I have never had anything before. It is not Christmas. O! who could have sent it?”

[pg 15] She took it with timid joy and examined it carefully, reading aloud in a halting way—“Miss Jeanne—no it’s not Jeanne; what is it Simeon?”

“Jeannette.”

“Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek, Leslie County, Ky.”

And in the upper left-hand corner—

“From John M. Allen, Lexington, Ky.”

“Open it, let’s see what’s inside.”

“Not till grandpa wakes up.”

She went to his door, he was awake; so she called her grandmother and Simeon.

“Look, grandpa, see what’s come by mail. Listen: ‘Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek, Leslie County, Kentucky. From John M. Allen, Lexington, Ky.’ What can it be?”

“Open it and find out.”

“Simeon, you untie the string.”

“Cut it, it’s dinner time.”

(Granny) “No, it’s a piece of good whip-cord, undo the knot.”

“Well, Miss Jeannette Litman, there it is.”

“Can you see, grandpa?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Watch close—O! this is for you, grandpa. See your name? Shall I open it?—Some silver specks, in a bright new case. Now I know why he asked me for the broken ones.”

“Look! Look! this has granny’s name on it, what can it be?”

“You open it, dear.”

“No, granny, you must open your own bundle.”

“Just what I wanted. I remember saying that when I went to Hyden I would have to buy a pair of shears [pg 16] and a black shawl with the money we got for the goose feathers. Now we can get a sack of flour and goods for Jeanne’s dress.”

“It is my turn now, ‘For Jeannette Litman,’ such purty shoes; how did he know my size? O! he had me step in the dusty road and then he measured the track, saying a fairy had passed this way; and here is a little blue silk handkerchief and two books. What does this spell, Simeon? University Dictionary? What is a dictionary?”

“A book that tells what big words mean.”

“Here is the other book, ‘The Little Colonel at Boarding School;’ and here’s more, two boxes—dolls! real dolls! all dressed and asleep in their best clothes, shoes and real hair. O, you beautiful things! You sweet darlings! Look granny! the top dress is just like spider web with dew on it. We will name this one after you, granny. I bet you was as purty when you were a little girl. This is Jane Wilson and the other I will call Ruth, Ruth Dixon, after mother.”

Jeanne insisted on writing the letter thanking Mr. Allen for the gifts; and it was a momentous undertaking. Simeon brought a stamp, envelope and two sheets of paper in a thread box from the general store at the mouth of Big Creek. There was a pen and ink in the house, though it was necessary to dilute the ink before using it.

At a loss as to how to address the envelope and commence her letter, she consulted her grandmother; but would hear no other suggestions. At the end of the second day’s series of efforts on her slate she was sufficiently satisfied to transcribe what she had printed to paper. In her many attempts to find out how to spell certain words she discovered that the new dictionary was [pg 17] marvelously arranged in alphabetical order, and in possession of this key, finally mastered it.

In searching through the dictionary by chance she came upon the word correspondence and learned its meaning. The word had caught her eye, because among their few books, all of which had belonged to her great grandfather, there was a set in old sheep binding of “Jefferson’s Correspondence.” She took down Volume IV; and opening it at letter CXXVIII, was better pleased with the style of address, in writing a person of Mr. Allen’s greatness; and concerning such matters of importance, than the one her grandmother had given her and adopted it.

So she began tediously to print:

“To John Allen.

“Dear Sir:

“The simultaneous movements in our correspondence have been remarkable on several occasions. It would seem as if the state of the air, or the state of the times, or some other unknown cause, produced a sympathetic effect in our mutual recollections. i has to say grandpas specks was the first thing we found in the box. you know i could a got along with them bone dolls dressed in his old red shirt but times would a been hard outen them specks he lays on the bed with a chair under his head and reads his bible now when onct he had to wait tell i had time he says now the windows are open. how did you come to send granny a black shawl you had not seen her shake with the cold like I has done. my feet is tuf i could a done outen the shoes but she jest had ter have the shawl and the shears. i know now why you had me step in the dust. granny says men are sly and gals must be shy but why dident you jest say Jeannette let me see your feet i keeps them purty clean.

[pg 18] “o the dolls the purty dolls they is too fine for the fence corner so i puts them in bed with me and holds them when i says my prayers and sees them in my dreams. they left the words tuf and purty and outen outen the dictionary you tell the man what made it i am shore he will hate it he says ter means three ter with us means same as to. i knows now what correspondence, dictionary and Colonel mean. i spect when i read the book ter find out why they calls a gal a little Colonel but i cant say now. give me time. granny says i is set in my ways like grandpa and i is set ter learn

“correspondence is nice but hard work but let us correspondence. last year when Christmas come i had roast chestnuts and to red apples. granny told me a tale about santaclaws i think you is it. the paper is all gone. i must stop

“I salute you with all affection. T. J. whats the T. J. fer. i found it at the end of a letter in Jefferson’s Correspondence truly Jeannette i say that is my name sense you writ it

T. J.”

When Mr. Allen received the letter he was as proud of it as if it had been written him by the recently inaugurated Democratic president. He showed it to several of his girl friends, including Miss Bradley, who insisted upon keeping it, saying she wished to send some little presents the following Christmas.

At that time he felt the world would have been a barren waste except for that young lady. The letter passed into her possession; was kept for several weeks and then forgotten and misplaced. Memory of the little mountain girl passed from her mind long before Christmas. John remembered her, merely as one might a visit from a dream fairy.

[pg 19] An hour before John awoke on Christmas morning his mother came to his room and placing a chair near his bed, piled upon it his Christmas presents. There was a check from his father, handkerchiefs, neckties, gloves, a smoking jacket and even a stocking full of nuts and candies from his mother—he was her only child; still her little boy. There were several small remembrances from relatives and friends, a box of cigars from Miss Bradley; and beneath all a parcel in brown wrapping paper and unadorned by either Christmas seal, holly or ribbon.

The breakfast gong sounded; it scarcely disturbed his dreams. Then the house boy came to his room and shook him saying: “Mars John, it’s near nine er’clock, your maw says git up. Christmas gift!”

“Christmas morning and a fine day, cool, clear, a white Christmas! Sammy, you caught me, didn’t you? I will give you my last winter’s overcoat; it’s as good as new, or three one dollar bills; which shall it be?”

“Boss, that’s a mighty fine overcoat, but I’s got ter git that yaller gal Melinda something, I guess I better take them three dollars.”

“Well, here it is, Sammy.”

Sammy went down the stairs muttering: “This hayr nigger ain’t no fool, not yit! Unless I gits drunk and loses this place, I’ll git that overcoat for a New Year’s gift.”

John, slipping on the new smoking jacket, sat on the edge of the bed and with the pleased curiosity of a boy of twelve inspected his presents.

“Well Pip (meaning his father) must be feeling good this Christmas; his check will come in handy. What nice things mother buys; she’s always thinking of my comfort. Perfectos from Sally Bradley and strong black ones; she should know by now I don’t like that brand. [pg 20] That’s the cigar that Jelly Bean Stoll smokes. He’s been there quite a bit lately. I bet she sent the brand I like to him; got things mixed up. Oh! what a beautiful cigar case, and from Fannie Scott! She’s the hot stuff! That girl has some taste! She gets better looking every day. I’ll go to see her tomorrow night; but I really should go to Sally’s. Hello! here’s a beefsteak or ten pounds of nails; it looks like it just came from the butcher shop or the hardware store. No, it’s from Big Creek! Where’s Big Creek? Oh, I remember that little girl, all legs and arms. She looked like a mosquito and talked like a preacher. Well! Well! Well! mittens and yarn socks; the first I have seen in ten years, and a letter.

————

“Big Creek, Kentucky.

“December 18th, 1914.

“John M. Allen, Esq.

“Dear Friend:

“It is seven months today since you were here and I have grown a lot. My birthday was last month, November 7th. I am now thirteen. Miss Smith, the teacher, says: ‘Jeannette at last you know how to write a letter. No wonder, you have spent half your time trying.’ The dictionary is nearly worn out. I look up every word.

“Last summer I hunted ‘Sang’ on the mountain for three days and when granny went to Hyden to sell the feathers, the eggs and a basket of chickens, she sold it and the store man gave her 1 dollar and 60 cents, all mine.

“Hi Lewis lives up the creek. He has some sheep and I bought 2 pounds of wool from him with part of my money. I washed the wool until it was as white as the whiskers of Santa Clans then I spun it into yarn on granny’s spinning wheel and gave Sim Blair the mail man two bit to buy me some red and blue dyes and some I made red and some blue. With the blue I made granny [pg 21] some mits and grandpa some socks but I kept the red for your Christmas gift and last night I finished it.

“I hope you will like your red mittens and red and black socks. They are just as purty as the red bird that roosts in the cedar trees near the barn. Granny said most of the men in the blue grass wore black socks but I said they is not nice enough for you, so to please everybody I made them red with black toes and tops. Maybe my gay little soldier of the cedar trees was the cause I made them red and black. He has so much to whistle about even when it is cold and the snow is deep. Just now he lit on the window sill, knocking off the snow. I had a good look into his bright black face. How purty and red his coat was against the snow. If it was not for him and my dolls and the books you gave me I would be lonesome. Granny says I am too old to play with dolls; but she does not know what they whisper to me.

“How still it is in the winter time. By day we hear the red bird and the crows; at night if it storms, the wind; if it is still and snowing, the murmur of the flakes; if the moon is full a great owl calls; if I wake in the night and it is dark and still I hear the whispers of either the angels or of my dolls who sleep with me. One of the dolls is granny and the other is my mother, and they tell me what they used to do when they were girls like me. Sometimes grandpa calls and when I go to him he asks: ‘Did you hear that?’ ‘What, grandpa?’ ‘Someone calling, it sounded like your pa.’ Grandma says he is going to die soon. I believe up here we hear voices you cannot hear where there is so much noise.

“I know Santa Claus will bring you nice things because you are so good.

“Yours truly,

“Jeanette.”

[pg 22]

“Well, it is nice to be remembered, even though the remembrance is impossible. I will put them and the letter away with other treasured and impractical things that have been sent me by girl friends. I feel sorry for that lonesome little half-starved thing. She will grow up into a scrawny, tired-looking woman; marry some man who will work her to death. No telling what she might do with advantages and in another environment.”

After breakfast, he telephoned a book store asking that a dictionary and some appropriate books be sent to Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek, Kentucky. The clerk who took the order, having recently read Mark Twain’s Joan of Arc, mailed a copy of that book with the dictionary.

A week later Mr. Allen received a letter from Jeannette thanking him for the books.

————

Verona, Italy.

——— Hospital, Ward 11.

December 2, 1917.

Dear Little Jeannette:

To children like you nothing is unexpected. You believe witches are abroad on dark nights, while fairies dance in the moonlight; and that angels protect you from evil spirits.

When you grow older experience plucks these pinions of fancy; you can no longer soar but become an earth stained materialist, surprised if your plans of the morrow miscarry and you find yourself in New York when you expected to be in Washington.

A year ago today I was defending a suit against the Lexington Railway Company; had become reconciled to law and expected to continue in that comparatively thrill-less profession. I might have thought by now I [pg 23] would be married—but I certainly did not think that I would occupy a bed in Ward 11 of an army hospital at Verona; so far away that it is impossible to send you even a book for Christmas.

Looking backward, it is easy enough to explain why I am here. Not understanding what war was; not appreciating what a government undertakes that declares war, I grew impatient at our country’s apparent criminal slowness in getting into the war; and in February, 1917, went to Montreal and enlisted. In March 1,500 of us were loaded aboard the Burmah and that transport steamed a thousand miles down the St. Lawrence to the ocean and at the end of a two weeks’ voyage by the northern passage, over a gray fog-burdened ocean by day, a phosphorescent billowy one by night, we landed at Liverpool.

At a cantonment, a few miles from London, we were subjected to four months’ strenuous training; and presumedly because I had attended a military school for a year, I was commissioned a lieutenant in the British army. At the end of the four months our regiment was loaded aboard a transport and many of us did not learn our destination until we were landed at ——, Italy. (We are not allowed to name the port.)

We reported to General, the Earl of Cavan, commanding the British forces in Italy; and after several weeks’ training were ordered to the Piave front.

On the 24th of October at the battle of Caporetto, I experienced the same sensation as though I had been struck in the chest by a brick, when it was but a small calibre, soft nosed bullet; and remember having been loaded into, and it seemed riding for days in, an overfilled ambulance, just enough alive to have a dull sense of pain and to feel the concussion of the great guns, though the reports seemed muffled and far away.

[pg 24] I lost consciousness; was no longer near the battlefield, but at your home in the mountains of Kentucky. I heard no sounds save the murmur of running water and the song of a wood thrush. All about was the implacable serenity of the blue sky and the everlasting hills. The face of nature was unscarred; there were no shell holes, no splintered trees, no pools of blood, no dead and dying.

Strange that I should think of you and your mountain home in the midst of battle, violence and death. Strange that when I went on my journey into the valley of the shadow, falling, falling, falling, into a darkness that seemed to freeze my soul, you, a little girl, were the only one near. Strange that when I came back to consciousness, it was by way of the creek valley and your home and you were leading me by the hand. Returning to consciousness I discovered it was not you but a soft-voiced, patient, white-robed Italian nurse; and I was here. What brought you so vividly to mind? Can you tell? It must have been the contrast between your home as I saw it that moonlit night and the battle field, with its barbarities, vengeances, and human abominations.

There is a sharp pain when I breathe or cough. I am ill, homesick, among strangers, I feel deserted. To you, a little girl, the acquaintance of a day, some influence impels me to write, though I have heard nothing since you sent the red socks and mittens, and wrote thanking me for the books. Since I have been wounded I have learned there are many things I may not know.

Tell me of your own life and picture it in your own way; and also of your part of Kentucky. Even now I see your face and hear your voice; it seems nearer than my mother’s—and she is a wonderful, much-loved woman.

[pg 25] I do not recover my strength as I should and will be here for some time—if you care to write.

Your friend,

John M. Allen.

————

Lieutenant John M. Allen,

——— Hospital, Ward 11, Verona, Italy.

Dear Mr. Allen:

For several years I have been waiting, not daring to hope, but longing for a letter—and it came on Christmas Eve. I am answering the afternoon of Christmas Day.

The earth is mantled in white, and crystals of crisp snow give back myriad rays of dazzling light stolen from the sun. The cedar trees bend low with their fluffy white burdens; and the creek is frozen, except the riffle just above Big Rock. I was just going to say that all life had taken to itself the silence of the mountain——which is a speaking silence to its own people—when I saw a hungry little nut-hatch bobbing up and down the elm; and my red birds, thinking it time I served their dinner, flew from the cedar trees and are now whistling for me from the lilac bush.

Granny is quite feeble; so she takes a nap each afternoon in the great rocking chair, with its padded sheepskin back and bottom; and from the noise she is making seems to be enjoying it. I also hear an intimate voice, though I rarely see my friend. He is the cricket of our hearth; and now since the days are short, begins his chirping when it is time for me to feed the chickens, milk the cow and look after Silas, the old mule. We have no earthly use for that mule, but I cannot let him go. He was in the prime of his days of usefulness when I first saw the light; and now when I go out to feed him, there is a look in his old gray-lashed eyes that speaks to my heart with the voice of an old and trusting friend.

[pg 26] When people live as we do, the fowls of the barnyard and the creatures of the manger become their friends. They speak with a look; they come towards you with a caress; they bind themselves to your heart with an untimid trust. That old mule’s look approaches worship; and his trust shall not be vain.

Grandad is not here. I stand at the door and see his grave on a knoll a little way up the mountain side. It is hedged about by a white picket fence, which I repaint each spring.

Last evening as I was wreathing it with holly and mistletoe I thought how, when I was a little girl, he carried me over the rough places and when he went to the store on Red Bird or to town, brought back something he knew would delight a little girl. Then, how the last year or two before he died, I partly paid the debt by ministering unto him. As I stood beside his grave it seemed his spirit spoke to me of unutterable things. * *

I have finished with the chickens, the cow and the old mule. We have had supper. The cricket is chirping away quite comfortably in his cozy corner under the warm hearthstones and I hear the click of Granny’s knitting needles.

My thoughts have been mainly of you since your letter came. Joys are the scarlet buds and tears are the white flowers of life. Your letter has made this a Christmas of white flowers; yet it brought a gift filigreed with happiness, as tears are wont to be, except those of despair. It seems sadness lives next door neighbor to a very pure happiness. I can pray and weep and the tears are a holy joy. I think if God would speak to me I would shed tears of joy; and if he comes tonight and tells me he will make you well and bring you back to Kentucky, [pg 27] I shall shed tears of great joy. That you return in health is one of the hopes my life lives on.

You will understand, when I say I have always looked upon you, much as I imagine the old mule feels towards me. For a long time there was little in my life, but that little was all joy. Then you came our way and introduced me to real dolls and to books. While I have outgrown the dolls, I have many cold but safe friends in my books; friends you leave at your convenience and return to at your pleasure.

Do not think that I am unhappy or lonely; nor must you think that while you have been moving along in years, I have remained the same little girl whose doll house you disturbed. I was seventeen last month; and a girl of my age in the mountains is supposed to be grown. I am more—a business woman; the bread winner of the Litman family; and having outgrown “sang digging,” for nearly a year have had the Big Creek school.

Last June I obtained my teacher’s certificate; and in doing so surrendered my great ambition, which was to be an actress. You can judge what a creature of fancy I am, when I tell you. I have never been inside a theatre. I dreamed of a stage career and—landed in a school room. The very first day of teaching I realized that it was the next best thing. I had a wonderful audience and a stage setting unique and clever. Teaching now seems a high-class of play acting—just lots, anyway—and children are such fun.

I should like for you to see my school room and know the boys and girls. I would like for you to be associated with certain other experiences of mine. I’d like—but what’s the use? I feel as though, if or when I need you, you will be my friend. In other words, I trust you.

[pg 28] The glorious fun of being poor is that the little things that come your way are greatly appreciated. Now Big Creek is my Brook Cherith; and the school children are the ravens during the stress of high prices incident to the war. They not only bring bread and meat but a few modest dresses and a few books and magazines. Should the brook fail and the ravens receive other commands, Granny and I can depend upon the unfailing jar of meal and the cruse of oil for our daily bread; and should you like to play the part of Elijah to the widow and the orphan, you are welcome to your share. We will give you a cup of water and make you a little cake.

I have even had a beau and a proposal of marriage by a red-headed man from Red Bird. I answered: “I have no idea of considering such a proposition for several years as I expect first to graduate at the University of Kentucky. When my Prince Charming comes wooing, he may come with empty pockets but he must be able to read and write.” The next day Sandy came to my school, but I refused to take him in. He has since spread the information that “Jeannette does not want ‘a feller’ but expects to remain a ‘school marm’”—and so I shall until a real man comes along. Sandy Blair is as near the “sweet evening breeze” kind as we have up here. I call him my knight of the pink shirt and green store clothes. He never misses a dance; and Solomon in all his glory was never arrayed as he then is.

When the evening is warm and the moon full I often spend an hour or two on Big Rock; and musing by night, with the water and moon for company, I feel happy and queer and both. Remembrance frequently retenders that night of long ago; and I hear you speaking in a voice no bigger than the heart of a whisper. The reason it is [pg 29] your voice is because you gave me my first doll and what is a little girl’s life without a doll?

The night of October twenty-fourth, the night of the day you were wounded, I was out on the rock a long while; and never before had I heard your voice nor seen you as distinctly as then. On that night you and I held quite a conversation; and this may be the mystical explanation why I was the one with you as you passed through the valley of the shadow. Life on Big Creek has taught me, that not alone to the Elijahs, to the shepherds of the hills and to the Jean d’Arcs come voices and visitation. All who will may hear.

I knew then that you were snared in the net of tragedy and distress spread over most of the world by this horrible war; which the honest men of every land condemn and regret, as utterly useless and wish at an end. They ask to live in peace and on good terms with everybody. But honest men have nothing to do with making war or dictating terms of peace. They are cannon fodder; mere pawns in the game of nations, moved about by one who sits in the sun and serves the devil.

Before the millennium, there must be a world wide charity, to take the place of what we call patriotism; which is either national selfishness or a make-shift provincialism. There must be a development of the national soul until man knows no nation; and in a national sense loves his neighbor as himself. The first step towards it is to understand that those calamities that are destroying an enemy country do not halt at the yellow map boundary that marks our own land.

When you escape from beneath the sombre shadow of war, come to our mountains. Here we look at the peaceful face of nature and enjoy the poetry of silence. We are never very much alone, Granny and I. The soul in [pg 30] the radiance of its love creates friends and though we are isolated from the world we are rich in love and happiness.

Bear your sufferings and loneliness as best you may, until your ship comes home. Know that to suffer is the dowry of God’s elect and when all else is lost you still have Him. I know He cares for the birds; and “are ye not much better than they?” You know why and when the birds sing?—because they are building or have a nest. May you soon recover, find peace and love; and some day your nook-nest lined with soft down, awaiting treasures God will send.

I have tried to put a few thoughts into words. There is enough of the seed of thought in my mind and it germinates—but alas, it dies before I can put it into words. My treasures come forth, half smothered by the burden of the flesh. I hope you may understand what I have tried to tell you.

I am, and ever shall be, your friend,

Jeannette.