IN about a minute somebody spoke
out of a window without putting
his head out, and says:
"Be done, boys!
Who's there?"
I says:
"It's me."
"Who's me?"
"George Jackson,
sir."
"What do you
want?"
"I don't want
nothing, sir. I only want to
go along by, but
the dogs won't let me."
"What are you
prowling around here this time
of night for --
hey?"
"I warn't prowling
around, sir, I fell overboard
off of
the steamboat."
"Oh, you did,
did you? Strike a light there,
somebody. What
did you say your name was?"
"George Jackson,
sir. I'm only a boy."
"Look here,
if you're telling the truth
you needn't be afraid
-- nobody'll hurt you. But don't
try to budge; stand right where
you are. Rouse out Bob and Tom,
some of you, and fetch the guns.
George Jackson, is there anybody
with you?"
"No, sir, nobody."
I heard the people stirring
around in the house now, and
see a light. The man sung out:
"Snatch that
light away, Betsy, you old
fool -- ain't you got
any sense? Put it on the floor
behind the front door. Bob, if
you and Tom are ready, take your
places."
"All ready."
"Now, George
Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?"
"No, sir; I
never heard of them."
"Well, that
may be so, and it mayn't. Now,
all ready. Step
forward, George Jackson. And
mind, don't you hurry -- come
mighty slow. If there's anybody
with you, let him keep back --
if he shows himself he'll be
shot. Come along now. Come slow;
push the door open yourself --
just enough to squeeze in, d'
you hear?"
I didn't hurry;
I couldn't if I'd a wanted
to. I took one
slow step at a time and there
warn't a sound, only I thought
I could hear my heart. The dogs
were as still as the humans,
but they followed a little behind
me. When I got to the three log
doorsteps I heard them unlocking
and unbarring and unbolting.
I put my hand on the door and
pushed it a little and a little
more till somebody said, "There,
that's enough -- put your head
in." I done it, but I judged
they would take it off.
The candle was on the floor,
and there they all was, looking
at me, and me at them, for about
a quarter of a minute: Three
big men with guns pointed at
me, which made me wince, I tell
you; the oldest, gray and about
sixty, the other two thirty or
more -- all of them fine and
handsome -- and the sweetest
old gray-headed lady, and back
of her two young women which
I couldn't see right well. The
old gentleman says:
"There; I reckon
it's all right. Come in."
As soon as
I was in the old gentleman
he locked the door
and barred it and bolted it,
and told the young men to come
in with their guns, and they
all went in a big parlor that
had a new rag carpet on the floor,
and got together in a corner
that was out of the range of
the front windows -- there warn't
none on the side. They held the
candle, and took a good look
at me, and all said, "Why, HE
ain't a Shepherdson -- no, there
ain't any Shepherdson about him." Then
the old man said he hoped I wouldn't
mind being searched for arms,
because he didn't mean no harm
by it -- it was only to make
sure. So he didn't pry into my
pockets, but only felt outside
with his hands, and said it was
all right. He told me to make
myself easy and at home, and
tell all about myself; but the
old lady says:
"Why, bless
you, Saul, the poor thing's
as wet as he can
be; and don't you reckon it may
be he's hungry?"
"True for you,
Rachel -- I forgot."
So the old lady says:
"Betsy" (this
was a nigger woman), you fly
around and get
him something to eat as quick
as you can, poor thing; and one
of you girls go and wake up Buck
and tell him -- oh, here he is
himself. Buck, take this little
stranger and get the wet clothes
off from him and dress him up
in some of yours that's dry."
Buck looked about as old as
me -- thirteen or fourteen or
along there, though he was a
little bigger than me. He hadn't
on anything but a shirt, and
he was very frowzy-headed. He
came in gaping and digging one
fist into his eyes, and he was
dragging a gun along with the
other one. He says:
"Ain't they
no Shepherdsons around?"
They said, no, 'twas a false
alarm.
"Well," he says, "if
they'd a ben some, I reckon
I'd a got
one."
They all laughed, and Bob says:
"Why, Buck,
they might have scalped us
all, you've been so
slow in coming."
"Well, nobody
come after me, and it ain't
right I'm always
kept down; I don't get no show."
"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says
the old man, "you'll have show
enough, all in good time, don't
you fret about that. Go 'long
with you now, and do as your
mother told you."
When we got up-stairs to his
room he got me a coarse shirt
and a roundabout and pants of
his, and I put them on. While
I was at it he asked me what
my name was, but before I could
tell him he started to tell me
about a bluejay and a young rabbit
he had catched in the woods day
before yesterday, and he asked
me where Moses was when the candle
went out. I said I didn't know;
I hadn't heard about it before,
no way.
"Well, guess," he
says.
"How'm I going to guess," says
I, "when I never heard tell of
it before?"
"But you can
guess, can't you? It's just
as easy."
"WHICH candle?" I
says.
"Why, any candle," he
says.
"I don't know where he was," says
I; "where was he?"
"Why, he was
in the DARK! That's where he
was!"
"Well, if you
knowed where he was, what did
you ask me for?"
"Why, blame
it, it's a riddle, don't you
see? Say, how long
are you going to stay here? You
got to stay always. We can just
have booming times -- they don't
have no school now. Do you own
a dog? I've got a dog -- and
he'll go in the river and bring
out chips that you throw in.
Do you like to comb up Sundays,
and all that kind of foolishness?
You bet I don't, but ma she makes
me. Confound these ole britches!
I reckon I'd better put 'em on,
but I'd ruther not, it's so warm.
Are you all ready? All right.
Come along, old hoss."
Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef,
butter and buttermilk -- that
is what they had for me down
there, and there ain't nothing
better that ever I've come across
yet. Buck and his ma and all
of them smoked cob pipes, except
the nigger woman, which was gone,
and the two young women. They
all smoked and talked, and I
eat and talked. The young women
had quilts around them, and their
hair down their backs. They all
asked me questions, and I told
them how pap and me and all the
family was living on a little
farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw,
and my sister Mary Ann run off
and got married and never was
heard of no more, and Bill went
to hunt them and he warn't heard
of no more, and Tom and Mort
died, and then there warn't nobody
but just me and pap left, and
he was just trimmed down to nothing,
on account of his troubles; so
when he died I took what there
was left, because the farm didn't
belong to us, and started up
the river, deck passage, and
fell overboard; and that was
how I come to be here. So they
said I could have a home there
as long as I wanted it. Then
it was most daylight and everybody
went to bed, and I went to bed
with Buck, and when I waked up
in the morning, drat it all,
I had forgot what my name was.
So I laid there about an hour
trying to think, and when Buck
waked up I says:
"Can you spell,
Buck?"
"Yes," he says.
"I bet you can't spell my name," says
I.
"I bet you what you dare I
can," says he.
"All right," says I, "go
ahead."
"G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n -- there
now," he says.
"Well," says I, "you
done it, but I didn't think
you could.
It ain't no slouch of a name
to spell -- right off without
studying."
I set it down, private, because
somebody might want ME to spell
it next, and so I wanted to be
handy with it and rattle it off
like I was used to it.
It was a mighty nice family,
and a mighty nice house, too.
I hadn't seen no house out in
the country before that was so
nice and had so much style. It
didn't have an iron latch on
the front door, nor a wooden
one with a buckskin string, but
a brass knob to turn, the same
as houses in town. There warn't
no bed in the parlor, nor a sign
of a bed; but heaps of parlors
in towns has beds in them. There
was a big fireplace that was
bricked on the bottom, and the
bricks was kept clean and red
by pouring water on them and
scrubbing them with another brick;
sometimes they wash them over
with red water-paint that they
call Spanish-brown, same as they
do in town. They had big brass
dog-irons that could hold up
a sawlog. There was a clock on
the middle of the mantelpiece,
with a picture of a town painted
on the bottom half of the glass
front, and a round place in the
middle of it for the sun, and
you could see the pendulum swinging
behind it. It was beautiful to
hear that clock tick; and sometimes
when one of these peddlers had
been along and scoured her up
and got her in good shape, she
would start in and strike a hundred
and fifty before she got tuckered
out. They wouldn't took any money
for her.
Well, there was a big outlandish
parrot on each side of the clock,
made out of something like chalk,
and painted up gaudy. By one
of the parrots was a cat made
of crockery, and a crockery dog
by the other; and when you pressed
down on them they squeaked, but
didn't open their mouths nor
look different nor interested.
They squeaked through underneath.
There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing
fans spread out behind those
things. On the table in the middle
of the room was a kind of a lovely
crockery basket that bad apples
and oranges and peaches and grapes
piled up in it, which was much
redder and yellower and prettier
than real ones is, but they warn't
real because you could see where
pieces had got chipped off and
showed the white chalk, or whatever
it was, underneath.
This table had a cover made
out of beautiful oilcloth, with
a red and blue spread-eagle painted
on it, and a painted border all
around. It come all the way from
Philadelphia, they said. There
was some books, too, piled up
perfectly exact, on each corner
of the table. One was a big family
Bible full of pictures. One was
Pilgrim's Progress, about a man
that left his family, it didn't
say why. I read considerable
in it now and then. The statements
was interesting, but tough. Another
was Friendship's Offering, full
of beautiful stuff and poetry;
but I didn't read the poetry.
Another was Henry Clay's Speeches,
and another was Dr. Gunn's Family
Medicine, which told you all
about what to do if a body was
sick or dead. There was a hymn
book, and a lot of other books.
And there was nice split-bottom
chairs, and perfectly sound,
too -- not bagged down in the
middle and busted, like an old
basket.
They had pictures
hung on the walls -- mainly
Washingtons and
Lafayettes, and battles, and
Highland Marys, and one called "Signing
the Declaration." There was some
that they called crayons, which
one of the daughters which was
dead made her own self when she
was only fifteen years old. They
was different from any pictures
I ever see before -- blacker,
mostly, than is common. One was
a woman in a slim black dress,
belted small under the armpits,
with bulges like a cabbage in
the middle of the sleeves, and
a large black scoop-shovel bonnet
with a black veil, and white
slim ankles crossed about with
black tape, and very wee black
slippers, like a chisel, and
she was leaning pensive on a
tombstone on her right elbow,
under a weeping willow, and her
other hand hanging down her side
holding a white handkerchief
and a reticule, and underneath
the picture it said "Shall I
Never See Thee More Alas." Another
one was a young lady with her
hair all combed up straight to
the top of her head, and knotted
there in front of a comb like
a chair-back, and she was crying
into a handkerchief and had a
dead bird laying on its back
in her other hand with its heels
up, and underneath the picture
it said "I Shall Never Hear Thy
Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There
was one where a young lady was
at a window looking up at the
moon, and tears running down
her cheeks; and she had an open
letter in one hand with black
sealing wax showing on one edge
of it, and she was mashing a
locket with a chain to it against
her mouth, and underneath the
picture it said "And Art Thou
Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas." These
was all nice pictures, I reckon,
but I didn't somehow seem to
take to them, because if ever
I was down a little they always
give me the fan-tods. Everybody
was sorry she died, because she
had laid out a lot more of these
pictures to do, and a body could
see by what she had done what
they had lost. But I reckoned
that with her disposition she
was having a better time in the
graveyard. She was at work on
what they said was her greatest
picture when she took sick, and
every day and every night it
was her prayer to be allowed
to live till she got it done,
but she never got the chance.
It was a picture of a young woman
in a long white gown, standing
on the rail of a bridge all ready
to jump off, with her hair all
down her back, and looking up
to the moon, with the tears running
down her face, and she had two
arms folded across her breast,
and two arms stretched out in
front, and two more reaching
up towards the moon -- and the
idea was to see which pair would
look best, and then scratch out
all the other arms; but, as I
was saying, she died before she
got her mind made up, and now
they kept this picture over the
head of the bed in her room,
and every time her birthday come
they hung flowers on it. Other
times it was hid with a little
curtain. The young woman in the
picture had a kind of a nice
sweet face, but there was so
many arms it made her look too
spidery, seemed to me.
This young girl kept a scrap-book
when she was alive, and used
to paste obituaries and accidents
and cases of patient suffering
in it out of the Presbyterian
Observer, and write poetry after
them out of her own head. It
was very good poetry. This is
what she wrote about a boy by
the name of Stephen Dowling Bots
that fell down a well and was
drownded:
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS,
DEC'D
And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die? And
did the sad hearts thicken, And
did the mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate of
Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though
sad hearts round him thickened,
'Twas not from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack
his frame, Nor measles drear
with spots; Not these impaired
the sacred name Of Stephen Dowling
Bots.
Despised love struck not with
woe That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him
low, Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no. Then list with tearful
eye, Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world
fly By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied
him; Alas it was too late; His
spirit was gone for to sport
aloft In the realms of the good
and great.
If Emmeline
Grangerford could make poetry
like that before
she was fourteen, there ain't
no telling what she could a done
by and by. Buck said she could
rattle off poetry like nothing.
She didn't ever have to stop
to think. He said she would slap
down a line, and if she couldn't
find anything to rhyme with it
would just scratch it out and
slap down another one, and go
ahead. She warn't particular;
she could write about anything
you choose to give her to write
about just so it was sadful.
Every time a man died, or a woman
died, or a child died, she would
be on hand with her "tribute" before
he was cold. She called them
tributes. The neighbors said
it was the doctor first, then
Emmeline, then the undertaker
-- the undertaker never got in
ahead of Emmeline but once, and
then she hung fire on a rhyme
for the dead person's name, which
was Whistler. She warn't ever
the same after that; she never
complained, but she kinder pined
away and did not live long. Poor
thing, many's the time I made
myself go up to the little room
that used to be hers and get
out her poor old scrap-book and
read in it when her pictures
had been aggravating me and I
had soured on her a little. I
liked all that family, dead ones
and all, and warn't going to
let anything come between us.
Poor Emmeline made poetry about
all the dead people when she
was alive, and it didn't seem
right that there warn't nobody
to make some about her now she
was gone; so I tried to sweat
out a verse or two myself, but
I couldn't seem to make it go
somehow. They kept Emmeline's
room trim and nice, and all the
things fixed in it just the way
she liked to have them when she
was alive, and nobody ever slept
there. The old lady took care
of the room herself, though there
was plenty of niggers, and she
sewed there a good deal and read
her Bible there mostly.
Well, as I
was saying about the parlor,
there was beautiful
curtains on the windows: white,
with pictures painted on them
of castles with vines all down
the walls, and cattle coming
down to drink. There was a little
old piano, too, that had tin
pans in it, I reckon, and nothing
was ever so lovely as to hear
the young ladies sing "The Last
Link is Broken" and play "The
Battle of Prague" on it. The
walls of all the rooms was plastered,
and most had carpets on the floors,
and the whole house was whitewashed
on the outside.
It was a double house, and
the big open place betwixt them
was roofed and floored, and sometimes
the table was set there in the
middle of the day, and it was
a cool, comfortable place. Nothing
couldn't be better. And warn't
the cooking good, and just bushels
of it too! |