All was peace on the plantation, but war has long arms, and it dropped its gifts of poverty and privation in many a humble home with which Joe Maxwell was familiar. War has its bill of fare, too, and much of it was not to Joe’s taste. For coffee there were various substitutes: sweet potatoes, chipped and dried, parched meal, parched rye, parched okra-seeds, and sassafras tea. Joe’s beverage was water sweetened with sorghum-sirup, and he found it a very refreshing and wholesome drink. Some of the dishes that were popular in the old colonial days were revived. There was persimmon bread; what could be more toothsome than that? Yet a little of it went a long way, as Mr. Wall used to say. And there was potato pone—sweet potatoes boiled, kneaded, cut into pones, and baked. And then there was callalou—a mixture of collards, poke salad, and turnip greens boiled for dinner and fried over for supper. This was the invention of Jimsy, an old negro brought over from the West Indies, whose real name was Zimzi, and who always ran away when anybody scolded him.
The old-fashioned loom and spinning-wheel were kept going, and the women made their own dyes. The girls made their hats of rye and wheat straw, and some very pretty bonnets were made of the fibrous substance that grows in the vegetable known as the bonnet squash.
It was agreed on all sides that times were very hard, and yet they seemed very pleasant and comfortable to Joe Maxwell. He had never seen money more plentiful. Everybody seemed to have some, and yet nobody had enough. It was all in Confederate bills, and they were all new and fresh and crisp. Joe had some of it himself, and he thought he was growing rich. But the more plentiful the money became, the higher went the price of everything.
After a while Joe noticed that the older men became more serious. There were complaints in the newspapers of speculators and extortioners—of men who imposed on and mistreated the widows and wives of the soldiers. And then there was a law passed preventing the farmers from planting only so many acres of land in cotton, in order that more food might be raised for the army. After this came the impressment law, which gave the Confederate officials the right to seize private property, horses, mules, and provisions. And then came the conscription law.
There was discontent among the men who were at home, but they were not left to make any serious complaints. One by one the conscript officers seized all except those who were exempt and hurried them off to the front. Those who thought it a disgrace to be conscripted either volunteered or hired themselves as substitutes.
This is the summing up of the first three years of the war, so far as it affected Joe Maxwell. The impression made upon him was of slow and gradual growth. He only knew that trouble and confusion were abroad in the land. He could see afterward what a lonely and desperate period it must have been to those who had kinsmen in the war; but, at that time, all these things were as remote from him as a dream that is half remembered. He set up the editor’s articles, criticising Governor Joe Brown for some attacks he had made on the Confederate Government, without understanding them fully; and he left Mr. Wall, the hatter, who was a violent secessionist, to discuss the situation with Mr. Bonner, the overseer, who was a Whig, and something of a Union man.
Late one afternoon, after listening to a heated dispute between Mr. Wall and Mr. Bonner, Joe concluded that he would take a run in the fields with the harriers. So he called and whistled for them, but they failed to come. Harbert thought they had followed some of the plantation hands, but, as this rarely happened, Joe was of the opinion that they had gone hunting on their own account. They were very busy and restless little dogs, and it was not uncommon for them to go rabbit-hunting for themselves. Going toward Mr. Snelson’s, Joe thought he could hear them running a rabbit on the farther side of the plantation. He went in that direction, but found, after a while, that they were running in the Jack Adams place, and as he went nearer they seemed to get farther away. Finally, when he did come up with the dogs, he found that they were not the harriers at all, but a lot of curs and “fices.” And then—how it happened he was never able to explain—Joe suddenly discovered that he was lost.
Perhaps if the idea had never occurred to him he would never have been lost, but the thought flashed in his mind and stayed there. He stood still in his tracks and looked all around, but the idea that he was really lost confused him. He was not frightened—he was not even uneasy. But he knew he was lost. Everything was strange and confusing. Even the sun, which was preparing to go to bed, was in the wrong place. Joe laughed at himself. Certainly he could return the way he came, so he faced about, as he thought, and started home.
Walking and running he went forward rapidly, and he had need to, for the sun had gone behind a cloud, and the cloud, black and threatening, was rising and filling the sky. How long he had been going Joe did not know, but suddenly he found himself near an old cabin. It was built of logs, and the chimney, which had been made of sticks and red clay, had nearly fallen down. The lad knew that this cabin was neither on the Turner plantation nor on the Jack Adams place. He had never heard any of the negroes allude to it, and he realized the fact that he had been running away from home.
Near the deserted house were the remnants of an orchard. A pear-tree, jagged and unshapely, grew not far from the door, while an apple-tree, with a part of its trunk rotted away, stood near a corner of the cabin. A growth of pines and scrub-oak showed that the place had been deserted for many a long year. A quarter of a mile away, through the gathering darkness, Joe could see a white fringe gleaming against the horizon. He knew that this was a fog, and that it rose from the river. Following the line of the fog, he could see that the cabin was in a bend of the river—the Horseshoe, as he had heard it called—and he knew that he was at least four miles from home. By this time the cloud had covered all the heavens. Away off in the woods he could hear the storm coming, sounding like a long-drawn sigh at first, and then falling with a sweeping rush and roar. Joe had no choice but to seek shelter in the old house. He was a stout-hearted youngster, and yet he could not resist the feeling of uneasiness and dread that came over him at the thought of spending the night in that lonely place. But there was no help for it. He could never find his way home in the darkness, and so he made the best of what seemed to him a very bad matter. The cabin was almost a wreck, but it served to keep off the rain.
Joe went in and explored the inside as carefully as he could in the darkness. A wood-rat or flying-squirrel rattled along the rafters as he entered, and the loose puncheons of which the floor was made bumped up and down as he walked across them. In one corner, as he went groping about, he found a pile of shucks—corn-husks—and straw, and he judged that the old cabin had sometimes been used as a temporary barn. After satisfying himself that no other person or creature had taken shelter there, Joe tried to close the door. He found this to be a difficult matter. The sill of the house had settled so that the door was on the floor. He pushed it as far as it would go, and then groped his way back to the shucks and quickly made a bed of them. He was fagged out, and the shucks and straw made a comfortable pallet—so comfortable, indeed, that by the time he had made up his mind that it was a pleasant thing to lie there and listen to the rain rushing down on the weather-beaten roof, he was fast asleep.
How long he slept he did not know, but suddenly he awoke to discover that he was not the only person who had sought shelter in the cabin. The rain was still falling on the roof, but he could hear some one talking in a low tone. He lay quite still and listened with all his ears. He soon discovered that the new-comers were negroes, whether two or three he could not tell. Presently he could distinguish what they said. The storm had ceased so that it no longer drowned their voices.
“I tell you what, mon,” said one, “ole Injun Bill kin run ef he is chunky.”
“Lor’! I had ter run ef I gwine fer keep up wid old Mink.” said the other.
“Bless you!” responded the first voice, “I kin run when I git de invertation, else ole Bill Locke an’ his nigger dogs would a done cotch me long ago.”
“Dey ain’t been atter me,” said the second voice, “but I’m a spectin’ un um eve’y day, an’ when dey does—gentermen! I’m a-gwine ter scratch gravel! You hear what I tell you!”
“I come so fas’,” remarked the first voice, “dat all dem ar buckeyes what I had done bounce outer my pocket.”
“What you gwine fer do wid so many buckeyes?” asked the second voice.
“Who? Me! Oh, I wuz des savin’ um up fer dat ar white boy what stay ’long wid de printin’ machine,” said the first voice. “He holp me ’long one time. Harbert, he say dat white boy is des ez good ter niggers ez ef dey all b’long ter im, an’ he say he got a head on ’im. Dat what Harbert say.”
“I bin see ’im,” said the second voice. “I don’t like white folks myse’f, but I speck dat boy got good in ’im. He come fum town.”
Joe Maxwell knew at once that one of the voices belonged to Mink, the runaway, and he judged that the other belonged to Injun Bill, whose reputation was very bad. He knew also that the two negroes were talking about him, and he was not only gratified at the compliments paid him, but felt safer than if he had been alone in the cabin. In a spirit of mischief he called out in a sepulchral tone of voice:
“Where’s Mink? I want Mink!”
He tried to imitate the tone that he had heard mothers sometimes employ when they are trying to frighten crying children into silence with the bogie man. There was no reply from Mink, but Joe could hear the two negroes breathing hard. Then, imitating the voice of a woman, he cried out:
“Where’s Injun Bill? I want Injun Bill!”
Imagining how horrified the negroes were, and how they looked as they sat on the floor quaking with terror, Joe could not restrain himself. He fell into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that caused him to scatter the shucks all over the floor. This proceeding, wholly unaccountable, added to the terror of the negroes. Injun Bill, as it afterward appeared, made a wild leap for the door, but his foot caught in a crack in the floor and he fell headlong. On top of him fell Mink, and each thought he had been caught by the thing that had frightened him. They had a terrific scuffle on the floor, writhing over and under each other in their efforts to escape. Finally, Mink, who was the more powerful of the two, pinned Injun Bill to the floor.
“Who dis?” he cried, breathing hard with fear and excitement.
“Me! Dat who ’tis!” said Injun Bill, angrily. “What you doin’ ’pon top er me?”
This complication caused Joe Maxwell to laugh until he could scarcely catch his breath. But at last he managed to control his voice.
“What in the name of goodness are you two trying to do?”
“Name er de Lord!” exclaimed Mink, “who is you, anyhow?”
“Dat what I like ter know,” said Injun Bill, in a surly tone.
“Why, you’ve just been talking about me,” replied Joe. “I lay there on the shucks and heard you give me a great name.”
“Is dat you, little marster?” cried Mink. “Well, suh! Ef dat don’t beat my time! How come you sech a fur ways fum yo’ surroundin’s?”
Joe explained as briefly as possible that he was lost.
“Well, well, well!” said Mink, by way of comment. “You sholy gimme a turn dat time. Little mo’ an’ I’d a thought de ole boy had me. Ef I’d a bin by myse’f when I hear dat callin’ I lay I’d’a to’ down de whole side er de house. Dish yer nigger ’long wid me, little marster, he name Injun Bill. He say—”
“’Sh—sh!” said Injun Bill, softly. Then in a whisper—“watch out!”
Joe was about to say something, but suddenly he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The negroes by a noiseless movement stepped close against the wall. Joe lay still. The new-comers entered the door without hesitation. They had evidently been there before.
“I’ll take an’ put my gun in the corner here,” said one. “Now, don’t go blunderin’ aroun’ an’ knock it over; it might go off.”
“All right,” said the other. “Where is it? I’ll put mine by it.”
Then they seemed to be unfastening their belts.
“Hain’t you got a match?” said one. “I’m as wet as a drownded rat. I’ve got some kindlin’ somewheres about my cloze. My will, ef I had it fried,” he went on, “would be to be set down in front of a great big fireplace adryin’ myse’f, an’ a knowin’ all the time that a great big tray of hot biscuit an’ ’leven pounds of butter was a waitin’ for me in the kitchen.”
“Thunderation!” exclaimed the other, “don’t talk that way. You make me so nervous I can’t find the matches.”
“Oh, well,” said the first, “I was jist a think-in’ about eatin’. I wish Mink’ud come on ef he’s a-comin’.”
“I done come, Mars John,” said Mink.
“Confound your black hide!” exclaimed the man; “if I had my gun I’d shoot a hole spang throo you! Whadder you want to skeer me outn a year’s growth for? If you’re here, whyn’t you sesso befo’ you spoke?”
“Kaze I got comp’ny,” said Mink.
The man gave a long whistle, denoting surprise. “Who’ve you got?” he asked, almost savagely.
“Injun Bill.”
“Who else?”
“A white boy.”
“Well, the great snakes! What sort of game is you up to? Who is the white boy?”
“He stay on the Turner plantation at de printin’-office,” explained Mink.
“You hear that, don’t you?” said the man to his companion. “And now it’ll all be in the paper.”
“Bosh!” exclaimed Joe. “I don’t know you from a side of sole-leather. I got lost while rabbit-hunting, and came in here out of the rain.”
“He’s a peart-talkin’ chap,” said the man who wanted to eat a trayful of hot biscuits and eleven pounds of butter.
“He came fum town,” said Mink, by way of explaining Joe’s “peartness.”
“How long since?” asked one of the men.
“Two years ago,” said Joe.
After a little, one of the men succeeded in finding a match, and making a light with the pine kindlings that one of the two had brought. In a corner Mink found some pieces of dry wood and the small company soon had a fire burning. The weather was not cold, but the fire must have been very agreeable to the white men, who, as one of them expressed it, was “wringin, wet.” These men took advantage of the first opportunity to examine Joe Maxwell very closely. They had evidently expected to find a much more formidable-looking person than he appeared to be, for one of them remarked to the other:
“Why, he hain’t bigger’n a pound er soap arter a hard day’s washin’.”
“Naw!” said the other. “I’ve saw ’im be-fo’. He’s that little rooster that useter be runnin’ roun’ town gittin’ in all sorts er devilment. I reckon he’s sorter out er his element here in the country.”
“I’ve seen you, too,” said Joe. “I’ve seen both of you. I used to see you drilling in the Hillsborough Rifles. I was at the depot when the company went off to the war.”
The two men looked at each other in a peculiar way, and busied themselves trying to dry their clothes by the fire, standing close to the flickering flames. They were not handsome men, and yet they were not ill looking. One was short and stout, with black hair. He had a scar under one of his eyes that did not improve his appearance. But the expression of his face was pleasant in spite of this defect. The other was thin, tall, and stoop-shouldered. His beard was scanty and red, and his upper teeth protruded to such an extent that when his face was in repose they were exposed to view. But there was a humorous twinkle in his eyes that found an echo in his talk. Both men were growing gray. The dark man was Jim Wimberly, the other John Pruitt, and both had evidently seen hard times. Soldier-fashion, they made seats for themselves by sticking the ends of loose boards through the cracks, and allowing the other ends to rest on the floor. Thus they could sit or lie at full length as they chose. Joe fixed a seat for himself in the same way, while Mink and Injun Bill sat on the floor on each side of the fireplace.
“What do you call those here fellers,” asked Mr. Pruitt, lighting his pipe with a splinter, and turning to Joe—“these here fellers what jines inter the army an’ then comes home arter awhile without lief or license?”
“Deserters,” replied Joe, simply.
“So fur, so good.” said Mr. Pruitt. “Now, then, what do you call the fellers what jines inter the army arter they’er been told that their families’ll be took keer of an’ provided fer by the rich folks at home; an’ then, arter they’er been in a right smart whet, they gits word that their wives an’ children is a lookin’ starvation in the face, an’ stedder gittin’ better it gets wuss, an’ bimeby they breaks loose an’ comes home? Now what sort er fellers do you call them? Hold on!” exclaimed Mr. Pruitt, as Joe was about to reply. “Wait! They hain’t got no money an’ no niggers; they hain’t got nothin’ but a little piece er lan’. They goes off expectin’ their wives’ll be took keer of, an’ they comes home an’ fines ’em in the last stages. What sorter fellers do you call them?”
“Well,” Joe replied, “I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”
“No,” said Mr. Pruitt, “an’ I’m mighty sorry you’ve heard about it now. It ain’t a purty tale.”
“Who are the men?” Joe asked.
“Yours, respectfully, John Pruitt an’ Jeems Wimberly, Ashbank deestrict, Hillsborough Post-Office, State of Georgia,” said Mr. Pruitt, solemnly.
Joe had heard it hinted and rumored that in some cases, especially where they lived remote from the relief committees, the families of the soldiers were not so well provided for as they had a right to expect. He had even set up some editorials in The Countryman which hinted that there was suffering among the soldiers’ wives and children; but he never dreamed that it was serious enough to create discontent among the soldiers. The story that Mr. Pruitt and his companion told amazed Joe Maxwell, but it need not be repeated here in detail. It amounted to this, that the two soldiers had deserted because their wives and children were suffering for food and clothing, and now they were fugitives.
The strange company was silent for a long time. Mr. Pruitt and Mr. Wimberly sat with their elbows on their knees and their faces in their hands, and gazed into the fireplace, while the two negroes, true to their nature, began to nod as the talking ceased. The silence at last became painful to Joe Maxwell.
“Mink,” he said, “suppose you should hear somebody coming, what would you do?”
“I wuz des worryin’ ’bout dat ’while ago,” replied the stalwart negro, passing his hand swiftly across his face. “I ’speck I’d be like de ole sheep you hear talk about in de tale.”
“What was the tale?” asked Joe.
“Oh, ’tain’t no long tale,” said Mink. “One time dey wuz er ole sheep what had two chilluns. She call um up one day an’ tell um dat dey better keep a sharp lookout whiles dey er eating kaze ef dey don’t sumpin’ n’er sholy gwine git um. Dey say ’Yessum,’ an’ dey went ter frolickin’ up an’ down de fiel’. Bimeby dey come runnin’ back, an’ ’low: “‘Oh, mammy, yon’s, a man! Mus’ we-all run?’
“Ole mammy sheep, she ’low: ‘No! Go ’long and play.’
“Atter while, dey come runnin’ back an’ low: ‘Mammy, mammy! yon’s a hoss! Mus’ we all run?’
“Ole mammy sheep ’low: ‘’G’way frum here! Go on an’ play.’
“Bimeby dey come runnin’ back. ‘Mammy, mammy! yon’s a cow! Mus’ we all run?’
“Ole mammy sheep say: ‘Go on an’ play, an’ quit yo’ behavishness!’
“Atter while dey come runnin’ back. ‘Mammy! oh, mammy! yon’s a dog! Mus’ we-all run?’
“‘Yes, yes! Run, chillun, run!’
“Dat de way wid me,” said Mink. “Ef I wuz ter hear some un cornin’ I wouldn’t know whedder ter set still an’ nod, or whedder ter break an’ run.”
“That hain’t much of a tale,” remarked Mr. Pruitt, “but ther’s a mighty heap er sense in it, shore.”
“Shoo!” exclaimed Mink, “dat ain’t no tale. You oughter hear dish yer Injun Bill tell um. He kin set up an’ spit um out all night long.—Bill,” said he, turning to his companion, “tell um dat un ’bout how de mountains come ’bout.”
“Oh, I can’t tell de tale,” said Injun Bill, marking nervously in the floor with a splinter. “Ef I could tell dem like my daddy, den dat ’ud sorter be like sumpin’. Me an’ my mammy come from Norf Ca’liny. My daddy wuz Injun, Ef you could hear him tell dem tales, he’d make you open yo’ eyes.”
“How wuz de mountains made, Bill?” asked Mink, after a pause.
“I wish I could tell it like my daddy,” said Bill. “He wuz Cher’kee Injun, an’ he know all ’bout it, kaze he say de Injuns wuz here long time fo’ de white folks wuz, let ’lone de niggers.
“Well, one time dey wuz a great big flood. Hit rain so hard an’ it rain so long dat it fair kivver de face er de yeth. Dey wuz lots mo’ water dan what dey is in our kind er freshets, an’ it got so atter while dat de folks had ter find some place whar dey kin stay, kaze ef dey don’t dey all be drownded, dem an’ de cree-turs, too.
“Well, one day de big Injun man call dem all up, an’ say dey got ter move. So dey tuck der cloze an’ der pots an’ der pans an’ foller ’long atter de big Injun, an’ de creeters dey come ’long, too. Dey march an’ dey march, an’ bimeby dey come whar dey wuz a big hole in de groun’. Dey march in an’ de big Injun he stay behine fer stop up de hole so de water can’t leak in. ’Twant long ’fo’ dey know dey wuz in de middle er de worl’, deep down under de groun’, an’ dey had plenty room. Dey built der fires an’ cook der vittles des same ez ef dey’d a been on top er de groun’.
“Dey stayed in dar I dunner how long, an’ bimeby dey got tired er stayin’ in dar, an’ dey want ter come out. Some un um went off fer hunt fer de hole whar dey come in at, but dey can’t fine it, an’ den dey say dey skeered dey ain’t never gwine ter git out. But de big Injun say dey plenty time, kaze fo’ dey go out dey got ter know whedder de rain done stop. He say ef de smoke kin git out dey kin git out. Den dey ax ’im how he gwine fine out ’bout de rain, an’ he say he gwine sen’ some er de creeturs fer fine de hole whar de smoke go out, an’ see ’bout de rain.
“Den de big Injun he went off by hisse’f an’ study an’ study how he gwine fine de hole whar de smoke go out. He sent de dog—de dog can’t fine it. He sent de coon—de coon can’t fine it. He sent de rabbit—de rabbit can’t fine it. Den he went off by hisse’f an’ study some mo’, an’ ’bout dat time de buzzud come ’long an’ he ax de big Injun what make him look so lonesome.
“Den de big Injun tell de buzzud ’bout ’im tryin’ fer fine de hole whar de smoke went fru. De buzzud he ’low dat him an’ his ole ’oman kin fine it, an’ den de big Injun tuck an’ sent um off.
“Dey riz up, de buzzuds did, an’ flewd de way de smoke went. Dey flewd up an’ dey flewd down, an’ dey flewd all ’roun’ an’ ’roun,’ but dey ain’t seed no hole whar de smoke go out at. Den dey come back, an’ dis make de big Injun feel mo’ lonesomer dan befo’. He study an’ he study, un’ bimeby he sent um out agin, an’ tole um ter go high ez dey kin an’ spy out de hole.
“So dey riz an’ flewd up agin, an’ dis time dey flewd right agin de top er de yeth, up an’ down an’ ’roun’ an’ ’roun’. It bin rainin’ so long dat de crust er de yeth wuz done wet plum fru, an’ it wuz saft, an’ when dey struck agin it dey made de print whar dey bin fly in’. Bimeby, de old man buzzud, he got mad, an’ he sail ’roun’ twel he git a good start, an’ den he plow right ’long agin de roof. De ol’ ’oman buzzud, she done de same, an’ bimeby dey fine de hole whar de smoke went out. Dey peeped out, dey did, an’ dey seed dat de rain done stop, but it monstus damp outside.
“Den dey went back an’ de big Injun feel mighty good kaze dey done fine de hole. After so long a time he giv de word, an’ dey all marched out fum de inside er de yeth an’ went back ter whar dey useter live. It tuck um a mighty long time ter fine de place, kaze when dey went away de lan’ wuz level, but when dey come back hit wuz full er hills an’ mountains dat look like great big bumps an’ long ridges. Dey ax dey se’f how come dis, an’ dey study an’ study. Bimeby de buzzud, he up’n say dat dem wuz de print he lef’ when him an’ his ole ’oman wuz a-flyin’ roun’ tryin’ fer fine de hole whar de smoke went out. De groun’ wuz saft, an’ eve’y time de buzzuds ’ud fly agin it dey’d make hills an’ mountains. Dat what my daddy say,” said Injun Bill, decisively. “He wuz Injun man, an’ he oughter know ef anybody do.”
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Mr. Wimberly, who, up to this time, had said nothing. “Mix Injun wi’ nigger an’ they hain’t no kind er rigamarole they won’t git up.”
They all agreed, however, that Injun Bill’s story was amusing, and after a while Mink said:
“I speck Marse John dar mought match dat tale ef he wuz ter try right hard.”
Mr. Pruitt turned his pocket inside out to get some tobacco-crumbs for his pipe.
“Buddy,” he remarked, turning to Joe Maxwell, “did you ever hear tell how the fox gits rid er fleas?”
Joe had never heard.
“Weil,” said Mr. Pruitt, “it’s this away. When the fox, speshually ef it’s one er these here big reds, gits full er fleas, which they er bleedze ter do in hot weather, he puts out an’ goes tell he finds a flock er sheep. Then he runs in amongst ’em, an’ runs along by the side er one tell he gits a chance ter pull a mouffle er wool out. Then he makes a break fer the creek an’ finds him a wash-hole an’ wades in.
“He don’t, ez you may say, splunge in. He jest wades in, a little bit at a time. Fust he gits in up ter his knees, an’ then he goes in deeper an’ deeper. But he hain’t in no hurry. When the water strikes the fleas, nachally they start fer high-water mark. The fox feels ’em crawl up, an’ then he goes in a little deeper. When they crawl up ez high ez his back he goes in furder, an’ then they-crawl to’rds his head. He gits a little deeper, an’ they crawl out on his nose. Then he gits deeper, tell they hain’t nothin’ out er the water but the pint er his nose.
“Now all this time he’s got that chunk er wool in his mouf, an’ when the fleas hain’t got nowheres else ter go they make fer that. Then when the fleas is all in the wool, the fox drops it in the water, comes out, shakes hisse’f, an’ trots off ter do some other devilment.”
“Dat cert’ny is one way fer ter git red er fleas,” exclaimed Mink, laughing heartily. Then he turned to Injun Bill.
“Bill, what tale is dat I been hear you tell ’bout ole Brer Rabbit an’ de overcoat? Dat ain’t no nigger tale.”
“Naw!” said Injun Bill, contemptuously. “Dat ain’t no nigger tale. My daddy tell dat tale, an’ he wa’nt no nigger. I wish I could tell it like I near him tell it.”
“How did it go?” asked Mr. Wimberly.
“Well,” said Injun Bill, rolling his eyes to-ward the rafters, “it sorter run dis way, nigh ez I kin reckermember: De time wuz when Mr. Beaver wuz de boss er all de creeturs. He wa’nt de biggest ner de strongest, but he wuz mighty smart. Fine cloze make fine folks in dem days, an’ dat what Mr. Beaver had. Eve’ybody know him by his fine overcoat. He look slick all de week, an’ he mighty perlite—he ain’t never fergit his manners. Mr. Rabbit see all dis an’ it make ’im feel jealous. He dunner how come Mr. Beaver kin be sech a big man, an’ he study how he gwine make hisse’f populous wid de yuther creeturs.
“One time dey all make it up dat dey wuz gwine ter have a big meetin’, an’ so dey ’gun ter fix up. De word went ’roun’ an’ all de creeturs make ready ter come. Mr. Beaver he live up in de mountains, an’ it wuz lots mo’ dan a day’s journey fum his house ter de place whar de creeturs gwine ter hoi’ der big meetin’. But he waz bleedze ter be dar, kaze he de head man. Ole Mr. Rabbit ’low ter hisse’f dat sumpin’ got ter be done, an’ dat mighty quick, an’ so he put out fer Mr. Beaver house. Mr. Rabbit sho is a soon mover, mon, an’ he git dar in little er no time. He say dey all so ’fraid Mr. Beaver ain’t comin’ ter de meetin’ dat dey sont ’im atter ’im, an’ he help Mr. Beaver pack his kyarpet-bag, an’ went on back wid ’im fer comp’ny.
“Mr. Beaver can’t git ’long ez peart ez Mr. Rabbit, kaze he so fat an’ chunky, yit he don’t lose no time; he des keep gwine fum sunup ter sundown. Des ’fo’ dark dey come ter whar dey wuz a river, an’ Mr. Rabbit, he ’low dey better camp out on de bank, an’ git soon start in de mornin’. So dey built up a fier, an’ cook der supper, an’ ’bout de time dey wuz gittin’ ready ter go ter bed Mr. Rabbit ’low:
“‘Brer Beaver, I mighty feared we gwine ter have trouble dis night!’ Mr. Beaver say, ‘How comes so, Brer Rabbit?’
“Mr. Rabbit ’low: ‘Dis country what we er in is called Rainin’ Hot Embers, an’ I don’t like no sech name. Dat de reason I wanter stop close ter water.’
“Mr. Beaver ax, ‘What de name er goodness we gwine do, Brer Rabbit?’
“Mr. Rabbit sorter scratch his head an’ say, ‘Oh, we des got ter put up wid it, an’ do de bes’ we kin.’ Den he sorter study, an’ ’low: ’I speck you better pull off dat fine overcoat er yourn, Brer Beaver, an’ hang it up in de tree dar, kaze ef de wuss come ter de wuss, you sholy want ter save dat.’
“Den Mr. Beaver tuck off his overcoat an’ hang it up in de tree, an’ atter while dey lay down fer ter take a nap. Mr. Rabbit he stay wake, but twa’nt long ’fo’ Mr. Beaver wuz done gone ter sleep an’ snorin’ right along. He sno’ so loud dat Mr. Rabbit laugh ter hisse’f, an’ ’low: ‘Hey! Ole Brer Beaver pumpin’ thunder fer dry wedder, but we gwine ter have some rain, an’ it’ll be a mighty hot rain, mon.’
“Den Mr. Rabbit raise hisse’f on his elbow an’ look at Mr. Beaver. He soun’ asleep, an’ he keep on a snorin’. Mr. Rabbit got up easy, an’ slipped roun’ an’ got ’im a great big piece er bark, an’ den he slip back ter de fier an’ run de piece er bark un’ de hot embers des like it wuz a shovel. He flung um up in de air, he did, an’ holler out:
“‘Run fer de water, Brer Beaver! run fer de water! It’s a rainin’ hot embers! Run, Brer Beaver! run!’
“De hot embers drapped on Mr. Beaver, an’ he scuffled ’bout mightily. Time Mr. Rabbit hollered, he flung an’er shower er embers on ’im, an’ Mr. Beaver gun one loud squall an’ splunged inter de water head over heels. Mr. Rabbit grab de fine overcoat an’ run down de bank twel he come ter whar dey wuz a canoe, an’ he got in dat an’ went cross, an’ den he put out ter whar de creeturs gwine ter hol’ der big meetin’. Des ’fo’ he got dar, he put on de overcoat, an’ he ain’t do it none too soon, nudder, kaze some un um had done got so unpatient ’long er waitin’ fer Mr. Beaver dat dey went out on de road a little fer ter meet ’im.
“De overcoat wuz lots too big fer Mr. Rabbit, but it bin sech a long time sence de creeturs had seed Mr. Beaver dat it look all right ter dem, an’ so dey gallanted Mr. Rabbit ter de meetin’-place same like he wuz big man ez Mr. Beaver. Dey tuck ’im dar an’ gallanted ’im up on de flatform, an’ sot ’im down in de big cheer, an’ made ’im de boss er de meetin’. Mr. Rabbit ’gun ter speak an’ tell um he mighty much ’blige fer all deze favers, an’ ’bout dat time Mr. Fox ’low:
“‘Hey! Mr. Beaver done los’ his voice!’”
“Mr. Rabbit say he can’t have no talkin’, an’ he kep on wid his speech. Bimeby Mr. Wolf say: ‘Hey! Mr. Beaver bin sick, kaze his cloze ain’t fit ’im.’ Mr. Rabbit say he bleeze ter have order in de ’sembly, an’ he go on wid his speech. ’Twan’t long ’fo’ Mr. Fox jump an’ holler out:
“‘Hey! Mr. Beaver done bought ‘im some new years!’
“Mr. Rabbit cock up one eye, an’ see dat bofe er his long years done come out fum un’ de overcoat, an’ den he know dat he better be gwine. He make er break, he did, an’ bounced off’n de flatform, an’ start fer de bushes, but some er de yuther creeturs head ‘im off an’ kotched ‘im, an’ den dey tuck ‘im an’ tried ‘im, an’ de jedge what sot on ‘im say he mus’ have mark on ‘im so he can’t fool um no mo’. Den dey tuck er sharp flint rock an’ split his upper lip, an’ dat how de rabbits is got der lip split.”
“Shoo!” said Mink. “Dat Injun rabbit. Nigger rabbit would ‘a’ fooled dem creeturs right straight along, an’ he wouldn’t ’a’ bin cotch, nudder.”
“Jim,” said Mr. Pruitt to Mr. Wimberly, “would it strain you too much ter whirl in an’ tell us a tale? We wanter show this young un here that country folks hain’t ez no ’count ez they look ter be.”
“Jesso!” exclaimed Mr. Wimberly, with much animation. “I wuz jest a-thinkin’ about one that popped in my min’. It ain’t much of a tale, but it tickled me might’ly when I fust heard it, an’ I hain’t never fergot it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Pruitt, “out wi’ it. It ain’t nigh bedtime, an’ ef it wuz we hain’t got no beds ter go ter—that is, we hain’t got none ter speak of.”
“One time,” Mr. Wimberly began, smacking his lips, “there wuz a man what took the idee that he had done gone an’ larnt ever’ blessid thing under the sun that thar’ wuz ter larn, and it worried him might’ly. He took the idee wi’ ’im ever ’whar he went. Folks called ’im Ole Man Know-all. He sarched in ever’ hole an’ cornder arter sump’n that he didn’t know, but, hunt whar he would an’ when he might, he couldn’t fin’ it. It looked like he know’d ever’-thing ther’ wuz an’ had been. Nobody couldn’t tell ’im nothin’ that he didn’t know, an’ it made ’im feel mighty lonesome. He studied an’ studied, an’ at last he said ter hisse’f, sezee, that ef thar’ wan’t nothin’ more fer ’im ter larn, he jest might ez well lay down an’ die. He said ter hisse’f, sezee, that may be Grandsir Death could larn ’im sumpin. Jesso!
“Well, he went home one night an’ built ’im up a big fire an’ fixed his pallet an’ lay down. ‘I won’t lock the door,’ sezee; ‘I’ll jist leave it onlatched so Grandsir Death can come in, an’ maybe he can larn me sump’n.’ Jesso!
“Ole Man Know-all lay thar on the pallet an’ waited. He’d doze a little an’ then he’d wake up, an’ he rolled an’ tossed about tell purty nigh day. He wan’t oneasy, so to speak, but he wuz mighty restless. To’rds mornin’ he heard some un knock on his door—bam-bam! bam-bam! He wan’t skeered, but he got right weak. His mouth got dry, an’ a big holler place come in his stomach. He sez ter hisse’f, sezee, ‘Shorely that’s Grandsir Death at the door.’ Then he kivvered up his head an’ shuck all over. ’Twan’t long ’fo’ the knock come agin:
“Bim-bim! bim-bim! bim!
“Ole Man Know-all thought his time wuz done come, certain an’ shore, an’ so he hollered:
“‘Come in!’
“The door opened, but stedder it’s bein’ Grandsir Death it wuz a little nigger boy. Ole Man Know-all sez, sezee:
“‘What you want this time er night?’
“The little nigger boy sez, sezee, ‘Mammy sent me arter some fier.’
“Old Man Know-all told ’im ter come in an’ git it. The little nigger boy went in an’ started ter the fireplace.
“‘They ain’t no chunks thar,’ sez Ole Man Know-all. ‘Go git a shovel.’
“‘Don’t want no shovel,’ sez the little nigger.
“’ How you gwine ter take it?’ sez Old Man Know-all.
“‘Easy enough,’ sez the little nigger.
“Ole Man Know-all turned over an’ watched ’im. He went ter the h’ath, filled the palm er one hand full er dead ashes, made a little nest in the middle, an’ then picked up a fire-coal this way.”
Suiting the action to the word, Mr. Wimberly picked up a glowing coal of fire, dropped it in the palm of his hand, whirled it around rapidly, and then neatly transferred it to the bowl of his pipe, where it lay glowing.
“The little nigger picked up the coal that way,” Mr. Wimberly continued, “an’ then he started out. Ole Man Know-all hollered at ’im.
“‘Hol’ on!’ sezee; ’how you gwine ter kindle a fire from jest one coal?’
“‘Easy enough,’ sez the little nigger.
“Ole Man Know-all jumped up an’ follered ’im, an’ when the little nigger come ter his mammy’s house he got two fat pine splinters, picked up the coal er fire wi’ ’em jest ez ef they’d ’a’ been tongs, whirled it once-t er twice-t aroun’ his head, an’ thar wuz the blaze.
“‘Well,’ sez Ole Man Know-all, ‘I’m mighty glad Grandsir Death gimme the go-by last night, ’cause I’ve larnt sump’n new. An’ I reckon, ef I keep my eyes open, I can larn lots more.’ Jesso!”
“I’ve saw folks that thought they know’d it all,” said Mr. Pruitt, “an’ it most inginer’lly happens that all what they know wouldn’t make the linin’ fer a bug’s nest.”
There was some further talk, in which Joe Maxwell joined, or thought he did, and then the cabin and all its occupants seemed to fade before his eyes. He seemed, as in a dream, to hear Mr. Pruitt say that he wished to the Lord that his little boy was as healthy and as well fed as the boy from town, and Joe thought he heard the deserter telling his companions of the desperate condition in which he found his wife and two little children, who were living in a house remote from any settlement. The lad, much interested in this recital, opened his eyes to ask Mr. Pruitt some of the particulars, and, lo! it was morning. The fire was out, and the deserters and negroes had disappeared. In the east the sky glowed with the promise of the sun, the birds were singing in the old apple-trees, and the cows were lowing. In the distance Joe could hear the plow-hands singing as they rode to their tasks, and, when the sound of their song had died away, he thought he could hear, ever so faintly, the voice of Harbert calling his hogs.
Mink had told Joe where he was, and how to get home, and he had no difficulty in finding his way.