The Carter Girls' Week-End Camp Part 23

Whether the old gentleman were a king or not, he could certainly cook a supper to a king's taste. Skeeter's nostrils were quivering with antic.i.p.atory enjoyment as the lost ones took their seats around the ma.s.sive table in the comfortable living room.

"It looks like a room I saw at the movies last spring," Frank had said to Skeeter, as they waited for the girls to finish dolling up. "That one had a stone fireplace and furniture that looked just like this, great big tables and chairs that must have been made out of solid oak or walnut or something. The hero had fas.h.i.+oned them himself with a jack-knife, I believe. The mantelpiece was high just like this one, but there were skins spread on the floor instead of these rag rugs."

"It is a bully room, and, gee, what a good smell of eats."

The supper was a simple one, consisting of corn pone and b.u.t.termilk, bacon and scrambled eggs.

"I am giving you exactly what Tom t.i.t and I were to have. I only tripled the quant.i.ty," said their host, as they drew up the chairs to the great table.

"Then we aren't so very much trouble?" asked Lil.

"Trouble! Why, my dear young lady, Tom t.i.t and I would not live on this thoroughfare if we did not love visitors."

"Thoroughfare!" gasped Lucy. Maybe the old gentleman was daffy.

"Why, certainly! You don't know how many things happen in the mountains.

Someone is always turning up. Eh, Tom t.i.t?"

"Yes, indeed! We uns finds something every day. One time it was a baby fox and one time it was a man in ugly striped pants."

"He means our convict. It was a poor fellow who had escaped from a road gang and took refuge in the mountains and Tom t.i.t found him almost starved to death. We fed him up until he could go back to work."

"You didn't give him up!" asked Frank, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng.

"Oh, no; he gave himself up. I got him to tell me just exactly why he was put in the penitentiary, and since his crime surely warranted some punishment, I made him understand that the best thing for him to do was go back to his road making and expiate his crime. That was much better than being hounded for the rest of his time. What do you think about it?"

"Y-e-s, you are right, but I'm glad you didn't give him up."

"Tom t.i.t and I go see him every now and then. Tom t.i.t feels sorry for him because his trousers are so ugly. He likes to work and wouldn't mind road-building a bit."

"When we uns digs, we uns finds so many things, but we uns couldn't wear such ugly pants. Sometime we uns is a-goin' to make the poor sick man some pretty pink ones like these," and he stood up to show his bright pink trousers. They were strangely fas.h.i.+oned, looking rather like Turkish trousers.

"Was the man sick?" asked Lucy, devoutly praying that a fit of the giggles would not choke her.

"You see, Tom t.i.t and I think that when persons are what the world and the law calls bad, they are really sick. Sometimes they are too sick to be cured, but not often. It is the fault of the doctors and the system and not theirs when they are not cured."

"Do you live here all the time?" asked Lil. She was dying of curiosity about the strange pair who were so ill a.s.sorted and still so intimate.

"Tom t.i.t does, but I have to go away for a time every fall and winter and Tom t.i.t keeps house for me while I am gone. He is a famous housekeeper."

"Do you get lonesome all by yourself?" asked Lucy.

"We uns ain't never alone. There's the baby fox and the cow and the chickens, and every day we uns tries to find something and then we uns has to write it down for the spring-keeper 'ginst he comes home. Every day we uns has to go to the post office for the letter, too, and that takes time. The days in winter are so short."

"Oh, do you get a letter every day? How jolly! My mother doesn't write to me but once a week," said Lil, "--although of course she 'phones me in the meantime and sends me candy and things."

"We uns never does git letters from maw," and poor Tom t.i.t's eyes clouded sadly. "Ever since the men came and found her and hid her in that hole she ain't writ a line to poor Tom t.i.t."

"But you write to her every time you write to me, don't you, Tom t.i.t?"

and the old gentleman put a calming and kindly hand on the shoulder of the trembling youth. It seemed that at every mention of mothers the thought of his own mother came back to him and the agony he went through with at the time of her death seized hold of him. The young people learned later from their host, while Tom t.i.t was was.h.i.+ng the supper dishes, all about the poor boy's history.

"Tom t.i.t's mother was a very fine woman of an intelligence and character that was remarkable even in these mountains where intelligence and character are the rule rather than the exception. She had no education, but the things she could accomplish without education were enough to make the ones who have been educated blush to think how little they do with it. She had evolved a philosophy of her own of such goodness and serenity that to know her and talk with her was a privilege. She seemed to me to be like these mountains, where she was born and where she died. She had had trouble enough to break the spirit of any ordinary mortal, but she said her spirit was eternal and could not be broken.

"Her husband was a very desperate character. Convicted of illicit distilling, he was sentenced to serve a term in the penitentiary, but he managed to escape and for one whole year he evaded the sheriff, hiding in the mountains. Of course his wife had to go through the agony of this long search. She told me she had never slept more than an hour at a time while her husband was in hiding. That was the one thing she was bitter over--that long hounding of her husband. She used to say if the government had spent the money and energy in educating the mountaineers that they had in hunting for them, there would have been no cause for hunting for them. Moons.h.i.+ning is to them a perfectly reasonable and lawful industry, and nothing but education can make them see it differently. His hiding place was finally ferreted out and he was surrounded and captured, but not before he had managed to shoot five men, killing two of them and being fatally wounded himself.

"That was many years ago when Tom t.i.t was a little chap of three.

Melissa, the mother, was wrapped up in the child. His intelligence then was keen and his love of Nature and beautiful things was so p.r.o.nounced from the beginning that if this cloud had not come over his intellect he would surely have been a great artist of some kind, whether poet, painter or musician, I can't say."

"Perhaps all of them, like Leonardo da Vinci!" exclaimed Lil, who always did know things.

The old gentleman smiled at her appreciatively.

"What is an artist but a person who finds things, just like my poor Tom t.i.t, and then is able to tell to the world what he has found?"

"When he writes to you, does he tell you things in poetical language?"

asked Lucy, her gray eyes very teary as she listened to the story of the mountain youth.

"My dear, his writing is not ordinary writing. He can neither read nor write as you think of it. His letters to me are written in another way.

He tells me what he has found each day with some kind of rude drawing or with some device of his own."

"Please show us some of them!" begged all four of the guests.

"I am going to let you guess what he meant." He took from his desk in the corner a packet of large envelopes. "I leave with my friend enough addressed and stamped envelopes to run him until I return, and all he has to do is put in his letter and seal it and drop it in the box at Bear Hollow, our post office. Sometimes he draws me a picture and sometimes he just sends me something he has found. What do you think he intended to convey by this?"

On a sheet of paper were drawn many stars of various kinds and sizes, and down in the corner was what was certainly meant for an axe.

"Clear night and going c.o.o.n hunting, I think," said Skeeter solemnly.

"No!" cried Lucy and Lil in a breath. "Those are meant for snow flakes!

It has begun to snow!"

"Right you are! Good girls, go up head! And how about the axe, since it is not meant to signify c.o.o.n hunting?"

"It is going to be cold," suggested the practical Frank, "and he must go to work and lay in wood before the snow gets deep."

"Fine! I am glad to see there are others who can interpret my poor Tom t.i.t's letters. Now this is the one I received the next day."

It was evidently meant for a deep snow. The roof of a house and a few bare branches were shown but from the chimney a column of smoke ascended and in that smoke was plainly drawn a grin: a mouth with teeth.

"Snowed under!" cried Skeeter.

"But he got his wood cut and is now sitting by the fire quite happy, even grinning," declared Lucy.

"Right again! Now comes a piece of holly and a pressed violet. That means that he finds a little belated violet in our flower beds in spite of the fact that the holly is king at this season. Sometimes he has so much to tell me that he must make many pictures. Here he found a sunset and it was so beautiful that he had to paint it with his colored crayons. This is where he fed the birds during the deep snow. He has a trough where he puts grain and seeds and crumbs for his winged friends.

This is a picture of the trough and see the flocks of birds he has tried to draw to show how many are fed in his trough. This means a stranger has come in on him!" It was a picture of a hat and staff and down one side of the page were many drops of water, at least that was what the interested audience thought they were. At the top was an eye.

"Oh, I know!" exclaimed Lil. "If a hat and staff mean a stranger, those drops of water must mean rain."

"The eye looks like a Mormon sign," suggested Skeeter.