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MOTHERING ON PERILOUS

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO

MOTHERING ON PERILOUS

BY
LUCY FURMAN

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MARY LANE McMILLAN
AND F. R. GRUGER

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1913

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1910 and 1911,
By THE CENTURY CO.
——
Copyright, 1913,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1913.

To my Boys of Six Years Ago

CONTENTS

  1. [Arrival on Perilous]
  2. [Getting Acquainted]
  3. [Acquiring a Family]
  4. [War, not Peace]
  5. [Getting Better Acquainted]
  6. [A Trade and Other Matters]
  7. [Heroes and Hero Worship]
  8. [Dress, Chivalry and the Trojan War]
  9. [More Trading, and some Family History]
  10. [About Mothers]
  11. [Over on Trigger]
  12. [The Fightingest Boy]
  13. [Around the Fire]
  14. [The Visit Home, and the Funeral Occasion]
  15. [Trouble on Trigger and Elsewhere]
  16. [Filial Piety and Croup]
  17. [Blessings and Hatings]
  18. [Christmas Anticipations]
  19. [Christmas and Danger]
  20. [War and Worse on Trigger]
  21. [Suspense]
  22. [The "Eech," and Tragedy]
  23. [Despair, and Budding Romance]
  24. [The Babe]
  25. [Change and Growth]
  26. ["Marvles" and Marvels]
  27. [Transformation]
  28. ["Keeps"]
  29. [Liberty and New Life]

ILLUSTRATIONS

MOTHERING ON PERILOUS

I
ARRIVAL ON PERILOUS

Joslin, Ky.
Last Thursday in July.

Here I am at the end of the railroad, waiting to begin my two-days' wagon-trip across the mountains. But the school wagon has not arrived,—my landlady says it is delayed by a "tide" in the creeks. By way of cheering me, she has just given a graphic account of the twenty-year-old feud for which this small town is notorious, and has even offered to take me around and show me, on walls, floors and court-house steps, the blood-spots where seven or eight of the feudists have perished. I declined to go,—it is sad enough to know such things exist, without seeing them face to face. Besides, I have enough that is depressing in my own thoughts.

When I locked the doors of the old home day before yesterday, I felt as a ghost may when it wanders forth from the tomb. For a year I had not been off the place; it seemed I should never have the courage to go again. For I am one whom death has robbed of everything,—not only of my present but of my future. In the past seven years all has gone; and with Mother's passing a year ago, my very reason for existence went.

And yet none knows better than I that this sitting down with sorrow is both dangerous and wrong; if there is any Lethe for such pain as mine, any way of filling in the lonely, dreaded years ahead of me, I must find it. It would be better if I had some spur of necessity to urge me on. As it is, I am all apathy. If there is anything that could interest me, it is some form of social service. A remarkable settlement work being done in the mountains of my own state recently came to my attention; and I wrote the head-workers and arranged for the visit on which I am now embarked. I scarcely dare to hope, however, that I shall find a field of usefulness,—nothing interests me any more, and also, I have no gifts, and have never been trained for anything. My dearest ambition was to make a home, and have a houseful of children; and this, alas, was not to be!

Night.

Howard Cleves, a big boy from the settlement school, has just arrived with the wagon—he says he had to "lay by" twenty-four hours on account of the "tide"—and we are to start at five in the morning.

Settlement School on Perilous.
Sunday, In Bed.

I have passed through two days of torture in that wagon. When we were not following the rocky beds of creeks, or sinking to the hubs in mudholes, we were winding around precipitous mountainsides where a misstep of the mules would have sent us hundreds of feet down. Nowhere was there an actual road,—as Howard expressed it, "This country is intended for nag-travel, not for wagons." The mules climbed over logs and bowlders, and up and down great shelves of rock, the jolting, crashing, banging were indescribable, my poor bones were racked until I actually wept from the pain and would have turned back long before noon of the first day if I could; the thirteen hours—during which we made twenty-six miles—seemed thirteen eons, and I fell into the feather-bed at the stopover place that first night hat, dress, shoes and all. Yesterday, having bought two pillows to sit on, I found the jolting more endurable, and was able to see some of the beauty through which we were passing. There is no level land, nothing but creeks and mountains, the latter steep, though not very high, and covered mostly with virgin forest, though here and there a cornfield runs half-way up, and a lonely log house nestles at the base. There were looms and spinning-wheels in the porches of these homes, and always numbers of children ran out to see us pass. Just at noon we turned into Perilous Creek, the one the school is on. Here the bed was unusually wide and smooth, and I was enjoying the respite from racking and jolting, when Howard said with an anxious brow, "All these nice smooth places is liable to be quicksands,—last time I come over, it took four ox-teams to pull my span and wagon out. That's how it gets its name,—Perilous."

We escaped the quicks, thank heaven, and just at dark the welcome lights of the school shone out in the narrow valley. I was relieved to find I should be expected to remain in bed to-day.

Racked muscles, black-and-blue spots, and dislocated bones are not exactly pleasant; but physical pain is an actual relief after endless ache of heart and suffering of spirit.

A pretty, brown-eyed boy just brought in a pitcher of water, asked me if I came from the "level country" and how many times I had "rid" on the railroad train; and gave me the information that he was Philip Sidney Floyd, that his "paw" got his name out of a book, that his "maw" was dead, that he was "very nigh thirteen," and had worked for "the women" all summer.

II
GETTING ACQUAINTED

Monday Night.

Early this morning I was taken around by Philip and a smaller boy named Geordie to see the buildings,—handsome ones of logs, set in a narrow strip of bottom land along Perilous Creek. The "big house" especially, a great log structure of two-dozen rooms, where the settlement work goes on, and the teachers and girls live, is the most satisfying building I ever saw. There are also a good workshop, a pretty loom-house, and a small hospital, and the last shingles are being nailed on the large new school-house. When I asked the boys why any school-term should begin the first of August, they explained that the children must go home and help their parents hoe corn during May, June and July.

All day the children who are to live in the school, and many more who hope to, were arriving, afoot or on nags, the boys, however small, in long trousers and black felt hats like their fathers, the girls a little more cheerfully dressed than their mothers, whose black sun-bonnets and somber homespun dresses were depressing. Many of the parents stayed to dinner. There is a fine, old-fashioned dignity in their manners, and great gentleness in their voices. I have always heard that, shut away here in these mountains, some of the purest and best Anglo-Saxon blood in the nation is to be found; now I am sure of it. It was pathetic to see the eagerness of these men and women that their children should get learning, and to hear many of them tell how they themselves had had no chance whatever at an education, being raised probably sixty or eighty miles from a school-house.

Late in the afternoon, as Philip, Geordie and I were fastening up straying rose-vines on the pine-tree pillars of the "big house" porch, a one-legged and very feeble man, accompanied by a boy, dismounted at the gate and came up the walk on a crutch. During the time he sat on the porch, my two assistants abandoned their work to stare open-mouthed at him. When he was called in to see the heads, Geordie inquired of his boy,

"How'd your paw git all lamed up thataway?"

The new arrival pulled his black hat down, frowned, and measured Geordie with gray, combative eyes, before replying, coldly,

"Warring with the Cheevers."

"Gee-oh, air you one of the Marrses from Trigger Branch of Powderhorn?"

"Yes."

"What's your name?"

"Nucky."

"How old air you?"

"Going-on-twelve."

"What kin is Blant Marrs to you?"

"My brother."

"You don't say so! Gee, I wisht I could see him! Have you holp any in the war?"

"Some." Here Nucky was called in, to the evident disappointment of his interlocutor. Later, I saw him at the supper-table, gazing disapprovingly about him.

After supper I had a few minutes talk with the busy head-workers, and placed myself at their disposal, with the explanation that I really knew very little about anything, except music and gardening. They said these things are just what they have been wanting,—that a friend has recently sent the school a piano (how did it ever cross these mountains!) and that some one to supervise garden operations is especially needed. "Besides, what you don't know you can learn," they said, "we are always having to do impossible and unexpected things here,—our motto is 'Learn by doing.'" I am very dubious; but I promised to try it a month.

They told me that between six and seven hundred children had been turned away to-day for lack of room,—only sixty can live in the school, though two hundred more attend the day-school, which begins to-morrow.

Friday Night.

What a week! Foraging expeditions and music-lessons to big girls in the mornings, and in the afternoons, gardening, with a dozen small boys to keep busy. This is an industrial school,—in addition to the usual common-school subjects, woodwork, carpentry, blacksmithing, gardening, cooking, sewing, weaving and home-nursing are all taught, and the children in residence also perform all the work on the place, indoors and out. But alas, my agricultural force is diminishing,—the small boys are leaving in batches. This is the first year any number have been taken to live in the school, and they are unable to endure the homesickness. Nucky Marrs left after one night's stay; three others followed Tuesday afternoon, and five on Wednesday; more were taken in, but left at once. Keats Salyer, a beautiful boy who has wept every minute of his stay, ran away a third time this morning. Yesterday Joab Atkins left when the housekeeper told him to help the girls pick chickens. Eight new boys came in to-day, but the veterans, Philip and Geordie, say these are aiming to leave to-morrow.

Friday is mill day in the mountains, and this morning, having had the boys shell corn, I took it to mill to be ground into meal, in a large "poke" (sack) slung across my saddle. When I had gone a mile up Perilous, the thing wriggled from under me and fell off in the road. Of course I was powerless to lift it, though equally of course I got off the school nag and tried. There was nothing to do but sit on the roots of a great beech until somebody came along. Two men soon rode up, and smiling, dismounted and politely set the poke and me on Mandy again, and I reached the mill in safety. When I got back, my black china-silk was ruined from sitting on the meal.

III
ACQUIRING A FAMILY

Sunday.

Sure enough, the eight new boys were gone before sun-up yesterday, only Philip and Geordie remain, and gardening is at a standstill. All day yesterday and to-day I have thought of the runaways, and wondered if there is any way of making them stay and take advantage of their opportunities. Our young manual-training teacher, and only man, lives at the cottage with the dozen small boys; but, being a man, probably he cannot give them a home feeling, and get them rooted. Only a woman could do that. If I had the courage and cheerfulness, I would go over there and live with those little boys and try to make them feel at home. But it is useless to think of such a thing,—my sadness would repel them,—they would run away faster than ever.

Monday Night.

The heads said to me this morning, "We shall give up trying to keep little boys in the school,—it is useless, though we need them almost as much as they need us. If there were just some one who loves children to stay there and take a real interest in them, they might be satisfied to remain."

"I love children," I said, "but I would not think of inflicting myself upon them,—I am not cheerful enough."

"Cheerful!" they exclaimed, "why, everybody is cheerful here,—no time for anything else! Suppose you try it!"

"I really couldn't think of it," I replied; but, fifteen minutes later, under the spell of their optimism, I was moving over from the big house to the small boys' cottage, from which the manual-training teacher was departing to join the big boys over the workshop.

This small cottage is the building in which the work began here five years ago. It is separated from the rest of the school-grounds by a small branch; in its back yard is the wash-house, and beyond this the stable lot slopes down to Perilous Creek. There are four comfortable rooms, neatly papered with magazine pages,—a sitting-room, two bedrooms for the boys, and one for me. The woodwork in mine being battered, I sent Philip down to the nearby village for paint. He returned with a rich, rosy red, and began laying it on my mantelpiece with gusto, while Geordie Yonts put shelves in a goods-box for my bureau. Never have I seen a small chunk of a boy with such a large, ingratiating smile as Geordie's.

In the midst I heard a call from the road, and saw at the gate a nag bearing a woman and two small boys. "Here is Keats back again,—he has got to stay with you women and get l'arning if it kills him dead!" declared his Spartan mother; "and I brung Hen this time, to keep him company,—he haint so tender-hearted." She sternly pushed the weeping Keats off the nag, and he flung himself down in the doorway, howling dismally. But little Hen, who cannot be more than nine, walked composedly into the house, looking about him with interest. He stopped before the almost-completed mantelpiece. "Gee, woman," he said, "that 'ere's the dad-burn prettiest fireboard ever I seed!" "If you like it, you shall have the same in your room, and all the rooms," I said. "Suppose you and Keats go down right now and buy me a gallon more of this paint. And I think we need some candy, too,—say a quarter's worth of peppermint sticks."

The tears miraculously left Keats's face, they hurried off, and later we had a feast of candy flavored with paint.

Tuesday.

A terrible night with fleas, and up at five (awful hour!) to teach the boys to make their beds and clean their rooms. Hen's first question was, "Woman, what's your name?" "Loring," I replied. "Haint you got nary nother?" "Yes, Cecilia." "Gee-oh, that's some shakes of a name. How old air you, Cecilia?" "I am old enough to have a Miss before my name always," I said, severely; "you must call me Miss Loring, just as people call your mother Mrs. Salyer."

"They don't," he replied, "they call her Nervesty."

"All these-here fotch-on women gits called Miss, son," admonished Geordie; "you haint used to their quare ways yet."

Later, there was another halloo from the road, and as Joab Atkins slid off the end of a mule, his father remarked to me, with extreme gentleness, that he allowed Joab would be willing to pick a chicken now. Mr. Atkins is a handsome man, with perfect manners. When he said he had a younger son over on Rakeshin he would like to bring us, little Iry, ten years old, a "pure scholar, that knows the speller from kiver to kiver," I told him to bring Iry at once.

Just before supper I was pleased to see another runaway returned,—Nucky Marrs, of Trigger Branch. But before his father was out of sight up the road, he calmly announced to me that he didn't aim to stay, and that neither his paw nor anybody else was able to make him. I believed him,—one glance at his vivid face and combative eyes convinced me.

"Very well," I said, "if you cannot be happy, of course you must go. But it will hurt my feelings a good deal,—however, don't think of them."

"What difference is it to you?" he demanded.

"Only this,—I have lost everybody I love in the world, and have come to the cottage to live with you boys because I am so terribly lonely. If you can't like me well enough to stay, life will seem a failure."

He pondered a long while, frowning a little, with large gray eyes fixed on my face. Then he said at last, "I don't know as I'll go right off."

"Oh, thank you," I replied, gratefully.

From seven to eight we have study-hour at the cottage. To-night Geordie watched the clock-hands for twenty minutes before they reached eight, then slammed his geography shut, and commanded,

"Tell about the Marrs-Cheever war!"

All the boys woke up at once, and Nucky began, slowly: "The Marrses has lived on Trigger ever sence allus-ago. My great-great-great-grandpaw fit under Washington and got a big land-grant out here and come out from Old Virginny. And the Cheevers they has allus lived down the branch from us. More'n thirty year' gone, Israel Cheever he had a new survey made, and laid claim to a piece of our bottom where the lands jines; and him and his brothers tore down the dividing fence and sot it back up on our land; and the next week, my grandpaw and his boys sot it down where it belonged, and while they was at it, the Cheevers come up and they all fit a big battle. And ever sence, first one side and then t'other has been setting back the fence, and gen'ally a few gets kilt and a lot wounded. Six year gone, paw got his three brothers kilt and a leg shot off and a couple of bullets in his lung, in a battle, and haint been able to do a lick of work sence. Blant, my big brother, wa'n't but fifteen then, and he's had to make the living ever sence, with me to help him. And for five year' before he got good-grown, the Cheevers they helt our land, and Blant he laid low and put in all his spare time at gun practice. Then last fall, on the day Blant was twenty, he rounded up Rich Tarrant and some more of his friends, and Uncle Billy's boys and me, and we tore up the fence, and sot it down on the old line where it ought to be; and the Cheevers, Israel and his ten boys, got wind of it, and come up, and there was the terriblest battle you ever seed."

"I heared about it," interrupted Geordie, "I heared Blant was the quickest on the trigger of any boy ever lived, and laid out the Cheevers scandlous."

"He kilt two of 'em dead that day, and wounded five or six more pretty bad," resumed Nucky, "and the fighting it went on, off and on, all winter. Every now and then, of a moonlight night, the Cheever boys would start to tear down the fence and set it back up; but we kep' a constant lookout, and was allus ready for 'em. Finally they got discouraged trying to fight Blant in the open, and tuck to ambushing. Three of 'em laywayed Blant under a cliff one day in April, and Elhannon got kilt, and Todd and Dalt so bad wounded they left the country and went West. They are the youngest and feistiest of the lot,—t'other boys is mostly married and settled, and not anxious to risk their lives again' Blant's gun no more—and sence they went off, we have had a spell of peace."

"What do you do in the war?"

"Oh, I keep a lookout, and spy around, and stand guard over the fence with my gun."

"Gee, I wisht I had a war in my family!" sighed Philip, fervently.

Thursday.

Two more nights of suffering,—Philip said to me this morning, "I heared you up a-fleaing four or five times in the night." When I found that several panels of the back fence had been washed away by the "tide" of week-before-last, and that neighborhood hogs were coming in and out at will, and making their beds under my very room, I did not wonder.

This morning at the breakfast table, Philip's face was so dingy that I inquired, "Have you washed your face?"

"Yes," was his reply.

Something moved me to inquire further, "When?"

"Day before yesterday," he replied, with perfect nonchalance.

This is dangerous,—already I can see that Philip is to be, like his illustrious namesake "the glass of fashion and the mold of form," and that the younger boys, will be only too ready to omit disagreeable rites if he does.

Poor Keats, who in the matter of beauty certainly lives up to his name, really seems inconsolable. While he cleans the chicken-yard in the mornings, my heart is wrung by hearing him chant the most dismal of songs,

Oh bury me not, on the broad pa-ra-a-ree,
Where the wild ky-oats will holler over me!

and in the hour after supper, when the others play out of doors, he sits with me, telling about Nervesty and the four little children at home, and the spell of typhoid all the family had last year, when his father and little sister Dicey died, and how "Me 'n' Nervesty and Hen" have run the farm since then, tending fifteen acres of corn, besides clearing new-ground, and other labors. Poor little man, it is the knowledge that he is really needed at home, as much as homesickness, that preys on his mind,—his mother is making a noble sacrifice to let him stay in the school. It seems to comfort him somewhat to weep on a sympathetic bosom. Peppermint candy, too, is not without its efficacy.

To-day came Taulbee Bolling, a dignified boy of thirteen, with a critical eye, and later, Mr. Atkins again, with the "pure scholar" in tow. Iry is a thin, puny-looking mite of ten, much too small for his trousers. He said "Yes sir" and "No sir" most politely when speaking to me, and carried an old blue-back speller under one arm. So great was my curiosity that I opened the book at once. The result was amazing,—"genealogical" and "irreconcilable" were child's-play to him, "incomprehensibility," a bagatelle. It was interesting to see his scared little face brighten as he climbed up and down the hard words and beheld my growing astonishment.

This afternoon while I had the boys mending the back fence, Geordie, who had been left to scrub my floor with carbolic acid solution, came back to the stable-lot bringing a new boy, whom with a flourish of his brush he introduced as follows:

"Here's the boy that fit the marshal that kilt his paw. And one time he seed the world and rid on a railroad train. Killis Blair's the name he goes by." Killis is a handsome blonde boy of twelve, not unaware of his double importance.

To-night after study-hour there was another catechism by Geordie. "Tell about ridin' on the railroad train!" he ordered.

Killis began: "The month before paw got kilt last spring, the officers was a-watching him so clost he was afeared to sell any liquor round about home, so me and him we tuck a barrel acrost the mountains to Virginia, where there's mines, and it would fetch a good price. We loaded fodder on top. The going was awful sorry, and the steers was three days at it. When I got there, I seed men walking round with their hats afire, and went down to the railroad-train and rid on the engine."

"What did it look like?" demanded Philip, breathlessly.

"Sort of like a saw-mill sot up on wheels."

"I'd sooner die as not to see one!" sighed Philip.

"I aim to see one when I'm a perfessor," remarked Taulbee.

"I bet I see a hundred when I go to be a soldier," said Nucky.

"I'd ruther see a railroad-train as to eat!" declared Geordie, and this appeared to be the prevailing sentiment, except with Keats, who said dismally that he didn't crave to see anything that would take him fifty mile' from Nervesty and home. After reflection, Hen agreed with him.

"Listen at them two homesicks!" remarked Philip, cuttingly.

Geordie folded his fat hands. "Now you might tell about your paw gettin' kilt," he said.

Killis said that the officers had been spying around on his "paw" a long time for "stilling" liquor, but that he was too smart for them, and moved the still about, and made liquor by night, and also frightened them by sending word to the marshal he would never be taken alive. That one night they had just "drug" the still up to a new place in the hollow, and he and his father and uncles were sitting around the fire, when there was a yell, and the marshal and a deputy burst in, shooting as they came. That his uncles returned the fire, but before his father could do so, he fell, with a dreadful wound through the stomach. That he himself, when he saw his father fall, snatched a hunting-knife and cut the marshal in the forearm with it as he was running out.

The last item he told without bragging, and quite as a matter of course. The other boys gave him looks of approval and envy, all save Nucky. "By Heck, I wouldn't have stopped with his arm," he declared.

"I haint," replied Killis, quietly.

Evidently I have two heroes on my hands!

Saturday Night.

Moses and Zachariah, two more runaways, were returned this morning, and this afternoon arrived my twelfth boy,—the last, since they cannot sleep more than three in a bed! Jason is a beautiful child of seven, very funny in his little long trousers. I wanted him at sight, but hesitated on account of his youth. When I heard from his father, however, that he had no mother now, I took him at once. Before leaving, Mr. Wyatt said that Jason was right pyeert about learning, and, he added candidly, about meanness too, and he hoped I would not spar' the rod. The rod indeed,—I threw a protecting arm around the angelic-looking child at the word.

Indeed, not a few of the parents have warned me against wild and warlike tendencies in their offspring,—Mr. Marrs, for instance, said that Nucky was a master scholar when he could leave off fighting long enough to study his books, and others have admonished me to hold a tight rein. Their warnings are needless,—everything so far has gone with surprising smoothness, confirming my theory that in an atmosphere of love and gentleness the martial traits will be atrophied.

To-day things were more tumultuous, Saturday being combined wash-and-cleaning-day at the school, and a hard time for all hands. Ten of the girls came over from the big house to our back yard, and there, assisted by one of my boys, who kept up fires under the big kettles and carried water from the well, did the washing for the entire school; while in every building on the place cleaning, scrubbing and window-washing were in full blast. I was sorry to have to punish little Hen to-night for calling it a "hell of a day."

IV
WAR, NOT PEACE

Monday Noon.

Yesterday morning I accompanied my boys to Sunday-school in the village. They showed a good deal of restlessness before the service was over,—not surprising considering that only two had ever heard of a Sunday-school before.

After dinner I undertook to cheer and entertain them by reading Robinson Crusoe, out in our yard, beginning in the thick of the story, where the hero is in sight of his island. What was my chagrin to see one pair after another of bright, roving eyes dull and close, one head after another roll over in the grass, Nucky Marrs holding out longest, and murmuring wearily, as his head settled back against a tree, "Didn't he never get into no fights, or kill nobody?"

Discouraged, I sat for a long while gazing upon the twelve sleepers, and wondering what if anything would be the proper literary milk for my babes.

When the boys at last awoke from their naps, I gave them permission to play mumble-peg very, very quietly—the heads had told me to keep them quiet on Sundays—and they made a desperate effort to do so. But probably behavior so far had been impossibly good, and this was the last straw. At any rate, when we were gathered in the sitting-room after supper for ten minutes of Sunday-school lesson, the storm broke. Nucky kicked Killis on the shin; Killis called him a smotch-eyed polecat; the two grappled; Philip flew to Nucky's assistance, Joab to Killis's; Keats, Hen and Moses rushed in on the Marrs side, Taulbee, Zachariah and Iry on the Blair, little Jason flew joyously into the fray, impartially attacking both sides, and Geordie prudently retired under the table.

It all happened in a flash,—before I could catch my breath the table was overturned, chairs were flying, bedlam had broken loose. In vain I commanded, implored, threatened,—I might as well have spoken to the raging sea.

Dreadful moments followed, during which I could only dodge chairs and wring my hands wildly. Worse was to come, however,—when I saw Killis grab the shovel, Nucky the poker, and Keats the tongs, while Philip wrested off a table-leg, and Taulbee and others either smashed chairs to pieces for weapons, or seized remaining table-legs, then indeed I felt that death was imminent for all concerned, and, running to the door, shrieked for Howard and the big boys over the workshop. Returning, I plucked the broom from Iry, and rushed with it, straw end foremost, into the thick of the fight. I was lammed on the head by a shovel, on the shoulder by a table-leg, on the elbow by something,—it is not safe to say what might have been the outcome had not Howard opportunely arrived, snatched the broom from me, and, with the handle-end, beaten and whacked the boys mercilessly until they finally surrendered their weapons and retired, bloody but happy, from the "battle."

I lay long awake last night, not from fleas, but nursing bruises and reconstructing theories. I see now that love and gentleness need to be backed up by good muscle, and that to be a success in my undertaking here I require, not the small body I actually possess, but the physique of an Amazon. Of course it is all a mistake, and I must give it up, even sooner than I had anticipated. But I am sorry,—the boys are most attractive, and time spent with them passes with lightning swiftness,—incredible as it seems, for seven whole days I have not had a chance to think of myself, my grief, my loneliness. Undoubtedly this is the Lethe I need,—but if its waves buffet me to bits, what then?

Later.

Inspiration came when I visited the loom-house this morning, and saw Cleo Royce, the head-weaving-girl, at her work. She is so large and handsome and strong,—a young Juno, with glorious muscle. The heads are to let her come to the cottage and occupy a cot in my room,—I am determined to stay out my month.

Wednesday.

For two days I have taken away their scanty playtime from the boys in punishment of their fighting Sunday night. Yesterday I talked to them very solemnly on the subject. "Why, it's just an accident you didn't kill one another or me," I said, "and then how should you have felt?"

"I'd hate right smart to kill a woman," replied Nucky Marrs; "but gee, I wouldn't mind laying out a few boys. I got to begin somewheres,—a man haint nobody till he's kilt off a few!"

To-night when I announced that regular twice-a-week baths must begin at once, and that four of the boys must get ready to wash themselves, a shout of delight went up, "Whoopee! We git to go in the creek,—git to go in Perilous!"—and every boy demanded to be one of the lucky four. When I explained that I did not mean go in the creek, but that they must heat water in the kettles in the yard, and carry it to the tubs in the wash-house, and bathe there, howls of indignation succeeded. "We haint no women!", "I'll go home first!", "Dad burn if I'll do it!", "Creeks is for men!", and Philip remarked scathingly, "Nobody but quare women would wash in a house when there's a creek handy!" It was only by Cleo's splendid strength that four were finally corralled in the wash-house.

Friday.

This has been an anxious week. The ice once broken by the fight Sunday night, every boy has felt free to be himself again. Nucky has fought every boy of his size and larger at the cottage, and, I hear, most of the hundred day-school boys; Killis, though not so aggressive, is quite as warlike; and the others, with the sole exception of Geordie, are not much behind. It is almost impossible for me to get garden-work done, so much of my time must be spent breaking up fights.

Even at meals (fortunately the boys and I have a table to ourselves in the dining-room at the big house) behavior is far from being what it should. Tuesday at breakfast, when Geordie undertook to instruct the new boys in table manners, and informed Killis it was not proper to eat with his knife, he was silenced by a jab of the knife in his direction and a threat to cut out his liver; at dinner Wednesday, when Philip snatched a corn-dodger from Keats's plate, he received a spoonful of "sop" (gravy) full in the face; yesterday when Taulbee made disparaging remarks about Trigger Branch, Nucky plunged the prongs of a steel fork so deeply into his scalp that he had to receive attention from the trained nurse. It is difficult to eat with one's mind so distracted; but distraction is far better than desolation.

V
GETTING BETTER ACQUAINTED

Sunday Night.

I have been hunting Sunday clothes in the barrels sent us by kind friends,—the garments the children bring with them must be saved for hard, every-day wear. This morning, when I eagerly exhibited the Sunday things to the boys, I was doomed to disappointment. They expressed boundless contempt for the short trousers, flouted the knickerbockers as "meal pokes," and declined to wear the pleated and belted coats. Even the little sailor suit I had found for Jason was refused with scorn, as not being "for men." White shirts most of them accepted, but collars and ties were different,—Taulbee argued that even preachers didn't wear those, so why should he?

I was non-plussed for five minutes; then my eyes chanced to rest on Killis, the noted traveller. Sending the others from the room, I handed him a dark-blue suit, very little worn, and requested him to get into my closet and put it on, just for my pleasure. He did so, and when I had fastened a collar and a soft red tie on him, I invited him to look in my glass. He was frankly delighted. "By dogs, now, did you ever see anybody look as good as me?" he inquired.

"I think I never did," I replied with entire truth.

"If these breeches was just long, I'd keep these here clothes and wear 'em," he said.

"Short breeches," I assured him, "are the very latest style out in the level country; and," I added, "a boy who has seen the world and ridden on a railroad train is the very one to set new styles here,—the others would all follow what you did."

"Dad burn my looks, then, if I don't keep these and wear 'em!"

"Very well," I said, carelessly; "go along now and let me dress."

My dress was half-way over my head when the entire dozen burst into my room without knocking. Taking refuge in the closet, I let them examine the "new-styles," and fight it out over disputed garments. Later, having pinned all the collars, tied all the ties, parted all the hair, and at the last moment washed difficult cracks in all the ears, I set forth with my family for the "church-house," swelling more and more with pride at every step. Never anywhere have I seen such an aristocratic-looking set of boys.

After dinner, made wise by experience, I took them for a long walk up Perilous, to a beautiful, retired glen where they could play, fight (without weapons) and make all the noise they needed to.

On the way back, we met several women and girls on nags, and I was pained to see that my boys did not remove their hats. When I told them they must do so, Philip demanded why.

"To show the respect you feel for women," I replied.

"But I haint got none," he answered candidly; "they never done nothing for me. I'd ruther take off my hat to a cow,—I git something back from her!"

This from the namesake of the Pattern of Chivalry! Philip is very much of a man, and a prodigious worker,—in the shop he does better work than most of the grown-up boys, and is actually permitted to make walnut furniture for the big house—but he certainly lacks minor virtues, such as courtesy and cleanliness.

After supper I happened to ask Killis about his name, and told him I thought he must be named for Achilles, a hero who lived several thousand years ago, and was the greatest fighter of his time. There were unanimous demands to hear all about him, and perforce I started in telling tales of the Trojan War. This time there was no drowsiness, but, as one great combat followed another, intense interest, and howls of remonstrance when I tried to stop.

I have found acceptable literary food for my babes,—but alas, what they want is not milk at all, but blood!

Wednesday Bed-time.

Jason, my "little pet" as the others call him, resents any allusion to the fact that he is small, and burns to play the man. In our garden work, he seizes shovels and mattocks almost as large as himself from the bigger boys, and whacks away joyously with them. To-day while we were making gravel walks, I caught him wheeling Geordie's barrow, while Geordie made feeble passes at the gravel-bank in the creek with Jason's little broken-handled pick. Geordie explained,

"That 'ere little Jason says he's aiming to leave if you give him little-boy jobs,—he wants big ones. I told him he could take my wheel-borrow awhile,—that I were willing to trade jobs with him, to favor him."

"I don't doubt you were," I said, sharply,—I begin to fear that Geordie's energy and talent reside mostly in his tongue.

"He's able to do it all right," continued Geordie, imperturbably. "By dogs, you ought to have seed him fight out two of them little day-schools at a time yesterday! Any boy can fight like that ought to labor some, and would have to if he weren't a pet!"

This evening while Keats gave me a glowing description of Nervesty's vinegar-pies (it would appear that his affection for her has no few of its roots in his stomach) and the other boys played numble-peg outside my window, what were my grief and surprise to hear the most fearful oaths I ever listened to issue from the sensitive lips of the "pure scholar." Of course all the boys swear; but this was the worst ever. Where can he have learned it, and his father such a perfect gentleman? When I called him in and rebuked him, he was much downcast,—said he didn't aim to cuss, but he had been at it so long he couldn't quit. I told him the only way was to keep on trying, and how very, very happy it would make me when he should succeed; and he promised to try and try, "because," he added, almost in a whisper, "I like you." "And I love you," I said, gathering his thin little body to my heart. How happy his words made me,—they are the first to indicate that any of the boys care for me. They have a great deal of reserve, and are hard to get acquainted with, especially Nucky. But at least they are not leaving as they did.

VI
A TRADE AND OTHER MATTERS

Saturday Night.

Mrs. Salyer came in Thursday bringing some large pokes of beans, a gift to the school, and a saddle-bag full of apples for her boys. Next morning while supervising bed-making, I happened to glance into the box on the wall where Keats had put the apples the night before, and, to my surprise, saw that they were all gone. "We et half of 'em off'n'on in the night, and Keats traded t'other half off to Geordie before we got up," explained Hen,—the three occupy the same bed.

On my idle inquiry as to what Geordie gave for them, Keats produced with pride a mangy little purse, about the size of a dollar, looking as if it had been well-chewed.

"Why, that wasn't a fair trade," I said, "one apple would have been all that purse was worth. I must speak to Geordie about that."

Of course in the rush later I forgot it. Moses and Zachariah having departed without farewells later in the day, I gave Geordie permission next morning to go to an uncle's over on Bald Eagle and bring back his elder brother, Absalom, to the school. Before leaving, he "gave me his hand" to be back "before the sun-ball draps this evening." The sun-ball drapped and rose and drapped again, however, before he returned; and last night as the boys were starting to bed, Philip asked me if I knew how much Geordie had made on those apples he traded Keats out of. "He sold seven to the day-schools for a cent apiece, and six to the manimal trainer for a dime, and three to Taulbee for a big gingercake he brung with him, and I give him a good taw for a couple more, and he traded the two little wormy ones that was left to Keats for a purse."

"What purse?" I inquired.

"That 'ere one Keats swapped him all the apples for at first,—the one you said weren't worth more'n one apple. Keats told him you said so, and he said he would prove it were by giving Keats two-down for it, if he wanted; and Keats was glad to make the trade."

"Do you mean to tell me," I asked, "that Geordie made seventeen cents, a gingercake, a taw and the purse, out of that trade, and Keats lost everything but two wormy apples?"

Philip scratched his head thoughtfully. "By grab, he skinned the little Salyer, didn't he? Gee, I wisht I was a born trader like him, dag gone his ole soul!"

When Geordie returned to-night with Absalom, his jaw was tied up in a red bandana, he wore a look of patient suffering, and explained that he had had such a sorry time with toothache he could not return yesterday, indignantly repudiating Philip's suggestion that he had just wanted to stay and see a big time with the Yontses and drink their moonshine. Later, when, while filling a hot-water bag for him, I regretfully spoke to him on the subject of cheating in trades, he was deeply hurt, said he had traded the apples back to Keats only to favor him, and confided in me that he aimed to be a preacher when he growed up.

Sunday Night.

During the ear-washing this morning, I had another round with Philip, whose ears are always the grimiest, hair the most unkempt, clothes the most tattered. "Philip," I said, with a groan, "you could be the handsomest boy on the place if you only would!"

He replied contemptuously, "Handsome never earnt his salt; when a man steps in the door, looks flies up the chimley!"

In the midst of our altercation, Absalom sauntered into my room, took his stand before my mirror, and proceeded to give his hair a good dressing with my brush and comb.

Later, as I saw Geordie walking to church with a Bible under his arm, heard his heart-felt singing of the hymns, and watched his pious, soap-shining face, I wondered I could ever have thought he meant to cheat anybody.

The Trojan War made fine progress to-night,—it is only on Saturday and Sunday nights that we can have stories, as other evenings must be spent in study. From the first, Killis has identified himself with his famous namesake, while Nucky has as inevitably taken sides with the Trojans and Hector, so much so that the boys call him "Trojan." This evening he was scathing in his denunciation of Achilles. "Gee," he said, "I wisht them Greeks had a-had a man along. Now if Blant had a-been there, you'd a seed some fighting! He wouldn't have sulled around in no tent none! He'd a-got the drap on Hector allus-ago, same as he done on Elhannon and Todd and Dalt Cheever when they laywayed him in April. He was riding along past the cliff where they was hid in the bushes, and heared the click of the lock when Elhannon cocked his trigger, and whirled around and poured six bullets into 'em before they could fire their guns, killing Elhannon and very nigh killing t'other two."

Wednesday.

I expected that with Iry's abilities in the way of spelling, he would be the pride and prodigy of the school; but I am pained to learn from his teacher that he can do nothing but spell. It seems that in the five-month district school he has attended three terms over on Rakeshin, nothing was taught but reading and spelling,—two lessons a day in the former, two in the latter,—thus does our noble commonwealth do her duty when she does it at all! Iry has had to go back into the first grade to learn the rudiments of arithmetic, geography, grammar, etc.

Last night Taulbee, the eldest, who is very opinionated, took occasion to enter a general protest against innovations such as nightgowns, tooth-brushes, fine-combs and the like, and wound up by arraigning the school methods of cooking. "Them little small biscuits you-all have don't make half of a good bite," he declared: "You women," he continued, severely, "think you know so much, and lay down so many laws, and, by Ned, you don't even know how to bile beans!"

"How should beans be cooked?" I inquired.

"A pot of string beans calls for a big chunk of fat pork and about four handful' of lard throwed in, to be fitten to eat," he said; "I haint tasted a right bean sence I come here."

This afternoon arrived a solemn little man of eleven from over on Clinch, named Hosea Fields, to take the one vacant place.

When Jason came up from his bath to-night, he rolled up his gown sleeve and held out a pink arm to me. "Just feel my muscle," he said, "Oh, I'm so nervy!"

"I reckon he is," said Keats, "I seed him lay out three-at-a-time of them little primaries at recess to-day."

Last time it was two, now it is three. Of course these reports must be exaggerated,—such a baby could not be so warlike. Taking him in my arms and giving him a good hug, I said, "Jason, dear, I want you to remember that it is wrong for little boys to fight."

Objections to bathing have been withdrawn, and the boys for some nights have gone to the wash-house with such alacrity that my suspicions were aroused, and I found they were taking advantage of their nude condition, and freedom from interruption, to do great stunts of fighting, the bathing being entirely lost sight of. I have been compelled to make a rule that each boy must present himself in his clean gown after his bath at my door for inspection of head, ears, neck and feet.

VII
HEROES AND HERO WORSHIP

Saturday Bed-time.

While the boys were scrubbing their rooms after breakfast this morning, Keats sauntered in, saying he had finished his job of cleaning the chicken-yard. I went back, found it anything but clean, and called up to Hen, who was sweeping the back steps, "Tell Keats to come back here and clean this yard better!" He had just passed the word along, "Hi, son, she says for you to come back and lick your calf over!" (I am becoming used to being "she" and "her" on all occasions) when Nucky appeared in the back door, waving excitedly for me. Not knowing what battle, murder or sudden death might be in progress, I flew up the walk. The boys were all hanging out the front door. Nucky shot me through them like a catapult, saying, "Take a look at that 'ere man,—it's Asher Hardwick, from over in Bloody Boyne. He's kilt twenty-four in war, and nine in peace, and wouldn't wipe his foot on Achilles!"

A gray, venerable-looking man was passing down the road on an ambling nag. "That man wouldn't hurt a fly," I said; "you must be mistaken."

"No, I haint,—I've seed him before. Of course he wouldn't hurt nobody less'n he was driv' to it; but the Mohuns just wouldn't give him no peace at all till they was all kilt off,—same as the Cheevers does us."

"But how could he kill nine in peace?" I asked.

"Kilt them just accidental,—they was witless folk that never knowed enough to keep out of his way when he was out after Mohuns. Asher he'd feel terrible about such as that."

To-night as I related more Trojan War, there were frequent interruptions from Nucky (who, during the stories, holds the place at my right hand always) such as, "I can beat that with Asher Hardwick!", "Blant wouldn't have took no such sass from Agamemnon or nobody!", and then would follow stories which did indeed sometimes beat Greeks and Trojans.

Later, he remarked, "If Hector and Achilles and them had a-lived now-a-days, they'd have got song-ballads made up about 'em, same as Asher and Blant. There's four or five about Asher—"

"I know one," interrupted Absalom.

"And there's one about Blant's revengement on the Cheevers when they laywayed him in April,—Basil Beaumont, over on Powderhorn, he made it."

"I know that, too," said Absalom.

"Achilles and Hector," I said, "did have song ballads made up about them, the very tales I am relating to you now; and a great blind poet, named Homer, went about singing them from palace to palace."

"Same as Basil Beaumont," said Nucky; "he don't never do a lick of work,—folks gives him his bed and vittles just to set in the chimley-corner and pick and sing song-ballads."

Geordie had left the room when Absalom spoke; he now returned with a small, homemade banjo—produced, I suppose, from the mysterious locked box he keeps there—and Absalom, tuning it, began to pick and sing an indescribably bloody and doleful song, "The Doom of the Mohuns," which fairly made my blood run cold. This finished, "Blant's Revengement" was demanded and sung, the words of it being as follows:

Blant Marrs he was a fighting boy,
Most handy with his gun.
On Trigger Branch of Powderhorn
His famous deeds were done.

For thirty year' the war it raged
All o'er a strip of bottom.
Sometimes the Marrses triumphed strong,
Again, the Cheevers got 'em.

His paw lamed up, his uncles kilt,
Five year' Blant mourned his land,
Until, good-grown, beside the fence
He took his battle-stand.

Then Ben and Jeems they bit the dust
And perished in their gore,
And many Cheevers his good gun
Felt sharp, and dreaded sore.

Elhannon, Todd and Dalton then
Planned Blant for to layway
All unbeknownst, while travelling
Upon a fair spring day.

Beneath a cliff where Trigger bends
In ambush they lay low.
Oh, Blant, you better say your prayers!
Death lurks at your elbow!

Oh, Blant, I wish you was safe at home;
I think you'll never be;
I would not give a tallow-dip
For all your chance I see!

He comes, he hears a swift lock click,
And, swifter than the wind,
He turns, six barrels emptying
Before they can begin.

Elhannon nevermore will see
The sun rise o'er the peak;
And Todd and Dalt, up from their wounds,
Far, absent countries seek.

During the singing, the other boys cast envious glances in Nucky's direction, and Philip probably voiced the sentiments of all when he exclaimed,

"Dag gone, I wisht I had a big brother as mean as Blant!"

VIII
DRESS, CHIVALRY AND THE TROJAN WAR

Sunday Evening.

When we were ready to start for church this morning, I was surprised to see Nucky halt before me, and eye me frowningly from head to foot. "What makes you allus wear ole ugly clothes?" he inquired. "Haint you got no pretty ones, like t'other women?"

I looked down at my black crêpe de chine,—of course I have worn deep mourning since I lost Mother, and for six years before I had not had on a color. "You don't like it?" I asked.

"I'd as soon look at a coal-bank, or a buzzard," he replied.

It suddenly struck me that the dear ones I have loved and lost would be of much the same opinion. "Wait a minute, boys," I said. I flew back and pulled from my trunk a white dress and some black ribbons laid away a year ago. When I emerged, there was a chorus of pleased "gee-ohs" and a decided accession of friendliness, the boys trying who could be first in helping me over the frightful mudholes between the school and the village. I see my duty clear now,—white dresses instead of black.

Thursday.

Considering the antecedents of Nucky and Killis, I was not surprised when they informed me this morning they would make beds no longer, but would leave unless given men's work all the time. My reply, "But making beds is men's work," was met by incredulous whistles.

"Now, boys," I said, "how about soldiers,—do you call them men?"

"By grab, them's the only men is men,—I'd ruther be dead as not to be one," said Nucky.

"Gee, fighting's the best job there is," agreed Killis.

"Well, soldiers make their beds every single day," I said; "I have a cousin right now at West Point, learning to be a soldier, and when he gets out he will command a whole company, and he makes his bed every morning, and couldn't be a soldier if he didn't."

The two stood, dazed and pondering, for some minutes; then Nucky quietly flung an end of the sheet across to Killis, with the words, "There, son, take-a-holt of that kiver, and le's lay it straight!"

To my great relief, I heard Keats singing a more cheerful song at his work to-day:

Wisht I was a little turkle-dove,
Setting on a limb so high.
I'd take my darling on my knee
And bid this world goodbye!

and at dinner, by actual count, he ate nine corn-dodgers, three helpings of string-beans, four sweet-potatoes and I know not how much sorghum.

He still sits with me in the evenings, and I feel now that I have always known Nervesty and the four small children at home, especially Sammy the baby, not to mention Charlie, the "flea-bit" nag, Ole Suke, the "pied" cow, with her twin sons the steers Buck and Brandy, and her daughter Reddy the heifer (now the proud possessor of a little "pied" calf and a "blind" teat), also the big black sow, Julia, who, true to mountain traditions, never has less than nine in her family, and above all the wonderful dog, Ponto, who appears to be all that a dog can, and more. And not infrequently during these talks Keats is called out to help fight some antagonist of Hen's (though there is often civil war between the brothers, they always combine against outside aggression); and at other times Hen will pause breathless on his swift way through house or yard to corroborate some statement of Keats's with, "Gee, woman, that 'ere's a dandy of a dog! He can do anything but climb a tree, and he gits half-way up them. He rounds up the shoats and drives up Ole Suke and the steers gooder than I can; and possums! groundhogs! polecats! dad burn my looks if he haint the beatenest ever you seed!"

Friday.

I have tried all along to respect Jason's feelings, and give him jobs which would injure neither his pride nor his person. But yesterday while we were spading up a patch for turnip-and-mustard-greens, I forgot and sent him off to the school-yard to pick up trash. An hour later, I heard from a passer-by that he had been seen a mile up Perilous. "Don't you recollect him a-saying he would leave if you give him little-boy jobs?" Geordie reminded me.

"Saddle the nag and hurry after him," I implored Taulbee. Sometime later, he overtook the proud child on his way to Spraddle Creek, and brought him back under protest.

The boys say they see no good reason why they should say "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am." When I told them it was for the sake of politeness, Philip replied, "Polite's a lick-spittle,—I don't aim to be polite,—I don't have to,—I'm able to get what I want without it!"

This last is only too true. "For they shall take who have the power, and they shall keep who can," is the creed of all, but more especially of Philip. This noon, when Iry's father had sent him from Rakeshin a fine, yellow, mellow apple, and the "pure scholar" was eating it as frugally and lingeringly as possible, Philip, came along, snatched it, bit off three-fourths, and coolly handed back the fragment to Iry, who, howling dismally, still had no redress.

"To think you could do such a base thing!" I exclaimed,—"Rob a little boy who cannot defend himself. You ought to be everlastingly ashamed!"

"I was behind the door when shame passed by," replied the robber, flippantly.

"You were indeed," I agreed; "I would not believe that a boy named Philip Sidney could be guilty of such a thing." Then I told him the story of the great Sir Philip, mortally wounded, fevered and athirst, handing the cup of water to the dying soldier beside him, with the words, "Your need is greater than mine."

He pondered a moment, then remarked, "No man'd be such a fool,—I bet it's just a slander they made up on him!"

I told him he should lose three days' playtime for his rapacity.

Sunday Night.

Last night the Trojan War reached a climax in the death of Horse-Taming Hector, amid shouts of joy from Killis, and howls of fury from Nucky. I have seen for two weeks that considerable feeling has developed between the two on the subject, intensifying the natural jealousy each has of the prowess and reputation of the other.

This morning I had left the boys at the big house to help with the breakfast dishes—the regular Sunday proceeding—and was standing in the back cottage door drinking in the beauty of the morning and the Sabbath peace of the hills, when savage yells smote my ears. Following the sound, I ran to the school-yard. When I arrived, Nucky had just buried his teeth in Killis's arm, from which the blood was spurting, while Killis was striking out fiercely with his knife. Around the combatants the other boys formed a delighted, cheering circle, within which Philip danced madly about, shouting,

Fight, dogs, you haint no kin,
'F you kill one another, taint no sin!

In another second, Nucky had abandoned the hold with his teeth, and was flashing his own knife around Killis's throat. With a shinny-stick, I knocked up one knife after the other, and kept death at bay until four of the grown-up boys arrived and with difficulty separated the heroes and escorted them to the hospital to have their wounds staunched and dressed. Later, I heard that Nucky had begun it by leaping upon Killis with the words, "I'll show you Hector haint dead yet!"

To-night when I had the two in durance vile, and talked to them more severely than I had yet done on the evils of fighting, Nucky, the aggressor, gave as his excuse that his great-great-great-grandpaw had fit the British, his great-great-grandpaw the Indians, his great-grandpaw the Mexicans, his grandpaw the Rebels, and his paw and Blant the Cheevers ever since he could recollect, and that he himself was just bound to fight.

This was sound reasoning; and it brought before me with hitherto unrealized force the fact that these boys are in very truth the sons of heroes,—of forefathers who fought gloriously for freedom in the Revolution, afterward subdued the wilderness and the savages, and have since poured forth as one man from their fastnesses to safeguard the Union in every emergency; and that here, forgotten and neglected by an ungrateful state and nation, is the precious stuff of which great patriots and heroes are made.

Therefore I did not upbraid Nucky and Killis further; I merely explained to them the difference between fighting just to be fighting, and fighting to save one's country, and, since they had no idea who the "British," the "Mexicans" and the "Rebels" were, told them something of the history and causes of those wars, and how I hoped that they, too, when necessary, would fight for their nation. And though to them at first their country meant their mountains only, and they were surprised to hear that the great "level land" beyond was also theirs to love and fight for, their affections were hospitable, and with one voice they demanded that an enemy of the nation be produced at once.

Here endeth the Trojan War,—I see that it has fanned a flame already too intense. Even little Jason slipped out under the benches at church this morning, while I played the organ, and was found an hour later out in the road in front of the court-house, covered with mud, but glowing with the white-hot joy of having "whupped-out four-at-a-time" of the little village boys. Hereafter I shall tell and read stories of heroes who won glory by fighting, not one another, but dragons, giants, gorgons, and like destroyers of their countries.

Nucky inquired of me at supper to-night when he might make a visit home to Trigger; whereupon there was an instant and unanimous offer on the part of the boys to accompany him, when he goes, and see the hero Blant. He shook his head. "I haint aiming to take none of you," he said, "not if she'll go 'long with me," looking at me.

"I?" I said, much complimented. "Why, surely I will if I can. But it is three weeks yet before your time comes:"—the children are permitted to go home over week-ends every seven or eight weeks, in rotation. I am glad he wants me, and feel a considerable desire to visit Trigger.

IX
MORE TRADING, AND SOME FAMILY HISTORY

First Monday in September.

Four weeks to-day since I acquired my family of sons, and now it seems as if I had had them always. So far from being ready to leave now my month is out, wild horses could not drag me away. The hours, once so leaden, pass with lightning swiftness; there is never any time for depression, or for looking into a desolate and dreaded future; my days are crammed with human interest, exciting as a dime novel. Besides, although I see no evidence that the boys care much for me, I care a great deal for them, and would not willingly leave them.

Geordie brought back with him from our walk yesterday a large bundle of elder-poles. This morning, mumble-peg went out, and pop-guns came in, like a clap of thunder, and I heard that Geordie was selling lengths of elder to the boys for two cents, or a satisfactory equivalent. It was impossible this afternoon to get manure hauled to the new flower-borders,—every time a barrow would get out of sight, the wheeler would sit down on it and go to whittling a pop-gun. After being scolded a third time, Philip complained bitterly to me,

"If you never wanted us to have pop-guns, whyn't you take them poles away from Geordie yesterday? Dad burn my looks, we git all the blame, and he gits all the gain,—he's a making it hand over fist."

"He was the only one who thought of putting the elder to use," I said. "I suppose he has a right to his gains."

Philip sadly admitted the justice of this view. "Dag gone me," he sighed, "I wisht I was a born trader and forelooker like him! Good thing I haint aiming to be no preacher, I'd starve to death the first week. But Geordie he's cut out for it."

"I'm afraid I don't see the connection between trading and preaching," I said.

"Well, preachers can't take no money for preaching—it would be a sin—and they haint got much time for tending craps and such, and less'n they good traders they mighty apt to starve. Geordie he haint never going to run out of wheat-flour, let alone corn meal. Gee! if you could see the things he's got in that locked box of his!"

"What has he?" I asked.

"Oh, I haint never seed 'em,—nobody haint; but any minute in the day he can run his hand in and pull out something a boy'll think he's pine-blank bound to have or die!"

When I heard to-night that Keats's tooth-brush, Jason's blue necktie I gave him, Hen's fine-comb and pencil, Iry's "gallusses," and Nucky's only handkerchief, were among the articles traded for pop-gun material, I was moved to wrath with Geordie; but when he displayed to me the small and apparently worthless things he had accepted from other boys,—a torn woolen comforter from Taulbee, Killis's holey mittens, Joab's worn-out yarn socks, and a handful of rusty horse-shoe nails from Hosea, it seemed to me that, on the whole, there had not been such exorbitant exchanges for the joy of a pop-gun, and I softened my reprimand.

Thursday.

Mrs. Salyer rode in to-day to see her boys, a watermelon in one saddle-pocket, a lot of fine pawpaws in the other. Oh the joy of the "two homesicks"! Before leaving, she said that her cousin Emmeline's funeral occasion was set for the fourth Saturday and Sunday in October, and she hoped her boys might be permitted to come home at that time and pay their respects to Emmeline, adding that she would be pleased to have me come with them. In answer to my puzzled inquiries—for I failed to see how Emmeline's death could be so nicely calculated in advance—she explained that funerals are never held in this country at the time of burial, when it is usually impossible to get a preacher, but that they are conducted in deliberate and appropriate style a year or two after the death.

This is to be the little Salyers' first visit home—we think it best they shall not go until then—and never, I suppose, was a funeral-occasion the subject of such desire and rejoicing.

Sunday Night.

For two weeks we have been reading Hawthorne's Wonder Tales; and this afternoon on our walk the boys, led by Nucky, searched hopefully in caves, coal-banks and rock-dens for gorgons, minotaurs and dragons, finding nothing worse, however, than a few rattlesnakes and copperheads,—a tame substitute and an old story. But the value of drawing their minds to foes in the abstract is already apparent,—they fight less, and traits other than martial are coming to the front. Nucky has been giving his energies to learning, with results that astonish. His teacher says she has never seen such mental alertness. She has already put him up two grades, and says if he keeps on he may go up another this half-term. Iry, too, is proving his right to his title of "pure scholar."

To-night when we began again on the Wonder Book, Nucky said, "I can tell you a story that beats them,—all about a man by the name of Christian, that fit with devils, and come near being et up by a giant ten times as big as him."