Big Creek bisects the narrow valley and the road to Hyden follows the bank, crossing from side to side as the sheerness of the mountain side makes necessary. Here and there the valley broadens until there is almost enough level land for a farm; and always where there is a little width of valley you find a mountain home. The mountain tops and sides are great wildernesses, though sometimes in a cove or on the plateau a hermit or outcast family makes its home.
At old man Litman’s place the valley is quite narrow, except below the “Rock House,” where there is an old field cleared by his grandfather, who came from Virginia [pg 8] in 1795. A sprawling rail fence, hedged about by thrifty bush growth, encircles the old field; pawpaw bushes growing in the fence corners encroach to the ruts of the road; and each year new growth of sumac and persimmon appropriate yet more of the old field; which having been cultivated for near a century and grown unproductive, is given over to a volunteer crop of broom sedge, which furnishes meager pasturage for an old mule and two cows.
On the edge of the road at the fence corner nearest the cabin, Litman’s granddaughter has a doll house; if mere tracings of pebbles and shells gathered from the creek shallows can be called partitions and the bushes and vines, walls and a roof. The white room is traced in white pebbles the red room in red pebbles and the kitchen in the commoner blue ones. The furnishings are bits of broken crockery, glass and shell. The dolls are small bleached bones or bits of peeled pawpaw sticks, dressed in blouses made from a worn out sleeve of grandpa’s red undershirt and skirts from scraps of worn and faded calico. She has never seen a doll house, never a real doll, only pictures. This, her creation, was suggested by instinctive motherhood and love for home.
A passing traveler would have thought several children were playing at the fence corner. The little make-believe mother was talking to her babies and answering for them in even thinner and more subdued voice than her own; though she had the low voice of a child accustomed to play alone.
“Now Jeanne, let’s make grandpa some nice pone bread; the meal is fresh and sweet. When it is ready you run to the spring and bring him a cup of cold milk.”
“Granny, while you are mixing the bread maybe I can find an egg in the loft. I heard Old Speck cackling.”
[pg 9] “There is grandpa calling, I will go and see what he wants.”
“He says, would you mind moving him a wee bit? His bones shore do ache.”
Here the dialogue ended, the girl’s attention having been caught by the voice of an old friend; except for which the valley had the quietude not alone of a warm mid-afternoon but of a great solitude, so profound that you might even fancy hearing the smoke curling up from the chimney of the cabin, a hundred yards away. Yet, if you listen you may hear the chirping of the grass creatures and the rippling water washing along the pebbly bed of the creek.
A lone tree, long dead, and bleached to bony whiteness, stands in the center of the old field and from its topmost snag a lark gives voice to a series of pensive, dreamy, flute-like notes. The girl, after listening for some time, resumes the dialogue.
“Children, we will climb on the fence and hear what Yellow Vest has to say. I think he is whistling to his wife, who hunts crickets in the broom sedge.”
“Maw, tell us what he says?”
“‘Love, thou art safe! art safe! I watch for thee! for thee! and babies.’ It is not so much what he says as the way in which he says it.”
The feeble voice of the old grandmother calls: “Jeanne, come help your granny;” and placing her dolls in their little beds of sticks, moss and bird feathers, and the little baby in its cradle, the half of a mussel shell, she goes to the house.
————
John Morgan Allen lived in Lexington, Kentucky. His father was a lawyer of considerable prominence; his mother, a Morgan, granddaughter of a distinguished soldier; [pg 10] his grandmother was the daughter of John Calvin Campbell, an eloquent pioneer preacher; her husband, a lawyer when she married him, afterwards became a professional gambler and, an exception to the rule, accumulated a considerable fortune.
It was young Allen’s mother’s desire that he should be a soldier; his father’s that he should be a lawyer, and his grandmother’s that he should be a preacher. When he finished high school, his mother insisting, he was sent to Culver Military Institute, where he remained a year. Then his grandmother, having promised to give him $25,000.00 the day he should graduate at the Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary; he was sent to that institution. In the beginning of his senior year she died intestate, leaving an estate of only $60,000.00 to be divided between three living children and the heirs of three dead children. As there was no chance of the fulfillment of her promise when he should graduate at the seminary; and his conduct had been such that his professors had suggested a reformation in conformity with his prospective calling, he wrote asking his father’s consent to leave the seminary and take the law course at the University of Virginia; and he cheerfully consented. In spite of the fact that he gave much of his time to a local military company and enjoyed the reputation of being the best poker player at the university, he graduated with class honors in 1912.
Several weeks after his return home, on his twenty-second birthday, his father took him to the office and with great gladness in his heart, pointed to the name, Allen & Allen, which had been painted on the office door the day before; showed him the new embossed stationery on which his name appeared as a member of the firm; and his own room, newly painted, carpeted and furnished, [pg 11] with the name John Morgan Allen (Private) on the door. Though John’s face wore a smile of appreciation, it was merely reflective of his father’s love and enjoyment; disposition and temperament suggested rebellion, but were overcome by a sense of gratitude and duty.
In the early summer of 1913 the firm were employed by the Lockard heirs to clear the title to a large boundary of land in Leslie county; and it became necessary for John and the executor to go to Hyden for that purpose.
Just at sundown as they were riding by Litman’s old field, John’s horse shied and backed through the pawpaw bushes into Jeanne’s doll house. He dismounted and patched the partition walls into shape; then parting the bushes, showed it to Mr. Lockard.
To John, the little bone and stick dolls, dressed in rags and resting in their beds of moss and feathers were pathetic. He picked several up, and was examining them when a slender girl of twelve, in an outgrown, worn and faded dress, which did not reach to her knees, ran up crying: “Do not hurt my babies.” John rose hastily, somewhat disconcerted by the accusation, and lifting his hat and gravely bowing, assured her he had no such intention; whereupon without uttering another word, she turned and ran into the Litman cabin.
The cabin, built in the days when the family was relatively prosperous, had a spare room for visitors. As it was now sundown the men asked and were given shelter for the night.
Jeanne showed them where their horses were to be stabled; and then went into the house to help with supper. Her grandmother noted that she was very exact in setting the table; getting out the only white cloth they had and doing her best with their meager stock of china to make it attractive. This special attention was due to [pg 12] the lifted hat and formal bow with which John had greeted the child. It was the first time a man had ever tipped his hat to her.
After supper John and Mr. Lockard seated themselves for a smoke on a great rock that jutted into the creek and enjoyed not only the profound repose but the mystic beauty of the scene, which was accentuated by the light of a full moon and the deep shadows made by the trees and mountain.
John, a person of moods and imagination—possibly due to his complex ancestry—gave expression to his thoughts: “How soothing, how delightfully peaceful, how homelike, is this humble home. There is no place here for sorrow and tears, no room for envy, no cause for covetousness or discontent. Some people, and I believe I am one, might be happy here, happier than in a city, just getting his part of the sunlight, just breathing his part of this untainted air.”
While he was talking in this strain, Jeanne, coming up, stood listening; and when he had finished said:
“We have our troubles. You have not seen grandpa. He’s sick in bed. He can’t move except his hands and head and they shake all the time. He says he is a corpse with a chill and lies in his bed with nothing to do but wait. When I ask ‘Wait for what?’ He answers, ‘Tomorrow.’ To me tomorrow is like today. The cows will go to pasture, the creek will run over the same pebbles, the mail man will come at noon and stop for dinner, the lark will sing the same song; but if I stump my toe it will be well tomorrow. Go in and talk to grandpa. He likes to hear things. He lies on his bed until his bones ache. He looks out at the same trees and rocks and the same reach of the creek. I hope when he sleeps there is a change and he has dreams like mine and hears voices [pg 13] sweeter than those of the day; though I love the voice of the lark and the red bird and the wren; the murmur of the water on the rocks and most of all the little creatures we do not see and will not hear, unless we are very still. They are hidden in the grass and in the rocks. Alone not one of them can be heard, but together they make soft music, a chorus of glad hearts. One little blackbird makes a noise, but when a thousand speak at once it makes a song. So it seems to me, if I should live here always, with just grandpa and granny, what I said would be as the chirp of one little bug or the call of a lost blackbird; but if I chirp or call out with a thousand, my voice is the thousandth part of a song.”
“Jeanne, we will go in and talk with your grandpa. Can he read, or do you read to him?”
“He used to read before he broke his specks. I am trying hard to learn to read good, so I can read to him. The teacher sometimes boards with us; she says I will soon know how. It will be nice then. I try to read his Bible to him but the words are too big. Teacher says I need a book to tell me the meaning of big words. I know just the part of the Bible he loves and I am learning it by heart. I stand and say it to him, looking in the book and he thinks I read it.”
“What do you say to him, Jeanne?”
“‘And God shall wipe all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death; neither sorrow nor dying; neither shall there be any more pain.’ And I know all of the fourteenth chapter of John, which tells us not to let our troubles worry us, because in the Father’s house there is a home of many rooms and one is for me. And when I say, ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you;’ he makes me read it again. * *”
[pg 14] They went in and spent an hour with the old man. Seeing them was a break in his bedridden monotony, shifting scene and introducing new characters.
His had been a calm, relatively happy life until he was seventy years of age; then misfortune overwhelmed him. He lost his savings; his son, Sylvester, Jeanne’s father, died; a few weeks later he had a stroke of apoplexy and now a shivering palsy possessed his limbs. For more than five years he had lain in his bed, nursed by wife and granddaughter.
His wife by most rigid economy had managed to feed the family of three; though they were poorly clad and were frequently denied many things deemed essential to life.
————
Simeon Blair for ten years had been carrying the mail from the mouth of Big Creek to Hyden, going up one day and returning the next. He usually ate his noon-day meal at Litman’s, which he called the “Half-way House.”
About ten days after Mr. Allen and his client had spent the night at the Litman cabin, Blair rode up on his old gray mare and seeing Jeanne coming from the spring, took from a gunny sack a parcel post package about a foot square; and holding it above his head called out: “Guess whose this is?”
“Grandpa’s.”
He shook his head, saying: “Guess again.”
“Granny’s.”
“Wrong, guess again.”
“Is it for us?”
“Yes.”
“Then it must be for me; but I have never had anything before. It is not Christmas. O! who could have sent it?”
[pg 15] She took it with timid joy and examined it carefully, reading aloud in a halting way—“Miss Jeanne—no it’s not Jeanne; what is it Simeon?”
“Jeannette.”
“Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek, Leslie County, Ky.”
And in the upper left-hand corner—
“From John M. Allen, Lexington, Ky.”
“Open it, let’s see what’s inside.”
“Not till grandpa wakes up.”
She went to his door, he was awake; so she called her grandmother and Simeon.
“Look, grandpa, see what’s come by mail. Listen: ‘Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek, Leslie County, Kentucky. From John M. Allen, Lexington, Ky.’ What can it be?”
“Open it and find out.”
“Simeon, you untie the string.”
“Cut it, it’s dinner time.”
(Granny) “No, it’s a piece of good whip-cord, undo the knot.”
“Well, Miss Jeannette Litman, there it is.”
“Can you see, grandpa?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Watch close—O! this is for you, grandpa. See your name? Shall I open it?—Some silver specks, in a bright new case. Now I know why he asked me for the broken ones.”
“Look! Look! this has granny’s name on it, what can it be?”
“You open it, dear.”
“No, granny, you must open your own bundle.”
“Just what I wanted. I remember saying that when I went to Hyden I would have to buy a pair of shears [pg 16] and a black shawl with the money we got for the goose feathers. Now we can get a sack of flour and goods for Jeanne’s dress.”
“It is my turn now, ‘For Jeannette Litman,’ such purty shoes; how did he know my size? O! he had me step in the dusty road and then he measured the track, saying a fairy had passed this way; and here is a little blue silk handkerchief and two books. What does this spell, Simeon? University Dictionary? What is a dictionary?”
“A book that tells what big words mean.”
“Here is the other book, ‘The Little Colonel at Boarding School;’ and here’s more, two boxes—dolls! real dolls! all dressed and asleep in their best clothes, shoes and real hair. O, you beautiful things! You sweet darlings! Look granny! the top dress is just like spider web with dew on it. We will name this one after you, granny. I bet you was as purty when you were a little girl. This is Jane Wilson and the other I will call Ruth, Ruth Dixon, after mother.”
Jeanne insisted on writing the letter thanking Mr. Allen for the gifts; and it was a momentous undertaking. Simeon brought a stamp, envelope and two sheets of paper in a thread box from the general store at the mouth of Big Creek. There was a pen and ink in the house, though it was necessary to dilute the ink before using it.
At a loss as to how to address the envelope and commence her letter, she consulted her grandmother; but would hear no other suggestions. At the end of the second day’s series of efforts on her slate she was sufficiently satisfied to transcribe what she had printed to paper. In her many attempts to find out how to spell certain words she discovered that the new dictionary was [pg 17] marvelously arranged in alphabetical order, and in possession of this key, finally mastered it.
In searching through the dictionary by chance she came upon the word correspondence and learned its meaning. The word had caught her eye, because among their few books, all of which had belonged to her great grandfather, there was a set in old sheep binding of “Jefferson’s Correspondence.” She took down Volume IV; and opening it at letter CXXVIII, was better pleased with the style of address, in writing a person of Mr. Allen’s greatness; and concerning such matters of importance, than the one her grandmother had given her and adopted it.
So she began tediously to print:
“To John Allen.
“Dear Sir:
“The simultaneous movements in our correspondence have been remarkable on several occasions. It would seem as if the state of the air, or the state of the times, or some other unknown cause, produced a sympathetic effect in our mutual recollections. i has to say grandpas specks was the first thing we found in the box. you know i could a got along with them bone dolls dressed in his old red shirt but times would a been hard outen them specks he lays on the bed with a chair under his head and reads his bible now when onct he had to wait tell i had time he says now the windows are open. how did you come to send granny a black shawl you had not seen her shake with the cold like I has done. my feet is tuf i could a done outen the shoes but she jest had ter have the shawl and the shears. i know now why you had me step in the dust. granny says men are sly and gals must be shy but why dident you jest say Jeannette let me see your feet i keeps them purty clean.
[pg 18] “o the dolls the purty dolls they is too fine for the fence corner so i puts them in bed with me and holds them when i says my prayers and sees them in my dreams. they left the words tuf and purty and outen outen the dictionary you tell the man what made it i am shore he will hate it he says ter means three ter with us means same as to. i knows now what correspondence, dictionary and Colonel mean. i spect when i read the book ter find out why they calls a gal a little Colonel but i cant say now. give me time. granny says i is set in my ways like grandpa and i is set ter learn
“correspondence is nice but hard work but let us correspondence. last year when Christmas come i had roast chestnuts and to red apples. granny told me a tale about santaclaws i think you is it. the paper is all gone. i must stop
“I salute you with all affection. T. J. whats the T. J. fer. i found it at the end of a letter in Jefferson’s Correspondence truly Jeannette i say that is my name sense you writ it
T. J.”
When Mr. Allen received the letter he was as proud of it as if it had been written him by the recently inaugurated Democratic president. He showed it to several of his girl friends, including Miss Bradley, who insisted upon keeping it, saying she wished to send some little presents the following Christmas.
At that time he felt the world would have been a barren waste except for that young lady. The letter passed into her possession; was kept for several weeks and then forgotten and misplaced. Memory of the little mountain girl passed from her mind long before Christmas. John remembered her, merely as one might a visit from a dream fairy.
[pg 19] An hour before John awoke on Christmas morning his mother came to his room and placing a chair near his bed, piled upon it his Christmas presents. There was a check from his father, handkerchiefs, neckties, gloves, a smoking jacket and even a stocking full of nuts and candies from his mother—he was her only child; still her little boy. There were several small remembrances from relatives and friends, a box of cigars from Miss Bradley; and beneath all a parcel in brown wrapping paper and unadorned by either Christmas seal, holly or ribbon.
The breakfast gong sounded; it scarcely disturbed his dreams. Then the house boy came to his room and shook him saying: “Mars John, it’s near nine er’clock, your maw says git up. Christmas gift!”
“Christmas morning and a fine day, cool, clear, a white Christmas! Sammy, you caught me, didn’t you? I will give you my last winter’s overcoat; it’s as good as new, or three one dollar bills; which shall it be?”
“Boss, that’s a mighty fine overcoat, but I’s got ter git that yaller gal Melinda something, I guess I better take them three dollars.”
“Well, here it is, Sammy.”
Sammy went down the stairs muttering: “This hayr nigger ain’t no fool, not yit! Unless I gits drunk and loses this place, I’ll git that overcoat for a New Year’s gift.”
John, slipping on the new smoking jacket, sat on the edge of the bed and with the pleased curiosity of a boy of twelve inspected his presents.
“Well Pip (meaning his father) must be feeling good this Christmas; his check will come in handy. What nice things mother buys; she’s always thinking of my comfort. Perfectos from Sally Bradley and strong black ones; she should know by now I don’t like that brand. [pg 20] That’s the cigar that Jelly Bean Stoll smokes. He’s been there quite a bit lately. I bet she sent the brand I like to him; got things mixed up. Oh! what a beautiful cigar case, and from Fannie Scott! She’s the hot stuff! That girl has some taste! She gets better looking every day. I’ll go to see her tomorrow night; but I really should go to Sally’s. Hello! here’s a beefsteak or ten pounds of nails; it looks like it just came from the butcher shop or the hardware store. No, it’s from Big Creek! Where’s Big Creek? Oh, I remember that little girl, all legs and arms. She looked like a mosquito and talked like a preacher. Well! Well! Well! mittens and yarn socks; the first I have seen in ten years, and a letter.
————
“Big Creek, Kentucky.
“December 18th, 1914.
“John M. Allen, Esq.
“Dear Friend:
“It is seven months today since you were here and I have grown a lot. My birthday was last month, November 7th. I am now thirteen. Miss Smith, the teacher, says: ‘Jeannette at last you know how to write a letter. No wonder, you have spent half your time trying.’ The dictionary is nearly worn out. I look up every word.
“Last summer I hunted ‘Sang’ on the mountain for three days and when granny went to Hyden to sell the feathers, the eggs and a basket of chickens, she sold it and the store man gave her 1 dollar and 60 cents, all mine.
“Hi Lewis lives up the creek. He has some sheep and I bought 2 pounds of wool from him with part of my money. I washed the wool until it was as white as the whiskers of Santa Clans then I spun it into yarn on granny’s spinning wheel and gave Sim Blair the mail man two bit to buy me some red and blue dyes and some I made red and some blue. With the blue I made granny [pg 21] some mits and grandpa some socks but I kept the red for your Christmas gift and last night I finished it.
“I hope you will like your red mittens and red and black socks. They are just as purty as the red bird that roosts in the cedar trees near the barn. Granny said most of the men in the blue grass wore black socks but I said they is not nice enough for you, so to please everybody I made them red with black toes and tops. Maybe my gay little soldier of the cedar trees was the cause I made them red and black. He has so much to whistle about even when it is cold and the snow is deep. Just now he lit on the window sill, knocking off the snow. I had a good look into his bright black face. How purty and red his coat was against the snow. If it was not for him and my dolls and the books you gave me I would be lonesome. Granny says I am too old to play with dolls; but she does not know what they whisper to me.
“How still it is in the winter time. By day we hear the red bird and the crows; at night if it storms, the wind; if it is still and snowing, the murmur of the flakes; if the moon is full a great owl calls; if I wake in the night and it is dark and still I hear the whispers of either the angels or of my dolls who sleep with me. One of the dolls is granny and the other is my mother, and they tell me what they used to do when they were girls like me. Sometimes grandpa calls and when I go to him he asks: ‘Did you hear that?’ ‘What, grandpa?’ ‘Someone calling, it sounded like your pa.’ Grandma says he is going to die soon. I believe up here we hear voices you cannot hear where there is so much noise.
“I know Santa Claus will bring you nice things because you are so good.
“Yours truly,
“Jeanette.”
[pg 22]
“Well, it is nice to be remembered, even though the remembrance is impossible. I will put them and the letter away with other treasured and impractical things that have been sent me by girl friends. I feel sorry for that lonesome little half-starved thing. She will grow up into a scrawny, tired-looking woman; marry some man who will work her to death. No telling what she might do with advantages and in another environment.”
After breakfast, he telephoned a book store asking that a dictionary and some appropriate books be sent to Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek, Kentucky. The clerk who took the order, having recently read Mark Twain’s Joan of Arc, mailed a copy of that book with the dictionary.
A week later Mr. Allen received a letter from Jeannette thanking him for the books.
————
Verona, Italy.
——— Hospital, Ward 11.
December 2, 1917.
Dear Little Jeannette:
To children like you nothing is unexpected. You believe witches are abroad on dark nights, while fairies dance in the moonlight; and that angels protect you from evil spirits.
When you grow older experience plucks these pinions of fancy; you can no longer soar but become an earth stained materialist, surprised if your plans of the morrow miscarry and you find yourself in New York when you expected to be in Washington.
A year ago today I was defending a suit against the Lexington Railway Company; had become reconciled to law and expected to continue in that comparatively thrill-less profession. I might have thought by now I [pg 23] would be married—but I certainly did not think that I would occupy a bed in Ward 11 of an army hospital at Verona; so far away that it is impossible to send you even a book for Christmas.
Looking backward, it is easy enough to explain why I am here. Not understanding what war was; not appreciating what a government undertakes that declares war, I grew impatient at our country’s apparent criminal slowness in getting into the war; and in February, 1917, went to Montreal and enlisted. In March 1,500 of us were loaded aboard the Burmah and that transport steamed a thousand miles down the St. Lawrence to the ocean and at the end of a two weeks’ voyage by the northern passage, over a gray fog-burdened ocean by day, a phosphorescent billowy one by night, we landed at Liverpool.
At a cantonment, a few miles from London, we were subjected to four months’ strenuous training; and presumedly because I had attended a military school for a year, I was commissioned a lieutenant in the British army. At the end of the four months our regiment was loaded aboard a transport and many of us did not learn our destination until we were landed at ——, Italy. (We are not allowed to name the port.)
We reported to General, the Earl of Cavan, commanding the British forces in Italy; and after several weeks’ training were ordered to the Piave front.
On the 24th of October at the battle of Caporetto, I experienced the same sensation as though I had been struck in the chest by a brick, when it was but a small calibre, soft nosed bullet; and remember having been loaded into, and it seemed riding for days in, an overfilled ambulance, just enough alive to have a dull sense of pain and to feel the concussion of the great guns, though the reports seemed muffled and far away.
[pg 24] I lost consciousness; was no longer near the battlefield, but at your home in the mountains of Kentucky. I heard no sounds save the murmur of running water and the song of a wood thrush. All about was the implacable serenity of the blue sky and the everlasting hills. The face of nature was unscarred; there were no shell holes, no splintered trees, no pools of blood, no dead and dying.
Strange that I should think of you and your mountain home in the midst of battle, violence and death. Strange that when I went on my journey into the valley of the shadow, falling, falling, falling, into a darkness that seemed to freeze my soul, you, a little girl, were the only one near. Strange that when I came back to consciousness, it was by way of the creek valley and your home and you were leading me by the hand. Returning to consciousness I discovered it was not you but a soft-voiced, patient, white-robed Italian nurse; and I was here. What brought you so vividly to mind? Can you tell? It must have been the contrast between your home as I saw it that moonlit night and the battle field, with its barbarities, vengeances, and human abominations.
There is a sharp pain when I breathe or cough. I am ill, homesick, among strangers, I feel deserted. To you, a little girl, the acquaintance of a day, some influence impels me to write, though I have heard nothing since you sent the red socks and mittens, and wrote thanking me for the books. Since I have been wounded I have learned there are many things I may not know.
Tell me of your own life and picture it in your own way; and also of your part of Kentucky. Even now I see your face and hear your voice; it seems nearer than my mother’s—and she is a wonderful, much-loved woman.
[pg 25] I do not recover my strength as I should and will be here for some time—if you care to write.
Your friend,
John M. Allen.
————
Lieutenant John M. Allen,
——— Hospital, Ward 11, Verona, Italy.
Dear Mr. Allen:
For several years I have been waiting, not daring to hope, but longing for a letter—and it came on Christmas Eve. I am answering the afternoon of Christmas Day.
The earth is mantled in white, and crystals of crisp snow give back myriad rays of dazzling light stolen from the sun. The cedar trees bend low with their fluffy white burdens; and the creek is frozen, except the riffle just above Big Rock. I was just going to say that all life had taken to itself the silence of the mountain——which is a speaking silence to its own people—when I saw a hungry little nut-hatch bobbing up and down the elm; and my red birds, thinking it time I served their dinner, flew from the cedar trees and are now whistling for me from the lilac bush.
Granny is quite feeble; so she takes a nap each afternoon in the great rocking chair, with its padded sheepskin back and bottom; and from the noise she is making seems to be enjoying it. I also hear an intimate voice, though I rarely see my friend. He is the cricket of our hearth; and now since the days are short, begins his chirping when it is time for me to feed the chickens, milk the cow and look after Silas, the old mule. We have no earthly use for that mule, but I cannot let him go. He was in the prime of his days of usefulness when I first saw the light; and now when I go out to feed him, there is a look in his old gray-lashed eyes that speaks to my heart with the voice of an old and trusting friend.
[pg 26] When people live as we do, the fowls of the barnyard and the creatures of the manger become their friends. They speak with a look; they come towards you with a caress; they bind themselves to your heart with an untimid trust. That old mule’s look approaches worship; and his trust shall not be vain.
Grandad is not here. I stand at the door and see his grave on a knoll a little way up the mountain side. It is hedged about by a white picket fence, which I repaint each spring.
Last evening as I was wreathing it with holly and mistletoe I thought how, when I was a little girl, he carried me over the rough places and when he went to the store on Red Bird or to town, brought back something he knew would delight a little girl. Then, how the last year or two before he died, I partly paid the debt by ministering unto him. As I stood beside his grave it seemed his spirit spoke to me of unutterable things. * *
I have finished with the chickens, the cow and the old mule. We have had supper. The cricket is chirping away quite comfortably in his cozy corner under the warm hearthstones and I hear the click of Granny’s knitting needles.
My thoughts have been mainly of you since your letter came. Joys are the scarlet buds and tears are the white flowers of life. Your letter has made this a Christmas of white flowers; yet it brought a gift filigreed with happiness, as tears are wont to be, except those of despair. It seems sadness lives next door neighbor to a very pure happiness. I can pray and weep and the tears are a holy joy. I think if God would speak to me I would shed tears of joy; and if he comes tonight and tells me he will make you well and bring you back to Kentucky, [pg 27] I shall shed tears of great joy. That you return in health is one of the hopes my life lives on.
You will understand, when I say I have always looked upon you, much as I imagine the old mule feels towards me. For a long time there was little in my life, but that little was all joy. Then you came our way and introduced me to real dolls and to books. While I have outgrown the dolls, I have many cold but safe friends in my books; friends you leave at your convenience and return to at your pleasure.
Do not think that I am unhappy or lonely; nor must you think that while you have been moving along in years, I have remained the same little girl whose doll house you disturbed. I was seventeen last month; and a girl of my age in the mountains is supposed to be grown. I am more—a business woman; the bread winner of the Litman family; and having outgrown “sang digging,” for nearly a year have had the Big Creek school.
Last June I obtained my teacher’s certificate; and in doing so surrendered my great ambition, which was to be an actress. You can judge what a creature of fancy I am, when I tell you. I have never been inside a theatre. I dreamed of a stage career and—landed in a school room. The very first day of teaching I realized that it was the next best thing. I had a wonderful audience and a stage setting unique and clever. Teaching now seems a high-class of play acting—just lots, anyway—and children are such fun.
I should like for you to see my school room and know the boys and girls. I would like for you to be associated with certain other experiences of mine. I’d like—but what’s the use? I feel as though, if or when I need you, you will be my friend. In other words, I trust you.
[pg 28] The glorious fun of being poor is that the little things that come your way are greatly appreciated. Now Big Creek is my Brook Cherith; and the school children are the ravens during the stress of high prices incident to the war. They not only bring bread and meat but a few modest dresses and a few books and magazines. Should the brook fail and the ravens receive other commands, Granny and I can depend upon the unfailing jar of meal and the cruse of oil for our daily bread; and should you like to play the part of Elijah to the widow and the orphan, you are welcome to your share. We will give you a cup of water and make you a little cake.
I have even had a beau and a proposal of marriage by a red-headed man from Red Bird. I answered: “I have no idea of considering such a proposition for several years as I expect first to graduate at the University of Kentucky. When my Prince Charming comes wooing, he may come with empty pockets but he must be able to read and write.” The next day Sandy came to my school, but I refused to take him in. He has since spread the information that “Jeannette does not want ‘a feller’ but expects to remain a ‘school marm’”—and so I shall until a real man comes along. Sandy Blair is as near the “sweet evening breeze” kind as we have up here. I call him my knight of the pink shirt and green store clothes. He never misses a dance; and Solomon in all his glory was never arrayed as he then is.
When the evening is warm and the moon full I often spend an hour or two on Big Rock; and musing by night, with the water and moon for company, I feel happy and queer and both. Remembrance frequently retenders that night of long ago; and I hear you speaking in a voice no bigger than the heart of a whisper. The reason it is [pg 29] your voice is because you gave me my first doll and what is a little girl’s life without a doll?
The night of October twenty-fourth, the night of the day you were wounded, I was out on the rock a long while; and never before had I heard your voice nor seen you as distinctly as then. On that night you and I held quite a conversation; and this may be the mystical explanation why I was the one with you as you passed through the valley of the shadow. Life on Big Creek has taught me, that not alone to the Elijahs, to the shepherds of the hills and to the Jean d’Arcs come voices and visitation. All who will may hear.
I knew then that you were snared in the net of tragedy and distress spread over most of the world by this horrible war; which the honest men of every land condemn and regret, as utterly useless and wish at an end. They ask to live in peace and on good terms with everybody. But honest men have nothing to do with making war or dictating terms of peace. They are cannon fodder; mere pawns in the game of nations, moved about by one who sits in the sun and serves the devil.
Before the millennium, there must be a world wide charity, to take the place of what we call patriotism; which is either national selfishness or a make-shift provincialism. There must be a development of the national soul until man knows no nation; and in a national sense loves his neighbor as himself. The first step towards it is to understand that those calamities that are destroying an enemy country do not halt at the yellow map boundary that marks our own land.
When you escape from beneath the sombre shadow of war, come to our mountains. Here we look at the peaceful face of nature and enjoy the poetry of silence. We are never very much alone, Granny and I. The soul in [pg 30] the radiance of its love creates friends and though we are isolated from the world we are rich in love and happiness.
Bear your sufferings and loneliness as best you may, until your ship comes home. Know that to suffer is the dowry of God’s elect and when all else is lost you still have Him. I know He cares for the birds; and “are ye not much better than they?” You know why and when the birds sing?—because they are building or have a nest. May you soon recover, find peace and love; and some day your nook-nest lined with soft down, awaiting treasures God will send.
I have tried to put a few thoughts into words. There is enough of the seed of thought in my mind and it germinates—but alas, it dies before I can put it into words. My treasures come forth, half smothered by the burden of the flesh. I hope you may understand what I have tried to tell you.
I am, and ever shall be, your friend,
Jeannette.
————
Jeannette counted upon receiving an answer to her letter about the first of March. She waited patiently until the seventh, then there was a great rain and the creek was so swollen they had no mail until the tenth; and even then, among the letters and papers that came, there was no letter from Italy.
She reasoned: he is well and fighting again; he has not gotten my letter; the censor held it because of my comments upon the war.
————
Lieutenant Allen was in the hospital at Verona until the twentieth of April, 1918, when he was discharged as an incurable, his lungs having been horribly lacerated by a soft-nosed bullet.
[pg 31] When discharged from the hospital he was taken to Genoa and there placed aboard ship and sent to Liverpool; and on a returning transport which had brought over fifteen hundred Canadians, he and forty-seven other helpless, war-wrecked men, were returned to Montreal, Canada, the city where they had enlisted.
On Sunday, the twenty-sixth of May, he arrived in Lexington and to keep from frightening his mother, by a mighty effort managed to walk from a taxicab to his father’s door and into the house; when he had a severe coughing spell which prostrated him. His father and the servants carried him to his own room; while his mother lay unconscious on a lounge where they had placed her.
A little space was given to his return, his war record and present precarious condition in the Lexington and Louisville papers. A few of his old friends called and not being able to see him, left cards and sent flowers. Some of the men he had known were on their way to Europe, some already in France and one of his friends, Lieutenant Gardner, had been killed. The attention of the public was on those over there or leaving—not upon the wounded and disabled who were being returned.
For several weeks he seemed to improve, as the weather was pleasant and he had the most careful nursing. But one night he had a severe hemorrhage and after it was checked his doctor informed his parents that there was no chance for his recovery. He did not suffer greatly, but grew slowly weaker until he knew the end was near.
The postman, several days before his death, brought Jeannette’s letter. It was marked with many addresses; and by the censor “To be held.” Then later stamped, [pg 32] “Passed by base censor No. ——. Verificato per censura.”
The letter, which he read several times, first brought a few big tears; then he seemed to gather resignation; then happiness from it.
————
Early in June, the month of brides and roses, Jeannette received a letter from Mrs. Allen:
“Dear Jeannette:
“John, my boy, died last Sunday, with your letter in his hand and it was buried with him. He requested that his books be sent to you, and they will be forwarded tomorrow.
“As soon as you can get away from your school and leave your grandmother, if she will not come too, come and see me. I must have some one to talk with about John; some one whom he knew and loved. When I try it with his father, he rushes from the room. John was an only child—now I am childless.
“He claimed to have seen you before he died, saying: ‘Mother, I have just seen Jeannette; she is very beautiful.’ Then he described you. I believe he really saw; and if his description fits, you can help me now. You were sitting on the Big Rock by the creek. It was the night of the fourth of June. I can write no more.
“John’s mother,
“Mary R. Allen.”
Jeannette had always felt that her life, which she knew was a silent, empty and colorless one without, was gloriously full and lit up within by a mystical treasure, which in some way she had stumbled upon and appropriated. She had soul companions who spoke to her with voices she alone could hear; that told of things in her own and other people’s lives, that she and they might [pg 33] know, if they would but listen. She had lived a soul life; and it had a far-flung horizon.
When she received Mrs. Allen’s letter telling of the death of her son, who had been her one friend around whom her childlike super-idealism and innocence had built a gorgeous bower, her heart was rent by its first great shock. She felt that her God of providence and love had cast her from heaven into a place of utter darkness where she had been caught by the net of fate and was now being dragged through all the sorrows and tragedies of life. Her voices were gone; she hated the silence about her; the mountain seemed dark and dangerous; the sun seemed harsh and cold; the grass but to cover graves; and the trees but mourners for the departed. He is gone! God has deserted me! She had yet to learn that the voices would return; that other friends would come; that life is neither tragic nor sad, though it has its hours of sadness and tragedy; and that sorrows make for themselves deep beds in our hearts wherein they sleep until life draws near its end and more than half of all our soul loves has passed to the other side.
All of Thursday night she sat in Granny’s great rocking chair, and when day came, while her joys seemed gone forever, her grief had been dulled. She found a dulling consolation in working about the house and in looking after the creatures of the barnyard. In the afternoon her head ached so, she laid down; and sleep came and comforted her.
Friday night after her grandmother was in bed and asleep, she went out upon Big Rock and in the quiet of the night listened for her voices, but they would not come. For more than an hour she cried, her frame shaking with sobs and low, gasping moans. Then she was [pg 34] still a long time—thinking of what life had been, what it now was, and hereafter would be to her broken soul. Gradually she drew out from under the shadow of her sorrow, until instead of being overwhelmed by it, it was a sorrow which her soul possessed. She began to think that the wound might some day close but she knew her heart would always bear the scar and her days never again be quite so bright. She found that although she was still unhappy she was consoled, and thanked God that she had this man’s friendship, perhaps his love; and began to look upon death as a very simple affair; the soul shedding the shackles of flesh.
She slept. In her dreams the voices came back; and her sorrows were cast off as one does a cloak, serviceable in a shower, but when the sun comes out an uncomfortable burden. Past midnight she awoke, stiff and sore from her hard bed, and went to the house.
Sunday afternoon, she wrote Mrs. Allen:
“About four years ago, your son on his way to Hyden, asked for and found shelter for the night at our home. Ten days later he sent us a few little things; among them my first real dolls. I have never seen him since except as fancy pictured nor heard his voice as a materialist may hear, though many times it seemed he spoke to me in a way I cannot explain. I have four letters; they are the four treasures of my life.
“His death is my greatest loss; and through life I shall carry a scar from the wound. But what I suffer is not worth mentioning when compared with the grief his mother must feel. She who gave him life; who felt his little chubby, helpless hands moving about over her breasts seeking his food; who taught him to stand alone; to walk; to lisp his first words; who tried to teach him first to say father, but nature and his own heart put the [pg 35] name of mother in his mind and in his mouth. Then you taught him to say his prayers; and those prayers have been answered. He prayed: ‘Thy kingdom come,’—and it has come for him; while you and I weep, refusing to be comforted; until we learn that those we love must pass to the other side, in order that His kingdom may come for us, and we escape death for ourselves and lose the fear of death for our dear ones.
“It is thus we find happiness in our anguish; and love for God while we suffer from the raw realities of life; knowing he has found us worthy of both love and unhappiness.
“How I shall love his books when they come. I hope he has marked the passages which pleased him and noted some of his own thoughts upon their margins.
“I shall come to you. Just now it is impossible. My school is not out until July; and teaching to me is more than bread; it is an implacable duty. Granny is very feeble; her condition may also delay my coming. I have been planning for a year to take a teacher’s course at the State University. If this hope is realized, Lexington will be my home for some time; and if you wish it, I will come many times to talk with you about your son.
“With love and sympathy,
“Jeannette.”
The following week one of the freight wagons hauling goods from the railroad to Hyden stopped at the house and unloaded four heavy packing cases. They contained nearly five hundred books; which had been shipped, still in the sections of the mahogany sectional book cases; and just as John had arranged them. She had two of her school boys unpack and set up the cases in her room.
These, with the books she had accumulated, and those which her father’s grandfather had brought overland [pg 36] from Virginia, gave to her simple bed room much the appearance of a library.
On Sunday the 18th of August, Jeannette’s grandmother, the last of her blood kin, died, and was buried on the mountain side, where were the white, picketed graves of her father, mother and grandfather and the unpicketed, almost unmarked, sunken-in graves of those of the Litmans she did not know, who had gone before her day.
The day after the funeral she rented the place to Simeon Blair but as his family was small, they had only a child, a girl of seven, there was room for Jeannette; so she kept her room and paid four dollars a week board. The Blairs bought her cows and chickens, but refused the mule as a gift; so she paid Simeon five dollars a month for looking after old Silas.
On the fifth of September she left Big Creek for Lexington, Kentucky; and upon her arrival on the seventh, went directly to the room she had reserved at the University dormitory; and on the tenth matriculated as a junior.
The eighth, she spent in most careful shopping. Sunday, the ninth, she attended services at the First Presbyterian Church and heard her first pipe organ. As she walked back to the dormitory she drew comparisons between her new clothes and those of the girls she passed. While satisfied with her modest blue suit and her shoes and stockings, she concluded her hat had too great variety and quantity of coloring and on Monday, as soon as they were dismissed, exchanged it; having first informed the milliner that she had worn it to church. The milliner replied: “That’s nothing, many of my customers have hats sent on approval and wear them to church, returning them on Monday.”
[pg 37] After exchanging her hat she called upon Mrs. Allen. The Allen home, an old red brick house with massive colonial pillars, a slate roof, thick walls and large rooms with high ceilings, was more than sixty years old; and Judge Allen, who was fifty-five, had been born in it. Several of the rooms had open fire places. It had first been heated in that way; then with grates and a large anthracite stove; then a furnace had been installed. Recently it had been remodeled and fitted with steam heating and the most modern electrical appliances. These things were now demanded by the servants, who refused service in houses not having them.
The Judge would not permit the open fire place of the library to be removed. They used this as a sitting and informal reception room and an open fire was kept burning from October to May. One of his clients who had an extensive woodland on Elkhorn, furnished the oak and hickory logs. It was in this room that Mrs. Allen received Jeannette.
Mrs. Allen was about fifty years of age, with beautiful, wavy, white hair. She and Jeannette were of the same weight, one hundred and thirty pounds, though Jeannette was more than an inch taller. Both had the general appearance of women who trace their lineage from English ancestry, through the cavalier stock of Colonial Virginia; brunettes, of clear cut feature and slender, graceful bodies; eyes either gray or brown—Mrs. Allen’s were brown, Jeannette’s were gray.
When shown into the library, she took a seat in a great chair in an alcove which commanded a view of the street, and while waiting sat thinking how many times John might have sat in that place and perhaps in that very chair. Mrs. Allen came to the door, where she stood looking at Jeannette a moment or two, until she turned her [pg 38] head and saw her; then she stepped forward and took Jeannette’s hands and stood looking her in the face.
“You are just as John said you looked; a serene and beautiful face; eyes that make even an old mule trust you.” Then she put her arms about her and kissed her; and led her back to the chair in which she had been sitting.
“Mrs. Allen, I believe I would have known you anywhere. John had your nose and eyes and the same general expression. I am glad I look as John said I did. If you had shown surprise at my appearance I would have been disappointed.”
“I do not understand how John could have described you so accurately. I could have picked you out among the hundreds of girls in the University. There are many things we will never be able to understand.”
Mrs. Allen did most of the talking; telling Jeannette all about John from the first hour she held him in her arms, until he died with her arms about him. They shed no tears, feeling that he was with them and wished they should be happy when together.
When Jeannette rose to go Mrs. Allen said: “No! You must remain for dinner. My husband will be home soon and he is anxious to see you. Only the other night he said: ‘I am sorry John did not marry Jeannette before he died. She would be here as our daughter and we would have something to live for. It would be nice to have the young people coming to our home again; and we could find a good husband for her; such as our boy would have made. When she comes do not let her go until I see her’.”
Jeannette sat down again.
A little later they heard a step in the hall; the door was opened and a man stood in the doorway. Just such [pg 39] a looking person as John would have been at his age, only slightly larger.
“Mary you need not introduce us. It is Jeannette. We are glad to have you in our home; would be glad to have you make it your own.” He came forward as she arose and took her hand; and as he held it looking into her face his eyes slowly filled with tears.
From then until after dinner, which was almost immediately announced, the conversation was general. When they returned to the library Jeannette had to relate her past life in detail and disclose all her plans for the future. When they finally let her go it was late, and though she told them she did not mind walking home alone, they accompanied her to the dormitory.
Upon their insistent invitation she gave up her room at the dormitory and came to live with them at the beginning of the mid-winter term; remaining a welcome guest until the close of the school year in June, 1919, when she returned to Big Creek.
Mrs. Allen wrote repeatedly, addressing her as daughter; and in each letter insisted that she must return to Lexington and live with them as such. She also received a letter from Judge Allen in which he stated: “Mary and I desire formally to adopt you as our daughter.” She answered: “You and Mrs. Allen have taken from life much of its loneliness and filled it with more happiness and love that I expected to be mine. When I return, if you still wish it, I will live at your home as a daughter during my remaining school year; and though I must leave you then, will always give you a daughter’s love. I cannot consent to a formal adoption, which necessitates a change of name. I owe it to my parents to bear the name they gave me until I am married. Had your son [pg 40] lived, I have indulged the dream-like joy, that at his suggestion it would have been changed to your own.”
She telegraphed when she took the train for Lexington. They drove to Winchester where they met her and taking her into their car brought her home with them. She was given John’s room which was large and cheerful and was delighted with it.
Mrs. Allen made the young people of her set welcome at her home; and it was not long before all the time that Jeannette could spare from her studies was given to entertaining her friends and being entertained by them. Late in November she gave Jeannette a formal party; and it was reported in the Lexington and Louisville papers as a brilliant affair. From then on, the old home, which had been closed to social gayety so long witnessed many entertainments; the first being a Christmas house-party of Jeannette’s school friends.
She graduated with class honors the following June. Judge Allen, in order to keep her with them, used his influence to secure a position for her as a substitute teacher in the university; and it was tendered, though she was not yet nineteen. She declined, saying: “I am too young and inexperienced for so responsible a position. They can easily find some one better fitted for the work; I must return to Big Creek to my own people; they need me.”
She took leave of Judge and Mrs. Allen, who were as a father and mother; gave up a luxurious home, agreeable society, the association with educated people; refused a position of some honor, with a salary of fifteen hundred dollars a year; and returned to Big Creek; where the only human ties were the hill-side graves; where she had no personal friends, only the old mule, the birds, her mountain, the creek, Big Rock and her books.
[pg 41] At a salary of fifty dollars a month she resumed teaching the Big Creek school. There were thirty-three, boys and girls of all sizes; she had to mother some, to whip others, to use diplomacy with those too big to whip; she had to teach them manners and religion; the girls to sew and read and write; the boys to respect their mothers and their sisters; to leave moonshine alone; to quit swearing and “chawing” tobacco; to inject ambition into them—make them understand that the “big man” was not he who could drink the most moonshine and spit the furthest. It required no study on her part to teach them; that is the book part, as they were intelligent. The mental strain was to manage them, to improve their manners and morals, in the face of adverse home influence in many instances—this required much patience; and once when very severely tried, she murmured: “What would Job have done today?”
The Blairs still occupied her house; and she boarded with them, walking two miles to the school house, except when the creek was up when she rode the old mule. Her world had suddenly narrowed to the two miles of creek valley; her companions were the Blairs, the children and her books; life had grown lonely and serious. She still heard voices, but they were sad; what they told she wrote into story and verse. These stories and verses she mailed to the editors of the magazines she read. They were all returned with printed declarations: “The editor regrets that the enclosed manuscript is not available for publication, etc., etc.”
She would then read the verse and stories published by the periodicals which had rejected her productions; and being satisfied that hers were equal in thought and literary merit, despite the rejections, persevered in her [pg 42] attempts, accumulating quite a collection of rejected manuscripts.
Last week’s mail had brought back two poems, which scanned perfectly and which she thought quite satisfactory. She had called them—“A Questionnaire,” and “Other Little Boats.” At the foot of the printed rejection slip the reader had scribbled in an almost illegible hand: “Why not select a more cheerful subject and adopt a jazzier style—we of today would reject Milton’s Paradise Lost. M. A.” Bearing this criticism in mind, she wrote and forwarded “A Genealogy” and it was accepted.
These three poems are reproduced in order that the reader may himself judge of their merit; and because to a certain extent they convey an idea of Jeannette’s mental state at the time.
[pg 48] The first month Jeannette resumed teaching was the stormiest; the children tried her out; she came through victorious, her supremacy established. By the end of the third month all the children loved her; and then things ran along so smoothly that she described her life to Mrs. Allen as: “so contemplative and uneventful as to make the social dissipations you promise an inducement; a year’s shopping, of clothing, stationery, a typewriter and books, makes the visit almost necessary; and then I shall see you and Judge Allen, that makes it most attractive.”
During the year her school had slowly grown until it ranked as the best country school in the county. The children had been transformed in appearance and disposition, until the neighborhood noticed the change, and people would say, “there goes one of Jeannette’s children.”
In the spring of 1922 one of the young men who had graduated in Jeannette’s class came to Hyden. He made inquiry and found out that she was earning fifty dollars a month teaching a small school on Big Creek. He then called upon the county superintendent and the county judge and informed them that a year or so before she had refused a position in the State University that paid more than three times the salary she was receiving; giving as the reason, that her duty was to her own people.
This information, with the trimmings that gossip added, made Jeannette a heroine locally. It was suggested that they should elect her county school superintendent; but the man who wanted the office called their attention to the fact that the statute declared the incumbent must be twenty-four years of age. Then she was suggested as a candidate for several other county offices by the local newspaper, “The Thousand Sticks;” but when interviewed, declined with thanks.
[pg 49] Then at a meeting of the school board she was elected principal of the Hyden public school. When the place was tendered she asked until August first, to answer; and the board agreed to keep the place open for her.
Jeannette’s school in 1922 closed on the twenty-third of June. She was in the habit of visiting the Allens each year at the beginning of her vacation, but Mrs. Allen’s health being poor they had gone to the sea shore for a couple of months and did not expect to return until the last of July. They had written asking her to join them, but this she declined to do, saying: “I will defer my visit until you return, probably coming to Lexington the middle of August, unless I can be of real service by helping you.”
About the first of July, Simeon Blair informed her that his cousin Sandy Blair was coming to spend a few days with him. There was plenty of room as she had built a wing of two rooms, which she occupied as a study and bed room.
Although she had never liked Sandy, she could not object. She looked upon his visit as of little importance; though she was sufficiently interested to inquire as to what he had been doing since he had joined the army in 1917. Simeon replied: “Sandy was in Germany three years. He came back last January and was sent to Mexico. I asked him but he did not say what he was doing, except that he had quit the army. I guess he has been dancing and frolicing around with them Mexican senorinas. You know how he loves to dance and fiddle. He’s a big fellow. He hasn’t been working much. There are no corns on his hands; they are almost as soft as yours, Miss Jeannette. I saw him yesterday at the mouth of Big Creek. He don’t gab as much as he used to.”
[pg 50] When Mrs. Blair blew the horn for supper, Jeannette came in from the Big Rock, where she had been reading. The others were already at the table; and as she entered the room, a tall, broad shouldered, red headed man, dressed in blue overalls, a hickory shirt and laced army boots rose up and came forward to meet her. She saw it was Sandy and was surprised that he rose to greet her and did not resume his seat until she was first seated. He also called her Miss Litman, instead of Jeannette, as he had always done.
She watched him during the meal. He had little to say; did not eat with his knife or drink his coffee from the saucer as he used to do. All his clothing except his boots appeared to be new. After watching a while, she thought: “the same old Sandy; nothing worries him; he has a pleasant, intelligent face and he certainly is good looking; but his hands are too white and soft for a working man’s. I guess he will marry some poor woman who will work herself to death supporting his family, while he fiddles and dances through life.”
After supper, Simeon asked him to play. She noticed that his violin was of German make and evidently a fine instrument. He played “Turkey in the Straw,” “The Arkansaw Traveler” and such other local dance music as had been played when her granny was a girl. He did it so well that she was satisfied with training he would make an accomplished musician.
She got out her own violin, an inferior instrument, with the idea of giving him a lesson; first showing him how to hold the bow properly. For some cause he could not get his fingers just right until she placed them. Then they played together. He made many mistakes; but her teaching had made her very patient. They sat up until eleven o’clock, which was a late hour for that household, [pg 51] because they arose at daylight, about four o’clock at that season; when Jeannette said: “I must go to bed; you have had enough instruction for one lesson.”
“But, Miss Litman, play just one piece for me as it should be played.”
She got out her most difficult music and by lamplight played it for him. He seemed enchanted.
“Please just show me how that last part goes.”
She did so, saying: “Now you try.”
He played well, though he made many mistakes. As she rose to leave, the clock having struck twelve, he played a few short connected bars, the part she had found difficult, so divinely, that she said: “Do that again. You seem gifted of the gods; they have let you stumble into the perfect way.”
He tried; but the way was as strangely closed as it had been opened.
“Oh! it is half past twelve! Good night, Sandy.”
She went to bed; and dreamed of choirs invisible. Sandy walked up the creek until he was beyond hearing at the house; then he played “Angel Voices” as it should have been played. He came to the house, slept and dreamed; not of angel choirs, but of graceful wood nymphs; and their queen’s name was Jeannette.
The following evening, Sandy got out his fiddle, saying: “This hayr fiddle is shore a fine box;” and he played Turkey in the Straw, improvising variations that put life into their feet and made them think dancing was close akin to worship.
“Miss Litman, will you give me another lesson?”
She declined; thinking it might lead to a misunderstanding. He might think that she desired his company; and she only liked educated men.
————
[pg 52] Sandy Blair, on December 15, 1917, left Red Bird for Louisville and on the 18th enlisted in the regular army. He was sent to Camp Taylor; and when fitted out by the supply sergeant, insisted that he must have a fit. He pursued the policy of the importunate widow so persistently that when he came forth his well developed chest, broad shoulders and lean muscular legs were so fittingly encased as to make him the most conspicuous of the four hundred and sixty “rookies” who that day had been received and outfitted.
He represented that he had been sergeant in a company of the state guards for more than two years and in order to substantiate the declaration paid his corporal to induct him to the manual of arms and follow up the introduction by several strenuous drills; in the meanwhile finding an excuse for evading the first drill or two to which his raw company was subjected; though he stood to one side watching and listening carefully.
He paid the corporal two dollars to drill him all Sunday afternoon; and when he suggested that he would be too stiff and sore to drill the following morning, answered: “Not on your tin type. I may have a rookie head but my legs are veterans. Don’t think these few pranks will worry these hayr arms and legs; I have put in the last five winters swinging big fat gals. And I’ve got a back like a pack mule, made to tote things on; but it’s never been broke to a pack saddle and never will be.”
On Monday he took his place with his company and went through the drill with the snap and precision of a veteran. As intended, he caught the eye of the captain; and when he was told to step forward, saluted him like a general; and stood at attention.
“Well, my man, what experience have you had?”
[pg 53] “Two years as drill sergeant, Company C, ———— Regiment of the Kentucky State Guards.”
“What is your name?”
“William L. Blair, though most people call me Sergeant Sandy Blair.”
“Return to the ranks.” (This order came near getting him—but as the captain turned away, he resumed his place in line.)
The captain looked his way and wrote something in a note book.
A few days later the company was reorganized and he was made a junior drill sergeant, the superior of the corporal who had drilled him.
The corporal considered the story too good to keep. It reached the ears of the captain and he told it to the Colonel, threatening to send Blair to the guard house. But the Colonel said: “No, send him to me.”
Blair presented himself; and after a most deferential salutation, stood at attention. The Colonel leisurely looked him over. While Blair guessed the cause of the summons, he never shifted his eyes from a spot about an inch above the Colonel’s head. He stood as a marble statue, and without the least change of expression; though he heard the Colonel laugh and a moment later snappily say:
“Sergeant Blair, where are you from?”
“Red Bird, Clay County, Kentucky.”
“So you are an accomplished drill sergeant?”
“Have me shot as a liar, if my legs are not veterans.”
“Are you a good marksman?”
“The best in America.”
“Go at once to the rifle range. I’ll be over shortly. We will see if you are as good a marksman as drill sergeant.”
[pg 54] At the rifle range he found about twenty-five other soldiers who had been selected for a test of marksmanship. As the colonel and his captain had not yet arrived, he stepped up and from a dozen rifles chose one and examining it carefully appeared satisfied and laid it to one side. When the officers came up the men were informed that each was to fire five rounds at the three hundred yard target.
The Colonel turning to Blair, said: “Blair, you begin the test, as your nerve might be shattered by the strain of delay.”
From the time Blair could hold a rifle out and reach the trigger he had scarcely laid one aside, except to attend a dance, eat and sleep. His first shot missed the bull’s eye about an inch, the second was on the edge and all the others went square into it. He made a better score than any of his competitors. The next day he was promoted to sergeant major and made instructor on the rifle range.
On the sixth of March, 1918, his company sailed for France. In May they were doing service in the front line trenches.
After the armistice was signed, Lieutenant Blair was sent to Coblenz, Germany, where he remained until January, 1922, when he was ordered home, returning on the transport Crook. He came back as Captain Blair, of ———— Infantry. During the more than three years he was in Germany, he gave all of his leisure time to study and music; and when he left, spoke German and French fluently and played the violin like an inspired professional.
Upon arrival in New York he retired from the army; and with the recommendations given him by his general, his former colonel and the captain who wanted to send [pg 55] him to the guard house, who was now a major, asked and was given a position in the general offices of the Standard Oil Company. When it was discovered that he spoke German and French fluently, had considerable executive ability, particularly in handling red-blooded men; he was sent as an agent to Tampico, Mexico, to see what he could do towards straightening out the rows between the Mexican and American employees. In June he was ordered to return to New York to make a detailed report and for instructions. The officers were so well satisfied with his report and what he had accomplished that he was tendered a responsible position in Mexico at a salary of $300.00 per month, American money. He accepted; and before returning, asked and was granted a month’s leave, to visit his old home on Red Bird; where he had not been since December, 1917.
————
It was late afternoon. Up the valley where the shadow of the mountain rested, the night creatures were waking up and had begun their chorus, which would grow in volume as the shadow deepened. Jeannette, who had been reading under the shade of a great vine, which formed a natural bower in which she had placed a rude table and chair, came out upon Big Rock, where the light was stronger. She did not reopen her book, but sat meditating—how the memory of John Allen, which had clung to and filled her mind and life for so long, seemed slowly becoming a memory. She had never loved the real John Allen, but a spiritual personality; a creation of her own fancy, which she had placed in the body of John Allen as she had remembered him, and made this creation a living soul; and the combination a standard by which she gauged all men.
[pg 56] She recalled, how five years before she had rejected Sandy Blair, feeling his wooing an insult. Had done it because—he was ignorant—was shiftless—no, but because she measured him by the Allen standard; and since, looking for her Allen, had discouraged every man who had attempted to make love to her.
And Sandy Blair—he had again come into her life. Strange, that now whenever she thought of John, she should think of Sandy. “My books, the creatures of this quiet nook, the trees, the creek, the mountains, God’s altar for my prayers, these are my companions. John is my thought love, with whom I enjoy a mystic union that will last through life—as long as I am faithful. These are my interests, my life, other than teaching, and form and fill it and keep it free from what might otherwise have made it a weary materialism. These have transformed my very common, every-day life, raised me above a dark loneliness to contentment and at rare intervals into the company of the stars. Yet now the change threatens, I do not understand, I seem to feel a slow suffocation of the soul threatening me. Can it mean that—must I find some one to love? Must I quit weaving the web of my life with that of a mystical love?”
She was just beginning to realize that while her mind spun with this fantastic thread of life, another part of her being, the flesh, demanded other company, and held another distaff and spun quite another thread. She had yet to learn that a perfect love gives not only the mind but the body. That without the giving of both, love ends in darkness; and that to find happiness the two threads must be entwined and followed into the light.
She did not comprehend why now, when she saw John’s face, which had always been so distinct, it seemed gradually to fade and merge into Sandy’s. Sandy as he [pg 57] looked, when several nights before he had sat and played to her. She was vexed with herself—but even more with Sandy.
Young lady; you are about to have that experience which has come to every woman since Eve. God’s plan is breaking from its chrysalis before you. The slowly fading spirit of John is entering the lists in conflict with Sandy’s materialism; it is the conflict of the intangible with the tangible, the memories of yesterday with the hopes of tomorrow. You will act as second for one or the other. Faithful in the start you may follow behind the spirit; but if you follow the way of your sisters, and they go the right way, you will end by wishing you were second to the man who seeks to drive the wraith away. Mayhap you may shift your allegiance early in the conflict—who knows? You do not, nor do I. Take care! Beware! Your long dream of John may end by kissing Sandy.
“Nonsense.”
At this inopportune moment Sandy climbed upon the rock, saying:
“This shore is a nice place, may I set down.”
“You are welcome to the seat Mr. Blair, but you must excuse me, I was just going to the house.”
He sat down; his face as red as his hair; provoked at Jeannette’s abrupt departure. But when he recalled that she had called him Mr. Blair for the first time in his life, he was consoled, believing that it evidenced progress in his suit. He realized that he had made an impression of some kind; and his experiences, which were not limited, suggested that even an awakened animosity was better than the indifference of the past years.
Jeannette felt ashamed for having run away. “Running from Sandy Blair—sakes alive! Why did I do it? [pg 58] Have I grown timid? Am I afraid of Sandy Blair? I suppose he’s laughing at me. Well, tonight I’ll give him another lesson on the violin, just to show him, light-footed, empty-headed young men of his class mean nothing to me.”
Sandy rose from the supper table and after a yawn remarked: “It’s too quiet around here for me; I think I’ll go up to Hiram Lewis’.” He took his fiddle from its case and tucking it under his arm, put on his hat and stood for a moment in the doorway. Hiram Lewis was their nearest neighbor and had two daughters of marriageable age.
Jeannette who had read all the afternoon and really desired to hear him play their mountain music, which he did so capably, was disappointed. Without understanding the cause, she felt embarrassed at the thought of asking him to remain; and would not do so directly.
“If you are going you better put your violin in its case. It’s going to rain.”
“My what?”
“O, your fiddle then; if it gets wet it will affect its tone.”
“O! the sound it makes. If I stay will you teach me to play that hard piece of yours?”
“That was my intention; but do not let me detain you.”
“My intention—is that the name of the piece?”
“No, sit down Sandy, I’ll get my fiddle.”
Jeannette went to her room for the violin and music. While there the thought occurred they had better use her reading lamp instead of Mrs. Blair’s smoky, smelly, tin one, which gave but a feeble flame; removing the green shade, she substituted one of pink silk which was much prettier and which transformed the light into a more becoming [pg 59] tint. Carrying it into the other room she placed it on the small table near the door, and sat down beside it, her face tinted by the shade. The Blair family were on the porch, just beyond the doorway; and Sandy sat on the door-step, almost at her feet; his bright red hair and smiling, healthy face in the full glare of the light.
As he played she noted his mobile features, which betrayed their owner’s feelings by sudden changes of expression. She had always thought his face an agreeable one; now first she noted its expressiveness and evidences of character and determination; attributes, which she had said he lacked.
Her musing was interrupted by the Blair family coming in the door. They were in the habit of retiring with the chickens; and their cousin’s playing was no reason for a violation of the rule. After they were gone Sandy seemed to play with even more perfect expression. She marveled at the ease and certainty with which he played his homely pieces. “He is quick and with a few lessons would soon learn to play better than I can—perhaps with training he might make one of the world’s great musicians. I will teach him the notes, and how to hold the bow. His habits are good; he neither chews nor drinks, as most of our boys. I believe he would make a good hus—; but he is uneducated.”
Just here Sandy looked up: “Listen! I worked this out yesterday and call it ‘Voices Jeannette Hears.’” He played something not much louder than a whisper, a chorus of all the still small voices she had heard about her home—the wind, the birds, the brooks, the crickets, the spirits of the hills and dells; little prayers of praise, little prattlings of joy and happiness—yes, and of love. She felt so happy; and yet so very, very lonely, for someone or something to love. A tear found its way [pg 60] down each cheek and two others nestled on her lashes, loath to leave the fountains of their birth. When he finished neither spoke. He did not look towards her, but out into the darkness of the peaceful, starry night.
While thus they sat it seemed to Jeannette that something with a touch light as a feather and lips soft as the petals of a rose brushed her ear and a joyous little spirit with a dulcet young voice, such as she had never heard before, whispered: “Is he not handsome? Do you not see how quick he is to learn? Teacher, teach him! you can in a few months. How delightful to educate him; mould his fresh, open, plastic mind; make of him not alone a husband but a soul companion; which you could not do were his soul awake to its full strength and vision. Jeannette, it is springtime for you; be not a virgin of steel; let your soul bud and flower, the blossom of life is love, let it bear fruit. Would you die a spinster with a drying heart, knowing only a spirit love, little better than a dream? Cast off this sombre veil that you have wound about your heart; open your eyes; do you not love him? I have brought Sandy to you.”
She rose from her seat and in a voice not much louder than the one she had been listening to, managed to say: “Good night, Sandy,” and left the room.
He did not move, though he answered: “Good night,” and as her door closed added: “O Life! O Life! I have found the place of thy dwelling.”
He laid his violin upon the table and went out into the night. The night was not dark, though there was no moon. The stars were bright, they seemed to be holding a carnival. The night was not cold; a midsummer breeze stirred the trees; the leaves whispered of love and threw kisses to the stars.
[pg 61] Jeannette slept with a red rose on her pillow; and before she slept looked out the window at the stars and thought of many things.
————
“Jeannette, have you any letters to mail, I am going to the Big Creek postoffice?”
She gave him one addressed to the editors of ——, which contained the manuscript of some verses—“The Heart of Things”—the first of her published poems. She offered the loan of the old mule, saying: “It’s more than twelve miles; will you be back tonight?”
“Yes, I’m traveling light; twenty-four miles is a mere stroll; and I shall return, much as I imagine the old mule would, at a brisker gait, because I’m coming home.”
She said nothing more; being surprised by Sandy’s speech, which had suddenly dropped the mountain idiom.
When night came she sat on the porch until after nine o’clock, then she went to her room, fearful that if Sandy should come and find her there he might misunderstand; might think she had been waiting—but the idea, that’s impossible. She tried to read, she had not read much lately, she was not in the mood; blew out the lamp—and just afterward the gate opened; and she heard him enter the house and go to his room.
She spent most of the following day until late afternoon in her bower under the great vine; then went for a walk along the path which skirted the left bank of the creek, the way of the foot-traveler, to avoid repeated fordings, necessary if one followed the road.
Along the path were scattered scraps of letter paper and a little further on she saw an empty envelope from the War Department, addressed to Captain William L. Blair. When she returned, she asked Simeon: “Who is Captain William L. Blair?”
[pg 62] “I don’t know no Captain Blair. Sandy’s name is William Lees Blair, but everybody calls him Sandy. O! I saw that name the other day on a letter he brought back from Big Creek—‘Captain William L. Blair, U. S. A.’—the letter had been sent him from Coblenz, Germany. Do you reckon Sandy was a captain?”
Jeannette began to suspect that Sandy might be amusing himself at their expense. At supper she was formally courteous; she first thought of calling him Captain Blair, but changed her mind and addressed him as Mr. Blair.
When the supper dishes had been put away and the chores done, all of them sat upon the porch until Simeon announced it was his bedtime; when he and his family retired.
“Jeannette, will you give me a lesson on the fiddle?”
“All right, Sandy. Would you like to know how to read music? In music there are signs standing for sounds, as the letters of the alphabet in combination form words, by which we express our thoughts. Do you catch what I mean?”
“Yes, I guess. But that’s funny. I thought you just learned the tune.”
“Put your chair near mine; I will show you some of the signs and symbols. What’s a symbol, Sandy?”
“Down in Mexico they tell me the gals play on them; banging them on their elbows and knees; that is the big ones and the little ones they click in their fingers.”
“Well, Sandy, this is another kind. Now this is a symbol in music, telling—” and so she went on for some time, Sandy listening attentively, with his head very near hers and their chairs as close together as he thought the occasion would justify.
[pg 63] When she finished he said: “Miss Jeannette, please play that fine piece of yourn?”
She played it through, then arranging his fingers on his bow, showed him just how he should stand; and playing a few notes at a time, instructed him to replay them.
That part of the music which was difficult and she felt satisfied she had not played correctly, it struck her Sandy played with greater ease and expression than she could do; but he made horribly ludicrous mistakes in the easy portions. Intentionally, she had misplayed a portion and when he reached this part he played it correctly. Then she knew that for some reason he was fooling them.
“Now Sandy, play it alone. Do your best, I shall go out on the porch and listen.”
He started off in a halting amateurish way, making many blunders; as he played his mistakes became fewer, his touch fuller; gradually he forgot his purpose to deceive, the music was a favorite; towards the end he played as she had never dreamed the piece could be played.
He came out on the porch and sat down beside her. Neither spoke. He knew she was no longer fooled.
“Jeannette, I can read and write.”
“Write something so I can see; you may be fooling me.”
He felt in his pockets for a scrap of paper but found nothing. Then he opened a card case and taking out his card, wrote on the back a few words.
She went into the light and read: “Chi si marita alla svelta si pente adagio. William L. Blair.”
She turned the card over and read “William Lees Blair.” She called out the door, “Good night, Captain William Lees Blair;” and went to her room.
[pg 64] He did not see her again until the next afternoon. He heard her singing on Big Rock, and walking down to the creek, followed up the bank until he came to the foot of the rock. It was very steep on that side, almost unscalable. She heard him climbing up. His hat fell off; a moment later his bare red head peeped above the surface, then his smiling, ruddy face rose slowly over the edge, much as she had seen the full red moon rise over the edge of the cliff that capped her mountain.
“Jeannette, really, I can read.”
“Let me see.”
And he wrote on another card:
“Ah vie! Ah vie! Jai trouve la place ou tu demeures.”
She took it saying: “Now since you have had your second lesson in penmanship, you may go home. I am busy embroidering a Christmas present for a friend and as this is the twenty-third of July, am too busy upon it to be disturbed.”
That evening Simeon and his wife sat out upon the porch; Jeannette and Sandy upon the door-step. He had his fiddle and was playing “Turkey in the Straw,” keeping time with his foot, his face lit by a happy smile. Jeannette’s slipper tapped the floor in minor accompaniment. She looked into his face; saw the brightness of it in the darkness, and whispered: “Your music is most suggestive: I never felt so much like dancing as I do tonight.”
Sandy thought his cousins had forgotten their rule of retiring with the chickens. The old rooster crowed. “Listen at Old Speck, he thinks it’s almost day.” Simeon gave an enormous yawn; they thought he would never close his mouth. It went shut with a snap, followed by the remark: “It’s time all honest folks were in bed.” It was nearly nine o’clock; and he and his wife went in.
[pg 65] How glorious the night; how peaceful and starry; a time for visions, not words, therefore no one spoke. The bold, bad captain, taking advantage of the darkness, made Jeannette’s hand a prisoner. It fluttered as a frightened bird; then it lay still, either having lost hope of escape or resigned to a captive fate. Suddenly it escaped.
“Captain, I’m surprised! Get pencil and paper; you must have your third lesson in penmanship. Look on the mantel and bring me a couple of matches.”
He took a card from his case and wrote: “Jeannette, Mein Liebchen: Willst Du mich Heiraten?”
He handed her the card; she read it; the match went out. There was a little scuffle, a smothered exclamation. A great owl, whose downy wings made no noise, lit in the elm by the gate and observing them through his night optics, exclaimed: “Who! Who!” Surprised, the captain released his prisoner; she darted into the doorway, calling: “Goodnight, Captain, hope to see you tomorrow.”
Her dream love ended that night; the talisman that drove it from this material to the spirit world, where it was doubtless happier, was a very human kiss. Most of you girls know the kind—they were smuggled in from Europe when our boys came home.
The following afternoon, Jeannette, book in hand, sought the shelter of her vine-clad bower. On the bench was a note which she read. She had just finished it, when the Captain stood at the entrance.
“Come in, Captain, it is time for a reading lesson.”
He sat down beside her, took the book and read—almost a page.
[pg 66] “If you do not care for the book read this.” She handed him a card, marked in the upper left-hand corner, “Lesson No. 1,” and he read:
“Chi si marita alla svelta si pente Adagio.”
“Translate; I do not read Italian, or is it Spanish?”
“Teacher, I do not want to.”
“If you do not I will send you home.”
“Well, here goes: ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure’.”
“Just such sentiment as I expected. May I ask if you are speaking from European experience?”
“No, merely quoting an absurd axiom.”
She handed him another card, marked “Lesson No. 2.”
“Read.”
“Ah vie! Ah vie! Jai trouve la place on tu demeures.”
“Translate.”
“O Life! O Life! I have found the place where thou dwellest.”
“You may give a more specific interpretation of your meaning at the close of your lesson. Read this,” giving him a card marked: “Lesson No. 3.”
“Jeannette, Mein Liebchen: Willst Du mich Heiraten?”
“Translate.”
“Sure, sure. ‘Jeannette, My Love: Will you marry me?’”
“Now you may read the poem I found in here. It seems to be in your handwriting.”
[pg 67]
————
Then, for more than an hour, an angel without the bower, kept strangers away and enjoined silence. He did not stand with flaming sword, but with finger on his lips.
————
They walked down to the old field below the Rock House. Near its center was an old dead tree; and on the tip of the topmost snag a lark sang.
“Listen, do you hear what he says.”
“No, he’s whistling like any other meadow lark.”
“Translate.”
“I do not know the language.”
“I do; ‘Love, thou art safe! art safe! I watch for thee! for thee!’”
They led the old mule to the barn, and gave him ten ears of corn and two bundles of oats. Sandy got up at daylight the next morning and repeated the dose; the old mule knew something was up. Then Sandy came to the house and put on some clothes that had been sent up from Red Bird. Jeannette came to breakfast a little late; she had on a short-skirted riding habit. Simeon and his wife tried not to show their surprise. She kept still; he exercised less restraint or exhibited more curiosity than his wife—they say men have more. “What’s [pg 69] up, Sandy? Why have you put on your Sunday clothes, this is Saturday?”
And Sandy answered: “Jeannette and I are going to Hyden to be married.”
“Well, I’ll be d——d! How’re you going?”
“She’ll ride the old mule; I’ll walk and lead the beast.”
“Why it’s fifteen miles; it’ll take all day.”
“That’s all right.”
“You better take my horse.”
“No, Jeannette wants to ride the old mule and wants me to lead him. She’s boss until tomorrow.”
“Well, I’ll be d——d!”
————
It was nearly midnight when they came home again. After feeding the old mule, they sat down on the door-step.
“My Captain, will you get your violin and play some real music?”
“Jeannette, how did that old mule ever manage to travel to Hyden and back with such a load of sweetness?”
“By dint of placing one foot before the other, Sandy. We were only sixteen hours on the road; we made nearly two miles an hour. I do not think I would care to hear ‘The Arkansaw Traveler’ after that journey; but suppose you end the day, it must be merging into the morrow, by playing ‘Turkey in the Straw.’”
The old familiar tune awoke Simeon and he awoke his wife. “Listen, Mandy! those crazy things are back. Hear Sandy, he’s playing ‘Turkey in the Straw;’ that boy will never settle down.” He called out: “Go to bed and give other people a chance to sleep; or else keep still and start breakfast.”
[pg 70] In a little while the house was very still. There was no sound except the chirping of the cricket of the hearth. You who dwell in cities and know nothing of firesides, may not appreciate his simple song.
