The Mail Carrier

by Harry Castlemon

“Wal,” said he, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment, “if that thar little Dave of our’n hain’t got to be a mail carrier! I done heared that the ole one was agoin’ to quit, but who’d a thought that one of our tribe would a stepped into his boots? Boots, mind ye; an’ them’s something me an’ Dave never owned afore. He must be makin’ stacks of greenbacks, as much as ten or twelve dollars a month, mebbe,” added Dan, laying down his rifle and leaning half way over the fence to take another view of the boy who was lucky enough to be earning money so rapidly. “Now, I’ll jest tell ye what’s the gospel truth: things must be lookin’ up to hum right peart when thar’s that much comin’ in.”

Dan forgot that he was hungry, and did not give another thought to the hen-roost he had made up his mind to rob that night. He went back into the woods and wandered aimlessly about, paying no heed to the direction he was taking, and was presently aroused from his reverie by the sound of an axe. He looked up and was surprised and a little alarmed to find that he was in the neighborhood of his home. The potato cellar, which had once served as a prison for Don Gordon, was close in front of him, and through the tall trees, which the autumnal winds had already stripped bare of leaves, he could see the cabin.

Dan was about to turn away and plunge into the woods again, when, he noticed that there was some one at work in the yard behind the house. He was sure that it could not be his brother, for David had not yet had time to go to the landing and deliver his mail. It could not be his father either, for Godfrey was hiding in the woods as well as himself; and besides, the man who was at work in the yard wore a white shirt—Dan could see it plainly through the trees—and that was something Godfrey had not owned for long years. But Dan wanted to see who it was, so he crept nearer to the fence, and when he obtained a fair view of the workman he almost let his rifle fall out of his hands in his astonishment. It was his father after all; but Dan could hardly bring himself to believe it until he had rubbed his eyes two or three times and taken as many good looks at him. Godfrey was dressed like a gentleman. There was not a hole to be seen in any of his garments, his hair and whiskers were neatly combed, he wore a hat with a brim to it on his head, boots instead of shoes on his feet, and, what surprised Dan more than anything else, his sleeves were rolled up and he was walking into the wood-pile as if he were in earnest. Two or three times while the boy was looking at him he stopped, took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“Wal, of all the things I ever heared tell on this yere is the beatenest,” thought Dan, as soon as his mind had become settled so that he could think at all. “Looks like pap in the face, but don’t act like I ever seed him act afore.”

Dan took another good look at his father and asked himself what in the world could have happened to bring him home and set him to work; and while he was revolving the problem in his mind he ran his eye about the premises and saw that sundry little improvements had been made during his absence. The little log structure which was called the corn-crib, although Dan had never seen any corn in it, had been thoroughly repaired, and the golden ears protruded from every crack between the slats, showing that it was well filled. The miserable apology for a stable which sheltered the only mule Godfrey owned had been newly covered; a little shed had been erected against the rear wall of the cabin and was filled to the roof with dry fire-wood; the holes in the house had been freshly chinked; the rags had disappeared from the windows, their places being supplied with new lights of glass; the chips and other rubbish that had for so many years been accumulating in the back yard had been cleared away; and in short, the place looked, as Godfrey would have expressed it, as though white folks lived there. The change was so great that Dan could hardly argue himself into the belief that it was his old home; and when his mother came down the road, as she did a few minutes later, he became fully convinced that he was either dreaming or else that his eyes and ears had entered into a conspiracy to deceive him. As soon as Godfrey saw his wife coming he jumped over the fence and took the heavy basket she was carrying out of her hand.

“Why, Godfrey, how nice things begin to look,” exclaimed Mrs. Evans, and Dan could not remember when he had seen her smile before.

“Don’t they, though,” replied Godfrey. “I tell ye, Susie, I haint felt so peart since the good ole days when we had niggers to do our work for us. It’s a heap of comfort to know that yer a trifle forehanded, aint it? The critters is well provided with shelter an’ corn; thar’s taters enough in the cellar an’ bacon enough in the smoke-house to run us till I kin ’arn some more; the shed is full of fire-wood; an’ now it kin blow an’ snow an’ freeze jest as soon as it dog-gone pleases!”

Godfrey and his wife went into the cabin, and Dan turned about and crept back into the woods. “Things is a lookin’ up to hum right peart,” said he, to himself, as he sat down on a log to think over what had just transpired. “Pap’s got a pair of store boots; Dave’s mail carrier; mam looks like a lady; thar’s glass windows to the house, an’ here’s me—jest look at me!” added Dan, glancing down at his ragged clothes. “Now I’ll tell ye what’s the gospel truth: Pap’s the feller that crept up an’ stole them greenbacks while I was out shootin’ that squirrel,” continued Dan, who just then forgot the conclusions at which he had arrived when he found the print of the boot-heel in the soft earth. “He was afeared to spend the money, so he brings it back to Dave, makes up with him an’ the ole woman, an’ everything goes as slick as ’lasses, an’ nobody don’t care no more for me nor if I wasn’t Dan at all.”

There are boys, and men, too, in the world who can not bear to see other people happy, and we are by this time well enough acquainted with Dan to know that he was one of this class. He was not happy—he could not be with his disposition—and it would have afforded him infinite satisfaction if he could have found some way to render his relations, who now seemed to be getting on so nicely in the world, as miserable as he was himself. It hurt him to know that they could enjoy themselves while he was away from home. Why didn’t they come out into the woods and search for him, and when they found him take him to the cabin, put good clothes on him and act as though they were glad to see him? “That’s what they had oughter do,” exclaimed Dan, “an’ to pay ’em for not doin’ it I just wish I had them hundred and sixty dollars now. I’d like to see Dave get ’em again.”

Dan scraped a few dry leaves together under the lee of the log, and went supperless to bed that night. He lay almost within a stone’s throw of the cabin, and could hear the door slam every time any one passed in or out. He fell asleep just before daylight, and when he awoke he started up in great confusion, for he saw his brother sitting on a log near him. Dan was not more surprised to find him there than he was to notice that he had on another suit of clothes and a pair of warm mittens. David must be getting rich.