“Johnny jumped on his back, an’ the hoss went canterin’ down the road. ’Twan’t long ’fore Johnny seed a light shinin’ in the road, an’ when he got a little nigher he seed it was right in the middle of the cross roads. A fire was a-blazin’ up thar, an’ who should be a-feedin’ of it but his stepmammy? Her hair wuz a-hangin’ down, an’ she looked like ole Nick hisse’f. She wuz a-walkin’ ’roun’ the blaze, a-mumblin’ some kinder talk, an’ a-makin’ motions wi’ her han’s, an’ thar wuz a great big black cat a-walkin’ ’roun’ wi’ her, an’ a-rubbin’ up agin her, and the creetur’s tail wuz swelled up out’n all reason.
“‘Watch out, now,’ says Ningapie, ’an''hold on to your hoss.’
“He hadn’t more’n spoke the words before a pack of dogs broke out of the
woods an’ made right for the ole’oman, an’ Johnny’s hoss a-fol-lerin’
’em. Thar wuz a monst’us scatteration of chunks an’ fire-coals, an’ then
it looked like ’oman, dogs, an’ all riz up in the elements, an’ thar wuz
sech another yowlin’ an’ howlin’ an’ growlin’ ez ain’t never been heard
in them parts before nor sence.
“When Johnny got back home he found his pappy a-waitin’ for him, an’ he looked like a new man. Then they went down into the gyarden, an’ thar they foun’ a pile of gold packed up in little boxes. Ez for the ole’oman, she never did come back. She wuz a witch, an’ Ningapie unwitched her.”
“And what become of the acorn?” asked Joe Maxwell.
“Ah, Lord!” said Mr. Wall, with a sigh, “you know how boys is. Like ez not, Johnny took an’ cracked it open wi’ a hammer for to see what kind of a creetur Ningapie wuz.”
CHAPTER VI—THE OWL AND THE BIRDS
The Gaither boy grew to be very friendly with Joe Maxwell, and he turned out to be a very pleasant companion. He was fifteen years old, but looked younger, and although he had no book-learning, he was very intelligent, having picked up a great deal of the wholesome knowledge that Nature keeps in store for those who make her acquaintance. He could read a little, and he could write his name, which he took great pride in doing, using a stick for a pen and a bed of sand for a copy-book. Walking along through the fields or woods, he would pause wherever the rains had washed the sand together, and write his name in full in letters that seemed to be wrestling with each other—“James K. Polk Gaither.” As there was another James in his family, he was called Jim-Polk Gaither.