Gena of the Appalachians

by Clarence Monroe Wallin

For a moment Paul Waffington stood in the night with his eyes penetrating the darkness that filled the valley below. Then, beckoning with his hand for the black man to draw near, he showed him the mighty Snake with its domes and peaks that stood up in the starry night. Then he pointed out the tall pines that waved on the mountaintop, then the stars that twinkled and shimmered beyond.

“Yes, Uncle Lazarus,” he finished, “far, far beyond where the stars come forth at evening time in their cars of gold, there lies a land of perennial bliss. A country where thinly clad mountain mothers never suffer from hunger and cold; where little children of the poor and lowly never cry for bread; where hard toiling men of the world, if they be faithful, shall find rest under the shade of the tree. And methinks, tonight, in the border of that congenial clime, the mother of Gena Filson dwells budding and blooming—a flower more beautiful than the rose.”

He let loose the black man’s arm, closed the wicker gate, and went his way through the starry night.

CHAPTER IX
Lifting the Yoke

Paul Waffington inhaled deep draughts of the crisp night air as he ascended the mountainside, and was refreshed. He had been glad to greet the folk of the little village after two long years of absence. Especially glad to learn of the sticking qualities of Miss Emeline Hobbs and the prosperity of the little Sunday-school. With all this he had been in some degree satisfied. But there was one thing still for which he had a longing desire to know, and that one thing was, how went life with Gena Filson. Well, he soon would know, and with renewed energy he mended his pace up the mountainside. Half way up, he stopped and looked down at the little village in the dark valley. Some two or three faint flickering lights was all that could be made out. The laboring men of the mountains retire early and arise early. Not all the fathers of the Blood Camp neighborhood idled away their time. Many of them were logmen—men who felled trees the long day through, winter and summer alike, others yoked together the oxen and “snaked in” the logs from the mountain coves so they could be loaded on the wagons and hauled away to the markets. But, by this hour, the oxen had been given his fodder, each workman had sat at his humble board and partaken of his portion, and now man and beast had gone to his bed that he might find rest. Under the shining heaven’s blue Paul Waffington stood upon the mountain’s side and reflected upon it all. A single light was now burning in Blood Camp. He watched its faint glow—it flickered now and went out—Blood Camp is at rest.

“What if old Jase should resent this visit?” he thought, as he resumed his journey. Well, old Jase had invited him in the first place to visit his home. It was not a late hour—7:30 o’clock. Rather a seasonable hour for a summer night’s call, he thought. And, further, it was perfectly proper for him to accept the invitation and pay his respects to Jase Dillenburger and his adopted daughter.

But what could he do for Gena Filson? If Jase were willing he might assist her to a scholarship in some college of music. She had gone to the public schools until her thirteenth year, but that was little indeed. Then her own mother had been a Pennsylvania school-teacher and had taught her little daughter much at home. She had once even said that she was fond of music. Now, if old Jase were willing, he might do something to help her to get a musical education. But, aye, would the old mountaineer let her go, if the college were found, board provided and tuition—and all paid? Would he be willing to let her go at any price? Would he ever let her go beyond the neighborhood of Blood Camp, for any reason? Well, at all events, thought Paul Waffington, he would do the best that he could for her. “Eat the best first” was the maxim of Boaz Honeycutt, and Paul Waffington decided that he would “do the best first” for Gena Filson. In fact, he meant to adopt the maxim of Boaz Honeycutt in many things hereafter. He had resolved to have the best first in all his work henceforth.

The parting words of old Professor Goff in the college classroom came to him clear and plain:

“As you go out into life, remember, Paul, my boy, that every man is a sculptor. Remember, that the stones which you are carving are the people with whom you come in contact. Each deed and act are strokes upon the chisel which you will hold. Some strokes upon the chisel will deface the stone for time. Other strokes will polish, and carve beauty and character. Hold your chisel at such an angle and apply such strokes, my boy, as will bring polish to the stones and happiness to the world.”

These grand words were ringing in his ears tonight, as he put out his hand and turned the latch in the gate in front of Jase Dillenburger’s cabin. At the first click of the latch, the great watch-dog flew down through the yard with a vicious look. But Paul Waffington had had experience with dogs before. Bringing his tact quickly into play, he saluted the great mastiff with a low, gentle whistle, and they were friends at once, without a single bark from the dog. He wished to give old Jase and Gena a complete surprise tonight. Then, too, he was fearful, if the dog should give warning, that old Jase might mistake him for an officer of the law and shoot him on the spot. How he would surprise them, he thought at last! Would not Gena be glad to see him after more than a year of absence? Then what would he find her doing? Perhaps reading to her foster-father from some cast-off weekly paper that Slade Pemberton had given Jase. Maybe she was singing some hymn that she had recently learned in the Sunday-school.