Gena of the Appalachians

by Clarence Monroe Wallin

She stood and looked down upon the dispersing scholars and wondered why she could not be as free as they. Why had she so few friends? Why had her two brothers deserted her so? Why had they never written to her? Perhaps they did, but the letters never reached her.

“But Mr. Waffington said that he would come back to see me again, and that he would be my friend,” she finally said aloud. She sighed as she looked away out over the domes and peaks of the Blue Ridge, saw the long golden finger of the setting sun kiss the hills good-night, turned and went into the cabin.

That night Gena Filson went to her hard bed with her heart full—it was heavy. She well knew that the morning would bring her nothing less than another solid week of hard and continuous toil, and, oh, could she endure it! As she lay in her dark corner and thought of her place in the world, and of her hard master, old Jase, she wished that she might be dead, and wondered, if such were the case, if he would allow her the privilege of being buried by the side of her dear mother under the chestnut tree.

“Nobody thinks of me! Nobody cares for me! Nobody loves me!” she cried, in the late hours of the night. Then turning on her hard bed she fell asleep to dream. She dreamed of a beautiful country where people are gentle and kind, where everyone is friendly and just, and where little mountain girls never grow hungry or cold. And as she went forward in that land, Paul Waffington was the first to meet her. And together they went into the fields and wove garlands and coverlets of daisies, and stood at her mother’s grave, and Paul Waffington bared his head and laid the coverlet on the mound and tucked it with all but a feminine hand.

What a pity that our Gena could not always dream on and never awake to her hard material surroundings! But perish the thought; and let her dream on in peace now, for the morning will dawn, aye, too soon.

CHAPTER V
The Shepherd of Nobody’s Sheep

Paul Waffington was a Kentuckian. He was of that old Scotch-Irish type, of good blood, honest and poor, who, combining tact and skill, have always forged their way to the front. He had been bred and born in a cabin near by the town of Hazel Green that was made famous in the story of “Jonathan and His Continent,” by Max O’Rell.

When he was but a boy, hundreds of times he had followed in the footsteps of his father,—gone out on the ridges and gathered his load of fat pine-knots, that father and son alike might have a light by which to pursue their study. Then when circumstances changed a bit, and a half opportunity at a college course was offered him, he accepted it with a will.

Even when in college he had been called “sissy” and “girlie” by many of his classmates, for the simple reason that he was compelled to pay his way with the labor of his hands. But Paul Waffington cared not a straw for such proffered titles. Therefore, with a firm jaw and a determined heart, he rolled up his sleeves each evening and went into the mountain of dirty dishes before him with confidence, believing that reward was at the end. And if, after darkness comes light and after toil comes rest, then so it ever will be, that diligence and perseverance must bring reward.

One day college life was over with Paul Waffington. There was much bustle and hurry to get away, and he was leaving with the others. Around the old hall with its ivy-covered walls they lingered as they cheered and comforted one another and said good-bye. Amid those last moments of parting a little, frail, old man pushed his way through the crowd, and taking young Waffington by the hand led him away. Out through the long hall they went together, and into the little classroom through which the young collegian had passed a thousand times before. It was dear old Professor Goff that had singled him out and led him away. Such a dear old man, reader, from whom you turned away on that other day when you yourself went away from college. The old man shut the door and took his student’s hand in his own bony palms and held it long. Then came the parting message and the benediction and then the final handshake—and the aged man tried to say good-bye, but the words were never spoken.