A Maid of the Kentucky Hills

by Edwin Carlile Litsey

I give this incident to show how quiet my life was up to this time, and how such a trifling occurrence really caused me much excitement.

I began my chronicle to-night by saying it had been two weeks since I talked with the dryad in the glade. Why should I reckon time from that? I wrote the sentence unconsciously. Now, when I come to think about it, I realize that the dryad has been in my mind a very great deal during the last fortnight. You must know there is to be no concealment in this narrative. It is to be a record of absolute truth. Not only what I do, but what I think and feel, shall be faithfully set down. She—I don't even know her name! I can't see why I should have parted from her without asking her name, since I shall in all likelihood see her many times during the coming year. Perhaps it was her eyes which made me forget such an important question. I have never seen eyes like hers—never. They are the Irish gray. That's a different gray from all others, as I suppose you know. Don't ask me how they are different, for I don't propose to attempt an explanation. But they are, and especially is this true in women's eyes. A woman with Irish gray eyes can be dangerous if she wants to. In addition to their remarkable color, the dryad's eyes have very white lids which droop the least bit, perpetually shading the iris. She is something of a paradox. She has small feet, smooth hands and carefully kept nails, but her language, while spoken in a peculiarly pleasing voice, is so ungrammatical and colloquial that it makes rigors creep over me. I told her that I was coming to see her and her granny, but I haven't gone. Why haven't I? I told her I was coming to see her because I got lonely. Have I been lonely? Yes; very. Three days ago I bravely started for the glade where I had found her, intending to follow the guiding creek on to Lizard Point. I turned off before I reached the creek and went ten miles in another direction. Why did I do that? I want to see the dryad again. She interests me; I feel that we shall be good friends. She has a bright and ready mind, and is absolutely natural. She says what she wants to, laughs when she wants to, does what she wants to. I verily think she would be incapable of deception or guile, but I may be wrong in this. I suspect I am. Such things are not conditions resultant from culture and refinement; they belong to the human organism, and so, by virtue of her being, the dryad must possess them.

To-morrow I am going to Lizard Point.

This afternoon I came in before sunset from a very leisurely tramp of about four hours. Whenever I stir abroad my pint Mason jar full of fresh water goes with me, for I have banished all doubt, and believe steadfastly in the life-plant. You may be sure I am always looking, always watching. That is my sole object in life just now. I feel that I will find the thing if it grows in this part of the world, for my search is to be most thorough. Thus far I have discovered nothing whatever to arouse hope or anticipation.

I came home early to-day because I am to have a garden. I decided upon this last night after I was abed. Just before I toppled over into sleep I remembered that the ground to the left of the Lodge was loamy, with few rocks, and not many stumps. So to-day I despatched an early supper, took a rake and began to clear the ground. It was nice, easy work, and I soon discovered that my garden would run sixty feet one way by forty-five or fifty the other. There was a heavy layer of decaying leaves to scrape away, a number of loose stones, and quantities of sticks fallen or blown from trees. I stopped in about fifteen minutes to refill my pipe, found that I had left my tobacco on one of the benches, and went and helped myself. As I touched match to bowl I heard a high, harsh voice singing in the most dolorous key imaginable the following doggerel couplet:

"Rabbit in th' log.
Ain't got no rabbit dog."

I stopped drawing on the stem, and turned my head in the direction of the sound. The burning splinter of pine nipped my fingers, and I dropped it. The crazy tune came from down the road, which curved not a great distance away. Again, louder, and in a more positive tone, some one declared:

"Rabbit in th' log,
Ain't got no rabbit dog.
Chick'n on my back,
Houn' on my track,
I'm a-makin' fur my shanty—
God knows!"

The last word was carried through fluctuations which would almost have stood for a cadenza in a music score, and as it trailed off into silence the singer appeared from around the bend.

In the half light he presented a strange, almost a grotesque figure, as he toiled up the road repeating over and over his peculiar lines. I stood perfectly quiet, and watched his approach. There was a certain limp to his gait, coupled with a decided unsteadiness, which made his seeming yet more uncouth as he drew nearer and nearer through the gloaming. His head was bent, and he was unaware of my presence until he reached the plateau, and advanced some distance across it. Then he looked up, saw me, and came to a standstill with a jerky motion. He was perhaps twenty feet from me, as we stood and exchanged stares.