In Happy Valley

by Jr. John Fox

Parson Small rose. From the tail-pocket of his long broadcloth coat he pulled a red bandanna handkerchief and blew his nose. He put the big blunt forefinger of his right hand on the text of the open Bible before him.

“Suffer—” he said. He glanced over his flock—the blacksmith, his wife, and her child, the old miller and Aunt Betsey, the Mission teacher and some of her brood, past Pleasant Trouble with his crutch across his half a lap, and to the heavy-set, middle-aged figure just slipping to a seat in the rear with a slouched hat in his hand. The parson's glance grew stern and he closed the Great Book. Jeb Mullins, the newcomer, was—moonshiner and undesirable citizen in many ways. He had meant, said the parson, to preach straight from the word of God, but he would take up the matter in hand, and he glared with doubtful benevolence at Jeb's moon face, grayish whiskers, and mild blue eyes. Many turned to follow his glance, and Jeb moved in his seat and his eyes began to roll, for all knew that the matter in hand was Jeb.

Straightway the parson turned his batteries on the very throne of King Alcohol and made it totter. Men “disguised by liquer” were not themselves. Whiskey made the fights and the feuds. It broke up meetings. It made men lie around in the woods and neglect their families. It stole brains and weakened bodies. It made women unhappy and debauched children. It turned Holy Christmas into a drunken orgy. And “right thar in their very midst,” he thundered, was a satellite of the Devil-King, “who was a-doin' all these very things,” and that limb of Satan must give up his still, come to the mourner's bench, and “wrassle with the Sperit or else be druv from the county and go down to burnin' damnation forevermore.” And that was not all: this man, he had heard, was “a-detainin' a female,” an' the little judge of Happy Valley would soon be hot on his trail. The parson mentioned no name in the indictment, but the stern faces of the women, the threatening looks of the men were too much for Jeb. He rose and bolted, and the parson halted.

“The wicked flee when no man pursueth!” he cried, and he raised hands for the benediction.

“Thar's been so much talk about drinkin',” muttered Aunt Sis Stidham as she swayed out, “that hit's made me plum' thirsty. I'd like to have a dram right now.” Pleasant Trouble heard her and one eye in his solemn face gave her a covert wink.

The women folks had long clamored that their men should break up Jeb's still; and the men had stood the nagging and remained inactive through the hanging-together selfishness of the sex, for with Jeb gone where then would they drink their drams and play Old Sledge? But now Jeb was “a-detainin' of a female,” and that was going too far. For a full week Jeb was seen no more, for three reasons: he was arranging an important matter with Pleasant Trouble; he was brooding over the public humiliation that the parson had visited on him; and he knew that he might be waited upon any day by a committee of his fellow citizens and customers headed by a particular enemy of his. And indeed such a committee, so headed, was formed, and as chance would have it they set forth the following Sunday morning just when Jeb himself set forth to halt the parson on his way to church. The committee caught sight of Jeb turning from the roadside into the bushes and the leader motioned them too into the rhododendron, whispering:

“Wait an' we'll ketch him in some mo' devilment.” In the bushes they waited. Soon the parson hove in view on a slowly pacing nag, with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle and deep in meditation. Jeb stepped out into the road and the hidden men craned their necks from the bushes with eyes and ears alert.

“Good mornin', Parson Small!” The old nag stopped and the parson's head snapped up from his revery.

“Good mornin', Jeb Mullins.” The parson's greeting was stern and somewhat uneasy, for he did not like the look on old Jeb's face.

“Parson Small,” said Jeb unctuously, “las' Sunday was yo' day.” The men in the bushes thrust themselves farther out—they could hear every word—“an' this Sunday is mine.”