Eben Holden Part 13

'"What!" says he. "'Tain't possible thet leetle cuss uv a trout 's heavier 'n mine."

"Tis sarrin,' I said.

'"Dummed deceivin' business," said he as he hefted 'em both. "Gittin' so ye can't hardly b'lieve the stillyards."'

Chapter 11

The fifth summer was pa.s.sing since we came down Paradise Road--the dog, Uncle Eb and I. Times innumerable I had heard my good old friend tell the story of our coming west until its every incident was familiar to me as the alphabet. Else I fear my youthful memory would have served me poorly for a chronicle of my childhood so exact and so extended as this I have written. Uncle Eb's hair was white now and the voices of the swift and the panther had grown mild and tremulous and unsatisfactory and even absurd. Time had tamed the monsters of that imaginary wilderness and I had begun to lose my respect for them. But one fear had remained with me as I grew older--the fear of the night man. Every boy and girl in the valley trembled at the mention of him. Many a time I had held awake in the late evening to hear the men talk of him before they went asleep--Uncle Eb and Tip Taylor. I remember a night when Tip said, in a low awesome tone, that he was a ghost. The word carried into my soul the first thought of its great and fearful mystery.

'Years and years ago,' said he, 'there was a boy by the name of Nehemiah Brower. An' he killed another boy, once, by accident an' run away an'

was drownded.'

'Drownded!' said Uncle Eb. 'How?'

'In the ocean,' the first answered gaping. 'Went away off 'round the world an' they got a letter that said he was drownded on his way to Van Dieman's Land.'

'To Van Dieman's Land!'

'Yes, an some say the night man is the ghost o' the one he killed.'

I remember waking that night and hearing excited whispers at the window near my bed. It was very dark in the room and at first I could not tell who was there.

'Don't you see him?' Tip whispered.

'Where?' I heard Uncle Be ask

'Under the pine trees--see him move.'

At that I was up at the window myself and could plainly see the dark figure of a man standing under the little pine below us.

'The night man, I guess,' said Uncle Be, 'but he won't do no harm. Let him alone; he's going' away now.'

We saw him disappear behind the trees and then we got back into our beds again. I covered my head with the bedclothes and said a small prayer for the poor night man.

And in this atmosphere of mystery and adventure, among the plain folk of Faraway, whose care of me when I was in great need, and whose love of me always, I count among the priceless treasures of G.o.d's providence, my childhood pa.s.sed. And the day came near when I was to begin to play my poor part in the world.

BOOK TWO

Chapter 12

It was a time of new things--that winter when I saw the end of my fifteenth year. Then I began to enjoy the finer humours of life in Faraway--to see with understanding; and by G.o.d's grace--to feel.

The land of play and fear and fable was now far behind me and I had begun to feel the infinite in the ancient forest' in the everlasting hills, in the deep of heaven, in all the ways of men. Hope Brower was now near woman grown. She had a beauty of face and form that was the talk of the countryside. I have travelled far and seen many a fair face hut never one more to my eye. I have heard men say she was like a girl out of a story-book those days.

Late years something had come between us. Long ago we had fallen out of each other's confidence, and ever since she had seemed to shun me. It was the trip in the sledgehouse that' years after, came up between us and broke our childish intimacy. Uncle Be had told, before company, how she had kissed me that day and bespoke me for a husband, and while the others laughed loudly she had gone out of the room crying. She would have little to say to me then. I began to play with boys and she with girls. And it made me miserable to hear the boys a bit older than I gossip of her beauty and accuse each other of the sweet disgrace of love.

But I must hasten to those events in Faraway that shaped our destinies.

And first comes that memorable night when I had the privilege of escorting Hope to the school lyceum where the argument of Jed Feary--poet of the hills--fired my soul with an ambition that has remained with me always.

Uncle Be suggested that I ask Hope to go with me.

'Prance right up to her,' he said, 'an' say you'd be glad of the pleasure of her company.

It seemed to me a very dubious thing to do. I looked thoughtful and turned red in the face.

'Young man,' he continued, 'the boy thet's 'fraid o' women'll never hev whiskers.'

'How's that?' I enquired.

'Be scairt t' death,' he answered,' 'fore they've hed time t' start Ye want t' step right up t' the rack jes' if ye'd bought an' paid fer yerself an' was proud o' yer bargain.'

I took his advice and when I found Hope alone in the parlour I came and asked her, very awkwardly as I now remember, to go with me.

She looked at me, blus.h.i.+ng, and said she would ask her mother.

And she did, and we walked to the schoolhouse together that evening, her hand holding my arm, timidly, the most serious pair that ever struggled with the problem of deportment on such an occasion. I was oppressed with a heavy sense of responsibility in every word I uttered.

Ann Jane Foster, known as 'Scooter Jane', for her rapid walk and stiff carriage, met us at the corners on her way to the schoolhouse.

'Big turn out I guess,' said she. 'Jed Feary 'n' Squire Town is comin'

over from Jingleville an' all the big guns'll be there. I love t' hear Jed Feary speak, he's so techin'.'

Ann Jane was always looking around for some event likely to touch her feelings. She went to every funeral in Faraway and, when sorrow was scarce in her own vicinity, journeyed far in quest of it.

'Wouldn't wonder 'f the fur flew when they git t' going',' she remarked, and then hurried on, her head erect, her body motionless, her legs flying. Such energy as she gave to the pursuit of mourning I have never seen equalled in any other form of dissipation.

The schoolhouse was nearly full of people when we came in. The big boys were wrestling in the yard; men were lounging on the rude seats, inside, idly discussing crops and cattle and lapsing into silence, frequently, that bore the signs both of expectancy and reflection. Young men and young women sat together on one side of the house whispering and giggling. Alone among them was the big and eccentric granddaughter of Mrs Bisnette, who was always slapping some youngster for impertinence.

Jed Feary and Squire Town sat together behind a pile of books, both looking very serious. The long hair and beard of the old poet were now white and his form bent with age. He came over and spoke to us and took a curl of Hope's hair in his stiffened fingers and held it to the lamplight.

'What silky gold!' he whispered.' 'S a skein o' fate, my dear girl!'

Suddenly the schoolteacher rapped on the desk and bade us come to order and Ransom Walker was called to the chair.

'Thet there is talent in Faraway towns.h.i.+p,' he said, having reluctantly come to the platform, 'and talent of the very highest order, no one can deny who has ever attended a lyceum at the Howard schoolhouse. I see evidences of talent in every face before me. And I wish to ask what are the two great talents of the Yankee--talents that made our forefathers famous the world over? I pause for an answer.'

He had once been a schoolmaster and that accounted for his didactic style.

'What are the two great talents of the Yankee?' he repeated, his hands clasped before him.

'Doughnuts an' pie,' said Uncle Be who sat in a far corner.

'No sir,' Mr Walker answered, 'there's some hev a talent fer sawin'