In the house of my old friend Jeb Hilson there had once been a “lookin’ glass” of no mean proportions, if those of his neighbors may be taken as the standard, and how else do we measure elegance or style? It had occupied a black frame, and a position on the wall directly over a “toilet,” which was the most conspicuous piece of furniture in the room. At the present time there was nothing to tell the tale but a large nail (from which hung a bunch of seed onions,) and the smoked outline of something which had been nearly fourteen inches long and not far from the same width. In front of this drab outline Jeb Hilson always stood to shave. His memory was so tenacious that I never observed that he noticed the absence of the glass. He gazed steadily at the wall and worked the scissors so deftly that the stubble rained in little showers upon the top of the “toilet” and within the open bosom of his tennis shirt. Not that Jeb Hilson ever heard of tennis, or knew that he was clad in a garment of so approved a metropolitan style and make; but that was the pattern he had worn for many years, and it was the one which his women folk were best able to reproduce. His flannel ones were gray, and his trousers were belted about with a leather strap. For full dress occasions he wore a white cotton shirt of the same pattern and a brown homespun vest. This latter garment was seldom buttoned. Why hide the glory of that shirt? If Jeb owned a coat I have never seen it. He appeared to think it a useless garment.
I believe I did not say that Jeb Hilson was the leader of those who eschewed all hair upon the face. Whether this was done to show a profounder contempt for the Tunker superstition, or whether Jeb had a secret pride in the outline of his mouth and chin, and a desire to give full expression to their best effects, it would be hard to say. It is certain, however, that his motives must have been powerful, for he underwent untold torture to achieve his results. If the blades of the scissors clicked past each other or wabbled apart too far to even click, Jeb would resort to his knife and proceed to saw off the offending beard.
“Hit air saw off er chaw off,” he would remark laconically, as he tried first one implement and then the other. “I wisht ter gracious thet theer scisser leg’d stay whar’t war put; but Lide trum the grape vines with ’em las’ week an’ they is wus sprung then they wus befo’. But wimmen folks is all durn fools. I’d be right down glad ef the good Lord had a saw fit ter give ’em a mite er sense. Some folks sez it would er spilt ’em, but I’m blame ef I kin see how they could er been wus spilt than the way they is fixed now.”
He gazed intently at the smoked image on the wall, and collecting, between his thumb and finger, a pinch of hair on his upper lip began to saw at it with his knife. His large yellow teeth were displayed, and the appearance of a beak was so effectively presented by the protruded lip that words came from behind it with the uncanny sound of a parrot; but it did not occur to him to cease talking.
“I fromised” (his upper lip was drawn too far out to form the letter p, or any with like requirements), “I fromised the young ’squire ter be at the cote house ter day, an’ I tole him thet I’d ast the jedge fer ter ’fint a gyardeen fer thet theer demented widder uv Ike’s.”
He grasped a fresh bunch of stubble, shifted onto the other foot, turned the side of his face to the smoked image of the one time mirror, and rolled his eyes so that in case a glass had hung there he might have been able to see one inch from his left ear. The shaving went steadily on. So did the conversation.
“Ef I don’t make considdable much hase I’m gwine ter be late, an’ ef the jedge don’t ’pint a gyardeen fer thet theer Sabriny she’s goin’ fer ter squander the hull uv her proppity. Thet theer wuthless Lige Tummun is goin’ fer ter git the hull uv hit. Thet’s thes persisely what he’s a figgerin’ fer in my erpinion. He hev thes persuaged her fer ter let him hev the han’lin uv hit, an’ she air a goin’ ter live thar fer the res’er her days; but I’d thes like ter know what’s a goin’ ter hinder him fum a bouncin’ her thes es soon es he onct gits holt er the hull er thet theer proppity. An’ then whose a goin’ ter take keer uv her? Nobody air a hankerin’ fer ter take keer uv a demented widder woman onless she air got proppity. But I hain’t a wantin’ ter say much, fer they is folks mean enough ter up an’ think I mout be a try’n ter git holt er thet proppity myse’f, an’ have the han’lin uv hit; so I thes tole the young ’squire abouten hit, an’ he thes rec’mended me fer ter thes go ter town nex’ cote day an’ erply ter the jedge fer ter ’pint a gyardeen over Sabriny.”
The shaving was finished at last and the homespun “weskit” donned. He stood in front of the smoked reminder while he performed this latter feat, and, after staring intently at the wall, appeared to be perfectly content with the result. Then he trudged away and joined the innumerable host which would as soon think of staying away from town on court day as it would think of standing on its head to pray.
All Ridgers of the masculine gender went to town on court day, and as few Valley men failed to do the same—whether because they knew it would be a good chance to see everybody in the county and talk politics, or because few men were so destitute as to be without lawsuits of their own,—certain it is that they all went and that it furnished topics of conversation which lasted until court day rolled around again.
As I was a guest at the “young ’squire’s” house I was privileged to hear on the following day some further conversation on the subject of Sabriny’s guardian. I was sitting on the front porch with the sweet and simple-hearted mother of the young ’squire when Jeb Hilson’s lithe form appeared.