A BORN NATURALIST
Archie B. trotted off, striking a path leading through the wood. It was a near cut to the log school house which stood in an old field, partly grown up in scrub-oaks and bushes.
Down in the wood, on a clean bar where a mountain stream had made a bed of white sand, he stopped, pulled off his coat, counted his gold again with eyes which scarcely believed it yet, and then turned handsprings over and over in the white sand.
This relieved him of much of the suppressed steam which had been under pressure for two hours. Then he sat down on a log and counted once more his gold.
Ozzie B., pious, and now doubly so at sight of his brother's wealth, stood looking over his shoulder:
“It was the good Lord done it,” he whispered reverently, as he stood and looked longingly at the gold.
“Of course, but I helped at the right time, that's the way the Lord does everything here.”
Then Archie B. went down into his coat pocket and brought out a hollow rubber ball, with a small hole in one end. Ozzie B. recognized his brother's battery of Gypsy Juice.
“How—when, oh, Archie B.!”
“-S-h-h—Ozzie B. It don't pay to show yo' hand even after you've won—the other feller might remember it nex' time. 'Taint good business sense. But I pumped it into Bonaparte at the right time when he was goin' round an' round an' undecided whether he'd take holt or git. This settled him—he got. The Lord was on the monkey's side, of course, but He needed Gypsy Juice at the right time.”
Then he showed Ozzie B. how it was done. “So, with yo' hand in yo' pocket—so! Then here comes Bonaparte round an' round an' skeered mighty nigh to the runnin' point. So—then sczit! It wus enough.”
Ozzie B. shuddered: “You run a terrible risk doin' that. They'd have killed you if they'd seen it, Jud an' Billy. An' all yo' money up too.”
“Of course,” said his brother, “but Ozzie B., when you bluff, bluff bold; when you bet, bet big; when you steal, steal straight.”
Ozzie B. shook his head. Then he looked up at the sun high above the trees.
He sprang up from the log, pale and scared.
“Archie B.—Archie B., jes' look at the sun! It must be 'leven o'clock an—an think what we'll ketch for bein' late at school. Oh, but I clean forgot—oh—”
He started off trembling.
“Hold on, hold on!” said his brother running and catching Ozzie B. in the coat collar. “Now you sho'ly ain't goin' to be sech a fool as that? It's too late to go now; we'll only ketch a whuppin'. We are goin' to play hookey to-day.”
But Ozzie B. only shook his head. “That's wrong—so wrong. The Lord—He will not bless us—maw says so. Oh, I can't, Archie B.”
“Now look here, Ozzie B. The Lord don't expec' nobody but a fool to walk into a tan-hidin'. If you go to school now, old Triggers will tan yo' hide, see? Then he'll send word to paw an' when you get home to-night you'll git another one.”
“Maw said I was to allers do my duty. Oh, I can't tell him a lie!”
“You've got to lie, Ozzie B. They's times when everybody has got to lie. Afterwards when it's all over an' understood they can square it up in other ways. When a man or 'oman is caught and downed it's all over—they can't tell the truth then an' get straight—an' there's no come ag'in! But if they lie an' brazen it out they'll have another chance yet. Then's the time to stop lyin'—after yo' ain't caught.”
“Oh, I can't,” said Ozzie B., trying to pull away. “I must—must go to school.”
“Rats”—shouted Archie B., seizing him with both hands and shaking him savagely—“here I am argu'in' with you about a thing that any fool orter see when I cu'd a bin yonder a huntin' for that squirrel nest I wus tellin' you about. Now what'll happen if you go to school? Ole Triggers'll find out where you've been an' what a-doin'—he'll lick you. Paw'll know all about it when you git home—he'll lick you.”
Ozzie B. only shook his head: “It's my duty—hate to do it, Archie B.—but it's my duty. If the Lord wills me a lickin' for tellin' the truth, I'll, I'll hafter take it—” and he looked very resigned.
“Oh, you're playin' for martyrdom again!”
“There was Casabianca, Archie B.—him that stood on the burnin' deck”—he ventured timidly.
“Tarnashun!” shouted his brother—“an' I hope he is still standin' on a burnin' deck in the other worl'—don't mention that fool to me!—to stay there an' git blowed up after the ship was afire an' his dad didn't sho' up.” He spat on a mark: “Venture pee-wee under the bridge—bam—bam—bam.”
“There was William Tell's son,” ventured his brother again.
“Another gol-darn id'jut, Ozzie B., like his dad that put him up to it. Why, if the ole man had missed, the two would'er gone down in history as the champion ass an' his colt. The risk was too big for the odds. Why, he didn't have one chance in a hundred. Besides, them fellers actin' the fool don't hurt nobody but theyselves. Now you—”
“How's that, Archie B.?”
Archie B. lowered his voice to a gentle persuasive whisper: “Don't do it, ole man—come now—be reasonable. If we stay here in the woods, Triggers'll think we're at home. Dad will think we're in school. They'll never know no better. It's wrong, but we'll have plenty o' time to make it right—we've got six months mo' of school this year. Now, if you do go—you'll be licked twice an'—an', Ozzie B., I'll git licked when paw hears of it to-night.”
“Oh,” said Ozzie B., “that's it, is it?”
“Yes, of course; if a man don't look out for his own hide, whose goin' to do it for him? Come now, ole man.”
Ozzie B. was silent. His brother saw the narrow forehead wrinkling in indecision. He knew the different habits—not principles—of his nature were at work for mastery. Finally the hypocrite habit prevailed, when he said piously: “We have sowed the wind, Archie B.—we'll hafter reap the whirlwind, like paw says.”
“Go!” shouted his brother. “Go!” and he helped him along with a kick—“Go, since I can't save you. You'll reap the whirlwind, but I won't if my brains can save me.”
He sat down on a log and watched his brother go down the path, sobbing as usual, when he felt that he was a martyr. He sat long and thought.
“It's bad,” he sighed—“a man cu'd do so much mo' in life if he didn't hafter waste so much time arguin' with fools. Well, I'm here fur the day an' I'll learn somethin'. Now, I wanter know if one squirrel er two squirrels stays in the same hole in winter. Then there's the wild-duck. I wanter kno' when the mallards go south.”
In a few minutes he had hid himself behind a tree in a clump of brush. He was silent for ten minutes, so silent that only the falling leaves could be heard. Then very cautiously he imitated the call of the gray squirrel—once, twice, and still again. He had not long to wait. In a hole high up in a hickory a little gray head popped out—then a squirrel came out cautiously—first its head, then half of its body, and each time it moved looking and listening, with its cunning, bright eyes, taking in everything. Then it frisked out with a flirt of its tail, and sat on a limb nearby. It was followed by another and another. Archie B. watched them for a half hour, a satisfied smile playing around his lips. He was studying squirrel. He saw them run into the hole again and bring out each a nut and sit on a nearby limb and eat it.
“That settles that,” he said to himself. “I thought they kept their nuts in the same hole.”
There was the sound of voices behind him and the squirrels vanished. Archie B. stood up and saw an old man and some children gathering nuts.
“It's the Bishop an' the little mill-mites. I'll bet they've brought their dinner.”
This was the one thing Archie B. needed to make his day in the woods complete.
“Hello,” he shouted, coming up to them.
“Why, it's Archie B.,” said Shiloh, delighted.
“Why, it is,” said her grandfather. “What you doin', Archie B.?”
“Studyin' squirrels right now. What you all doin'?”
“I've tuck the kids out of the mill an' I'm givin' 'em their fus' day in the woods. Shiloh, there, has been mighty sick and is weak yet, so we're goin' slow. Mighty glad to run upon you, Archie B. Can't you sho' Shiloh the squirrels? She's never seed one yet, have you, pet?”
“No,” said Shiloh thoughtfully. “Is they like them little jorees that say Wake-up, pet! Wake-up, pet? Oh, do sho' me the squirrel! Mattox, ain't this jes' fine, bein' out of the mill?”
Archie B.'s keen glance took in the well-filled lunch basket. At once he became brilliantly entertaining. In a few minutes he had Shiloh enraptured at the wood-lore he told her,—even Bull Run and Seven Days, Atlanta and Appomattox were listening in amazement, so interesting becomes nature's story when it finds a reader.
And so all the morning Archie B. went with them, and never had they seen so much and enjoyed a day as they had this one.
And the lunch—how good it tasted! It was a new life to them. Shiloh's color came in the healthful exercise, and even Bull Run began to look out keenly from his dull eyes.
After lunch Shiloh went to sleep on a soft carpet of Bermuda grass with the old man's coat for a blanket, while the other children waded in the branch, and gathered nuts till time to go back home.
It was nearly sun-down when they reached the gate of the little hut on the mountain.
“We must do this often, Archie B.,” said the Bishop, as the children went in, tired and hungry, leaving him and Archie B. at the gate. “I've never seed the little 'uns have sech a time, an' it mighty nigh made me young ag'in.”
All afternoon Archie B. had been thinking. All day he had felt the lumpy, solid thing in the innermost depths of his jeans pocket, which told him one hundred dollars in gold lay there, and that it would need an explanation when he reached home or he was in for the worst whipping he ever had. Knowing this, he had not been thinking all the afternoon for nothing. The old man bade him good-night, but still Archie B. lingered, hesitated, hung around the gate.
“Won't you come in, Archie B.?”
“No-o—thank you, Bishop, but I'd—I'd like to, really tho', jes' to git a little spirt'ul g'idance”—a phrase he had heard his father use so often.
“Why, what's the matter, Archie B.?”
Archie B. rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I'm—I'm—thinkin' of j'inin' the church, Bishop.”
“Bless yo' h'art—that's right. I know'd you'd quit yo' mischeev'us ways an' come in—an' I honor you fur it, Archie B.—praise the Lord!”
Archie B. still stood pensive and sobered:
“But a thing happened to-day, Bishop, an' it's worryin' me very much. It makes me think, perhaps—I—ain't—ain't worthy of—the bestowal of—the grace—you know, the kind I heard you speak of?”
“Tell me, Archie B., lad—an' I'll try to enlighten you in my po' way.”
“Well, now; it's this—jes' suppose you wus goin' along now—say to school, an' seed a dorg, say his name was Bonaparte, wantin' to eat up a little monkey; an' a lot of fellers, say like Jud Carpenter an' Billy Buch, a-bettin' he cu'd do it in ten minutes an' a-sickin' him on the po' little monkey—this big savage dorg. An' suppose now you feel sorry for the monkey an' somethin'—you can't tell what—but somethin' mighty plain tells you the Lord wus on the monkey's side—so plain you cu'd read it—like it told David—an' the dorg wus as mean an' bostful as Goliath wus—”
“Archie B., my son, I'd a been fur the monkey, I sho' would,” said the Bishop impressively.
Archie B. smiled: “Bishop, you've called my hand—I wus for that monkey.”
The old man smiled approvingly: “Good—good—Archie B.”
“Now, what happened? I'm mighty inter'sted—oh, that is good. I'm bettin' the monkey downed him, the Lord bein' on his side.”
“But, s'pose furst,” went on Archie B. argumentatively, “that you wanted to give some money fur a little church that you wanted to j'ine—up on the mountain side, a little po'-fo'k church, that depended on charity—”
“I understan's, I understan's, Archie B., that wus the Lord's doin's,—ten to one on the monkey, Archie—ten to one!”
“An' that you had ten dollars in gold around yo' neck in a little bag, given you by your ole Granny when she died—an' knowin' how the Lord wus for the monkey, an' it bein' a dead cinch, an' all that—an' these fellers blowin' an' offerin' to bet ten to one—an' seein' you c'ud pick it up in the road—all for the little church, mind you, Bishop—”
“Archie B.,” exclaimed the old man excitedly, “them bein' the facts an' the thing at stake, with that ole dorg an' Jud Carpenter at the bottom of it, I'd a put it up on the monkey, son—fur charity, you know, an' fur the principle of it,—I'd a put it up, Archie B., if I'd lost ever' cent!”
“Exactly, Bishop, an' I did—at ten to one—think of the odds! Ten to one, mighty nigh as great as wus ag'in David.”
“An' you won, of course, Archie B., you won in a walk?” said the old man breathlessly. “God was fur you an' the monkey.”
Archie B. smiled triumphantly and pulled out his handful of gold. The old man sat down on a log, dazed.
“Archie B., sho'ly, sho'ly, not all that? An' licked the dorg, an' that gang, an' cleaned 'em up?”
Archie B. told him the story with all the quaint histrionic talent of his exuberant nature.
The Bishop sat and laughed till the tears came.
“An' Bonaparte went down the road with the monkey holt his tail—the champion dorg—an' you won all that?”
“All fur charity, Bishop, except, you know, part fur keeps as a kinder nes' egg.”
“Of co-u-r-se—Archie B., of—course, no harm in the worl'—if—if—my son—if you carry out your original ideas, or promise, ruther; it won't work if you go back on yo' promise to God. 'God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform,'” added the Bishop solemnly.
Archie B. slipped fifty of his dollars into the old man's hands.
“Do you know, Archie B., I prayed for this las' night? Now you tell me God don't answer prayers?”
He was silent, touched. Seldom before had a prayer of his been answered so directly.
“Fur charity, Archie B., fur charity. I'll take it, an' little you know what this may mean.”
Archie B. was silent. So far so good, but it was plain from his still thoughtful looks that he had only half won out yet. He had heard the old man speak, and there had been a huskiness about his voice.
“Now there is paw, Bishop—you know he ain't jes like you—he don't see so far. He might not understan' it. Would you mind jes' droppin' him a line, you know? I'll take it to him—in case he looks at the thing differently, you know, fur whut you write will go a long way with him.”
The old man smiled: “Of course, Archie B.—he must understan' it. Of course, it 'ud never do to have him spile as good a thing as that—an' fur charity, all fur the Lord—”
“An' why I didn't go to school, helpin' you all in the woods,” put in Archie B.
“Of course, Archie B., why of course, my son; I'll fix it right.”
And he scribbled a few lines on the fly leaf of his note book for Archie B. to take home:
“God bless you, my son, good-night.”
Archie B. struck out across the fields jingling his remaining gold and whistling. At home it was as he expected. Patsy met him at the gate. One look into her expectant face showed him that she was delighted at the prospect of his punishment. It was her hope deferred, now long unfulfilled. He had always gotten out before, but now—
“Walk in, Mister Gambler, Mr. Hookey—walk in—paw is waitin' fur you,” she said, smirking.
The Deacon stood in the door, silent, grim, determined. In his hand were well-seasoned hickories. By him stood his wife more silent, more grim, more determined.
“Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.,” said the Deacon, “I'm gwinter lick you fur gamblin'.”
“Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.,” said his mother, “I'm goin' to lick you fur playin' hookey.”
“Pull it off, Archie B.,” said his sister bossily, “I'm goin' to stan' by an' see.”
Archie B. pulled off his coat deliberately.
“That's all right,” he said, “Many a man has been licked befo' fur bein' on the Lord's side.”
“You mean to tell me, Archie B. Butts, you bet on a dorg fight sho' nuff,” said his father, nervously handling his hickories.
“An' played hookey?” chimed in his mother.
“Tell it, Archie B., tell the truth an' shame the devil,” mocked Patsy.
“Yes, I done all that—fur charity,” he said boldly, and with a victorious ring in his voice.
“Did you put up that ten dollars yo' Granny lef' you?” screamed his mother.
“Did you dare, Archie B.,” said Patsy.
His father paled at the thought of it: “An' lost it, Archie B., lost it, my son. Oh, I mus' teach you how sinful it is to gamble.”
Archie B. replied by running his hand deep down into his pocket and bringing up a handful of gold—five eagles!
His father dropped the switches and stared. His mother sat down suddenly in a chair and Patsy reached out, took it and counted it deliberately:—
“One—two—three—fo'—five—an' all gold—my gracious, Maw!”
“That's jes' ha'f of it,” said Archie B. indifferently. “I gave the old Bishop five of 'em—fur—charity. Here's his note.”
The Deacon read it and rubbed his chin thoughtfully: “That's a different thing,” he said after a while. “Entirely different proposition, my son.”
“Yes, it 'pears to be,” said his mother counting the gold again. “We'll jes' keep three of 'em, Archie B. They'll come in handy this winter.”
“Put on yo' coat, my son,” said the Deacon gently.
“Patsy, fetch him in the hot waffles an' syrup—the lad 'pears to be a leetle tired,” said his mother.
“How many whippings did you git, Archie B.?” whispered his brother as Archie B., after entertaining the family for an hour, all about the great fight, crawled into bed: “I got three,” went on Ozzie B. “Triggers fust, then paw, then maw.”
“None,” said Archie B., as he put his two pieces of gold under his pillow.
“I can't see why that was,” wailed Ozzie B. “I done nothin' an'—an'—got all—all—the—lickin'!”
“You jes' reaped my whirlwind,” sneered his brother—“All fools do!”
But later he felt so sorry for poor Ozzie B. because he could not lie on his back at all, that he gave him one of his beautiful coins to go to sleep.