A Master Hand for Marryin’
By Florence L. Tucker
(NOTE.—A real story and a touch of real mountain life.—Ed.)
A young girl on a bare-backed mule rode up in front of a cabin at the foot of a hill in the Tennessee mountains. Slowly she surveyed the premises; beside the open door hung a gun and a powder horn and a string of red peppers; to the left, rearing itself against the hot afternoon sky, stood a gaunt martin pole, and around the corner of the house, inquisitive, but not unfriendly, advanced a lean, spotted hound.
“Hullo,” she called in a quiet voice.
From inside a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles was shined upon her, and the heads of two half-grown girls peered out.
“Ther’s somebody at the gate, thar, Gabe,” said the woman.
But the man had already taken in the figure in the pink calico frock and faded sunbonnet and was regarding it with a stealthy, sidewise glance from under his flop hat. Deliberately he rose, and was followed by the woman and the two girls.
“It’s Whit Bozeman’s Luce, from over t’other side the mountain,” he said, halting in the doorway. Then to the girl waiting at the gate: “Hullo.”
But the woman went out. “’Light an’ come in,” she said, advancing with some show of interest.
“No, I ain’t hardly got time,” responded the girl. “Ole Gran’pap Bozeman is be’n tuk pow’rful bad with the mizry in his side, and I rid over to see ef I could git a black chickin. I come acrost to Weems, but nobody wasn’t to home, an’ I come on down here. I ’lowed I didn’t know none o’ you-all, but I’d hearn tell yer was mighty feelin fer folks in trouble, so I’d resk it.”
“I seen yer at the meetin’ over at Big Valley,” said Gabe from his station in the door.
“A black chickin? Co’se yer kin hev the blackest one we’ve got. Chicken gizzard tea is mighty good fer the mizry in the side. My ole aunt used to keep ’em dried and ready. Ever’ time she’d kill a black chickin she’d save the gizzard an’ jes’ string it up ’gainst the time when some o’ the folks or the neighbors would be tuck down. She wuz a master han’ fer chicken gizzard tea. But git down an’ come in; settin’ in a cheer is jes’ as easy as on the back o’ that thar critter.
“Gabe, ketch that long shanked young rooster I be’n er-saving—the one with feathers on his legs. G’long, chillun an’ he’p yer pap run that chicken down! An’ don’t yer be long about it, fer the sun’ll be gittin’ low afore she gits back over t’other side the mountain.”
Luce sprank lightly to the ground and the two seated themselves on the rude wooden bench upon the porch. As the girl removed her bonnet her reddish hair clung in a mass of shining wave about her neck, the warmth of the summer sun was in her cheek, and stood in a delicate moisture above her full lip. The elder woman settled her glasses and regarded her.
“Law, yes,” she said. “I had gizzards saved up sence ’way back ’fore Chris’mus two year ago, but Gabe’s las wife wuz sick quite a spell—she jes died this spring—and the gizzards jes’ did hold out. She mighty nigh lived on chicken gizzard tea toward the las’. I give it ter all o’ his wives. Gabe’s be’n married moren’t onct or twict,” she said explanatorily; “he don’t have no luck with his wives. The fust one died in no time, an’ the next one didn’t live so very long—she wuz the mother o’ these two chillun; the las’ one never had none. Gabe’s a master han’ fer marryin’.”
Just then Gabe and the two girls and the dog, in wild pursuit of the long shanked rooster, the feathered legs well in the lead, rushed pell-mell around the house.
“What’s them girls’ names?” asked Luce.
“Liz an’ Bet,” replied their grandmother. “The’r ma wuz name’ Lizabet’, an’ when the twins wuz born I sez: ‘Well, ef it had er be’n jes’ one we’d er called it Liz, an’ sence it’s two we’ll call ’em Liz an’ Bet.’ An’ so ’twuz. They’ll be fourteen year ole three days afore this comin’ Fourth o’ July. I ain’t never fergot, kase I didn’t want ’em ever axed no questions about the’r age thet they couldn’t answer. I ain’t ever knowed jes’ how ole I wuz, an’ sometimes I kinder wisht I did. My ole man, he used ter figger on it, but I never could feel no ways certain. I wuz married when I wuz fifteen, an’ from then on I kep’ ercount o’ things jes’ in my head. Like them hats in thar tells me how many year I be’n er livin’ on this mountain.”
She motioned her hand toward the open door, and Luce shifted her position to get a better view of a string of wool hats swung across from one joist to the other.
“Yer see, thar’s eleven of ’em. The ole man, he bought a new one ever’ two year—that would make twenty-two; an’ he’s be’n dead two year, which makes twenty-four sence me an’ him moved into this yere house. I never could bear to see nothin wasted, so ever’ time he quit wearin’ one I jes’ strung it up thar on the j’ist, an’ sence he’s be’n gone I ain’t never had the heart to take ’em down.”
A great flapping of wings and squawking under the lean-to at the rear of the house announcing that the remedy for Gran’pap Bozeman’s “mizry” was in hand, if not in sight, Luce, conscious of the press of time, rose to be ready to receive it. Gabe came round holding the feathered legs in one hand and a strip of old cloth in the other. As he saw the girl’s look full upon him, he straightened himself and quickened his gait.
“They do say,” said old Mrs. Freeler, “that a green gizzard ain’t nigh the good that a dry one is. Ef I kin git holt o’ ary other black chicken I’ll save it and dry it out fer yer.”
“I’m mighty glad I come on down here,” said Luce, as she mounted from the rail fence. “I couldn’t er gone back without that chicken. Gran’pap Bozeman’s pow’rful bad.”
“I’ll be over that er way Sunday,” said Gabe in a low voice, as he handed up the firmly tied legs, “an’ll stop by ter see how the ole man comes on.”
“Ther’s preachin’” replied the girl, a little red coming into her cheek. And when mule and rider had vanished behind the thick wood he took down his gun called to the dog and followed slowly the way she had gone.
Sunday, betimes he had ridden away on the old gray mare.
“Yer pap mus’ be goin’ over ter Big Valley ergin,” said Mrs. Freeler to the girls. “Ther’s a preachin’ over thar onct a month this summer. But he never said nothin’ erbout it. Curious, too; he inginerally does leave some idee o’ whar he’s goin’.”
“I heern ’im tell Dick Weems he seen a mighty fine lookin’ girl over thar las’ meetin’-day,” said Bet.
“Mebbe pap’s courtin’ ergin,” commented Liz.
And when, four weeks from that day he again rode off without having let fall any hint of his destination, the suspicion was confirmed. Mrs. Freeler had come to know the signs; she grew restless and watched Gabe furtively every time he left the house, and when he came into it. His tall, lank form was less indoors than ever, and he grew more silent and moody, riding away oftener over the mountain. Always a shiftless fellow, he appeared more so now, except at times, when, in spurts of industry, he worked off his newly-awakened energy. But not so with Mrs. Freeler. The more her son idled, the faster her fingers flew. “I wuz allus a master han’ at patchin’,” she said, as she turned over and over the garments of them all.
As the haying season came on Gabe became possessed of an unusual fit of application. He had worked steadily for three days when something happened. Driving up with a load of hay piled rather higher than the old mare liked, she rebelled, and while she and he were having it out together the load was overturned. Liz and Bet, walking some distance behind, rushed forward, and Liz stooped to pick up her father’s coat, which, lying on top of the load, had been thrown to one side. As she did so she discovered a letter that had dropped out, and at the same moment his eye fell upon it.
“You Liz,” he cried, his voice trembling with excitement; “you leave my love letter alone!”
The seal was unbroken and Liz turned it over in her hand.
“Gabe Freeler,” she read slowly, “frum Luce Bozeman.”
“You give it here,” he reiterated. “Er—mebbe,” sheepishly, “yer mout make out ter read it. I ain’t rightly guessed what it mout be.”
The girl regarded him uncertainly as she hesitated to break the seal.
“Read it, ef yer kin,” he said irritably, standing beside the mare now disentangled from the broken harness and shafts, and mopping the perspiration from his brow. “Ef ever I’d er be’n ter school three months I ’low I could read any writin’ thet ever wuz writ.”
“’Tain’t no three months!” replied the girl with asperity. “’Twasn’t but only two months and three weeks; but I reck’n I kin read anything Luce Bozeman kin write!”
“You gimme that letter!” he flared. “I guess yer won’t git no chanct ter read it!”
As he advanced to take it from her hand the attention of the three was arrested by the approach of a shock-headed youth riding rapidly around the bend in the thickly-shaded road. He wore no hat and appeared to be in excited haste. Without salutation or unnecessary parley, he delivered his message:
“She says, air yer er comin’? Yes or no!”
Freeler stared at him blankly. “Wall, I know who ye air, an’ I know whar yer come frum,” he said slowly, “but I’ll be durned ef I know what ye air er drivin’ at.”
“Luce,” said the boy, “she writ yer a letter and sont it by Dick Weems las’ Sadday.”
Liz and Bet regarded their father silently. His face was a curious mixture of chagrin, earnestness and baffled determination. He had said Liz should not read the letter; yet he must know the contents now; and how to do it without disclosing to the boy his ignorance of learning?
“I ain’t but jes’ got the letter a little bit ago,” he said, lying lamely as Liz’s eyes were upon him. “Liz, thar, wuz jes’ about ter read it when we seen yer er comin’—I ain’t seein’ very well sence that spell I had o’ the yaller janders.” He brushed an awkward hand across his eyes. “Read it, Liz—ef yer kin!”
But this time the girl did not retort; her curiosity invited nothing that would delay its satisfying.
“Ef yer mean what yer sed las’ Sunday,” she read, spelling out the words slowly, “ther ain’t no time ter lose. Gran’pap Bozeman wuz berried yistidy, an’ no sooner wuz he in the groun’ than Hiram he sez the place is hisn now, an’ ef I’m goin ter stay on here I got ter marry him next Chuseday when ’Squire Stark comes here. Which I’ll die fust, fer I ain’t goin’ ter marry no cuzzen. In pertickler I ain’t goin’ ter marry Hiram Bozeman which I do despise fer the meanest man on this mountain. Ef yer ment what yer sed, then yer kin come ter the big spring Monday nite an’ I’ll be waitin’ fer yer in the shadder er the ole chestnut. Ef yer ain’t thar by nine o’clock thar won’t be nothin’ fer me ter do but ter run away, which I will, so help me God afore I’ll marry him as sez I must.”
“You will no hoo this is frum fer the name is writ on the outside.”
Gabe sat during the reading as if stupefied, but when Liz had finished and held out to him the scrawled sheet, he rose. He looked at the sun; it was five o’clock and a good three hours to Bozeman’s when the mare was fresh; he would have to take it easy, for there was the return trip with the double burden. “Lord!” he ejaculated under his breath, and threw a leg over the animal’s lean flank.
“I ain’t got no hat,” said the boy. “I dropped it fordin’ the crick an’ this pesky critter wouldn’t let me git it—orneriest mule I ever see!”
“I got ter git my saddle an’ bridle. Come on an’ I’ll find yer a hat,” answered Gabe, as he put off in the direction of his stable, followed by the other. And in a few minutes the two returning passed Liz and Bet still sitting in a state of bewilderment by the side of the overturned hay load. As they gazed after the disappearing figures Liz turned to Bet, a growing horror in her wide eyes.
“That’s one o’ Gran’pap’s ole hats he’s got on!” she said in an awe-struck voice.
To reassure themselves they hastened home. Crossing the porch where the dog lay asleep, their hurrying feet lagged a little, a sort of superstitious fear upon them. A sound fell upon their ears—a low, piteous sobbing, that made them clutch each other’s frocks and peer breathlessly in at the half-closed door. On the sill was a freshly-filled pail of water, and in the middle of the floor knelt their grandmother, her head bowed in the string of wool hats which hung dependant from one nail—in his haste Gabe had not taken time to fasten again the end which he had removed from the opposite joist. And so it was, when she returned from the spring whither she had gone when he entered the house, the sight met her gaze—the sacred line of relics trailed in the dust, as it were, affection’s altar rudely torn of its sacred image, and that by the ruthless hand of her own son—and his son!
She raised her head as the boards creaked under the stealthy tread of the twins. “He done it!” she cried brokenly, the tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. “Gabe done it. I seen ’em ez I wuz comin’ up the hil frum the spring—him an’ that thar Bozeman boy er ridin’ off—but I didn’t know ez ’twuz yer Gran’pap’s hat the boy wuz er wearin’ ’tel I got here an’ seen it wuz gone, an’ then I knowed it hed looked pow’rful familiar. But what did he do it fer? What did he do it fer?” her voice rose into a little wail and her bent form shook with painful sobbing.
Bet stared at her, dumb; her round eyes filled with responsive tears which she wiped away with the corner of her dress.
“Did he tell yer?” asked Liz. “He’s gone ter git married.”
Mrs. Freeler sank weakly into a chair, and her hands fell limp in front of her. “I knowed ’twuz comin’,” she said, “but I ’lowed ez how he’d tell me. He ain’t never married yet ’thout tellin’ me.”
“He never had time, I reck’n,” said the girl, and then recounted the incident of the coat and the letter; the coming of the Bozeman boy and the reading of the letter, the contents of which were fully detailed; and, finally, the circumstance which had led to the taking of the hat.
The old woman interrupted her not at all, only when she came to the mention of the hat, wiped her tears again with shaking hand. Then they sat in silence, drifting after a while into desultory talk, as other occasions like this came back to memory.
“I rickerleck,” said the grandmother, “when he brought yer ma home. It was jes’ this time o’ year. She wuz the likeliest one of ’em all—I knowed the minute I set eyes on her she’d do. The fust one wuz a peart enough young thing, too, but she whirled in an’ died that very summer, an’ in two months he married yer ma. You know how long it’s ben sence the las’ one was tuk. Well, Gabe never did lose no time!”
The sun’s rays grew less strong; she rose mechanically. “Git up some light-’ood knots,” she said, as she gathered her milk pail. “They’ll be late gittin’ here, an’ the nights is growin’ chilly. I’ll set up fer ’em an’ have a blaze in the chimley, an’ some supper ready—he allus wants sumpin’ hot when he comes in late.”
And when “the chillun” had gone to bed she sat through her lonely vigil, pondering over the advents and the changes the room had known since the time she and her “ole man” had been its first occupants, gazing mournfully upon the string of hats still hanging as she had found them, and going now and then to look out on the changing sky. She had calculated the extra three miles around by Parson Damon’s would make it twelve o’clock by the time they could arrive, and at eleven the moon had disappeared and clouds were gathering thick and ominous. She moved about restlessly, threw on a fresh pine knot, trimmed the small lamp, and was just settling herself to renewed rumination when a low “Whoa!” fell on her ears. Rising quickly, she flung wide the door so that the friendly light streamed out.
“Well, ye’ve come!” she called into the darkness.
Gabe and the mare disappeared in the direction of the stable, and Luce came in rather uncertainly after her cramped ride in the chill air. “Yes,” she replied, blinking in the light, “an’ I brung yer this,” holding out an old woolen hat. “When Lige Bozeman come back er wearin’ it, I says, ‘That thar ain’t the hat you went off from here with,’ an’ he says, ‘No, this yere’s one o’ ole man Freeler’s,’ an’ I says, ‘Well, jes give it here, an’ I’ll take it back,’ I says. Which I did, knowin’ what store you set by them hats—an’ here it is!”
The old woman was trembling violently. She looked at the girl with eyes that saw only the lost and recovered treasure. When Luce had finished she turned from her without a word, and, hurrying across the room, restored, with little inarticulate cries of joy and love, the precious hat to its place with the other ten, then, mounting a chair, fastened the end of string to the joist again. Descending stiffly she turned to her with glistening eyes.
“Ye’re welcome,” she said. “It’s the most I’ve ever said to any of ’em. I inginerally waits to see how it’s goin’ to turn out—yer never kin tell. But this time, I says, ye’re welcome—an’ Gabe’ll treat yer right; he allus good to his wives. Yer know, Gabe’s a master han’ for marryin’!”
Knowledge is not so much in knowing as in knowing how to know.
It was Plautus who said: “To make any gain some outlay is necessary.”
Photo by Julie Royster, Raleigh, N. C.