GRANNY WILLIAM’S NARRATIONS

DAVID JOSLIN did not come to renew his invitation to Marcia Haddon to ride into the mountains. She saw him no more. Nor did she herself even yet keep her oft-renewed promise to depart at once for the North. Moody and silent, aloof and unhappy, this passed from one resolve to another until one day Granny Williams, by chance, offered a means for carrying out her own self-formed plan of a visit deeper into the hills.

“I sartinly would enj’y it, child, fer to go back in thar a ways with ye,” said Granny. “Three or four of my boys lives up in Redbird, an’ I hain’t been in thar fer a long time. We could ride up in one day an’ stay a month, fer as that, if we wanted.”

“Aren’t you afraid to go?” asked Marcia Haddon, hesitating, knowing that the old lady would never see her eightieth birthday again.

“Afeerd? Why should I be afeerd, womern? I reckon I’ll never see the day when I’ll be afeerd to ride a mewel that fer an’ back, if I want ter.” And, indeed, when on the following day they embarked for their journey, the old dame herself sat carelessly, with one skinny knee across the horn of her man’s saddle, thrust almost up into her face as she perched, a bag on one arm and a basket on the other, and smoked her pipe in perfect contentment as she rode.

“Ye like enough don’t know much about mewels,” said she, “bein’ a furrin womern. Mewels is best fer the mountings. They’ll just walk along if ye leave ‘em be. All ye got to do is to foller right behind me, an’ keep yore beast a-walkin’ right peart.”

The full foliage of the vernal season now covered all the mountains. The stream, idling and loitering, broke into rapids over rock ledges, or swum out into wide, still pools under the far-flung fringes of the elms and beaches. As they rode, Granny Williams told the story of this place or that.

“Over in yander house,” she said, nodding her sunbonnet in the direction indicated, “is a woman lives that’s got six sons, ary one of ‘em over six foot two inch tall. An’ not one of ‘em nuvver had a father. Old times, folks that lived fer back in couldn’t always git a preacher noways. Shouldn’t wonder if they got merried some day even yit, now the railroad’s come. But sakes! me a-talkin’ that way! I reckon I’d better wet my finger an’ touch the top of my left air. Ye see, Ma’am, if ye wet yore finger an’ rub the top of yore left air, that makes folks bite their tongue when they talk about ye. Didn’t ye know that? Ye furrin wimmern certainly is plumb ignorant, hain’t ye?”

“Go on,” said Marcia Haddon, chuckling to herself. “Tell me some more, Granny.”

“Not much to tell about these mountings, Ma’am—nothin’ ever did happen here much. Hit’s a settled sort of country. Now, over thar ye see that pile of logs, like? That’s whar Old Man Stallings used to hev a barn. He never did git no roof on the barn, nohow, though fer thirty year he was a-plannin’ about it. He used to set right thar on that log jest below the ridge, an’ look at that barn, an’ wish thar was a roof on it. He done that fer thirty year, an’ then he died. So that’s how come the barn to rot down that way.

“Now, over yander on the creek is whar Preacher Bonnell’s pa used to live. He was about the fightin’est preacher we ever did have in here—always used to ride with a Bible an’ a pistol an’ a bottle of liquor in his saddlebags when he was out a-preachin’. One day he rid twenty mile over the mountings to Newfound jest to shoot a man. The co’te finded him fifty dollars. That’s too much to fine a preacher. We all allowed twenty dollars’d been plenty.

“Preacher Bonnell, he used to have a nigger man a-workin’ fer him—onliest nigger ever was in these hills, I reckon. We used to have ‘em here along atter the war, but one time, come ‘lection, when they was a-sellin’ their votes fer two dollars each, the folks paid ‘em off in counterfeit money. That riled the niggers, an’ they done left.

“Speakin’ of old Preacher Bonnell, Ma’am,” she went on reminiscently, “he was a odd sort of man. Onct in a while he’d sort of take spells, like. He didn’t speak to his wife fer nigh about five year, one time. He used to shoot at a mark, and drink liquor like all the other men folks. One time he bet eighty-four twists of tobacco, agin a new wagon, that he could beat Tomp Frame shootin’ at a mark. Tomp, when Preacher Bonnell wasn’t lookin’, he cut his bullet in two so he couldn’t hit nothin’. That’s how come him to kill Tomp later, and git finded fifty dollars. Hit made him so mad he couldn’t talk—he jest played deef an’ dumb fer a long time. One day he set in a game of keerds, an’ luck came his way, an’ he said right out, afore he thought, ‘High, low, Jack an’ game, by God!’ Ye see, he wasn’t always a preacher. He wasn’t called ontel he was nigh about fifty year old, I reckon.”

Her auditor turned away her face, so that her own amusement might not be seen, and the old lady rambled on, chewing at her pipe stem as she rode.

“Nothin’ nuvver happens in these hills, ye see, Ma’am,” said she. “I hear tell, Outside, of picturs that moves jest like they was alive. O’ course, that’s a lie. But hain’t it funny how many things folks thinks up? Now, we nuvver had no sich things as that when I was young. Fact is, I kain’t say as I ever had but jest two kinds of amusement. One was to hear the preacher tell about hell fire—he painted it up like a lake of red, with yellow around the aidge. Other was a picture a temper’nce preacher had all done in colors, showin’ how a drunkard’s stomach looked. Hit was red, too, like hell. I kin recollect even now about them things—hell fire an’ the drunkard’s stomach. We never had no other amusements but jest them. When Old Man Bonnell got to a-depictin’ hell fire, and shakin’ folks out over that, time them folks come forewerge!

“Over yander is whar Old Mammy Pierce lives——“ pointing to a small cabin by the wayside. “She’s a granny womern—we call ‘em granny wimmern that he’ps folks when childrens comes, ye know. Her husband was a sort of doctor, too. He didn’t give nothin’ but nux vomic very much. He says nux vomic would fotch arything every time. He done killed ummage of the stomach with nux vomic, an’ even tonsils.

“Now, jest beyant whar Mammy Pierce lives is whar used to be Bill Coates’ house—ye kin see whar it burned down. Me an’ my man was a-ridin’ right along here when the house was a-burnin’, an’, well, sir! Bill Coates was a-settin’ thar watchin’ it burn. ‘Sakes alive, man!’ says I to him, ‘why don’t ye put it out?’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I sont my gal hafe a mile up the creek to git a pail of water, an’ she hain’t come back yit. That was more’n hafe a hour ago,’ ‘Pears like the gal stopped to talk with some of the neighbors up thar about how the house was a-burnin’ down, an’ time she got back it was too late.

“I wish’t we had time to ride up to Big Creek, Ma’am. Thar’s a fine store up thar—travelin’ men comes in thar from the other side, an’ sells all sorts of goods thar. They carry their sample things in the saddlebags same as Old Preacher Bonnell used to.

“But ye see, we kain’t read an’ write in these mountings. The storekeeper, he always has kep’ his books with marks, like, on the boards of his cabin. He makes a short mark, like, fer two bits, an’ a long one fer four bits, an’ he’ll have some sort of picture fer each man that he’s a-trustin’ out goods to. Sometimes he has to make signs fer to show what he’s done sold. A few month ago Arch Morrison come in, and they liken to have a diffikilty over his account. The storekeeper said he’d sold Archie a cheese, an’ Archie he done denied of it. ‘Thar’s a pictur of it,’ says the storekeeper, an’ sure enough, thar was a big, round thing like a cheese. ‘Oh,’ says Archie, ‘that hain’t no cheese I bought. That’s a grindstone.’ ‘Shore enough, Archie,’ says the storekeeper, ‘shore enough. I done fergot to put the hole in it.’

“No, times is right qui’te in here, an’ always has been, Ma’am! as ye kin see easy. In the fam’ly fightin’s that’s a good many killings, but we hain’t had what ye might call a real murder, not in sixty year. Ye see that house acrosst the creek thar?—well, over thar, sixty year ago, a fam’ly named Baker murdered a feller named Pruitt fer some land an’ money he had. That Baker woman sartinly was servigerous. Her man hit Pruitt in the haid with a hammer, an’ they left him out in the yard, but he come to. The old womern says, ‘Well, I’ll kill ye so ye’ll stay killed,’ So she taken up a ax an’ cut off his haid. That was a long while ago. Things like that don’t happen often. That was murderin’, not killin’.

“Fact is, times is gittin’ qui’ter even at ‘lection and co’te settin’s nowadays. Thar wasn’t nobody shot over in Leslie County co’te settin’s last term, excusin’ Mose Post. The depity sher’f, Wilson, went out to ‘rest Mose. He was about the fightin’est man in them parts. Mose was a-leanin’ aginst the fence when the depity come up, an’ his gun got hung in the palin’ when he pulled it, so the depity shot him a couple times. Hit hain’t much like old time co’te settin’s when I was young, Ma’am.

“No, I reckon it’s the new railroad that’s a-changin’ everything nowadays. We’re within twenty mile of whar it’s a-goin’ acrosst the haid of Hell-fer-Sartin. Folks says that farms is a-goin’ up right along nowadays, an’ timber, too. Land didn’t useter have no value here when I was a gal as old as ye air now. Folks jest moved out an’ set down on a piece of land, an’ cl’ared it up like—that’s the way me an’ my man done. I’ve seed a good farm sold fer a fiddle an’ a hog rifle—an’ now here’s that farm wuth they say maybe twenty-five thousand dollars, ‘cause they found a little ile on it. How much is twenty-five thousand dollars, anyway, Ma’am?

“Times sartinly is changin’! Now, in my time I’ve seed the hull upper part of Tejus Creek—they allowed over two hundred thousand acres—sold fer a rifle an’ a bell-crowned hat. What ye reckon that land’s wuth now, Ma’am?

“The Joslins had land over in thar, too, someone tolt me. Fer matter of that, Davy like enough owns or will heir from his granny a heap of land over on Hell-fer-Sartin, besides the farm he give to Meliss’ over thar on Coal Creek, whar he used to live. He nuvver would sell his land, an’ he nuvver would let his granny do it neither. The blacksmith an’ the postmaster tolt me that like enough when the railroad comes Davy sartinly will be rich. I’ve knowed coal rights to go fer five cents a acre, an’ old-time poplar an’ oak timber fer a dollar an’ a hafe a acre. Yit folks tells me that one log outen them trees would be wuth ten or twelve dollar down at Windsor, maybe. Ye reckon that’s so, Ma’am?

“Oh, shucks, I expect I’m a-makin’ ye tired, a-talkin’ this way. I’m just a-narratin’ along, ‘cause ye said ye wanted to larn somethin’ about our mountings. I wish’t we had time to git up to Big Creek. Thar’s a fam’ly of twelve people up thar, Ma’am, an’ every one of ‘em plays some kind of a musercal instrument. When all twelve of them people begins to play ye’d think hell was a-poppin’, Ma’am. Didn’t ye nuvver hear ary one of our old fiddle tunes?”

Marcia shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said.

“No? Why, Davy useter be a powerful fiddler in his time, afore he got religion so hard. I reckon he could play most all the old-time tunes. Didn’t ye nuvver hear ‘Barbara Allen,’ or ‘Lord Lovell,’ Ma’am? I’ve seen men set an’ cry over ‘Lord Lovell.’ Then thar was ‘Polly Allen,’ another ballet. Thar was some folks always that could make words fer ballets, an’ they’d sort of sing ‘em.

“As fer fiddlin’ tunes, thar’s so many I kain’t hardly recollect. Thar was ‘The Flowers of Edingburg’—I don’t know whar that come from, but they says it’s old, an’ like enough come over the mountings. An’ thar was ‘The Deer Walk’—I don’t know whar that come from neither. Then thar was ‘The Hog-Eyed Man,’ an’ ‘Jawbone,’ an’ ‘The Puncheon Floor,’ an’ ‘Jones’s Still House,’ an’ ‘Sugar in the Bowl,’ an’ ‘Suds Over the Fence,’ an’ ‘Turkey in the Straw’—didn’t ye never hear none of them tunes, Ma’am?”

“I’m not sure, Granny,” rejoined Marcia Haddon. “As you say, I’m powerful ignorant, and I’m afraid my education isn’t very wide in these matters. Go on and tell me some more.”

“Well, thar was ‘Round the Sugar Tree’—that’s another tune the boys played at dancin’s—and ‘Notchy on the Hill.’ That tune come from the raftsmen. They tolt us thar was a river called the Mississip’ somewhars, an’ a good many tunes come up from down the Mississip’.

“Then thar was ‘Sally Ann,’ an’ ‘Ida Red,’ an’ ‘Shreveport’—like enough ‘Shreveport’ come from the raftin’ times, too. Then thar was ‘Dan Hogan’s,’ an’ ‘Old Ned,’ an’ ‘Gall of the Yare’ (Guadalquivir?). ‘Polk an’ Dallas’ was a ‘lection tune. Then thar’s ‘The Campbells Air Comin’,’—why, law! Ma’am, I could go on a-tellin’ names of fiddlin’ tunes fer a hour yit.

“But hain’t this a purty country, Ma’am, we’re a-goin’ through? I think it’s right purty, an’ I always done so, from the time I was a gal, old as ye air. Davy says he hain’t seen no purtier country’n this, an’ he’s been Outside. I wonder how much land he’ll heir from his granny—mother of Preacher Joslin? She’s ninety-five year old, if she’s a day. Wouldn’t it be strange if the new railroad would make some of us pore folks rich atter all? Ye don’t know much about Davy?”

Marcia Haddon had turned away her face from the scrutiny of the old woman’s keen eyes, but the latter went on:

“I always did wonder what Davy done when he went Outside. Do ye know? He sartinly come back powerful changed. He useter be a right servigerous kind of a man, like I said, the fightin’est of all the fightin’ Joslins. But, shucks! he’s so different now ye wouldn’t know the boy. He’s as mild as skim melk He always was good to Meliss’, too. Her gittin’ a divorce from him when he was away—an’ all he was a-tryin’ to do was to git a education so’s to he’p pore folks like me! ‘Pears to me like Meliss’ Joslin got entirely too much attention paid to herself along of that divorce. She nuvver was so much noways. She couldn’t neither spin nor weave wuth shucks, an’ besides, her two babies both died on her. She wasn’t so much.

“Law, I could tell ye a heap more things if ye liked narratin’. Fer instant, here’s whar the men in my grandad’s time chased the last two Injuns outen this country, an’ kilt ‘em up on Redbird. This creek was named atter one. Thar’s a hole up the river called Jack’s Hole, whar the other was shot. One Injun was named Red Bird, an’ the other they called Jack. They cotched ‘em up above, but they used to live in a cave round here, not far from whar we air now.

“Wasn’t Davy a-tellin’ ye about the cave whar the two wanderin’ wimmern lives? Well, that’s the very place whar them two Injuns useter live years ago. Hain’t he never tolt ye about ‘em?”

“I don’t think so,” said Marcia Haddon, content with the one-sided conversation. “What about them, Granny?”

“Well, I’ll show ye the very place right soon. Hit’s jest beyant the two rocks that leans together, whar Davy says some time he’s a-goin’ to start another school. Hain’t he nuvver tolt ye about that neither? Seems to me ye an’ him hain’t talked much noways.

“Well, now, them two wimmern is jest pore wild folks, ye mought say. This cave is the onliest home they’ve had fer years. The young woman is named Min, an’ her little gal is named Min, too. She hain’t got no pap, but she’s purty as a pictur, that little gal.”

“The poor child!” said Marcia Haddon. “Granny, I almost wish I hadn’t heard so much.”

“Well, Ma’am, suppose ye was throwed down in these mountings, with nothin’ to do with—what do ye reckon ye’d do? About the best ye could, huh? I reckon that’s what all of us folks has had to do—yes, it’s jest what all of us folks has had to do. It’s what everybody has got to do, come to that.

“Say, child, was ye ever merried more’n onct?” Granny demanded suddenly. “I reckon ye was young when ye was merried—ye hain’t larned much yit.”

“Yes, I was young,” said Marcia Haddon. “And once—only once.”

“Uh huh! Man jest come along an’ got foolish over yore purty face, like enough, an’ talked fine to ye, an’ so ye was merried! It goes that way. Well, I reckon in a year or two ye’ll like enough merry again. Ye’re gittin’ purtier every day. Some folks merries in lessen a year, but hit hain’t ordinary helt decent to be in too big a hurry.”

She went on, ruminatingly. “Me an’ my old man has lived together a long while—I nuvver was merried more’n only onct, neither. He’s so damn tough nothin’ couldn’t kill him, ‘pears like. He got a tree fall on him, while ago, when he was turned fifty, an’ he hain’t been much of a fightin’ man sence then, but still he’s lived along sever’l year sence then, too.

“Well, now, what I was a-goin’ to say was, Ma’am, supposin’ if he’d of died when I was, say, young as ye air. Do ye suppose I’d of stayed single all of my life? I don’t say if I would or I wouldn’t, but I’ve knowed wimmern to merry four or five times, like enough—I mought of merried sever’l times, come need fer’t. But thank God I didn’t haveter.

“Didn’t ye never have no sweethearts afore ye was merried, Ma’am?” she went on in her own fashion, her inquisitiveness now growing under the reticence of the other.

“Don’t all girls?” said Marcia Haddon soberly.

“Most has,” said the old dame, “mostly, yes. All, ye mought say, that’s as purty as ye was. An’ as I was sayin’, ye’re a-gittin’ purtier right along. Ye’ll be a right peart-lookin’ widder afore long. Well, like I was sayin’, ye mought of merried ary one of ‘em if ye hadn’t of merried the man ye did.”

“It never came up for discussion in my mind, Granny,” said Marcia Haddon with dignity.

“Huh! Thar’s most always two or three men in ary womern’s life,” responded Granny Williams calmly. “Thar was two or three in mine. Like enough I’d of merried one of ‘em if I hadn’t of merried Henry like I done. I been too busy to think about sich matters sence. But, just so long as a woman is foot-loose like, chances air she mought merry two or three men, or even sever’l, like I said.”

Marcia Haddon made no response to this matter-of-fact reasoning, but her ancient companion continued in her monologue.

“Yes,” she chuckled, “that’s so. An’ yit, if ever a man admits to his wife that he has ever saw more’n one womern in all his borned life, she’ll raise hell with him! Now, Davy——”

Marcia Haddon suddenly pulled up her mule an’ hastened on, but relentlessly the old woman resumed when she had come alongside.

“I was sayin’ about Davy—he were merried onlucky. It jest happened that way. An’ now she’s got her a divorce from him. That’s a awful thing.”

“We’ll talk of something else, Granny,” said Marcia Haddon. The old dame looked at her keenly, curiosity in her unseen glance.

“An’ why not talk of Davy?” she insisted after a time.

“I don’t wish to do so, Granny. It’s nothing to me how he has married or what he does.”

“I reckon that’s so,” sighed Granny Williams. “He’s only a mounting boy at that, though powerful smart. Some said he hadn’t orter of ever left the mountings, because he war the leader of his fam’ly—Chan Bullock, he’s too young. Well, maybe they’re right, an’ maybe they hain’t. They say the old quarls is about all fixed up in here now—the whole country’s changed come these last two year, now the railroad’s comin’.”

“An’ Davy’s changed, too,” she went on. “He’s sadder’n what he used to be. I don’t know as I ever seed a man any sadder’n he is, especial right now. In the old times he used to be the fightin’est, whisky-drinkin’est young man in this here hull valley, an’ now he’s got to be the workin’est man in all these parts. I reckon it’s the divorce that shames him. Not that I suppose he’s a-seekin’ around anywhars for any more merryin’—he like enough had his satisfy of gettin’ merried.”

Marcia Haddon did her best to change the conversation. “You were telling me about a place where they used to teach school long ago—right out of doors, in the open,” said she.

“That’s furtherer on up the creek, beyant the old ford whar the bufferlo come down to the salt lick in my granddad’s time. That’s a purty place, right in the bank of the creek. I’ll show it to ye some day.

“But now,” she resumed, as, turning the bend of the road, they saw before them the blackened roof of a deep cavern in the sidehill—“thar’s whar them wanderin’ wimmern lives I was tellin’ ye about, Ma’am. Looks like thar wasn’t no one to home.”

But presently what appeared to be a little bundle of rags far off at a back corner stirred, moved, and developed itself into a very ragged little girl with very tangled hair. She was perhaps seven or eight years of age—a child with wide, dark eyes and white, even teeth, as now they might see, for she smiled shyly as they paused at the opening of the cave.

“Come here, Min,” said old Granny Williams. “Come on out here an’ talk to the lady, won’t ye?”

The child came out, very slowly, shy as some wild creature. She was clad now in a single-piece nondescript garment, was barefooted, and her hair apparently had never known comb or covering.

“Whar’s yore mammy at, Min?” demanded the old lady.

The child made no answer; only stood twisting a toe into the gravel of the roadway, painfully embarrassed by the presence of this strange creature whose like she never had seen in all her life.

“It’s only a furrin lady with fotched-on clothes,” said old Granny Williams. “She won’t hurt ye. Kain’t ye come an’ shake hands?”

“Yes, little girl, come,” said Marcia Haddon suddenly, holding out her hand, and leaning forward with so bright a smile that slowly the child came to her, shyly extending her hand.

Marcia Haddon took the child’s hand in her own. As she did so a strange emotion suddenly came upon her—a primal glow at this touch of a child’s warm hand in her own. Sudden tears came into her own eyes—tears not unhappy, either; for now, in some way unexplainable to herself, a whole, new, wide world seemed to open all around her. In her own world of ease, apart, she never yet had known or dreamed the great, throbbing, vital things of life itself. But these simple folk, poor, forgotten—they knew them all. They were so far richer than herself. Their world had been so much wider than her own.

The child stood looking shyly at her, like any wild creature, her dark eyes wide and wistful, across them passing alternate waves of light and shadow, as left by a passing cloud upon the sky. But, moved though she was to speak to the strange lady, she did not do so. Only she stood looking up wistfully, and the woman who sat above her looked down wistfully in turn.

“Have ye had yore breakfast, Min?” asked Granny Williams brusquely. The child shook her head, her finger in her mouth now, her toe still twisting at the earth.

“Well, well, hain’t that a shame! I reckon yore mammy’s at the corn-hoein’ up to the big house in the bottoms, hain’t she?”

The child nodded her head.

“Well, well, ye shall have somethin’ to eat.” The old lady opened the top of the small basket which hung on her arm, a basket which it was always her custom to take to church with her for the sake of certain children and grandchildren of her own. She drew out a round cookie with a hole in the center, which she extended to the child of the wandering women—the first sweetmeat the little one had ever known in all her life.

“I’ll tell yore mammy to bring ye down somethin’ to eat,” added Granny Williams. And so she clucked to her mule.

The solitary occupant of the cave stood now in the road, looking after them wonderingly, even the beloved cookie arrested halfway between hand and mouth.

“Granny, what will become of a child like that left here in these hills?” demanded Marcia Haddon after a while. There was a half sob in her voice, though still that strange, new, warm feeling in her heart.

“Why, she’ll go to hell, that’s what’ll become of her,” said Granny promptly. “Excusin’ of that school of Davy’s up thar on the hill, an’ what it kin do fer these childern, why, they’re all goin’ plumb to hell, accordin’ to ary sort of preachin’ I ever did hear.”

“Yes,” she went on reflectively, “thar’s a heap of the onredeemed in these mountings, I reckon. Maybe the railroad’ll make all the valleys alike—I hope so. It may not come in my time. Davy says it’s a-comin’ right soon. I don’t know about them things.”

Marcia Haddon made no answer. She looked across the tree-clad slopes of these rounded hills, trying to visualize the point of view of that man, her husband, who once had felt his own right to so much of this country and its contents. Ownership of these hills, this great world that lay about her undiscovered! Did, then, the rights of sovereignty impose no duties in return?

“Granny,” said she suddenly, after they had traveled for a time in silence.

“What is it, child?” asked the old dame gently.

“Do you suppose the mother of that child would let her go away to school?”

“Do I suppose so?” ejaculated Granny Williams fiercely. “Don’t I know she would? We been waitin’, here in the Cumberlands. Jest waitin’. Lord ha’ massy on us.

“Look what Davy done,” she went on. “He war only out a couple of year, an’ yit he changed complete, ye mought say. I kain’t hardly understand him talk no more, he talks so furrin, same’s ye. If Davy has went furrin, ‘pears like we all mought as well chirk up some an’ git more furrin, too. The new railroad’ll sartinly change a heap of things.

“Well, here we air at the gate of my cousin, right on beyant. We’ll light down an’ stop here overnight,” concluded Granny Williams at last, knocking the ashes out of her pipe and thrusting it into her pocket. “Was ye ever to school much in yore life, Ma’am?” she demanded as she stood, her lean arm across her mule’s neck.

“Yes, Granny,” replied the “furrin woman” gently. “But I’ve learned more to-day, I think, than in all my life before.”