Читать книгу Oldfield: A Kentucky Tale of the Last Century - Nancy Huston Banks - Страница 10

"Oh, dear Kentucky,

The Hunters of Kentucky;

Dear old Kentucky,

The Hunters of Kentucky."

And she had even repeated the five stirring verses without making a single mistake:—

"You've read I reckon, in the prints,

How Pakenham attempted

To make Old Hickory wince

But soon his scheme repented;

For we with rifles ready cocked,

Thought such occasion lucky;

And soon around our general flocked

The Hunters of Kentucky.

"The British felt so very sure

The battle they would win it,

Americans could not endure

The battle not a minute;

And Pakenham he made his brag

If he in fight was lucky,

He'd have the girls and cotton bags

In spite of old Kentucky.

"But Jackson he was wide awake

And not scared at trifles,

For well he knew what aim to take

With our Kentucky rifles;

He led us to the cypress swamp,

The ground was low and mucky,

There stood John Bull in martial pomp

And here was old Kentucky.

"A bank was raised to hide our breast—

Not that we thought of dying—

But we liked firing from a rest

Unless the game was flying;

Behind it stood our little force,

None wished that it were greater,

For every man was half a horse

And half an alligator.

"They did not our patience tire,

Before they showed their faces,

We did not choose to waste our fire,

So snugly kept our places;

But when no more we saw them blink

We thought it time to stop 'em—

It would have done you good, I think,

To see Kentucky drop 'em."

Then gentle Miss Judy, repeating these lines, used to grow almost bloodthirsty in trying to repeat the things which she had heard her father say about this,—the part played by the hunters of Kentucky at the battle of New Orleans,—as having been the first recognition of marksmanship in warfare. Miss Judy had no clear understanding of what her father had meant, but she usually repeated what he had said about the sharpshooting of the hunters whenever she spoke of the battle. She thrilled with patriotism every time she touched the cannon-ball. It was so big that both her little hands were required to roll it into the hollow which it had worn in the floor of the passage.

Miss Sophia obeyed the solemn rumble of the cannon-ball as she always obeyed everything that she understood—docile little soul. She was almost as slow of mind as of body. A round, heavy, dark, uninteresting old woman, utterly unlike her sister, except in gentleness and goodness. On Miss Sophia's side of the bed were three stout steps, forming a sort of dwarf stairway, and down this she now came slowly, backwards and in perfect safety. But Miss Sophia's getting to the floor was yet a long way from being ready for breakfast. It was hard to see how so small a body, so simply clothed, could get into such an intricate tangle of strings and hooks and buttons on every morning of her life. Miss Judy's sweet patience never wavered. She never knew that she was called upon to exercise any toward Miss Sophia. The possibility of hurrying Miss Sophia did not enter her mind even on that urgent occasion, when her need of the far-off spectacles made it uncommonly hard to wait. Finally, there being no indication of Miss Sophia's progress, other than the subdued sounds of the struggle through which she was passing, Miss Judy timidly approached the door of the bedroom. It was open, but she delicately turned her head away as she tapped upon it to attract Miss Sophia's attention, before asking permission to come in. Miss Sophia invited her to enter, giving the permission as formally as Miss Judy had asked it. Miss Judy apologized as she accepted the invitation, saying that she hoped Miss Sophia would pardon her for keeping her back turned, which she was very, very careful to continue to do. She did not say what it was that she wanted to get out of the top drawer. The far-off spectacles were rarely mentioned between the sisters, and Miss Sophia never questioned anything that her sister wished to do.

Still scrupulously averting her gaze, Miss Judy found what she wanted, and sidled softly from the room, thanking Miss Sophia and holding the spectacles down at her side, hidden in the folds of her skirt. Stepping out on the door-stone, she looked cautiously up and down the big road. It was still deserted, not a human being was in sight. Only a solitary cow went soberly past, with her bell clanging not unmusically on the stillness. Nevertheless, Miss Judy gave another glance of precaution, surveying the highway from end to end from the tavern on the north to Sidney Wendall's on the south. As the little lady's eyes rested for a moment upon the house on the hillside, a girl came out as though the wistful gaze had drawn her forth. Miss Judy's blue eyes could barely make out the slender young figure standing in the dazzling sunlight; but she knew that it was Doris, and she did not need the sight of her sweet old eyes to see the wafting of the kiss which the girl threw. Miss Judy's own little hands flew up to throw two kisses in return. She straightway forgot all about the spectacles. She no longer cared how large the huge frames might look on her small face, nor how old they might make her appear.

It was always so. At the sight of Doris, Miss Judy always ceased to be an old maid and became a young mother. For there is a motherhood of the spirit as well as the motherhood of the flesh, and the one may be truer than the other.