COLLIER "MEMORIAL EDITION"
"JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY COMPLETE WORKS"
Vol 9, Part 3
TWIGGS AND TUDENS................................................................2350
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY........................................................2366
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F my old school-chum and roommate John Skinner is alive to-day—and no doubt he is alive, and quite so, being, when last heard from, the very alert and effective train despatcher at Butler, Indiana,—he will not have forgotten a certain night, that of June the eighth, 187o, in "Old Number 'Leven" of the Dunbar House, Greenfield, when he and I sat the long night through, getting ready a famous issue of our old school-paper, "The Criterion." And he will remember, too, the queer old man who occupied, but that one night, the room just opposite our own, "Number r3." For reasons wholly aside from any superstitious dread connected with the numerals, Thirteen was not a desirable room; its locality was alien to all accommodations, and its comforts, like its furnishings, were extremely meager. In fact, it was the room usually assigned to the tramp-printer, who, in those days, was an institution ; or again, it was the local habitation of the oft-recurring transient customer who was too incapacitated to select a room himself when he retired—or rather, when he was personally retired by "the hostler," as the gentlemanly night clerk of that era was habitually designated.
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As both Skinner and myself—between fitful terms of school—had respectively served as "printer's devil" in the two rival newspaper offices of the town, it was natural for us to find a ready interest in anything pertaining to the newspaper business; and so it was, perhaps, that we had been selected, by our own approval and that of our fellow students of the graded schools, to fill the rather exalted office of editing "The Criterion." Certain it is that the rather abrupt rise from the lowly duties of the "roller" to the editorial management of a paper of our own (even if issued in handwriting) we accepted as a natural right; and, vested in our new power of office, we were largely "shaping the whisper of the throne" about our way.
And upon this particular evening it was, as John and I had fairly squared ourselves for the work of the night, that we heard the clatter and shuffle of feet on the side stairs, and, an instant later, the hostler establishing some poor unfortunate in Thirteen, just across the hall.
"Listen!" said John, as we heard an old man's voice through the open transom of our door,—"listen at that I"
It was an utterance peculiarly refined, in language as well as intonation. A low, mild, rather apologetic voice, gently assuring the hostler that "everything was very snug and comfortable indeed—so far as the compartment was concerned—but would not the attendant kindly supply a better light, together with pen-and-ink—and just a sheet or two
2352 TWIGGS AND TUDENS
of paper,—if he would be so very good as to find a pardon for so very troublesome a guest."
"Hain't no writin'-paper," said the hostler, briefly,—"and the big lamps is all in use. These fellers here in 'Leven might let you have some paper and—Hain't you got a lead-pencil?"
"Oh, no matter!" came the impatient yet kindly answer of the old voice—"no matter at all, my good fellow !—Good night—good night !"
We waited till the sullen, clumpy footsteps down the hall and stair had died away.
Then Skinner, with a handful of foolscap, opened our door; and, with an indorsing smile from me, crossed the hall and tapped at Thirteen—was admitted—entered, and very quietly closed the door behind him, evidently that I might not be disturbed.
I wrote on in silence for quite a time. It was, in fact, a full half-hour before John had returned,—and with a face and eye absolutely blazing with delight.
"An old printer," whispered John, answering my look,—"and we're in luck :—He's a genius, 'y God! and an Englishman, and knows Dickens personally —used to write races with him, and's got a manuscript of his in his 'portmanteau,' as he calls an old oil-cloth knapsack with one lung clean gone. Excuse this extra light.—Old man's lamp's like a sore eye, and he's going to touch up the Dickens sketch for us! Hearf—For us—for "The Criterion." Says he can't sleep—he's in distress—has a presentiment
TWIGGS AND TUDENS 2353
—some dear friend is dying—or dead now—and he must write—write!"
This is, in briefest outline, the curious history of the subjoined sketch, especially curious for the reason that the following morning's cablegram announced that the great novelist, Charles Dickens, had been stricken suddenly and seriously the night previous. On the day of this announcement—even as "The Criterion" was being read to perfunctorily interested visitors of the Greenfield graded schools —came the further announcement of Mr. Dickens' death. The old printer's manuscript, here reproduced, is, as originally, captioned‑
TWIGGS AND TUDENS
"Now who'd want a more cozier little home than me and Tude's got here ?" asked Mr. Twiggs, as his twinkling eyes swept caressingly around the cheery little room in which he, alone, stood one chill December evening as the great Saint Paul's was drawling six.
"This ain't nO princely hall with all its gorgeous paraphanaly, as the play-bills says ; but it's what I calls a' 'interior; which for meller comfort and cheerful surroundin's ain't to be ekalled by no other 'flat' on the boundless, never-endin' stage of this existence I" And as the exuberant Mr. Twiggs rendered this observation, he felt called upon to smile and bow most graciously to an invisible audience, whose wild approval he in turn interpreted by an
2354 TWIGGS AND TUDENS
enthusiastic clapping of his hands and the cry of "Ongcore I" in a dozen different keys—this strange acclamation being made the more grotesque by a great green parrot perched upon the mantel, which, in a voice less musical than penetrating, chimed in with "Hooray for Twiggs and Tudens I" a very great number of times.
"Tude's a queer girl," said Mr. Twiggs, subsiding into a reflective calm, broken only by the puffing of his pipe, and the occasional articulation of a thought, as it loitered through his mind. "Tude's a queer girl !—a werry queer girl!" repeated Mr. Twiggs, pausing again, with a long whiff at his pipe, and marking the graceful swoop the smoke made as it dipped and disappeared up the wide, black-throated chimney; and then, as though dropping into confidence with the great fat kettle on the coals, that steamed and bubbled with some inner paroxysm, he added, "And queer and nothink short, is the lines for Tude, eh?
"Now s'posin'," he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a tone whose careful intonation might have suggested a more than ordinary depth of wisdom and sagacity,—"s'posin' a pore chap like me, as ain't no property only this-'ere 'little crooked house,' as Tude calls it, and some o' the properties I 'andles at the Drury—as I was a-sayin',—s'posin' now a' old rough chap like me was jest to tell her all about herself, and who she is and all, and not no kith or kin o' mine, let alone a daughter, as she thinks—What do you reckon now
TWIUGS AND TUDENS 2335
'ud be the upshot, eh?" And as Mr. Twiggs propounded this mysterious query he jabbed the poker prankishly in the short-ribs of the grate, at which the pot, as though humoring a joke it failed to comprehend wholly, set up a chuckling of such asthmatic violence that its smothered cachinnations tilted its copper lid till Mr. Twiggs was obliged to dash a cup of water in its face.
"And Tude's a-comin' of a' age, too," continued Mr. Twiggs, "when a more tenderer pertecter than a father, so to speak, wouldn't be out o' keepin' with the nat'ral order o' things, seein' as how she's sort o' startin' for herself-like now. And it's a question in my mind, if it ain't my bounden duty as her father—or ruther, who has been a father to her all her life—to kind o' tell her jest how things is, and all—and how I am, and everythink,—and how I feel as though I ort'o stand by her, as I allus have, and allus have had her welfare in view, and kind o' feel as how I allus—ort'o kind o'—ort'o kind o' "and here Mr. Twiggs' voice fell into silence so abruptly that the drowsy parrot started from its trance-like quiet and cried "Ortokindo! Ortokindo!" with such a strength of seeming mockery that it was brushed violently to the floor by the angry hand of Mr. Twiggs and went backing awkwardly beneath the table.
"Blow me," said Mr. Twiggs, "if the knowin' impidence of that-'ere bird ain't astonishin' I" And then, after a serious controversy with the draught of his pipe, he went on with his deliberations.
2356 TWIGGS AND TUDENS
"Lori! it were jest scrumptious to see Tude in 'The Iron Chest' last night! Now, I ain't no actur myself,—I've been on, of course, a thousand times as 'fillin',"sogers' and 'peasants' and the like, where I never had no lines, on'y in the 'choruses' ; but if I don't know nothin' but 'All hail !—All hail!' I've had the experience of bein' under the baleful hinfluence of the hoppery-glass, and I'm free to say it air a ticklish position and no mistake. But Tudel w'y, bless you, she warn't the first bit flustered, was she? 'Peared-like she jest felt perfectly at homelike—like her mother afore her! And I'm dashed if I didn't feel the cold chills a-creepin' and a-crawlin' when she was a-singin"Down by the river there grows a green wilier and a-weepin' all night with the bank for her piller' ; and when she come to the part about wantin' to be buried there 'while the winds was a-blowin' close by the stream where her tears was a-flowin', and over her corpse to keep the green willers growin',' I'm d—d if I didn't blubber right out !" And as the highly sympathetic Mr. Twiggs delivered this acknowledgment, he stroked the inner corners of his eyes, and rubbed his thumb and finger on his trousers.
"It were a tryin' thing, though," he went on, his mellow features settling into a look not at all in keeping with his shiny complexion—"it were a tryin' thing, and it air a tryin' thing to see them lovely arms o' hem a-twinin' so lovin'-like around that-'ere Stanley's neck and a-kissin' of him—as she's obleeged to do, of course—as the 'properties' of the
TWIGGS AND TUDENS 2357
play demands ; but I'm blowed if she wouldn't do it quite as nat'ral-like I'd feel easier. Blow me!" he broke off savagely, starting up and flinging his pipe in the ashes, "I'm about a-comin' to the conclusion I ain't got no more courage'n a blasted schoolboy! Here I am old enough to be her father—mighty nigh it—and yet I'm actually afeard to speak up and tell her jest how things is, and all, and how I feel like I—like I—orro—oreo--"
"Ortokindo! Ortokindot' shrieked the parrot, clinging in a reversed position to the under round of a chair.—"Ortokindo! Ortokindo! Tude's come home!—Tude's come homer And as though in happy proof of this latter assertion, the gentle Mr. Twiggs found his chubby neck encircled by a pair of rosy arms, and felt upon his cheek the sudden pressure of a pair of lips that thrilled his old heart to the core. And then the noisy bird dropped from its perch and marched pompously from its place of concealment, trailing its rusty wings and shrieking, "Tude's come home I" at the top of its brazen voice.
"Shet up!" screamed Mr. Twiggs, with a pretended gust of rage, kicking lamely at the feathered oracle; "I'll 'Tude's-come-home' ye! W'y, a feller can't hear his ears for your infernal squawkin'!" And then, turning toward the serious eyes that peered rebukingly into his own, his voice fell gentle as a woman's: "Well, there, Tudens, I beg parding; I do indeed. Don't look at me thataway. I know I'm a great, rough, good-for—" But a warm,
2358 TWIGGS AND TUDENS
swift kiss cut short the utterance; and as the girl drew back, still holding the bright old face between her tender palms, he said simply, "You're a queer girl, Tudens; a queer girl."
"Ha! am I?" said the girl, in quite evident heroics and quotation, starting back with a theatrical flourish and falling into a fantastic attitude.— " 'Troth, I am sorry for it ; me poor father's heart is bursting with gratichude, and he would fain ease it by pouring out his thanks to his benefactor.' "
"Werry good! Werry good, indeed!" said Mr. Twiggs, gazing wistfully upon the graceful figure of the girl. "You're a-growth' more wonderful' clever in your 'presence' every day, Tude. You don't think o' nothink else but your actin, do ye, now ?" And, as Mr. Twiggs concluded his observations, a something very like a sigh came faltering from his lips.
"Why, listen there! Ah-ha!" laughed Tude, clapping her hands and dancing gaily around his chair. —"Why, you old melancholy Dane, you !—are you actually sighing?' Then, dropping into a tragic air of deep contrition, she continued: "'But, believe me, I would not question you, but to console you, Wilford. I would scorn to pry into any one's grief, much more yours, Wilford, to satisfy a busy curiosity."
"Oh, don't, Tude ; don't rehearse like that at me! —I can't a-bear it." And the serious Mr. Twiggs held out his hand as though warding off a blow.
TWIGGS AND TUDENS 2359
At this appeal the girl's demeanor changed to one of tenderest solicitude.
"Why, Pop'm," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "I did not mean to vex you—forgive me. I was only trying to be happy, as I ought, although my own heart is this very minute heavy—very heavy—very.—No, no; I don't mean that—but, Father, Father, I have not been dutiful."
"W'y, yes, you have," broke in Mr. Twiggs, smothering the heavy exclamation in his handkerchief. "You ain't been undutiful, nor nothink else. You're jest all and everythink that heart could wish. It's all my own fault, Tudens ; it's all my fault. You see, I git to thinkin' sometimes like I was a-goin' to lose you ; and now that you are a-comin' on in years, and gittin' such a fine start, and all, and position and everythink.—Yes-sir! position, 'cause everybody likes you, Tudens. You know that; and I'm that proud of you and all, and that selfish, that its onpossible I could ever, ever give you up ;—never, never, ever give you up l" And Mr. Twiggs again stifled his voice in his handkerchief and blew his nose with prolonged violence.
It may have been the melancholy ticking of the clock, as it grated on the silence following, it may have been the gathering darkness of the room, or the plaintive sighing of the rising wind without, that caused the girl to shudder as she stooped to kiss the kind old face bent forward in the shadows, and turned with feigned gaiety to the simple task of
2360 TW!GGS AND TUDENS
arranging supper. But when, a few minutes later, she announced that Twiggs' and Tudens' tea was waiting, the two smilingly sat down, Mr. Twiggs remarking that if he only knew a blessing, he'd ask it upon that occasion most certainly.
"—For on'y look at these-'ere 'am and eggs," he said, admiringly : "I'd like to know if the Queen herself could cook 'em to a nicer turn, or serve 'em up more tantaliz-in'er to the palate. And this-'ere soup,—or whatever it is, is rich as gravy; and these boughten rolls ain't a bad thing either, split in two and toasted as you do 'em, air they, Tude?" And as Mr. Twiggs glanced inquiringly at his companion, he found her staring vacantly at her plate. "I was jest a-sayin', Tudens—" he went on, pretending to blow his tea and glancing cautiously across his saucer.
"Yes, Pop'm, I heard you;—we really ought to have a blessing, by all means."
Mr. Twiggs put down his tea without tasting it. "Tudens," he said, after a long pause, in which he carefully buttered a piece of toast for the second time,—"Tudens, I'm most afeard you didn't grasp that last remark of mine: I was a-sayin'—"
"Well—" said Tudens, attentively.
"I was a-sayin'," said Mr. Twiggs, averting his face and staring stoically at his toast—"I was a-sayin' that you was a-gittin' now to be quite a young woman."
"Oh, so you were," said Tudens, with charming naiveté.
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TWIGGS AND TUDENS 2361
"Well," said Mr. Twiggs, repentantly, but with a humorous twinkle, "if I wasn't a-sayin' of it, I was a-thinkin' it."—And then, running along hurriedly, "And I've been a-thinkin' it for days and days—ever sence you left the 'bailey' and went in 'chambermaids,' and last in leadin' roles. Maybe you ain't noticed it, but I've had my eyes on you from the 'flies' and the 'wings' ; and jest betwixt us, Tudens, and not for me as ort to know better, and does know better, to go a-flatterin', at my time o'—or to go a-flatterin' anybody, as I said, after you're a-gittin' to be a young woman—and what's more, a werry landsome young woman I"
"Why, Poyml" exclaimed Tudens, blushing.
"Yes, you are, Tudens, and I mean it, every word of it ; and as I was a-goin' on to say, I've been a-watchin' of you, and a-layin' off a long time jest to tell you sommat that will make your eyes open wider 'an that! What I mean," said Mr. Twiggs, coughing vehemently and pushing his chair back from the table—"what I mean is, you'll soon be old enough to be a-settin' up for yourself-like, and a-marry'—W'y, Tudens, what ails you ?" The girl had risen to her feet, and, with a face dead white and lips all tremulous, stood clinging to her chair for support. "What ails you, Tudens?" repeated Mr. Twiggs, rising to his feet and gazing on her with a curious expression of alarm and tenderness.
"Nothing serious, dear Pop'm," said Tudens, with a flighty little laugh,—"only it just flashed on me
cc.-9
2362 TWIGGS AND TUDENS
all at once that I'd clean forgotten poor Dick's supper." And as she turned abruptly to the parrot, cooing and clucking to him playfully,—up, up from some hitherto undreamed-of depth within the yearning heart of Mr. Twiggs mutely welled the old utterance, "Tude's a queer girl l"
"Whatever made you think of such a thing, Father ?" called Tudens, gaily; and then, without waiting for an answer, went on cooing to the parrot,—"Hey, old dicky-bird do you think Tudens is a handsome young woman ? and do you think Tudens is old enough to marry, eh?' This query delivered, she broke into a fit of merriment which so wrought upon the susceptibilities of the bird that he was heard repeatedly to declare and affirm, in most positive and unequivocal terms, that Tude had actually come home.
"Yes—sir, Tudens l" broke in Mr. Twiggs at last, lighting a fresh churchwarden and settling into his old position at the grate; "have your laugh out over it now, but it's a werry serious fact, for all that."
"I know it, Father," said the girl, recovering her gravity, turning her large eyes lovingly upon him and speaking very tenderly. "I know it—oh, I know it ; and many, many times when I have thought of it, and then again of your old kindly faith; all the warm wealth of your love ; and our old home here, and all the happiness it ever held for me and you alike—oh, I have tried hard—indeed, indeed I have—to put all other thought away and live
TWIGGS AND TUDENS 2363
for you alone! But, Pop'm! dear old Pop'm—" And even as the great strong breast made shelter for her own, the woman's heart within her flowed away in mists of gracious tears.
"Couldn't live without old Pop'm, could her?" half cried and laughed the happy Mr. Twiggs, tangling his clumsy fingers in the long dark hair that fell across his arm, and bending till his glad face touched her own.—"Couldn't live without old Pop'm ?"
"Never! never !" sobbed the girl, lifting her brimming eyes and gazing in the kind old face. "Oh, may I always live with you, Pop'rn? Always ?—Forever ?—"
"—And a day I" said Mr. Twiggs, emphatically. "Even after I'm—" and she hid her face again. "Even after—what, Tudens?'
"After I'm—after I'm—married?" murmured Tudens, with a longing pressure.
"Nothink short!" said Mr. Twiggs ;—"penvidin'," he added, releasing one hand and smoothing back his scanty hair—"perwidin', of course, that your man is a' honest, straitforrerd feller, as ain't no lordly notions nor nothink o' that sort."
"Nor rich?'
"Well, I ain't so p'ticklar about his bein' pore, adzackly.—Say a feller as works for his livin', and knows how to 'usband his earnin's thrifty-like, and allus 'as a hextry crown or two laid up against a rainy day—and a good perwider, of course," said
2364 TWIGGS AND TUDENS
Mr. Twiggs, with a comfortable glance around the room.—"'Ll blow me if I didn't see a face there a-peerin' in the winder I"
"Oh, no, you didn't," said the girl, without raising her head. "Go on—'and a good provider—'"
"—A good perwider," continued Mr. Twiggs ; "and a feller, of course, as has a' eye out for the substantials of this life, and ain't afeard o' work—that's the idearl that's the idear l" said Mr. Twiggs, by way of sweeping conclusion.
"And that's all old Pop'm asks, after all?" queried the girl, with her radiant face wistful as his own.
"W'y, certainly l" said Mr. Twiggs, with heartiness. "Ain't that all and everythink to make home happy?"—catching her face between his great brown hands and kissing her triumphantly.
"Hooray for Twiggs-and Twiggs-and Twiggsand—" cootered the drowsy bird, disjointedly.
The girl had risen.—"And you'll forgive me for marrying such a man?"
"Won't I?" said Mr. Twiggs, with a rapturous twinkle.
As he spoke, she flung her arms about his neck and pressed her lips close, close against his cheek, her own glad face now fronting the little window. . . . She heard the clicking of the latch, the opening of the door, and the step of the intruder ere she loosed her hold.
"God bless you, Pop'm, and forgive me I—This is my husband."
TWIGGS AND TUDENS 2365
The newcomer, Mr. Stanley, reached and grasped the hand of Mr. Twiggs, eagerly, fervidly, albeit the face he looked on then will haunt him to the hour of his death.—Yet haply, some day, when the Master takes the selfsame hand within his own and whispers, "Tude's come home," the old smile will return.
WILLIAM WILLIAMS his name was—er so he said ;—Bill Williams they called him, and them 'at !mowed him best called him Bill Bills.
The first I seed o' Bills was about two weeks after he got here. The Settlement wasn't nothin' but a baby in them days, fer I mind 'at old Ezry Sturgiss had jest got his saw and griss-mill a-goin', and Bills had come along and claimed to know all about and got a job with him ; and millers in them times was wanted worse'n congerssmen, and I reckon got better wages; fer afore Ezry built, there wasn't a dust o' meal er flour to be had short o' the White Water, better'n sixty mild from here, the way we had to fetch it. And they used to come to Ezry's fer their grindin' as fur as that ; and one feller I Icnowed to come from what used to be the old South Fork, over eighty mil'd from here, and in the wettest, rainyest weather; and mud Law!
Well, this-here Bills was a-workin' fer Ezry at the time—part the time a-grindin', and part the time a-lookin' after the sawin', and gittin' out timber and the like. Bills was a queer-lookin' feller, shore: About as tall a build man as Tom Carter—but of course you don't know nothin' o' Tom Car‑
2366
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2367
ter. A great big hulk of a feller, Tom was ; and as fur back as Fifty-eight used to make his brags that he could cut and putt up his seven cord a day.
Well, what give Bills this queer look, as I was a-goin' on to say, was a great big ugly scar a-runnin' from the corner o' one eye clean down his face and neck, and I don't know how fur down his breast—awful lookin' ; and he never shaved, and there wasn't a hair a-growin' in that scar, and it looked like a—some kind o' pizen snake er somepin' a-crawlin' in the grass and weeds. I never seed sich a' out-and-out ornry-lookin' chap, and I'll never fergit the first time I set eyes on him.
Steve and me—Steve was my youngest brother ; Steve's be'n in Californy now fer, le' me see,—well, anyways, I rickon, over thirty year.—Steve was adrivin' the team at the time—I allus let Steve drive ; 'pared like Steve was made a-purpose fer hosses. The beatin'est hand with hosses 'at ever you did see and-I-know W'y, a hors, after he got kind o' used to Steve a-handlin' of him, would do anything fer him! And I've knowed that boy to swap fer hosses 'at couldn't hardly make a shadder ; and, afore you knowed it, Steve would have 'em a-cavortin' around a-lookin' as peert and fat and slick !
Well, we'd come over to Ezry's fer some grindin' that day ; and Steve wanted to price some lumber fer a house, intendin' to marry that fall—and would a-married, I reckon, of the girl hadn't a-died jest as she'd got her weddin' clothes done—and that set hard on Steve fer a while. Yit he rallied, you know,
2368 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
as a youngster will ; but he never married, someway —never married. Reckon he never found no other woman he could love well enough—'less it was—well, no odds.—The Good Bein's jedge o' what's best fer each and all.
We lived then about eight mil'd from Ezry's and it tuck about a day to make the trip; so you kin kind o' git an idy o' how the roads was in them days.
Well, on the way over I noticed Steve was mighty quiet-like, but I didn't think nothin' of it, tel at last he says, says he, "Ben, I want you to kind o' keep an eye out fer Ezry's new hand"—meanin' Bills. And then I kind o' suspicibned somepin' o' nother was up betwixt 'em ; and shore enough there was, as I found out afore the day was over.
I knowed 'at Bills was a mean sort of a man, from what I'd heerd. His name was all over the neighberhood afore he'd be'n here two weeks.
In the first place, he come in a suspicious sort o' way : Him and his wife, and a little baby on'y a few months old, come through in a kivvered wagon with a fambly a-goin' some'eres in The Illinoy ; and they stopped at the mill, fer some meal er somepin', and Bills got to talkin' with Ezry 'bout millin', and one thing o nother, and said he was expeerenced some 'bout a mill hisse'f, and told Ezry ef he'd give him work he'd stop ; said his wife and baby wasn't strong enough to stand trav'lin', and ef Ezry'd give him work he was ready to lick into it then and there ; said his woman could pay her board by sewin' and the like, tel they got ahead a little ; and then,
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2369
ef he liked the neighberhood, he said he'd as lif settle there as anywheres ; he was huntin' a home, he said, and the outlook kind o' struck him, and his woman railly needed rest, and wasn't strong enough to go much furder. And old Ezry kind o tuk pity on the feller ; and havin' house-room to spare, and railly in need of a good hand at the mill, he said all right ; and so the feller stopped and the wagon druv ahead and left 'em ; and they didn't have no things ner nothin'—not even a cyarpet-satchel, ner a stitch o' clothes, on'y what they had on their backs. And I think it was the third er fourth day after Bills stopped 'at he whirped Tomps Burk, the bully o' here them days, tel you wouldn't 'a' knowed him I
Well, I'd heerd o' this, and the facts is I'd made up my mind 'at Bills was a bad stick, and the place wasn't none the better fer his bein' here. But, as I was a-goin' on to say,—as Steve and me driv up to the mill, I ketched sight o' Bills the first thing, a-lookin' out o' where some boards was knocked off, jest over the worter-wheel ; and he knowed Steve—I could see that by his face ; and he hollered somepin, too, but what it was I couldn't jest make out, fer the noise o' the wheel ; but he looked to me as ef he'd hollered somepin' mean a-purpose so's Steve wouldn't hear it, and he'd have the consolation o' knowin"at he'd called Steve some ornry name 'thout givin' him a chance to take it up. Steve was allus quiet-like, but ef you raised his dander onc't—and you could do that 'thout much trouble, callin' him names er somepin', particular
2370 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
anything 'bout his mother. Steve loved his motherallus loved his mother, and would fight fer her at the drap o' the hat. And he was her favo-rite—allus a-talkin' o' "her boy, Steven," as she used to call him, and so proud of him, and so keerful of him allus, when he'd be sick or anything ; nuss him like a baby, she would.
So when Bills hollered, Steve didn't pay no attention; and I said nothin', o' course, and didn't let on like I noticed him. So we druv round to the south side and hitched and Steve 'lowed he'd better feed ; so I left him with the hosses and went into the mill.
They was jest a-stoppin' fer dinner. Most of 'em brought their dinners—lived so fur away, you know. The two Smith boys lived on what used to be the old Warrick farm, five er six mil'd, anyhow, from where the mill stood. Great stout fellers, they was ; and little Jake, the father of 'em, wasn't no man at all—not much bigger'n you, I rickon. Le' me see, now :—There was Tomps Burk, Wade Elwood, and Joe and Ben Carter ; and Wesley Morris, John Coke —wiry little cuss, he was, afore he got his leg sawed off ;—and Ezry, and—Well, I don't jest mind all the boys—'s a long time ago, and I never was much of a hand fer names.—Now, some folks'll hear a name and never fergit it, but I can't boast of a good rickollection, 'specially o' names ; and Ter the last thirty year my mem'ry's be'n a-failin' me, ever sence a spell o' fever 'at I brought on onc't—fever and rheumatiz together :—You see, I went a-sainin'
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2371
with a passel o' the boys, fool-like, and let my clothes freeze on me a-comin' home. W'y, my breeches was like stove-pipes when I pulled 'em off. 'Ll, ef I didn't pay fer that spree! Rheumatiz got a holt o' me and helt me there flat o' my back fer eight weeks, and couldn't move hand er foot 'thout a-hollerin' like a' Injun.
And I'd 'a' be'n there yit, I rickon, ef it hadn't 'a' be'n fer a' old hoss-doctor, name o' Jones ; and he gits a lot o' sod and steeps it in hot whisky and pops it on me,—and I'll-be-switched-to-death ef it didn't cuore me up, fer all I laughed and told him I'd better take the whisky in'ardly and let him keep the grass fer his doctor bill. But that's nuther here ner there! —As I was a-sayin' 'bout the mill : As I went in, the boys had stopped work and was a-gittin' down their dinners, and Bills amongst 'em, and old Ezry a chat-tin' away—great hand, he was, fer his joke, and allus a-cuttin' up and a-gittin' off his odd-come-shorts on the boys. And that day he was in particular good humor. He'd brought some liquor down fer the boys, and he'd be'n drinkin' a little hisse'f, enough to feel it. He didn't drink much—that is to say, he didn't git drunk adzactly ; but he tuk his dram, you understand. You see, they made their own whisky in them days, and it wasn't nothin' like the bilin' stuff you git now. Old Ezry had a little still, and allus made his own whisky, enough fer fambly use, and jest as puore as worter, and as harmless. But nowadays the liquor you git's rank pizen. They say they putt tobacker in it, and strychnine, and the
2372 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
Lord knows what ; ner I never knowed why, 'less it was to give it a richer-lookin' flavor, like. Well, Ezry he'd brought up a jug, and the boys had be'n a-takin' it purty free ; I seed that as quick as I went in.
And old Ezry called out to me to come and take some, the first thing. Told him I didn't b'lieve I keered about it ; but nothin' would do but I must take a drink with the boys ; and I was tired anyhow and I thought a little wouldn't hurt ; so I takes a swig; and as I set the jug down Bills spoke up and says, "You're a stranger to me, and I'm a stranger to you, but I rickon we can drink to our better acquaintance,"—er somepin' to that amount, and poured out another snifter in a gourd he'd be'n a-drinkin' coffee in, and handed it to me. Well, I couldn't well refuse, of course ; so I says "Here's to us," and drunk her down—mighty nigh a half pint, I rickon. Now, I railly didn't want it, but, as I tell you, I was obleeged to take it, and I downed her at a swaller and never batted an eye, fer, to tell the fact about it, I liked the taste o' liquor ; and I do yit, on'y I know when I' got enough. Jest then I didn't want to drink on account o' Steve. Steve couldn't abide liquor in no shape ner form—fer medicine ner nothin, and I've allus thought it was his mother's doin's.
Now, a few months afore this I'd be'n to Vincennes, and I was jest a-tellin' Ezry what they was a-astin' fer their liquor there—fer I'd fetched a couple o' gallon home with me 'at I'd paid six bits
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2373
fer, and pore liquor at that : And I was a-tellin' about it, and old Ezry was a-sayin' what an audacious figger that was, and how he could make money a-sellin' it fer half that price, and was a-goin' on a-braggin' about his liquor—and it was a good article—fer new whisky,—and jest then Steve comes in, jest as Bills was a-sayin"at a man 'at wouldn't drink that whisky wasn't no man at all! So, of course, when they ast Steve to take some and he told 'em no, 'at he was much obleeged, Bills was kind o' tuk down, you understand, and had to say somepin'; and says he, "I reckon you ain't no better'n the rest of us, and we've be'n a-drinkin' of it." But Steve didn't let on like he noticed Bills at all, and retch and shuk hands with the other boys and ast how they was all a-comin' on.
I seed Bills was riled, and more'n likely
wanted
trouble ; and shore enough, he went on to say, kind o
snarlin'-like, 'at "he'd knowed o' men
in his day 'at
had be'n licked fer refusin' to drink
when their bet‑
ters ast 'em"; and said furder at "a
lickin' wasn't
none too good fer anybody 'at would
refuse liquor
like that o' Ezry's, and in his own
house too"—er
ruther. Ezry shuk his head at him, but
I
seed 'at Bills was bound fer a quarrel,
and I winks
at Steve, as much as to say, "Don't
you let him
bully you ; you'll find your brother
here to see you
have fair play!"
I was a-feelin' my oats some about
then, and Steve seed I was, and looked
so sorry‑
like, and like his mother, 'at I jest
thought, "I kin
fight fer
you,
and die
fer you, 'cause you're wuth
2374 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
it l"—And I didn't someway feel like it would amount to much of I did die er git killed er some-pin' on his account I seed Steve was mighty white around the mouth, and his eyes was a-glitterin' like a snake's ; yit Bills didn't seem to take warnin', but went on to say 'at "he'd knowed boys 'at loved their mothers so well they couldn't drink nothin' stronger'n milk."
And then you'd ort o' seed Steve's coat fly off, jest like it wanted to git out of his way and give the boy room accordin' to his stren'th. I seed Bills grab a piece o' scantlin' jest in time to ketch his arm as he struck at Steve,—fer Steve was a-comin' fer him danger's. But they'd ketched Steve from behind jest then ; and Bills turned fer me. I seed him draw back, and I seed Steve a-scufill& to ketch his arm ; but he didn't reach it quite in time to do me no good. It must 'a' come awful suddent The first I rickollect was a roarin' and a buzzin' in my ears, and when I kind o' come a little better to, and crawled up and peeked over the saw-log I was a-layin' the other side of, I seed a couple clinched and a-rollin' over and over and a-makin' the chips and sawdust fly, now I tell you 1 Bills and Steve it was—head and tail, tooth and toe-nail, and a-bleedin' like good fellers! I seed a gash o' some kind in Bills's head, and Steve was purty well tuckered and a-pantin' like a lizard ; and I made a rush in, and one o' the Carter boys grabbed me and told me to jest keep cool—'at Steve didn't need no he'p, and they might need me to keep Bills's friends
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2375
off ef they made a rush. By this time Steve had whirlt Bills, and was a-jest a-gittin' in a fair way to finish him up in good style, when Wesley Morris run in—I seed him do it—run in, and afore we could ketch him he struck Steve a deadener in the butt o' the ear and knocked him as limber as a rag. And then Bills whirlt Steve and got him by the th'oat, and Ben Carter and me and old Ezry closed in.—Carter tackled Morris, and Ezry and me grabs Bills—and as old Ezry grabbed him to pull him off, Bills kind o' give him a side swipe o' some kind and knocked him—I don't know how fur! And jest then Carter and Morris come a-sculflin' back'ards right amongst us, and Carter th'owed him right acrost Bills and Steve.
Well, it ain't fair, and I don't like to tell it, but I seed it was the last chance and I tuk advantage if it :—As Wesley and Ben fell it pulled Bills down in a kind o' twist, don't you understand, so's he couldn't he'p hisse'f, yit still a-clinchin' Steve by the th'oat, and him black in the face.—Well, as they fell I grabbed up a little hick'ry limb, not bigger'n my two thumbs, and I struck Bills a little tap kind o' over the back of his head like, and, blame me 1 ef he didn't keel over like a stuck pig—and not any too soon, nuther,—fer he had Steve's chunk as nigh putt out as you ever seed a man's, to come to ag'in. But he was up th'reckly and ready to 'a' went at it ef Bills could 'a' come to the scratch but Mister Bills he wasn't in no fix to try it over! After a-waitin' a while fer him to come to, and him not
2376 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
a-comin' to, we concluded 'at we'd better he'p him, maybe. And we worked with him, and warshed him, and drenched him with whisky, but it 'peared like it wasn't no use.—He jest laid there with his eyes about half shet, and a-breathin' like a hoss when he's bad sceart ; and I'll be dad-limbed ef I don't believe he'd 'a' died on our hands ef it hadn't a-happened old Doc Zions come a-ridin' past on his way home from the Murdock neighberhood, where they was a-havin' sich a time with the milk-sick. And he examined Bills, and had him laid on a plank and carried down to the house—'bout a mil'd, I reckon, from the mill. Looked kind o' cur'ous to see Steve a-he'ppin' pack the feller, after his nearly chokin' him to death. Oh, it was a bloody fight, I tell you! W'y, they wasn't a man in the mill 'at didn't have a black eye er somepin' ; and old Ezry, where Bills hit him, had his nose broke, and was as bloody as a butcher. And you'd ort 'a' seed the women-folks when our p'session come a-bringin' Bills in. I never seed anybody take on like Bills's woman.—It was distressin'; it was, indeed.—Went into hysterics, she did ; and we thought fer a while she'd gone plum crazy, fer she cried so pitiful over him, and called him "Charley ! Charley I" stid of his right name, and went on, clean out of her head, tel she finally jest fainted clean away.
Fer three weeks Bills laid betwixt life and death, and that woman set by him night and day, and tended him as patient as a' angel—and she was a' angel, too ; and he'd 'a' never lived to bother nobody
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2377
ag'in ef it hadn't 'a' be'n fer Annie, as he called her. Zions said there was a 'brazure of the—some kind o p'tuber'nce, and ef he'd 'a' be'n struck jest a quarter of a' inch below—jist a quarter of a' inch—he'd 'a' be'n a dead man. And I've sence wished—not 'at I want the life of a human bein' to account feron'y,—well, no odds—I've sence wished 'at I had 'a' hit him jest a quarter of a' inch below I
Well, of course, them days they wasn't no law o' no account, and nothin' was ever done about it. So Steve and me got our grindin', and talked the matter over with Ezry and the boys. Ezry said he was a•goin' to do all he could fer Bills, 'cause he was a good hand, and when he wasn't drinkin' they wasn't nu peaceabler man in the Settlement. I kind o' suspicioned what was up, but I said nothin' then. And Ezry said furder, as we was about drivin' off, that Bills was a despert feller, and it was best to kind o' humor him a little. "And you must kind o' be on your guard," he says, "and I'll watch him, and ef anything happens 'at I git wind of I'll let you know," he says; and so we putt out fer home.
Mother tuk on awful about it. You see, she thought she'd be'n the whole blame of it, 'cause the Sund'y afore that her and Steve had went to meetin', and they got there late, and the house was crowded, and Steve had ast Bills to give up his seat to mother, and he wouldn't do it, and said somepin' at disturbed the prayin', and the preacher prayed 'at the feller 'at was a-makin' the disturbance might be forgive'; and that riled Bills so he got up and left,
Ecru
2378 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
and hung around till it broke up, so's he could git a chance at Steve to pick a fight. And he did try it, and dared Steve and double-dared him fer a fight, but mother begged so hard 'at she kep' him out of it. Steve said 'at he'd 'a' told me all about it on the way to Ezry's, on'y he'd promised mother you know, not to say nothin' to me.
Ezry was over at our house about six weeks after the fight, apparently as happy as you please. We ast him how him and Bills was a-makin' it, and he said first-rate ; said 'at Bills was jest a-doing splendid ; said he'd got moved in his new house 'at he'd fixed up fer him, and ever'thing was a-goin' on as smooth as could be; and Bills and the boys was on better terms'n ever ; and says he, "As fur as you and Steve's concerned, Bills don't 'pear to bear you no ill feelin's, and says as fur as he's concerned the thing's settled." "Well," says I, "Ezry, I hope so; but I can't he'p but think they's somepin' at the bottom of all this"; and says I, "I don't think it's in Bills to ever amount to anything good"; and says I, "It's my opinion they's a dog in the well, and now you mark it I"
Well, he said he wasn't jest easy, but maybe he'd come out all right; said he couldn't turn the feller off—he hadn't the heart to do that, with that-air pore, dilicate woman o' his, and the baby. And then he went on to tell what a smart sort o' woman Bills' wife was,—one of the nicest little women he'd ever laid eyes on, said she was ; said she was the kindest
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2379
thing, and the sweetest-tempered, and all—and the handiest woman 'bout the house, and 'bout sewin, and cookin, and the like, and all kinds o' housework; and so good to the childern, and all ; and how they all got along so well ; and how proud she was of her baby, and allus a-goin' on about it and a-cryin' over it and a-carryin' on, and wouldn't leave it out of her sight a minute. And Ezry said 'at she could write so purty, and made sich purty pictur's fer the childern ; and how they all liked her better'n their own mother. And, sence she'd moved, he said it seemed so lonesome-like 'thout her about the house—like they'd lost one o' their own fambly ; said they didn't git to see her much now, on'y sometimes, when her man would be at work, she'd run over fer a while, and kiss all the childern and women-folks about the place,—the greatest hand fer the childern, she was ; tell 'em all sorts o' little stories, you know, and sing fer 'em ; said 'at she could sing so sweet-like, 'at time and time ag'in she'd break clean down in some song o' nother, and her voice would trimble so mournful-like 'at you'd find yourse'f a-cryin' afore you 'mowed it. And she used to coax Ezry's woman to let her take the childern home with her; and they used to allus want to go, tel Bills come onc't while they was there, and they said he got to jawin' her fer a-makin' some to-do over the baby, and swore at her and tuk it away from her and whirped it fer cryin', and she cried and told him to whirp her and not little Annie, and he said that was jest what he was a-doin. And
2380 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
the childern was allus afeard to go there any more after that—'feard he'd come home and whirp little Annie ag'in. Ezry said he jest done that to skeer 'em away—'cause he didn't want a passel o' childern a-whoopin' and a-howlin' and a-trackin' round the house all the time.
But, shore enough, Bills, after the fight, 'peared like he'd settled down, and went 'bout his business so stiddy-like, and worked so well, the neighbers begin to think he was all right after all, and railly some got to likin' him. But fer me,—well, I was a leetle slow to argy 'at the feller wasn't "a-possumin'." But the next time I went over to the mill—and Steve went with me—old Ezry come and met us, and said 'at Bills didn't have no hard feelih's of we didn't, and 'at he wanted us to fergive him; said 'at Bills wanted him to tell us 'at he was sorry the way he'd acted, and wanted us to fergive him. Well, I looked at Ezry, and we both looked at him, jest perfectly tuk back—the idee o' Bills a-wantin' anybody to fergive him! And says I, "Ezry, what in the name o' common sense do you mean?'. And says he, "I mean jest what I say ; Bills jined meetin' last night and had 'em all a-prayin' fer him; and we all had a glorious time," says old Ezry ; "and his woman was there and jined, too, and prayed and shouted and tuk on to beat all; and Bills got up and spoke and give in his experience, and said he'd be'n a bad man, but, glory to God, them times was past and gone; said 'at he wanted all of 'em to pray fer him, and he wanted to prove faithful, and wanted
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2381
all his inemies to fergive him ; and prayed 'at you and Steve and your folks would fergive him, and ever'body 'at he ever wronged anyway." And old Ezry was a-goin' on, and his eyes a-sparklin', and a-rubbin' his hands, he was so excited and tickled over it, 'at Steve and me we jest stood there a-gawkin' like, tel Bills hisse'f come up and retch out one hand to Steve and one to me ; and Steve shuk with him kind o' oneasy-like, and I—well, sir, I never felt cur'oser in my born days than I did that minute.
The cold chills crep' over me, and I shuk as of I had the agur, and I folded my hands behind me and I looked that feller square in the eye, and I tried to speak three or four times afore I could make it, and when I did, my voice wasn't natchurl—sounded like a feller a-whisperin' through a tin horn er somepin'.—And I says, says I, "You're a liar," slow and delibert. That was all. His eyes blazed a minute, and drapped; and he turned, 'thout a word, and walked off. And Ezry says, "He's in airnest ; I know he's in airnest, er he'd 'a' never 'a' tuk that!" And so he went on, tel finally Steve jined in, and betwixt 'em they p'suaded me 'at I was in the wrong and the best thing to do was to make it all up, which I finally did. And Bills said 'at he'd 'a' never 'a' felt jest right 'thout my friendship, fer he'd wronged me, he said, and he'd wronged Steve and mother, too, and he wanted a chance, he said, o' makin' things straight ag'in.
Well, a-goin' home, I don't think Steve and me talked o' nothin' else but Bills—how airnest the fel‑
23132 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
ler acted 'bout it, and how, ef he wasn't in airnest, he'd 'a' never 'a' swallered that "lie," you see. That's what walked my log, fer he could 'a' jest as easy 'a' knocked me higher'n Kilgore's kite as he could to walk away 'thout a-doin' of it.
Mother was awful tickled when she heerd about it, fer she'd had an idee 'at we'd have trouble afore we got back, and a-gittin' home safe, and a-bringin' the news 'bout Bills a-jinin' church and all, tickled her so 'at she mighty nigh shouted fer joy. You see, mother was a' old church-member all her life ; and I don't think she ever missed a sermont er a prayermeetin' 'at she could possibly git to—rain er shine, wet er dry. When they was a meetin' of any kind a-goin' on, go she would, and nothin' short o' sickness in the fambly, er knowin' nothin' of it, would stop her! And clean up to her dyin' day she was a God-fearin' and consistent Christian ef they ever was one. I mind now when she was tuk with her last spell and hid bedfast fer eighteen months, she used to tell the preacher, when he'd come to see her and pray and go on, 'at she could die happy ef she could on'y be with 'em all ag'in in their love-feasts and revivals. She was purty low then, and had be'n a-failin' fast fer a day er two; and that day they'd be'n a-holdin' service at the house. It was her request, you know, and the neighbers had congergated and was a-prayin' and a-singin' her favorite hymns —one in p'tickler, "God moves in a myster'ous way his wunders to p'form," and 'bout his "Walkin' on the sea and a-ridin' of the storm."
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2383
Well, anyway, they'd be'n a-singin' that hymn fer her—she used to sing that'n so much, I rickollect as fur back as I kin remember; and I mind how it used to make me feel so lonesome-like and solemn, don't you know,—when I'd be a-knockin' round the place along o' evenings, and she'd be a-milkin, and I'd hear her, at my feedin', way off by myse'f, and it allus somehow made me feel like a feller'd ort 'o try and live as nigh right as the law allows, and that's about my doctern yit. Well, as I was a-goin' on to say, they'd jest finished that old hymn, and Granny Lowry was jest a-goin' to lead in prayer, when I noticed mother kind o' tried to turn herse'f in bed, and smiled so weak and faint-like, and looked at me, with her lips a-kind o' movin' ; and I thought maybe she wanted another dos't of her sirup 'at Ezry's woman had fixed up fer her, and I kind o' stooped down over her and ast her of she wanted anything.
"Yes," she says, and nodded, and her voice sounded so low and solemn and so fur-awaylike 'at I knowed she'd never take no more medicine on this airth. And I tried to ast her what it was she wanted, but I couldn't say nothin' ; my throat hurt me, and I felt the warm tears a-boolgin' up, and her kind old face a-glimmerin' away so pale-like afore my eyes, and still a-smilin' up so lovin' and forgivin' and so good 'at it made me think so fur back in the past I seemed to be a little boy ag'in ; and seemed like her thin gray hair was brown and a-shinin' in the sun as it used to do when
2384 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
she helt me on her shoulder in the open door, when father was a-livin' and we used to go to meet him at the bars; seemed like her face was young ag'in, and a-smilin' like it allus used to be, and her eyes as full o' hope and happiness as afore they ever looked on grief er ever shed a tear. And I thought of all the trouble they had saw on my account, and of all the lovin' words her lips had said, and of all the thousand things her pore old hands had done fer me 'at I never even thanked her fer; and how I loved her better'n all the world besides, and would be so lonesome of she went away.—Lord I I can't tell you what I didn't think and feel and see. And I knelt down by her, and she whispered then fer Steven, and he come, and we kissed her—and she died—a-smilin' like a child—jest like a child.
Well—well! 'Pears like I'm allus a-runnin' into somepin' else. 1 wisht I could tell a story 'thout driftin' off in matters 'at hain't no livin' thing to do with what I started out with. I try to keep from thinkin' of afflictions and the like, 'cause sich is bound to come to the best of us; but feller's rickollection will bring 'em up, and I reckon it'd ort'o be er it wouldn't be; and I've thought, sometimes, it was done maybe to kind o' admonish a feller, as the Good Book says, of how good a world'd be 'thout no sorrow in it.
Where was I? Oh, yes, I rickollect ;—about Bills a-jinin' church. Well, sir, they wasn't a better-actin' feller and more religious-like in all the neighberhood. Spoke in meetin's, he did, and tuk a' ac‑
AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 2385
tive part in all religious doin's, and, in fact, was jest as square a man, appearantly, as the preacher hisse'f. And about six er eight weeks after he'd fined, they got up another revival, and things run high. They was a big excitement, and ever'body was a'tendin' from fur and near. Bills and Ezry got the mill-hands to go, and didn't talk o' nothin' but religion. People thought a while 'at old Ezry'd turn preacher he got so interested 'bout church matters. He was easy excited 'bout anything ; and when he went into a thing it was in dead airnest, shore!—"jest flew off the handle," as I heerd a comical feller git off onc't. And him and Bills was up and at it ever' night—prayin' and shoutin' at the top o' their voice. Them railly did seem like good times—when ever'-body jined together, and prayed and shouted "Hosanner," and danced around together, and hugged each other like they was so full o' glory they jest couldn't he'p theirse'v's I—That's the reason I jined ; it looked so kind o' whole-souled-like and good, you understand. But law! I didn't hold out—