A VISIT FROM FATHER BYRNE.
Just as Owen entered the yard the dinner-horn blew, so he was forced to go at once to the dining-room. With his best efforts he could not conceal his drowsiness; he appeared somewhat frightened, too, and was naturally questioned about the previous day's hunt. His parents were surprised to find that the two boys had remained in the forest during a rainy October night. When did the rain commence? How long did it last? Was it cold during the night? Was Owen feeling well? The questions came faster than he could answer; they were of such a nature, too, as would likely lead Owen to commit himself and mention something about the cave. Luckily for him, however, the attention of the family was diverted to another subject by a little comedy which was just then enacted in the kitchen, where the negroes were at dinner. Wash, who was facing the road which ran in front of the house, suddenly sprang to his feet, upset his plate, spilt his glass of milk, and yelling as only Wash could yell, rushed from the door.
"Dat nigger am jest as crazy as a June bug," remonstrated Uncle Pius. But he had scarcely uttered the words, when he, too, dropped his knife and fork and followed Wash. The other two negroes joined in the race; and one of them, Mose, tripping his companion, sent him sprawling in the dust. Bounce and Frisk now appeared upon the scene, running far ahead of the others, and shaking their tails in a friendly manner. Bertha and Owen sallied forth from the dining-room, waving their colored handkerchiefs above their heads, while Mr. and Mrs. Howard walked out upon the porch to welcome Father Byrne, whose arrival had caused the uproar.
Thus was Father Byrne received at the home of Mr. Howard. It was impossible to convince the negroes that they were too noisy on such occasions, for in their opinion the one who yelled the loudest gave the most hearty welcome. As the good priest seemed to enjoy their demonstration of affection, Mr. Howard never interfered.
Father Byrne insisted on partaking of the humble family meal, nor would he permit anything special to be prepared for him.
"I see you have a young stranger with you," said he, looking across the table, where a little boy about two years old was propped up in a high chair.
"Not a stranger, Father," replied Mrs. Howard, "not a stranger. He is one of the family—Robin Howard is his name."
"Our children have all left us except Bertha and Owen," spoke up Mr. Howard. "Little Robin had no home, so we concluded to make him our boy."
"Ow'n and me go rid'n on ol' Hickory," interposed this youthful member of the family, whose chief delight it was to be lifted up on the back of old Hickory and to ride down to the water-trough.
"Can you ride alone?" inquired the priest.
"And the ol' duces (geese) went su-su-su-su."
"Why don't you answer the Father's question?" said the wife. "He wants to know whether you can ride alone."
"And the little duces went cry-cry-cry," said Robin, evidently trying to describe his encounter on the previous day with the flock of geese and goslings, in which encounter the little belligerent was evidently worsted, for one of the oldest warriors in the enemy's camp overthrew him with a single blow of his wing, and would no doubt have inflicted serious wounds had not Bertha come to the rescue.
"And what did Robin say?" asked Bertha.
"He cry, too," came the unwilling answer, whereat all laughed except the little soldier who had been vanquished in so inglorious a battle.
"Where is Owen?" asked Father Byrne, seeing that he had not returned to the dining-room.
"Probably he is not feeling well," said his father. "He and Martin Cooper were hunting wild turkeys all day yesterday. Toward evening Bounce trailed a large deer, bringing it near Rapier's Ford, where the two boys waited until they were overtaken by the night, and forced to sleep in the woods."
"Then I am not surprised that he is unwell," replied the priest. "Perhaps he will not be able to ride around to the different houses and let the people know that I am here."
"Then we'll give the work to Robin," said the farmer, with a laugh.
Robin, however, did not respond to the invitation. He did not seem to know that his name had been mentioned, but sat there in deep thought, planning the second and more successful campaign against the "duces."
"Well, Father," said Owen, riding up to the door just at this moment, "I had better be on the way, if I want to visit all the families before night, to let them know that you are here."
"They tell me that you are unwell," was the kind reply.
"Nothing the matter with me! Only a little stiff from sleeping out in the woods last night!"
"Of course, you'll never own up that you are sick," said his mother.
"Why should I own up, when I am not sick," said Owen; "besides, the ride will only do me good."
"If you do not feel strong enough to visit all the houses," said Father Byrne, rising from the table and walking out upon the porch, "return home, and let some of the other boys go in your place."
"Ow'n, dim me ride?" said Robin.
"Won't you come and finish your dinner before starting?" asked his mother.
Owen did not hear either appeal, however, but galloped away, only too anxious to escape from the company and the many questions about his night's experience.
Toward evening many of the Catholics came to the house for confession. Master and slave, old and young departed with the priest's blessing of peace, each holier and happier than when he came.
With patient care Father Byrne taught the older negroes their catechism; they, in turn, were told to teach their children. This was also a duty which he imposed upon the masters of slaves. To encourage the young blacks Father Byrne gave little pictures to those who had learned their prayers the best. It was on such occasions that Aunt Margaret endeavored to show the mental prowess of Wash.
"De Lawd bless dis nigger," she said one day, "if dat Gawge Wasenton Elexander Hamilton Howard ain't got his skull as brim full of brains as ole massar's corn-crib is full ob corn."
"How long did it take him to learn 'Our Father,'" inquired the priest, much amused at the old negress' talk.
"Dat our foddar," continued Aunt Margaret. "Why, bless my soul! I gave him the first susposishin (explanation) of dat dar prayer last Christmas, and dat little nigger he knowed it in less dan t'ree shakes of a sheep's tail."
"How many days?"
"No days, nuffin'. Bless him little soul, if de chile didn't larn dat our foddar in six mon's after I gave him the first susposishuns."
"Call him," said the priest, "and let us see whether he has learned his lesson well."
Washington came, and, standing before the priest with his hat on his head, began to recite the prayer.
"What I tole you do?" exclaimed his preceptress.
Off came the hat.
"Git on you' knees, you little her'tic!" again cried out Aunt Margaret.
Washington obeyed orders, and recited the prayer. He was rewarded by a picture, made thrice acceptable by its bold shades of red.
The Sunday following Father Byrne's arrival was bright and genial. The red-bird chirped among the crimson foliage of the maple; the blue-bird twittered and frolicked on the swaying branches of the plum-tree; round and round flew the barn-martins, as if they divined the coming winter, and wished to enjoy the few remaining days of autumn before departing for their more Southern homes; the swallows, too, with their speed-trimmed wings, darted swiftly through the heavens, glided noiselessly in among the trees, or sailed away again to the blue void beyond. A steady breeze sprang up, making the corn-stalks rustle in the fields, and sending the frost-nipped leaves of the forest whirling to the ground. Then, as the sun rose over the hilltops, the river lifted its white canopy of fog, slowly extended it over the valley, and dispersed it in fleecy clouds.
Along the several roads and footpaths which verged toward Mr. Howard's could be seen the members of Father Byrne's scattered flock hastening on to enjoy the rare privilege of assisting at Holy Mass.
"Good morning, Hez," said the host to Farmer Cooper, who was the first to arrive.
"Good morning, Zach."
"Fine morning."
"Very fine morning, indeed."
"How are you feeling?"
"Tol'ably well."
"How is Mrs. Cooper?"
"She's tol'ably well."
"And all the family?"
"They are all tol'ably well, thank you. And how are you this morning, Zach?"
"I am tol'ably well, thank you."
"And Mrs. Howard?"
"She is tol'ably well, too."
"And the rest of the family?"
"All tol'ably well, tol'ably well."
"How are you getting along with the fall wheat?"
"I reckon we'll be a little late this year," replied Mr. Howard. "It's the first time we've used the field for wheat, and have tried to get out as many stumps as possible. And how is your wheat getting along?"
"Tol'ably well. I reckon if nothing happens I'll have a fine crop next summer."
"What do you think about the fire over at old Bowen's?" asked Mr. Howard.
"I don't know what to think, Zach. This is the third time the poor fellow has lost his corn-crib. Just why the corn-crib should burn every year I don't understand."
"I reckon the negroes must set it on fire. They say he is very cruel toward them."
"I don't believe they burned his crib, Zach—I don't believe it. I tell you, there's something wrong with old Bowen, and some day or other we'll find it out."
While they were discussing the loss which old Bowen had sustained, and its probable cause, the Yates family arrived in the large farm wagon. Then came the Boones and the Blandfords, the Gates and the Craycrofts, and all the other Catholic settlers; and there was such a shaking of hands and exchanging of "good morning," and everybody was "tol'ably well," and was happy to find that his neighbor was "tol'ably well."
After Mass the same good wishes were exchanged, the same subjects of conversation rehearsed. Each one told just how much corn he expected from his summer crop, how much wheat he had planted for the coming season, the quantity of wool which his fold had yielded. The housewives, too, had their little stories to repeat. Each one knew how many sacks of dried apples her neighbor had stored away for the winter, how much apple-jam or peach-leather had been made. This, too, was the time for shy lovers to meet, and there beneath the great oak-tree, in rustic simplicity, many a vow was made and many a promise given.
The children did not accompany their parents home. Most of them remained at Mr. Howard's to be instructed by Father Byrne. When they had been dismissed, with the injunction to return for catechism on the two following days, the priest, accompanied by Owen, rode around to visit the sick who were unable to attend Mass that morning.