[Illustration:]

 AUNT JANE

 OF KENTUCKY

 BY ELIZA CALVERT HALL

 Author of "The Land of Long Ago. "

 WITH FRONTISPIECE AND PAGE DECORATIONS

 BY BEULAH STRONG

 A. L. BURT COMPANY

 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

 COPYRIGHT, 1898, 1899, 1900, BY JOHN BRISBANE WALKER. 

 COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY COSMOPOLITAN PUBLISHING COMPANY. 

 COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 

 * * * * *

TO

MY MOTHER AND FATHER

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

 * * * * *

CHAPTERS

 PAGE I. SALLY ANN'S EXPERIENCE 1

 II. THE NEW ORGAN 29

 III. AUNT JANE'S ALBUM 53

 IV. "SWEET DAY OF REST" 83

 V. MILLY BAKER'S BOY 105

 VI. THE BAPTIZING AT KITTLE CREEK 141

 VII. HOW SAM AMOS RODE IN THE TOURNAMENT 169

VIII. MARY ANDREWS' DINNER-PARTY 193

 IX. THE GARDENS OF MEMORY 247

 * * * * *

 "There is not an existence about us but at first seems colorless, dreary, lethargic: what can our soul have in common with that of an elderly spinster, a slow-witted plowman, a miser who worships his gold?. .. But . .. The emotion that lived and died in an old-fashioned country parlor shall as mightily stir our heart, shall as unerringly find its way to the deepest sources of life as the majestic passion that ruled the life of a king and shed its triumphant luster from the dazzling height of a throne. "--_Maeterlinck_. 

 * * * * *

I

SALLY ANN'S EXPERIENCE

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"Come right in and set down. I was jest wishin' I had somebody to talkto. Take that chair right by the door so's you can get the breeze. "

And Aunt Jane beamed at me over her silver-rimmed spectacles andhitched her own chair a little to one side, in order to give me thefull benefit of the wind that was blowing softly through thewhite-curtained window, and carrying into the room the heavenliestodors from a field of clover that lay in full bloom just across theroad. For it was June in Kentucky, and clover and blue-grass wererunning sweet riot over the face of the earth. 

Aunt Jane and her room together always carried me back to a dead andgone generation. There was a rag carpet on the floor, of the"hit-or-miss" pattern; the chairs were ancient Shaker rockers, somewith homely "shuck" bottoms, and each had a tidy of snowy thread orcrochet cotton fastened primly over the back. The high bed and bureauand a shining mahogany table suggested an era of "plain living" far, far remote from the day of Turkish rugs and Japanese bric-a-brac, andAunt Jane was in perfect correspondence with her environment. She worea purple calico dress, rather short and scant; a gingham apron, with acapacious pocket, in which she always carried knitting or some other"handy work"; a white handkerchief was laid primly around the wrinkledthroat and fastened with a pin containing a lock of gray hair; her capwas of black lace and lutestring ribbon, not one of the butterflyaffairs that perch on the top of the puffs and frizzes of the modernold lady, but a substantial structure that covered her whole head andwas tied securely under her chin. She talked in a sweet old treblewith a little lisp, caused by the absence of teeth, and her laugh wasas clear and joyous as a young girl's. 

"Yes, I'm a-piecin' quilts again, " she said, snipping away at the bitsof calico in her lap. "I did say I was done with that sort o' work;but this mornin' I was rummagin' around up in the garret, and I comeacross this bundle of pieces, and thinks I, 'I reckon it's intendedfor me to piece one more quilt before I die;' I must 'a' put 'em therethirty years ago and clean forgot 'em, and I've been settin' here allthe evenin' cuttin' 'em and thinkin' about old times. 

"Jest feel o' that, " she continued, tossing some scraps into my lap. "There ain't any such caliker nowadays. This ain't your five-centstuff that fades in the first washin' and wears out in the second. Acaliker dress was somethin' worth buyin' and worth makin' up in themdays. That blue-flowered piece was a dress I got the spring beforeAbram died. When I put on mournin' it was as good as new, and I giveit to sister Mary. That one with the green ground and white figger wasmy niece Rebecca's. She wore it for the first time to the County Fairthe year I took the premium on my salt-risin' bread and sponge cake. This black-an'-white piece Sally Ann Flint give me. I ricollect 'twasin blackberry time, and I'd been out in the big pasture pickin' somefor supper, and I stopped in at Sally Ann's for a drink o' water on myway back. She was cuttin' out this dress. "

Aunt Jane broke off with a little soprano laugh. 

"Did I ever tell you about Sally Ann's experience?" she said, as shelaid two three-cornered pieces together and began to sew with herslender, nervous old fingers. 

To find Aunt Jane alone and in a reminiscent mood! This wasdelightful. 

"Do tell me, " I said. 

Aunt Jane was silent for a few moments. She always made this pausebefore beginning a story, and there was something impressive about it. I used to think she was making an invocation to the goddess of Memory. 

"'Twas forty years ago, " she began musingly, "and the way of it wasthis. Our church was considerably out o' fix. It needed a new roof. Some o' the winder lights was out, and the floor was as bare as yourhand, and always had been. The men folks managed to git the roofshingled and the winders fixed, and us women in the Mite Societyconcluded we'd git a cyarpet. We'd been savin' up our money for sometime, and we had about twelve dollars. I ricollect what a argument wehad, for some of us wanted the cyarpet, and some wanted to give it tofurrin missions, as we'd set out to do at first. Sally Ann was the onethat settled it. She says at last--Sally Ann was in favor of thecyarpet--she says, 'Well, if any of the heathen fails to hear thegospel on account of our gittin' this cyarpet, they'll be savedanyhow, so Parson Page says. And if we send the money and they do hearthe gospel, like as not they won't repent, and then they're certain tobe damned. And it seems to me as long as we ain't sure what they'lldo, we might as well keep the money and git the cyarpet. I never didsee much sense anyhow, ' says she, 'in givin' people a chance to damntheirselves. '

"Well, we decided to take Sally Ann's advice, and we was talkin' aboutapp'intin' a committee to go to town the follerin' Monday and pick outthe cyarpet, when all at once 'Lizabeth Taylor--she was ourtreasurer--she spoke up, and says she, 'There ain't any use app'intin'that committee. The money's gone, ' she says, sort o' short and quick. 'I kept it in my top bureau drawer, and when I went for it yesterday, it was gone. I'll pay it back if I'm ever able, but I ain't able now. 'And with that she got up and walked out o' the room, before any onecould say a word, and we seen her goin' down the road lookin' straightbefore her and walkin' right fast. 

"And we--we set there and stared at each other in a sort o' dazed way. I could see that everybody was thinkin' the same thing, but nobodysaid a word, till our minister's wife--she was as good a woman as everlived--she says, '_Judge not_. '

"Them two words was jest like a sermon to us. Then Sally Ann spoke upand says: 'For the Lord's sake, don't let the men folks know anythingabout this. They're always sayin' that women ain't fit to handlemoney, and I for one don't want to give 'em any more ground to standon than they've already got. '

"So we agreed to say nothin' about it, and all of us kept our promiseexcept Milly Amos. She had mighty little sense to begin with, andhavin' been married only about two months, she'd about lost thatlittle. So next mornin' I happened to meet Sam Amos, and he says tome, 'Aunt Jane, how much money have you women got to'rds the newcyarpet for the church?' I looked him square in the face, and I says, 'Are you a member of the Ladies' Mite Society of Goshen church, SamAmos? For if you are, you already know how much money we've got, andif you ain't, you've got no business knowin'. And, furthermore, ' saysI, 'there's some women that can't keep a secret and a promise, andsome that can, and _I_ can. ' And that settled _him_. 

"Well, 'Lizabeth never showed her face outside her door for more'n amonth afterwards, and a more pitiful-lookin' creatur' you never sawthan she was when she come out to prayer-meetin' the night Sally Anngive her experience. She set 'way back in the church, and she was aspale and peaked as if she had been through a siege of typhoid. Iricollect it all as if it had been yesterday. We sung 'Sweet Hour ofPrayer, ' and Parson Page prayed, and then called on the brethren tosay anything they might feel called on to say concernin' theirexperience in the past week. Old Uncle Jim Matthews begun to clear histhroat, and I knew, as well as I knew my name, he was fixin' to git upand tell how precious the Lord had been to his soul, jest like he'dbeen doin' every Wednesday night for twenty years. But before he gotstarted, here come 'Lizabeth walkin' down the side aisle and stoppedright in front o' the pulpit. 

"'I've somethin' to say, ' she says. 'It's been on my mind till I can'tstand it any longer. I've got to tell it, or I'll go crazy. It was methat took that cyarpet money. I only meant to borrow it. I thoughtsure I'd be able to pay it back before it was wanted. But things wentwrong, and I ain't known a peaceful minute since, and never shallagain, I reckon. I took it to pay my way up to Louisville, the time Igot the news that Mary was dyin'. '

"Mary was her daughter by her first husband, you see. 'I begged Jacobto give me the money to go on, ' says she, 'and he wouldn't do it. Itried to give up and stay, but I jest couldn't. Mary was all I had inthe world; and maybe you that has children can put yourself in myplace, and know what it would be to hear your only child callin' toyou from her death-bed, and you not able to go to her. I asked Jacobthree times for the money, ' she says, 'and when I found he wouldn'tgive it to me, I said to myself, "I'm goin' anyhow. " I got down on myknees, ' says she, 'and asked the Lord to show me a way, and I feltsure he would. As soon as Jacob had eat his breakfast and gone out onthe farm, I dressed myself, and as I opened the top bureau drawer toget out my best collar, I saw the missionary money. It come rightinto my head, ' says she, 'that maybe this was the answer to my prayer;maybe I could borrow this money, and pay it back some way or otherbefore it was called for. I tried to put it out o' my head, but thethought kept comin' back; and when I went down into the sittin'-roomto get Jacob's cyarpetbag to carry a few things in, I happened to lookup at the mantelpiece and saw the brass candlesticks with prisms all'round 'em that used to belong to my mother; and all at once I seemedto see jest what the Lord intended for me to do. 

"'You know, ' she says, 'I had a boarder summer before last--that ladyfrom Louisville--and she wanted them candlesticks the worst kind, andoffered me fifteen dollars for 'em. I wouldn't part with 'em then, butshe said if ever I wanted to sell 'em, to let her know, and she lefther name and address on a cyard. I went to the big Bible and got outthe cyard, and I packed the candlesticks in the cyarpetbag, and put onmy bonnet. When I opened the door I looked up the road, and the firstthing I saw was Dave Crawford comin' along in his new buggy. I wentout to the gate, and he drew up and asked me if I was goin' to town, and said he'd take me. It looked like the Lord was leadin' me all thetime, ' says she, 'but the way things turned out it must 'a' beenSatan. I got to Mary just two hours before she died, and she looked upin my face and says, "Mother, I knew God wouldn't let me die till I'dseen you once more. "'"

Here Aunt Jane took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. 

"I can't tell this without cryin' to save my life, " said she; "but'Lizabeth never shed a tear. She looked like she'd got past cryin', and she talked straight on as if she'd made up her mind to say jest somuch, and she'd die if she didn't git to say it. "

"'As soon as the funeral was over, ' says she, 'I set out to find thelady that wanted the candlesticks. She wasn't at home, but her niecewas there, and said she'd heard her aunt speak of the candlesticksoften; and she'd be home in a few days and would send me the moneyright off. I come home thinkin' it was all right, and I kept expectin'the money every day, but it never come till day before yesterday. Iwrote three times about it, but I never got a word from her tillMonday. She had just got home, she said, and hoped I hadn't beeninconvenienced by the delay. She wrote a nice, polite letter and sentme a check for fifteen dollars, and here it is. I wanted to confessit all that day at the Mite Society, but somehow I couldn't till I hadthe money right in my hand to pay back. If the lady had only come backwhen her niece said she was comin', it would all have turned outright, but I reckon it's a judgment on me for meddling with the Lord'smoney. God only knows what I've suffered, ' says she, 'but if I had todo it over again, I believe I'd do it. Mary was all the child I had inthe world, and I had to see her once more before she died. I've been amember of this church for twenty years, ' says she, 'but I reckonyou'll have to turn me out now. '

"The pore thing stood there tremblin' and holdin' out the check as ifshe expected somebody to come and take it. Old Silas Petty wasglowerin' at her from under his eyebrows, and it put me in mind of thePharisees and the woman they wanted to stone, and I ricollectthinkin', 'Oh, if the Lord Jesus would jest come in and take herpart!' And while we all set there like a passel o' mutes, Sally Anngot up and marched down the middle aisle and stood right by 'Lizabeth. You know what funny thoughts people will have sometimes. 

"Well, I felt so relieved. It popped into my head all at once that wedidn't need the Lord after all, Sally Ann would do jest as well. Itseemed sort o' like sacrilege, but I couldn't help it. 

"Well, Sally Ann looked all around as composed as you please, and saysshe, 'I reckon if anybody's turned out o' this church on account o'that miserable little money, it'll be Jacob and not 'Lizabeth. A manthat won't give his wife money to go to her dyin' child is too mean tostay in a Christian church anyhow; and I'd like to know how it is thata woman, that had eight hundred dollars when she married, has to go toher husband and git down on her knees and beg for what's her own. Where's that money 'Lizabeth had when she married you?' says she, turnin' round and lookin' Jacob in the face. 'Down in that ten-acremedder lot, ain't it?--and in that new barn you built last spring. Apretty elder you are, ain't you? Elders don't seem to have improvedmuch since Susannah's times. If there ain't one sort o' meanness in'em it's another, ' says she. 

"Goodness knows what she would 'a' said, but jest here old DeaconPetty rose up. And says he, 'Brethren, '--and he spread his arms outand waved 'em up and down like he was goin' to pray, --'brethren, thisis awful! If this woman wants to give her religious experience, why, 'says he, very kind and condescendin', 'of course she can do so. Butwhen it comes to a _woman_ standin' up in the house of the Lord andrevilin' an elder as this woman is doin', why, I tremble, ' says he, 'for the church of Christ. For don't the Apostle Paul say, "Let yourwomen keep silence in the church"?'

"As soon as he named the 'Postle Paul, Sally Ann give a kind of snort. Sally Ann was terrible free-spoken. And when Deacon Petty said that, she jest squared herself like she intended to stand there tilljudgment day, and says she, 'The 'Postle Paul has been dead ruther toolong for me to be afraid of him. And I never heard of him app'intin'Deacon Petty to represent him in this church. If the 'Postle Pauldon't like what I'm sayin', let him rise up from his grave inCorinthians or Ephesians, or wherever he's buried, and say so. I'vegot a message from the Lord to the men folks of this church, and I'mgoin' to deliver it, Paul or no Paul, ' says she. 'And as for you, Silas Petty, I ain't forgot the time I dropped in to see Maria oneSaturday night and found her washin' out her flannel petticoat anddryin' it before the fire. And every time I've had to hear you lead inprayer since then I've said to myself, "Lord, how high can a man'sprayers rise toward heaven when his wife ain't got but one flannelskirt to her name? No higher than the back of his pew, if you'll letme tell it. " I knew jest how it was, ' said Sally Ann, 'as well as ifMaria'd told me. She'd been havin' the milk and butter money from theold roan cow she'd raised from a little heifer, and jest because feedwas scarce, you'd sold her off before Maria had money enough to buyher winter flannels. I can give my experience, can I? Well, that'sjest what I'm a-doin', ' says she; 'and while I'm about it, ' says she, 'I'll give in some experience for 'Lizabeth and Maria and the rest ofthe women who, betwixt their husbands an' the 'Postle Paul, have aboutlost all the gumption and grit that the Lord started them out with. Ifthe 'Postle Paul, ' says she, 'has got anything to say about a womanworkin' like a slave for twenty-five years and then havin' to set upan' wash out her clothes Saturday night, so's she can go to churchclean Sunday mornin', I'd like to hear it. But don't you dare to sayanything to me about keepin' silence in the church. There was timeswhen Paul says he didn't know whether he had the Spirit of God or not, and I'm certain that when he wrote that text he wasn't any moreinspired than you are, Silas Petty, when you tell Maria to shut hermouth. '

"Job Taylor was settin' right in front of Deacon Petty, and I reckonhe thought his time was comin' next; so he gets up, easy-like, withhis red bandanna to his mouth, and starts out. But Sally Ann headedhim off before he'd gone six steps, and says she, 'There ain'tanything the matter with you, Job Taylor; you set right down and hearwhat I've got to say. I've knelt and stood through enough o' yourlong-winded prayers, and now it's my time to talk and yours tolisten. '

"And bless your life, if Job didn't set down as meek as Moses, andSally Ann lit right into him. And says she, 'I reckon you're afraidI'll tell some o' your meanness, ain't you? And the only thing thatstands in my way is that there's so much to tell I don't know where tobegin. There ain't a woman in this church, ' says she, 'that don't knowhow Marthy scrimped and worked and saved to buy her a new set o'furniture, and how you took the money with you when you went toCincinnata, the spring before she died, and come back without thefurniture. And when she asked you for the money, you told her that sheand everything she had belonged to you, and that your mother's oldfurniture was good enough for anybody. It's my belief, ' says she, 'that's what killed Marthy. Women are dyin' every day, and thedoctors will tell you it's some new-fangled disease or other, when, ifthe truth was known, it's nothin' but wantin' somethin' they can'tgit, and hopin' and waitin' for somethin' that never comes. I'vewatched 'em, and I know. The night before Marthy died she says to me, "Sally Ann, " says she, "I could die a heap peacefuler if I jest knewthe front room was fixed up right with a new set of furniture for thefuneral. "' And Sally Ann p'inted her finger right at Job and says she, 'I said it then, and I say it now to your face, Job Taylor, you killedMarthy the same as if you'd taken her by the throat and choked thelife out of her. '

"Mary Embry, Job's sister-in-law, was settin' right behind me, and Iheard her say, 'Amen!' as fervent as if somebody had been prayin'. Jobset there, lookin' like a sheep-killin' dog, and Sally Ann went righton. 'I know, ' says she, 'the law gives you the right to your wives'earnin's and everything they've got, down to the clothes on theirbacks; and I've always said there was some Kentucky law that was madefor the express purpose of encouragin' men in their naturalmeanness, --a p'int in which the Lord knows they don't need noencouragin'. There's some men, ' says she, 'that'll sneak behind the'Postle Paul when they're plannin' any meanness against their wives, and some that runs to the law, and you're one of the law kind. Butmark my words, ' says she, 'one of these days, you men who've beenstealin' your wives' property and defraudin' 'em, and cheatin' 'em outo' their just dues, you'll have to stand before a Judge that caresmighty little for Kentucky law; and all the law and all the Scriptureyou can bring up won't save you from goin' where the rich man went. '

"I can see Sally Ann right now, " and Aunt Jane pushed her glasses upon her forehead, and looked with a dreamy, retrospective gaze throughthe doorway and beyond, where swaying elms and maples were whisperingsoftly to each other as the breeze touched them. "She had on her oldblack poke-bonnet and some black yarn mitts, and she didn't come nighup to Job's shoulder, but Job set and listened as if he jest _had to_. I heard Dave Crawford shufflin' his feet and clearin' his throat whileSally Ann was talkin' to Job. Dave's farm j'ined Sally Ann's, and theyhad a lawsuit once about the way a fence ought to run, and Sally Annbeat him. He always despised Sally Ann after that, and used to callher a 'he-woman. ' Sally Ann heard the shufflin', and as soon as shegot through with Job, she turned around to Dave, and says she: 'Do youthink your hemmin' and scrapin' is goin' to stop me, Dave Crawford?You're one o' the men that makes me think that it's better to be aKentucky horse than a Kentucky woman. Many's the time, ' says she, 'I've seen pore July with her head tied up, crawlin' around tryin' tocook for sixteen harvest hands, and you out in the stable cossetin' upa sick mare, and rubbin' down your three-year-olds to get 'em in trimfor the fair. Of all the things that's hard to understand, ' says she, 'the hardest is a man that has more mercy on his horse than he has onhis wife. July's found rest at last, ' says she, 'out in the graveyard;and every time I pass your house I thank the Lord that you've got topay a good price for your cookin' now, as there ain't a woman in thecountry fool enough to step into July's shoes. '

"But, la!" said Aunt Jane, breaking off with her happy laugh, --thelaugh of one who revels in rich memories, --"what's the use of metellin' all this stuff? The long and the short of it is, that SallyAnn had her say about nearly every man in the church. She told howMary Embry had to cut up her weddin' skirts to make clothes for herfirst baby; and how John Martin stopped Hannah one day when she wascarryin' her mother a pound of butter, and made her go back and putthe butter down in the cellar; and how Lije Davison used to make Annpay him for every bit of chicken feed, and then take half the eggmoney because the chickens got into his garden; and how Abner Pagegive his wife twenty-five cents for spendin' money the time she wentto visit her sister. 

"Sally Ann always was a masterful sort of woman, and that night itseemed like she was possessed. The way she talked made me think of theDay of Pentecost and the gift of tongues. And finally she got to theminister! I'd been wonderin' all along if she was goin' to let himoff. She turned around to where he was settin' under the pulpit, andsays she, 'Brother Page, you're a good man, but you ain't so good youcouldn't be better. It was jest last week, ' says she, 'that the womencome around beggin' money to buy you a new suit of clothes to go toPresbytery in; and I told 'em if it was to get Mis' Page a new dress, I was ready to give; but not a dime was I goin' to give towardsputtin' finery on a man's back. I'm tired o' seein' the ministerswalk up into the pulpit in their slick black broadcloths, and theirwives settin' down in the pew in an old black silk that's been turnedupside down, wrong side out, and hind part before, and sponged, andpressed, and made over till you can't tell whether it's silk, orcaliker, or what. '

"Well, I reckon there was some o' the women that expected the roof tofall down on us when Sally Ann said that right to the minister. But itdidn't fall, and Sally Ann went straight on. 'And when it comes to theperseverance of the saints and the decrees of God, ' says she, 'thereain't many can preach a better sermon; but there's some of yoursermons, ' says she, 'that ain't fit for much but kindlin' fires. There's that one you preached last Sunday on the twenty-fourth verseof the fifth chapter of Ephesians. I reckon I've heard about a hundredand fifty sermons on that text, and I reckon I'll keep on hearin' 'emas long as there ain't anybody but men to do the preachin'. Anybodywould think, ' says she, 'that you preachers was struck blind everytime you git through with the twenty-fourth verse, for I never heard asermon on the twenty-fifth verse. I believe there's men in this churchthat thinks the fifth chapter of Ephesians hasn't got but twenty-fourverses, and I'm goin' to read the rest of it to 'em for once anyhow. '

"And if Sally Ann didn't walk right up into the pulpit same as ifshe'd been ordained, and read what Paul said about men lovin' theirwives as Christ loved the church, and as they loved their own bodies. 

"'Now, ' says she, 'if Brother Page can reconcile these texts with whatPaul says about women submittin' and bein' subject, he's welcome to doit. But, ' says she, 'if I had the preachin' to do, I wouldn't wastetime reconcilin'. I'd jest say that when Paul told women to be subjectto their husbands in everything, he wasn't inspired; and when he toldmen to love their wives as their own bodies, he was inspired; and I'dlike to see the Presbytery that could silence me from preachin' aslong as I wanted to preach. As for turnin' out o' the church, ' saysshe, 'I'd like to know who's to do the turnin' out. When the disciplesbrought that woman to Christ there wasn't a man in the crowd fit tocast a stone at her; and if there's any man nowadays good enough toset in judgment on a woman, his name ain't on the rolls of Goshenchurch. If 'Lizabeth, ' says she, 'had as much common sense as she'sgot conscience, she'd know that the matter o' that money didn'tconcern nobody but our Mite Society, and we women can settle itwithout any help from you deacons and elders. '

"Well, I reckon Parson Page thought if he didn't head Sally Ann offsome way or other she'd go on all night; so when she kind o' stoppedfor breath and shut up the big Bible, he grabbed a hymn-book and says:

"'Let us sing "Blest be the Tie that Binds. "'

"He struck up the tune himself; and about the middle of the firstverse Mis' Page got up and went over to where 'Lizabeth was standin', and give her the right hand of fellowship, and then Mis' Petty did thesame; and first thing we knew we was all around her shakin' hands andhuggin' her and cryin' over her. 'Twas a reg'lar love-feast; and wewent home feelin' like we'd been through a big protracted meetin' andgot religion over again. 

"'Twasn't more'n a week till 'Lizabeth was down with slowfever--nervous collapse, old Dr. Pendleton called it. We took turnsnursin' her, and one day she looked up in my face and says, 'Jane, Iknow now what the mercy of the Lord is. '"

Here Aunt Jane paused, and began to cut three-cornered pieces out of atime-stained square of flowered chintz. The quilt was to be of thewild-goose pattern. There was a drowsy hum from the bee-hive near thewindow, and the shadows were lengthening as sunset approached. 

"One queer thing about it, " she resumed, "was that while Sally Ann wastalkin', not one of us felt like laughin'. We set there as solemn asif parson was preachin' to us on 'lection and predestination. Butwhenever I think about it now, I laugh fit to kill. And I've thoughtmany a time that Sally Ann's plain talk to them men done more goodthan all the sermons us women had had preached to us about bein''shame-faced' and 'submittin'' ourselves to our husbands, for everyone o' them women come out in new clothes that spring, and such achange as it made in some of 'em! I wouldn't be surprised if she didhave a message to deliver, jest as she said. The Bible says an assspoke up once and reproved a man, and I reckon if an ass can reprove aman, so can a woman. And it looks to me like men stand in need ofreprovin' now as much as they did in Balaam's days. 

"Jacob died the follerin' fall, and 'Lizabeth got shed of hertroubles. The triflin' scamp never married her for anything but hermoney. 

"Things is different from what they used to be, " she went on, as shefolded her pieces into a compact bundle and tied it with a piece ofgray yarn. "My son-in-law was tellin' me last summer how a passel o'women kept goin' up to Frankfort and so pesterin' the Legislatur', that they had to change the laws to git rid of 'em. So married womennow has all the property rights they want, and more'n some of 'em hassense to use, I reckon. "

"How about you and Uncle Abram?" I suggested. "Didn't Sally Ann sayanything about you in her experience?"

Aunt Jane's black eyes snapped with some of the fire of her long-pastyouth. "La! no, child, " she said. "Abram never was that kind of a man, and I never was that kind of a woman. I ricollect as we was walkin'home that night Abram says, sort o' humble-like: 'Jane, hadn't youbetter git that brown merino you was lookin' at last County Courtday?'

"And I says, 'Don't you worry about that brown merino, Abram. It'sa-lyin' in my bottom drawer right now. I told the storekeeper to cutit off jest as soon as your back was turned, and Mis' Simpson is goin'to make it next week. ' And Abram he jest laughed, and says, 'Well, Jane, I never saw your beat. ' You see, I never was any hand at'submittin'' myself to my husband, like some women. I've oftenwondered if Abram wouldn't 'a' been jest like Silas Petty if I'd beenlike Maria. I've noticed that whenever a woman's willin' to be imposedupon, there's always a man standin' 'round ready to do the imposin'. Inever went to a law-book to find out what my rights was. I did my dutyfaithful to Abram, and when I wanted anything I went and got it, andAbram paid for it, and I can't see but what we got on jest as well aswe'd 'a' done if I'd a-'submitted' myself. "

Longer and longer grew the shadows, and the faint tinkle of bells camein through the windows. The cows were beginning to come home. Thespell of Aunt Jane's dramatic art was upon me. I began to feel that myown personality had somehow slipped away from me, and those deadpeople, evoked from their graves by an old woman's histrionism, seemedmore real to me than my living, breathing self. 

"There now, I've talked you clean to death, " she said with a happylaugh, as I rose to go. "But we've had a real nice time, and I'm gladyou come. "

The sun was almost down as I walked slowly away. When I looked back, at the turn of the road, Aunt Jane was standing on the door-step, shading her eyes and peering across the level fields. I knew what itmeant. Beyond the fields was a bit of woodland, and in one corner ofthat you might, if your eyesight was good, discern here and there aglimpse of white. It was the old burying-ground of Goshen church; andI knew by the strained attitude and intent gaze of the watcher in thedoor that somewhere in the sunlit space between Aunt Jane's door-stepand the little country graveyard, the souls of the living and the deadwere keeping a silent tryst. 

[Illustration]

II

THE NEW ORGAN

[Illustration]

"Gittin' a new organ is a mighty different thing nowadays from what itwas when I was young, " said Aunt Jane judicially, as she lifted apanful of yellow harvest apples from the table and began to peel themfor dumplings. 

Potatoes, peas, and asparagus were bubbling on the stove, and thedumplings were in honor of the invited guest, who had begged theprivilege of staying in the kitchen awhile. Aunt Jane was one ofthose rare housekeepers whose kitchens are more attractive than theparlors of other people. 

"And gittin' religion is different, too, " she continued, propping herfeet on the round of a chair for the greater comfort and convenienceof her old knees. "Both of 'em is a heap easier than they used to be, and the organs is a heap better. I don't know whether the religion'sany better or not. You know I went up to my daughter Mary Frances'last week, and the folks up there was havin' a big meetin' in theTabernicle, and that's how come me to be thinkin' about organs. 

"The preacher was an evangelist, as they call him, Sam Joynes, from'way down South. In my day he'd 'a' been called the Rev. SamuelJoynes. Folks didn't call their preachers Tom, Dick, and Harry, andJim and Sam, like they do now. I'd like to 'a' seen anybody callin'Parson Page 'Lem Page. ' He was the Rev. Lemuel Page, and don't youforgit it. But things is different, as I said awhile ago, and even thelittle boys says 'Sam Joynes, ' jest like he played marbles with 'emevery day. I went to the Tabernicle three or four times; and of allthe preachers that ever I heard, he certainly is the beatenest. Why, I ain't laughed so much since me and Abram went to Barnum's circus, the year before the war. He was preachin' one day about cleanlinessbein' next to godliness, which it certainly is, and he says, 'You oldskunk, you!' But, la! the worse names he called 'em the better they'peared to like it, and sinners was converted wholesale every time hepreached. But there wasn't no goin' to the mourners' bench andmournin' for your sins and havin' people prayin' and cryin' over you. They jest set and laughed and grinned while he was gittin' off hisjokes, and then they'd go up and shake hands with him, and there theywas all saved and ready to be baptized and taken into the church. "

Just here the old yellow rooster fluttered up to the door-step andgave a hoarse, ominous crow. 

"There, now! You hear that?" said Aunt Jane, as she tossed him agolden peeling from her pan. "There's some folks that gives right upand looks for sickness or death or bad news every time a rooster crowsin the door. But I never let such things bother me. The Bible saysthat nobody knows what a day may bring forth, and if I don't know, itain't likely my old yeller rooster does. 

"What was I talkin' about? Oh, yes--the big meetin'. Well, I never wasany hand to say that old ways is best, and I don't say so now. If youcan convert a man by callin' him a polecat, why, call him one, ofcourse. And mournin' ain't always a sign o' true repentance. They usedto tell how Silas Petty mourned for forty days, and, as Sally Annsaid, he had about as much religion as old Dan Tucker's Derby ram. 

"However, it was the organ I set out to tell about. It's jest like meto wander away from the p'int. Abram always said a text would have tobe made like a postage stamp for me to stick to it. You see, they'djest got a fine new organ at Mary Frances' church, and she was tellin'me how they paid for it. One man give five hundred dollars, andanother give three hundred; then they collected four or five hundredamongst the other members, and give a lawn party and a strawberryfestival and raised another hundred. It set me to thinkin' o' the timeus women got the organ for Goshen church. It wasn't any light matter, for, besides the money it took us nearly three years to raise, therewas the opposition. Come to think of it, we raised more oppositionthan we did money. "

And Aunt Jane laughed a blithe laugh and tossed another peeling tothe yellow rooster, who had dropped the rôle of harbinger of evil andwas posing as a humble suppliant. 

"An organ in them days, honey, was jest a wedge to split the churchhalf in two. It was the new cyarpet that brought on the organ. Youknow how it is with yourself; you git a new dress, and then you've gotto have a new bonnet, and then you can't wear your old shoes andgloves with a new dress and a new bonnet, and the first thing you knowyou've spent five times as much as you set out to spend. That's theway it was with us about the cyarpet and the organ and the pulpitchairs and the communion set. 

"Most o' the men folks was against the organ from the start, and SilasPetty was the foremost. Silas made a p'int of goin' against everythingthat women favored. Sally Ann used to say that if a woman was to comeup to him and say, 'Le's go to heaven, ' Silas would start off towardsthe other place right at once; he was jest that mulish and contrairy. He met Sally Ann one day, and says he, 'Jest give you women ropeenough and you'll turn the house o' the Lord into a reg'lar toy-shop. 'And Sally Ann she says, 'You'd better go home, Silas, and read thebook of Exodus. If the Lord told Moses how to build the Taberniclewith the goats' skins and rams' skins and blue and purple and scarletand fine linen and candlesticks with six branches, I reckon he won'tobject to a few yards o' cyarpetin' and a little organ in Goshenchurch. '

"Sally Ann always had an answer ready, and I used to think she knewmore about the Bible than Parson Page did himself. 

"Of course Uncle Jim Matthews didn't want the organ; he was afraid itmight interfere with his singin'. Job Taylor always stood up forSilas, so he didn't want it; and Parson Page never opened his mouthone way or the other. He was one o' those men that tries to set onboth sides o' the fence at once, and he'd set that way so long he wasa mighty good hand at balancin' himself. 

"Us women didn't say much, but we made up our minds to have the organ. So we went to work in the Mite Society, and in less'n three years wehad enough money to git it. I've often wondered how many pounds o'butter and how many baskets of eggs it took to raise that money. Ireckon if they'd 'a' been piled up on top of each other they'd 'a'reached to the top o' the steeple. The women of Israel brought theirear-rings and bracelets to help build the Tabernicle, but we had jestour egg and butter money, and the second year, when the chickencholery was so bad, our prospects looked mighty blue. 

"When I saw that big organ up at Danville, I couldn't help thinkin'about the little thing we worked so hard to git. 'Twasn't muchbigger'n a washstand, and I reckon if I was to hear it now, I'd thinkit was mighty feeble and squeaky. But it sounded fine enough to us inthem days, and, little as it was, it raised a disturbance for milesaround. 

"When it come down from Louisville, Abram went to town with histwo-horse wagon and brought it out and set it up in our parlor. MyJane had been takin' lessons in town all winter, so's to be able toplay on it. 

"We had a right good choir for them days; the only trouble was thateverybody wanted to be leader. That's a common failin' with churchchoirs, I've noticed. Milly Amos sung soprano, and my Jane was thealto; John Petty sung bass, and young Sam Crawford tenor; and as forUncle Jim Matthews, he sung everything, and a plenty of it, too. MillyAmos used to say he was worse'n a flea. He'd start out on the bass, and first thing you knew he'd be singin' tenor with Sam Crawford; andby the time Sam was good and mad, he'd be off onto the alto or thesoprano. He was one o' these meddlesome old creeturs that thinks theworld never moved till they got into it, and they've got to helpeverybody out with whatever they happen to be doin'. You've heard o'children bein' born kickin'. Well, Uncle Jim must 'a' been bornsingin'. I've seen people that said they didn't like the idea o' goin'to heaven and standin' around a throne and singin' hymns for ever andever; but you couldn't 'a' pleased Uncle Jim better than to set himdown in jest that sort o' heaven. Wherever there was a chance to getin some singin', there you'd be sure to find Uncle Jim. Folks used tosay he enjoyed a funeral a heap better than he did a weddin', 'causehe could sing at the funeral, and he couldn't at the weddin'; and SamCrawford said he believed if Gabriel was to come down and blow histrumpet, Uncle Jim would git up and begin to sing. 

"It wouldn't 'a' been so bad if he'd had any sort of a voice; but he'dbeen singin' all his life and hollerin' at protracted meetin's eversince he got religion, till he'd sung and hollered all the music outof his voice, and there wasn't much left but the old creaky machinery. It used to make me think of an old rickety house with the blindsflappin' in the wind. It mortified us terrible to have any of theMethodists or Babtists come to our church. We was sort o' used to theold man's capers, but people that wasn't couldn't keep a straight facewhen the singin' begun, and it took more grace than any of us had tokeep from gittin' mad when we seen people from another church laughin'at our choir. 

"The Babtists had a powerful protracted meetin' one winter. Uncle Jimwas there to help with the singin', as a matter of course, and hebegun to git mightily interested in Babtist doctrines. Used to go homewith 'em after church and talk about Greek and Hebrew words till theclock struck twelve. And one communion Sunday he got up solemn as aowl and marched out o' church jest before the bread and wine waspassed. Made out like he warn't sure he'd been rightly babtized. Thechoir was mightily tickled at the idea o' gittin' shed o' the oldpest, and Sam Crawford went to him and told him he was on the righttrack and to go ahead, for the Babtists was undoubtedly correct, andif it wasn't for displeasin' his father and mother he'd jine 'emhimself. And then--Sam never could let well enough alone--then he wentto Bush Elrod, the Babtist tenor, and says he, 'I hear you're goin'to have a new member in your choir. ' And Bush says, 'Well, if the oldidiot ever jines this church, we'll hold his head under the water solong that he won't be able to spile good music agin. ' And then he giveUncle Jim a hint o' how things was; and when Uncle Jim heard that thePresbyterians was anxious to git shed of him, he found out right awaythat all them Greek and Hebrew words meant sprinklin' and infantbabtism. So he settled down to stay where he was, and holleredlouder'n ever the next Sunday. 

"The old man was a good enough Christian, I reckon; but when it cometo singin', he was a stumblin'-block and rock of offense to the wholechurch, and especially to the choir. The first thing Sally Ann saidwhen she looked at the new organ was, 'Well, Jane, how do you reckonit's goin' to sound with Uncle Jim's voice?' and I laughed till I hadto set down in a cheer. 

"Well, when the men folks found out that our organ had come, theybegun to wake up. Abram had brought it out Tuesday, and Wednesdaynight, as soon as prayer-meetin' broke, Parson Page says, says he:'Brethren, there is a little business to be transacted. Please remaina few minutes longer. ' And then, when we had set down again, he wenton to say that the sisters had raised money and bought an organ, andthere was some division of opinion among the brethren about usin' it, so he would like to have the matter discussed. He used a lot o' bigwords and talked mighty smooth, and I knew there was trouble ahead forus women. 

"Uncle Jim was the first one to speak. He was so anxious to begin, hecould hardly wait for Parson Page to stop; and anybody would 'a'thought that he'd been up to heaven and talked with the Father and theSon and the Holy Ghost and all the angels, to hear him tell about thesort o' music there was in heaven, and the sort there ought to be onearth. 'Why, brethren, ' says he, 'when John saw the heavens openedthere wasn't no organs up there. God don't keer nothin', ' says he, 'about such new-fangled, worldly instruments. But when a lot o' sweethuman voices git to praisin' him, why, the very angels stop singin' tolisten. '

"Milly Amos was right behind me, and she leaned over and says, 'Well, if the angels'd rather hear Uncle Jim's singin' than our organ, they've got mighty pore taste, that's all I've got to say. '

"Silas Petty was the next one to git up, and says he: 'I never was infavor o' doin' things half-way, brethren; and if we've got to have theorgan, why, we might as well have a monkey, too, and be done with it. For my part, ' says he, 'I want to worship in the good old way myfathers and grandfathers worshiped in, and, unless my feelin's changevery considerable, I shall have to withdraw from this church if anysuch Satan's music-box is set up in this holy place. '

"And Sally Ann turned around and whispered to me, 'We ought to 'a' gotthat organ long ago, Jane. ' I like to 'a' laughed right out, and Ileaned over, and says I, 'Why don't you git up and talk for us, SallyAnn?' and she says: 'The spirit ain't moved me, Jane. I reckon it'stoo busy movin' Uncle Jim and Silas Petty. '

"Jest then I looked around, and there was Abram standin' up. Well, youcould 'a' knocked me over with a feather. Abram always was one o'those close-mouthed men. Never spoke if he could git around it any waywhatever. Parson Page used to git after him every protracted meetin'about not leadin' in prayer and havin' family worship; but the spiritmoved him that time sure, and there he was talkin' as glib as oldUncle Jim. And says he: 'Brethren, I'm not carin' much one way oranother about this organ. I don't know how the angels feel about it, not havin' so much acquaintance with 'em as Uncle Jim has; but I doknow enough about women to know that there ain't any use tryin' tostop 'em when they git their heads set on a thing, and I'm goin' tohaul that organ over to-morrow mornin' and set it up for the choir topractise by Friday night. If I don't haul it over, Sally Ann andJane'll tote it over between 'em, and if they can't put it into thechurch by the door, they'll hist a window and put it in that way. Ireckon, ' says he, 'I've got all the men against me in this matter, butthen, I've got all the women on my side, and I reckon all the womenand one man makes a pretty good majority, and so I'm goin' to haul theorgan over to-morrow mornin'. '

"I declare I felt real proud of Abram, and I told him so that nightwhen we was goin' home together. Then Parson Page he says, 'It seemsto me there is sound sense in what Brother Parish says, and I suggestthat we allow the sisters to have their way and give the organ atrial; and if we find that it is hurtful to the interests of thechurch, it will be an easy matter to remove it. ' And Milly Amos saysto me, 'I see 'em gittin' that organ out if we once git it in. '

"When the choir met Friday night, Milly come in all in a flurry, andsays she: 'I hear Brother Gardner has gone to the 'Sociation down inRussellville, and all the Babtists are comin' to our church Sunday;and I want to show 'em what good music is this once, anyhow. Uncle JimMatthews is laid up with rheumatism, ' says she, 'and if that ain't aspecial providence I never saw one. ' And Sam Crawford slapped hisknee, and says he, 'Well, if the old man's rheumatism jest holds outover Sunday, them Babtists'll hear music sure. '

"Then Milly went on to tell that she'd been up to Squire Elrod's, andMiss Penelope, the squire's niece from Louisville, had promised tosing a voluntary Sunday. 

"'Voluntary? What's that?' says Sam. 

"'Why, ' says Milly, 'it's a hymn that the choir, or somebody in it, sings of their own accord, without the preacher givin' it out; justlike your tomatoes come up in the spring, voluntary, without youplantin' the seed. That's the way they do in the city churches, ' saysshe, 'and we are goin' to put on city style Sunday. '

"Then they went to work and practised some new tunes for the hymnsParson Page had give 'em, so if Uncle Jim's rheumatism didn't holdout, he'd still have to hold his peace. 

"Well, Sunday come; but special providence was on Uncle Jim's sidethat time, and there he was as smilin' as a basket o' chips if he didhave to walk with a cane. We'd had the church cleaned up as neat as anew pin. My Jane had put a bunch of honeysuckles and pinks on theorgan, and everybody was dressed in their best. Miss Penelope wassettin' at the organ with a bunch of roses in her hand, and thewindows was all open, and you could see the trees wavin' in the windand hear the birds singin' outside. I always did think that was thebest part o' Sunday--that time jest before church begins. "

Aunt Jane's voice dropped. Her words came slowly; and into the storyfell one of those "flashes of silence" to which she was as littlegiven as the great historian. The pan of dumplings waited for thesprinkling of spice and sugar, while she stood motionless, lookingafar off, though her gaze apparently stopped on the vacant whitewashedwall before her. No mind reader's art was needed to tell what sceneher faded eyes beheld. There was the old church, with its batteredfurniture and high pulpit. For one brief moment the grave had yieldedup its dead, and "the old familiar faces" looked out from every pew. We were very near together, Aunt Jane and I; but the breeze thatfanned her brow was not the breeze I felt as I sat by her kitchenwindow. For her a wind was blowing across the plains of memory; andthe honeysuckle odor it carried was not from the bush in the yard. Itcame, weighted with dreams, from the blossoms that her Jane had placedon the organ twenty-five years ago. A bob-white was calling in themeadow across the dusty road, and the echoes of the second bell hadjust died away. She and Abram were side by side in their accustomedplace, and life lay like a watered garden in the peaceful stillness ofthe time "jest before church begins. "

The asparagus on the stove boiled over with a great spluttering, andAunt Jane came back to "the eternal now. "

"Sakes alive!" she exclaimed, as she lifted the saucepan; "I must begittin' old, to let things boil over this way while I'm studyin' aboutold times. I declare, I believe I've clean forgot what I was sayin'. "

"You were at church, " I suggested, "and the singing was about tobegin. "

"Sure enough! Well, all at once Miss Penelope laid her hands on thekeys and begun to play and sing 'Nearer, My God, to Thee. ' We'd heardthat hymn all our lives at church and protracted meetin's andprayer-meetin's, but we didn't know how it could sound till MissPenelope sung it all by herself that day with our new organ. Iricollect jest how she looked, pretty little thing that she was; andsometimes I can hear her voice jest as plain as I hear that robin outyonder in the ellum tree. Every word was jest like a bright new pieceo' silver, and every note was jest like gold; and she was lookin' upthrough the winder at the trees and the sky like she was singin' tosomebody we couldn't see. We clean forgot about the new organ and theBaptists; and I really believe we was feelin' nearer to God than we'dever felt before. When she got through with the first verse, sheplayed somethin' soft and sweet and begun again; and right in themiddle of the first line--I declare, it's twenty-five years ago, but Igit mad now when I think about it--right in the middle of the firstline Uncle Jim jined in like an old squawkin' jay-bird, and sung likehe was tryin' to drown out Miss Penelope and the new organ, too. 

"Everybody give a jump when he first started, and he'd got nearlythrough the verse before we took in what was happenin'. Even theBabtists jest looked surprised like the rest of us. But when MissPenelope begun the third time and Uncle Jim jined in with hishollerin', I saw Bush Elrod grin, and that grin spread all over theBabtist crowd in no time. The Presbyterian young folks was gigglin'behind their fans, and Bush got to laughin' till he had to git up andleave the church. They said he went up the road to Sam Amos' pastureand laid down on the ground and rolled over and over and laughed tillhe couldn't laugh any more. 

"I was so mad I started to git up, though goodness knows what I could'a' done. Abram he grabbed my dress and says, 'Steady, Jane!' jestlike he was talkin' to the old mare. The thing that made me maddestwas Silas Petty a-leanin' back in his pew and smilin' as satisfied asif he'd seen the salvation of the Lord. I didn't mind the Babtistshalf as much as I did Silas. 

"The only person in the church that wasn't the least bit flustered wasMiss Penelope. She was a Marshall on her mother's side, and I alwayssaid that nobody but a born lady could 'a' acted as she did. She sungright on as if everything was goin' exactly right and she'd beensingin' hymns with Uncle Jim all her life. Two or three times when theold man kind o' lagged behind, it looked like she waited for him toketch up, and when she got through and Uncle Jim was lumberin' on thelast note, she folded her hands and set there lookin' out the winderwhere the sun was shinin' on the silver poplar trees, jest as peacefulas a angel, and the rest of us as mad as hornets. Milly Amos set backof Uncle Jim, and his red bandanna handkerchief was lyin' over hisshoulders where he'd been shooin' the flies away. She told me the nextday it was all she could do to keep from reachin' over and chokin' theold man off while Miss Penelope was singin'. 

"I said Miss Penelope was the only one that wasn't flustered. I oughtto 'a' said Miss Penelope and Uncle Jim. The old creetur was jest thatsimple-minded he didn't know he'd done anything out o' the way, and heset there lookin' as pleased as a child, and thinkin', I reckon, howsmart he'd been to help Miss Penelope out with the singin'. 

"The rest o' the hymns went off all right, and it did me good to seeUncle Jim's face when they struck up the new tunes. He tried to jinein, but he had to give it up and wait for the doxology. 

"Parson Page preached a powerful good sermon, but I don't reckon itdid some of us much good, we was so put out about Uncle Jim spilin'our voluntary. 

"After meetin' broke and we was goin' home, me and Abram had to passby Silas Petty's wagon. He was helpin' Maria in, and I don't know whatshe'd been sayin', but he says, 'It's a righteous judgment on youwomen, Maria, for profanin' the Lord's house with that there organ. 'And, mad as I was, I had to laugh when I thought of old Uncle JimMatthews executin' a judgment of the Lord. Uncle Jim never made more'na half-way livin' at the carpenter's trade, and I reckon if the Lordhad wanted anybody to help him execute a judgment, Uncle Jim would 'a'been the last man he'd 'a' thought of. 

"Of course the choir was madder'n ever at Uncle Jim; and when MillyAmos had fever that summer, she called Sam to her the day she was ather worst, and pulled his head down and whispered as feeble as a baby:'Don't let Uncle Jim sing at my funeral, Sam. I'll rise up out of mycoffin if he does. ' And Sam broke out a-laughin' and a-cryin' at thesame time--he thought a heap o' Milly--and says he, 'Well, Milly, ifit'll have that effect, Uncle Jim shall sing at the funeral, sure. 'And Milly got to laughin', weak as she was, and in a few minutes shedropped off to sleep, and when she woke up the fever was gone, and shebegun to git well from that day. I always believed that laugh was theturnin'-p'int. Instead of Uncle Jim singin' at her funeral, she sungat Uncle Jim's, and broke down and cried like a child for all the meanthings she'd said about the pore old creetur's voice. "

The asparagus had been transferred to a china dish, and the brownedbutter was ready to pour over it. The potatoes were steamingthemselves into mealy delicacy, and Aunt Jane peered into the stovewhere the dumplings were taking on a golden brown. Her story-tellingevidently did not interfere with her culinary skill, and I said so. 

"La, child, " she replied, dashing a pinch of "seasonin" into the peas, "when I git so old I can't do but one thing at a time, I'll try to dieas soon as possible. "

III

AUNT JANE'S ALBUM

[Illustration]

They were a bizarre mass of color on the sweet spring landscape, thosepatchwork quilts, swaying in a long line under the elms and maples. The old orchard made a blossoming background for them, and farther offon the horizon rose the beauty of fresh verdure and purple mist onthose low hills, or "knobs, " that are to the heart of the Kentuckianas the Alps to the Swiss or the sea to the sailor. 

I opened the gate softly and paused for a moment between theblossoming lilacs that grew on each side of the path. The fragrance ofthe white and the purple blooms was like a resurrection-call over thegraves of many a dead spring; and as I stood, shaken with thoughts asthe flowers are with the winds, Aunt Jane came around from the back ofthe house, her black silk cape fluttering from her shoulders, and acalico sunbonnet hiding her features in its cavernous depth. Shewalked briskly to the clothes-line and began patting and smoothing thequilts where the breeze had disarranged them. 

"Aunt Jane, " I called out, "are you having a fair all by yourself?"

She turned quickly, pushing back the sunbonnet from her eyes. 

"Why, child, " she said, with a happy laugh, "you come pretty nighskeerin' me. No, I ain't havin' any fair; I'm jest givin' my quiltstheir spring airin'. Twice a year I put 'em out in the sun and wind;and this mornin' the air smelt so sweet, I thought it was a goodchance to freshen 'em up for the summer. It's about time to take 'emin now. "

She began to fold the quilts and lay them over her arm, and I did thesame. Back and forth we went from the clothes-line to the house, andfrom the house to the clothes-line, until the quilts were safelyhoused from the coming dewfall and piled on every available chair inthe front room. I looked at them in sheer amazement. There seemed tobe every pattern that the ingenuity of woman could devise and theindustry of woman put together, --"four-patches, " "nine-patches, ""log-cabins, " "wild-goose chases, " "rising suns, " hexagons, diamonds, and only Aunt Jane knows what else. As for color, a Sandwich Islanderwould have danced with joy at the sight of those reds, purples, yellows, and greens. 

"Did you really make all these quilts, Aunt Jane?" I askedwonderingly. 

Aunt Jane's eyes sparkled with pride. 

"Every stitch of 'em, child, " she said, "except the quiltin'. Theneighbors used to come in and help some with that. I've heard folkssay that piecin' quilts was nothin' but a waste o' time, but thatain't always so. They used to say that Sarah Jane Mitchell would setdown right after breakfast and piece till it was time to git dinner, and then set and piece till she had to git supper, and then piece bycandle-light till she fell asleep in her cheer. 

"I ricollect goin' over there one day, and Sarah Jane was gittin'dinner in a big hurry, for Sam had to go to town with some cattle, and there was a big basket o' quilt pieces in the middle o' thekitchen floor, and the house lookin' like a pigpen, and the childrenrunnin' around half naked. And Sam he laughed, and says he, 'AuntJane, if we could wear quilts and eat quilts we'd be the richestpeople in the country. ' Sam was the best-natured man that ever was, orhe couldn't 'a' put up with Sarah Jane's shiftless ways. HannahCrawford said she sent Sarah Jane a bundle o' caliker once by Sam, andSam always declared he lost it. But Uncle Jim Matthews said he wasridin' along the road jest behind Sam, and he saw Sam throw it intothe creek jest as he got on the bridge. I never blamed Sam a bit if hedid. 

"But there never was any time wasted on my quilts, child. I can lookat every one of 'em with a clear conscience. I did my work faithful;and then, when I might 'a' set and held my hands, I'd make a block ortwo o' patchwork, and before long I'd have enough to put together in aquilt. I went to piecin' as soon as I was old enough to hold a needleand a piece o' cloth, and one o' the first things I can remember wassettin' on the back door-step sewin' my quilt pieces, and motherpraisin' my stitches. Nowadays folks don't have to sew unless theywant to, but when I was a child there warn't any sewin'-machines, andit was about as needful for folks to know how to sew as it was for 'emto know how to eat; and every child that was well raised could hem andrun and backstitch and gether and overhand by the time she was nineyears old. Why, I'd pieced four quilts by the time I was nineteenyears old, and when me and Abram set up housekeepin' I had bedclothesenough for three beds. 

"I've had a heap o' comfort all my life makin' quilts, and now in myold age I wouldn't take a fortune for 'em. Set down here, child, whereyou can see out o' the winder and smell the lilacs, and we'll look at'em all. You see, some folks has albums to put folks' pictures in toremember 'em by, and some folks has a book and writes down the thingsthat happen every day so they won't forgit 'em; but, honey, thesequilts is my albums and my di'ries, and whenever the weather's bad andI can't git out to see folks, I jest spread out my quilts and look at'em and study over 'em, and it's jest like goin' back fifty or sixtyyears and livin' my life over agin. 

"There ain't nothin' like a piece o' caliker for bringin' back oldtimes, child, unless it's a flower or a bunch o' thyme or a piece o'pennyroy'l--anything that smells sweet. Why, I can go out yonder inthe yard and gether a bunch o' that purple lilac and jest shut my eyesand see faces I ain't seen for fifty years, and somethin' goes throughme like a flash o' lightnin', and it seems like I'm young agin jestfor that minute. "

Aunt Jane's hands were stroking lovingly a "nine-patch" that resembledthe coat of many colors. 

"Now this quilt, honey, " she said, "I made out o' the pieces o' mychildren's clothes, their little dresses and waists and aprons. Someof 'em's dead, and some of 'em's grown and married and a long way offfrom me, further off than the ones that's dead, I sometimes think. Butwhen I set down and look at this quilt and think over the pieces, itseems like they all come back, and I can see 'em playin' around thefloors and goin' in and out, and hear 'em cryin' and laughin' andcallin' me jest like they used to do before they grew up to men andwomen, and before there was any little graves o' mine out in the oldburyin'-ground over yonder. "

Wonderful imagination of motherhood that can bring childhood back fromthe dust of the grave and banish the wrinkles and gray hairs of agewith no other talisman than a scrap of faded calico!

The old woman's hands were moving tremulously over the surface of thequilt as if they touched the golden curls of the little dream childrenwho had vanished from her hearth so many years ago. But there were notears either in her eyes or in her voice. I had long noticed that AuntJane always smiled when she spoke of the people whom the world calls"dead, " or the things it calls "lost" or "past. " These words seemed tohave for her higher and tenderer meanings than are placed on them bythe sorrowful heart of humanity. 

But the moments were passing, and one could not dwell too long on anyquilt, however well beloved. Aunt Jane rose briskly, folded up the onethat lay across her knees, and whisked out another from the huge pilein an old splint-bottomed chair. 

"Here's a piece o' one o' Sally Ann's purple caliker dresses. SallyAnn always thought a heap o' purple caliker. Here's one o' Milly Amos'ginghams--that pink-and-white one. And that piece o' white with therosebuds in it, that's Miss Penelope's. She give it to me the summerbefore she died. Bless her soul! That dress jest matched her faceexactly. Somehow her and her clothes always looked alike, and hervoice matched her face, too. One o' the things I'm lookin' forwardto, child, is seein' Miss Penelope agin and hearin' her sing. Voicesand faces is alike; there's some that you can't remember, and there'ssome you can't forgit. I've seen a heap o' people and heard a heap o'voices, but Miss Penelope's face was different from all the rest, andso was her voice. Why, if she said 'Good mornin'' to you, you'd hearthat 'Good mornin' all day, and her singin'--I know there never wasanything like it in this world. My grandchildren all laugh at me forthinkin' so much o' Miss Penelope's singin', but then they never heardher, and I have: that's the difference. My grandchild Henrietta wasdown here three or four years ago, and says she, 'Grandma, don't youwant to go up to Louisville with me and hear Patti sing?' And says I, 'Patty who, child?' Says I, 'If it was to hear Miss Penelope sing, I'dcarry these old bones o' mine clear from here to New York. But thereain't anybody else I want to hear sing bad enough to go up toLouisville or anywhere else. And some o' these days, ' says I, _'I'mgoin' to hear Miss Penelope sing. _'"

Aunt Jane laughed blithely, and it was impossible not to laugh withher. 

"Honey, " she said, in the next breath, lowering her voice and layingher finger on the rosebud piece, "honey, there's one thing I can't gitover. Here's a piece o' Miss Penelope's dress, but _where's MissPenelope_? Ain't it strange that a piece o' caliker'll outlast you andme? Don't it look like folks ought 'o hold on to their bodies as longas other folks holds on to a piece o' the dresses they used to wear?"

Questions as old as the human heart and its human grief! Here is theglove, but where is the hand it held but yesterday? Here the jewelthat she wore, but where is she?

 "Where is the Pompadour now? _This_ was the Pompadour's fan!"

Strange that such things as gloves, jewels, fans, and dresses canoutlast a woman's form. 

"Behold! I show you a mystery"--the mystery of mortality. And an eeryfeeling came over me as I entered into the old woman's mood andthought of the strong, vital bodies that had clothed themselves inthose fabrics of purple and pink and white, and that now were dust andashes lying in sad, neglected graves on farm and lonely roadside. There lay the quilt on our knees, and the gay scraps of calico seemedto mock us with their vivid colors. Aunt Jane's cheerful voice calledme back from the tombs. 

"Here's a piece o' one o' my dresses, " she said; "brown ground with ared ring in it. Abram picked it out. And here's another one, thatlight yeller ground with the vine runnin' through it. I never had somany caliker dresses that I didn't want one more, for in my day folksused to think a caliker dress was good enough to wear anywhere. Abramknew my failin', and two or three times a year he'd bring me a dresswhen he come from town. And the dresses he'd pick out always suited mebetter'n the ones I picked. "

"I ricollect I finished this quilt the summer before Mary Frances wasborn, and Sally Ann and Milly Amos and Maria Petty come over and giveme a lift on the quiltin'. Here's Milly's work, here's Sally Ann's, and here's Maria's. "

I looked, but my inexperienced eye could see no difference in thehandiwork of the three women. Aunt Jane saw my look of incredulity. 

"Now, child, " she said, earnestly, "you think I'm foolin' you, but, la! there's jest as much difference in folks' sewin' as there is intheir handwritin'. Milly made a fine stitch, but she couldn't keep onthe line to save her life; Maria never could make a reg'lar stitch, some'd be long and some short, and Sally Ann's was reg'lar, but all of'em coarse. I can see 'em now stoopin' over the quiltin' frames--Millytalkin' as hard as she sewed, Sally Ann throwin' in a word now andthen, and Maria never openin' her mouth except to ask for the threador the chalk. I ricollect they come over after dinner, and we got thequilt out o' the frames long before sundown, and the next day I begunbindin' it, and I got the premium on it that year at the Fair. 

"I hardly ever showed a quilt at the Fair that I didn't take thepremium, but here's one quilt that Sarah Jane Mitchell beat me on. "

And Aunt Jane dragged out a ponderous, red-lined affair, the veryantithesis of the silken, down-filled comfortable that rests solightly on the couch of the modern dame. 

"It makes me laugh jest to think o' that time, and how happy SarahJane was. It was way back yonder in the fifties. I ricollect we had amighty fine Fair that year. The crops was all fine that season, andsuch apples and pears and grapes you never did see. The Floral Hallwas full o' things, and the whole county turned out to go to theFair. Abram and me got there the first day bright and early, and wewas walkin' around the amp'itheater and lookin' at the townfolks andthe sights, and we met Sally Ann. She stopped us, and says she, 'SarahJane Mitchell's got a quilt in the Floral Hall in competition withyours and Milly Amos'. ' Says I, 'Is that all the competition thereis?' And Sally Ann says, 'All that amounts to anything. There's onemore, but it's about as bad a piece o' sewin' as Sarah Jane's, andthat looks like it'd hardly hold together till the Fair's over. And, 'says she, 'I don't believe there'll be any more. It looks like thiswas an off year on that particular kind o' quilt. I didn't get minedone, ' says she, 'and neither did Maria Petty, and maybe it's a goodthing after all. '

"Well, I saw in a minute what Sally Ann was aimin' at. And I says toAbram, 'Abram, haven't you got somethin' to do with app'intin' thejudges for the women's things?' And he says, 'Yes. ' And I says, 'Well, you see to it that Sally Ann gits app'inted to help judge the calikerquilts. ' And bless your soul, Abram got me and Sally Ann bothapp'inted. The other judge was Mis' Doctor Brigham, one o' the townladies. We told her all about what we wanted to do, and she jestlaughed and says, 'Well, if that ain't the kindest, nicest thing! Ofcourse we'll do it. '

"Seein' that I had a quilt there, I hadn't a bit o' business bein' ajudge; but the first thing I did was to fold my quilt up and hide itunder Maria Petty's big worsted quilt, and then we pinned the blueribbon on Sarah Jane's and the red on Milly's. I'd fixed it all upwith Milly, and she was jest as willin' as I was for Sarah Jane tohave the premium. There was jest one thing I was afraid of: Milly wasa good-hearted woman, but she never had much control over her tongue. And I says to her, says I: 'Milly, it's mighty good of you to give upyour chance for the premium, but if Sarah Jane ever finds it out, that'll spoil everything. For, ' says I, 'there ain't any kindness indoin' a person a favor and then tellin' everybody about it. ' And Millylaughed, and says she: 'I know what you mean, Aunt Jane. It's mightyhard for me to keep from tellin' everything I know and some things Idon't know, but, ' says she, 'I'm never goin' to tell this, even toSam. ' And she kept her word, too. Every once in a while she'd come upto me and whisper, 'I ain't told it yet, Aunt Jane, ' jest to see melaugh. 

"As soon as the doors was open, after we'd all got through judgin'and puttin' on the ribbons, Milly went and hunted Sarah Jane up andtold her that her quilt had the blue ribbon. They said the pore thinglike to 'a' fainted for joy. She turned right white, and had to leanup against the post for a while before she could git to the FloralHall. I never shall forgit her face. It was worth a dozen premiums tome, and Milly, too. She jest stood lookin' at that quilt and the blueribbon on it, and her eyes was full o' tears and her lips quiverin', and then she started off and brought the children in to look at'Mammy's quilt. ' She met Sam on the way out, and says she: 'Sam, whatdo you reckon? My quilt took the premium. ' And I believe in my soulSam was as much pleased as Sarah Jane. He came saunterin' up, tryin'to look unconcerned, but anybody could see he was mighty wellsatisfied. It does a husband and wife a heap o' good to be proud ofeach other, and I reckon that was the first time Sam ever had cause tobe proud o' pore Sarah Jane. It's my belief that he thought more o'Sarah Jane all the rest o' her life jest on account o' that premium. Me and Sally Ann helped her pick it out. She had her choice betwixt abutter-dish and a cup, and she took the cup. Folks used to laugh andsay that that cup was the only thing in Sarah Jane's house that waskept clean and bright, and if it hadn't 'a' been solid silver, she'd'a' wore it all out rubbin' it up. Sarah Jane died o' pneumonia aboutthree or four years after that, and the folks that nursed her said shewouldn't take a drink o' water or a dose o' medicine out o' any cupbut that. There's some folks, child, that don't have to do anythingbut walk along and hold out their hands, and the premiums jestnaturally fall into 'em; and there's others that work and strive thebest they know how, and nothin' ever seems to come to 'em; and Ireckon nobody but the Lord and Sarah Jane knows how much happiness shegot out o' that cup. I'm thankful she had that much pleasure beforeshe died. "

There was a quilt hanging over the foot of the bed that had about it acertain air of distinction. It was a solid mass of patchwork, composedof squares, parallelograms, and hexagons. The squares were of darkgray and red-brown, the hexagons were white, the parallelograms blackand light gray. I felt sure that it had a history that set it apartfrom its ordinary fellows. 

"Where did you get the pattern, Aunt Jane?" I asked. "I never sawanything like it. "

The old lady's eyes sparkled, and she laughed with pure pleasure. 

"That's what everybody says, " she exclaimed, jumping up and spreadingthe favored quilt over two laden chairs, where its merits became moreapparent and striking. "There ain't another quilt like this in theState o' Kentucky, or the world, for that matter. My granddaughterHenrietta, Mary Frances' youngest child, brought me this pattern _fromEurope_. "

She spoke the words as one might say, "from Paradise, " or "fromOlympus, " or "from the Lost Atlantis. " "Europe" was evidently a nameto conjure with, a country of mystery and romance unspeakable. I hadseen many things from many lands beyond the sea, but a quilt patternfrom Europe! Here at last was something new under the sun. In whatshop of London or Paris were quilt patterns kept on sale for theAmerican tourist?

"You see, " said Aunt Jane, "Henrietta married a mighty rich man, andjest as good as he's rich, too, and they went to Europe on theirbridal trip. When she come home she brought me the prettiest shawl youever saw. She made me stand up and shut my eyes, and she put it on myshoulders and made me look in the lookin'-glass, and then she says, 'I brought you a new quilt pattern, too, grandma, and I want you topiece one quilt by it and leave it to me when you die. ' And then shetold me about goin' to a town over yonder they call Florence, and howshe went into a big church that was built hundreds o' years before Iwas born. And she said the floor was made o' little pieces o' coloredstone, all laid together in a pattern, and they called it mosaic. Andsays I, 'Honey, has it got anything to do with Moses and his law?' Youknow the Commandments was called the Mosaic Law, and was all on tableso' stone. And Henrietta jest laughed, and says she: 'No, grandma; Idon't believe it has. But, ' says she, 'the minute I stepped on thatpavement I thought about you, and I drew this pattern off on a pieceo' paper and brought it all the way to Kentucky for you to make aquilt by. ' Henrietta bought the worsted for me, for she said it had tobe jest the colors o' that pavement over yonder, and I made it thatvery winter. "

Aunt Jane was regarding the quilt with worshipful eyes, and it reallywas an effective combination of color and form. 

"Many a time while I was piecin' that, " she said, "I thought aboutthe man that laid the pavement in that old church, and wondered whathis name was, and how he looked, and what he'd think if he knew therewas a old woman down here in Kentucky usin' his patterns to make abedquilt. "

It was indeed a far cry from the Florentine artisan of centuries agoto this humble worker in calico and worsted, but between the twostretched a cord of sympathy that made them one--the eternalaspiration after beauty. 

"Honey, " said Aunt Jane, suddenly, "did I ever show you my premiums?"

And then, with pleasant excitement in her manner, she arose, fumbledin her deep pocket for an ancient bunch of keys, and unlocked acupboard on one side of the fireplace. One by one she drew them out, unrolled the soft yellow tissue-paper that enfolded them, and rangedthem in a stately line on the old cherry center-table--nineteensterling silver cups and goblets. "Abram took some of 'em on his finestock, and I took some of 'em on my quilts and salt-risin' bread andcakes, " she said, impressively. 

To the artist his medals, to the soldier his cross of the Legion ofHonor, and to Aunt Jane her silver cups. All the triumph of a humblelife was symbolized in these shining things. They were simple andgenuine as the days in which they were made. A few of them boasted abeaded edge or a golden lining, but no engraving or embossing marredtheir silver purity. On the bottom of each was the stamp: "John B. Akin, Danville, Ky. " There they stood, "Filled to the brim with precious memories, "--

memories of the time when she and Abram had worked together in fieldor garden or home, and the County Fair brought to all a yearlyopportunity to stand on the height of achievement and know somewhatthe taste of Fame's enchanted cup. 

"There's one for every child and every grandchild, " she said, quietly, as she began wrapping them in the silky paper, and storing themcarefully away in the cupboard, there to rest until the day whenchildren and grandchildren would claim their own, and the treasures ofthe dead would come forth from the darkness to stand as heirlooms onfashionable sideboards and damask-covered tables. 

"Did you ever think, child, " she said, presently, "how much piecin' aquilt's like livin' a life? And as for sermons, why, they ain't nobetter sermon to me than a patchwork quilt, and the doctrines is rightthere a heap plainer'n they are in the catechism. Many a time I've setand listened to Parson Page preachin' about predestination andfree-will, and I've said to myself, 'Well, I ain't never been throughCentre College up at Danville, but if I could jest git up in thepulpit with one of my quilts, I could make it a heap plainer to folksthan parson's makin' it with all his big words. ' You see, you startout with jest so much caliker; you don't go to the store and pick itout and buy it, but the neighbors will give you a piece here and apiece there, and you'll have a piece left every time you cut out adress, and you take jest what happens to come. And that's likepredestination. But when it comes to the cuttin' out, why, you're freeto choose your own pattern. You can give the same kind o' pieces totwo persons, and one'll make a 'nine-patch' and one'll make a'wild-goose chase, ' and there'll be two quilts made out o' the samekind o' pieces, and jest as different as they can be. And that is jestthe way with livin'. The Lord sends us the pieces, but we can cut 'emout and put 'em together pretty much to suit ourselves, and there's aheap more in the cuttin' out and the sewin' than there is in thecaliker. The same sort o' things comes into all lives, jest as theApostle says, 'There hath no trouble taken you but is common to allmen. '

"The same trouble'll come into two people's lives, and one'll take itand make one thing out of it, and the other'll make somethin' entirelydifferent. There was Mary Harris and Mandy Crawford. They both losttheir husbands the same year; and Mandy set down and cried and worriedand wondered what on earth she was goin' to do, and the farm went towrack and the children turned out bad, and she had to live with herson-in-law in her old age. But Mary, she got up and went to work, andmade everybody about her work, too; and she managed the farm better'nit ever had been managed before, and the boys all come up steady, hard-workin' men, and there wasn't a woman in the county better fixedup than Mary Harris. Things is predestined to come to us, honey, butwe're jest as free as air to make what we please out of 'em. And whenit comes to puttin' the pieces together, there's another time whenwe're free. You don't trust to luck for the caliker to put your quilttogether with; you go to the store and pick it out yourself, anycolor you like. There's folks that always looks on the bright side andmakes the best of everything, and that's like puttin' your quilttogether with blue or pink or white or some other pretty color; andthere's folks that never see anything but the dark side, and alwayslookin' for trouble, and treasurin' it up after they git it, andthey're puttin' their lives together with black, jest like you wouldput a quilt together with some dark, ugly color. You can spoil theprettiest quilt pieces that ever was made jest by puttin' 'em togetherwith the wrong color, and the best sort o' life is miserable if youdon't look at things right and think about 'em right. 

"Then there's another thing. I've seen folks piece and piece, but whenit come to puttin' the blocks together and quiltin' and linin' it, they'd give out; and that's like folks that do a little here and alittle there, but their lives ain't of much use after all, any more'na lot o' loose pieces o' patchwork. And then while you're livin' yourlife, it looks pretty much like a jumble o' quilt pieces beforethey're put together; but when you git through with it, or pretty nighthrough, as I am now, you'll see the use and the purpose of everythingin it. Everything'll be in its right place jest like the squares inthis 'four-patch, ' and one piece may be pretty and another one ugly, but it all looks right when you see it finished and joined together. "

Did I say that every pattern was represented? No, there was onenotable omission. Not a single "crazy quilt" was there in thecollection. I called Aunt Jane's attention to this lack. 

"Child, " she said, "I used to say there wasn't anything I couldn't doif I made up my mind to it. But I hadn't seen a 'crazy quilt' then. The first one I ever seen was up at Danville at Mary Frances', andHenrietta says, 'Now, grandma, you've got to make a crazy quilt;you've made every other sort that ever was heard of. ' And she broughtme the pieces and showed me how to baste 'em on the square, and saidshe'd work the fancy stitches around 'em for me. Well, I set there allthe mornin' tryin' to fix up that square, and the more I tried, theuglier and crookeder the thing looked. And finally I says: 'Here, child, take your pieces. If I was to make this the way you want me to, they'd be a crazy quilt and a crazy woman, too. '"

Aunt Jane was laying the folded quilts in neat piles here and thereabout the room. There was a look of unspeakable satisfaction on herface--the look of the creator who sees his completed work andpronounces it good. 

"I've been a hard worker all my life, " she said, seating herself andfolding her hands restfully, "but 'most all my work has been the kindthat 'perishes with the usin', ' as the Bible says. That's thediscouragin' thing about a woman's work. Milly Amos used to say thatif a woman was to see all the dishes that she had to wash before shedied, piled up before her in one pile, she'd lie down and die rightthen and there. I've always had the name o' bein' a good housekeeper, but when I'm dead and gone there ain't anybody goin' to think o' thefloors I've swept, and the tables I've scrubbed, and the old clothesI've patched, and the stockin's I've darned. Abram might 'a'remembered it, but he ain't here. But when one o' my grandchildren orgreat-grandchildren sees one o' these quilts, they'll think about AuntJane, and, wherever I am then, I'll know I ain't forgotten. 

"I reckon everybody wants to leave somethin' behind that'll last afterthey're dead and gone. It don't look like it's worth while to liveunless you can do that. The Bible says folks 'rest from their labors, and their works do follow them, ' but that ain't so. They go, andmaybe they do rest, but their works stay right here, unless they'rethe sort that don't outlast the usin'. Now, some folks has money tobuild monuments with--great, tall, marble pillars, with angels on topof 'em, like you see in Cave Hill and them big city buryin'-grounds. And some folks can build churches and schools and hospitals to keepfolks in mind of 'em, but all the work I've got to leave behind me isjest these quilts, and sometimes, when I'm settin' here, workin' withmy caliker and gingham pieces, I'll finish off a block, and I laughand say to myself, 'Well, here's another stone for the monument. '

"I reckon you think, child, that a caliker or a worsted quilt is acurious sort of a monument--'bout as perishable as the sweepin' andscrubbin' and mendin'. But if folks values things rightly, and knowshow to take care of 'em, there ain't many things that'll last longer'na quilt. Why, I've got a blue and white counterpane that my mother'smother spun and wove, and there ain't a sign o' givin' out in it yet. I'm goin' to will that to my granddaughter that lives in Danville, Mary Frances' oldest child. She was down here last summer, and I waslookin' over my things and packin' 'em away, and she happened to seethat counterpane, and says she, 'Grandma, I want you to will methat. ' And says I: 'What do you want with that old thing, honey? Youknow you wouldn't sleep under such a counterpane as that. ' And saysshe, 'No, but I'd hang it up over my parlor door for a--"

"Portičre?" I suggested, as Aunt Jane hesitated for the unaccustomedword. 

"That's it, child. Somehow I can't ricollect these new-fangled words, any more'n I can understand these new-fangled ways. Who'd ever 'a'thought that folks'd go to stringin' up bed-coverin's in their doors?And says I to Janie, 'You can hang your great-grandmother'scounterpane up in your parlor door if you want to, but, ' says I, 'don't you ever make a door-curtain out o' one o' my quilts. ' But la!the way things turn around, if I was to come back fifty years fromnow, like as not I'd find 'em usin' my quilts for window-curtains ordoor-mats. "

We both laughed, and there rose in my mind a picture of atwentieth-century house decorated with Aunt Jane's "nine-patches" and"rising suns. " How could the dear old woman know that the sameesthetic sense that had drawn from their obscurity the white and bluecounterpanes of colonial days would forever protect her loved quiltsfrom such a desecration as she feared? As she lifted a pair of quiltsfrom a chair near by, I caught sight of a pure white spread instriking contrast with the many-hued patchwork. 

"Where did you get that Marseilles spread, Aunt Jane?" I asked, pointing to it. Aunt Jane lifted it and laid it on my lap without aword. Evidently she thought that here was something that could speakfor itself. It was two layers of snowy cotton cloth thinly lined withcotton, and elaborately quilted into a perfect imitation of aMarseilles counterpane. The pattern was a tracery of roses, buds, andleaves, very much conventionalized, but still recognizable for thethings they were. The stitches were fairylike, and altogether it mighthave covered the bed of a queen. 

"I made every stitch o' that spread the year before me and Abram wasmarried, " she said. "I put it on my bed when we went to housekeepin';it was on the bed when Abram died, and when I die I want 'em to coverme with it. " There was a life-history in the simple words. I thoughtof Desdemona and her bridal sheets, and I did not offer to help AuntJane as she folded this quilt. 

"I reckon you think, " she resumed presently, "that I'm a mean, stingyold creetur not to give Janie the counterpane now, instead o' hoardin'it up, and all these quilts too, and keepin' folks waitin' for 'emtill I die. But, honey, it ain't all selfishness. I'd give away mybest dress or my best bonnet or an acre o' ground to anybody thatneeded 'em more'n I did; but these quilts--Why, it looks like my wholelife was sewed up in 'em, and I ain't goin' to part with 'em whilelife lasts. "

There was a ring of passionate eagerness in the old voice, and shefell to putting away her treasures as if the suggestion of losing themhad made her fearful of their safety. 

I looked again at the heap of quilts. An hour ago they had beenpatchwork, and nothing more. But now! The old woman's words hadwrought a transformation in the homely mass of calico and silk andworsted. Patchwork? Ah, no! It was memory, imagination, history, biography, joy, sorrow, philosophy, religion, romance, realism, life, love, and death; and over all, like a halo, the love of the artist forhis work and the soul's longing for earthly immortality. 

No wonder the wrinkled fingers smoothed them as reverently as wehandle the garments of the dead. 

IV

"SWEET DAY OF REST"

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I walked slowly down the "big road" that Sunday afternoon--slowly, asbefitted the scene and the season; for who would hurry over the paththat summer has prepared for the feet of earth's tired pilgrims? Itwas the middle of June, and Nature lay a vision of beauty in hervesture of flowers, leaves, and blossoming grasses. The sandy road wasa pleasant walking-place; and if one tired of that, the short, thickgrass on either side held a fairy path fragrant with pennyroyal, thatmost virtuous of herbs. A tall hedge of Osage orange bordered eachside of the road, shading the traveler from the heat of the sun, andfurnishing a nesting-place for numberless small birds that twitteredand chirped their joy in life and love and June. Occasionally a gap inthe foliage revealed the placid beauty of corn, oats, and clover, stretching in broad expanse to the distant purple woods, with here andthere a field of the cloth of gold--the fast-ripening wheat thatwaited the hand of the mower. Not only is it the traveler's manifestduty to walk slowly in the midst of such surroundings, but he will dowell if now and then he sits down and dreams. 

As I made the turn in the road and drew near Aunt Jane's house, Iheard her voice, a high, sweet, quavering treble, like the notes of anancient harpsichord. She was singing a hymn that suited the day andthe hour:

 "Welcome, sweet day of rest, That saw the Lord arise, Welcome to this reviving breast, And these rejoicing eyes. "

Mingling with the song I could hear the creak of her oldsplint-bottomed chair as she rocked gently to and fro. Song and creakceased at once when she caught sight of me, and before I had openedthe gate she was hospitably placing another chair on the porch andsmiling a welcome. 

"Come in, child, and set down, " she exclaimed, moving the rocker sothat I might have a good view of the bit of landscape that she knew Iloved to look at. 

"Pennyroy'l! Now, child, how did you know I love to smell that?" Shecrushed the bunch in her withered hands, buried her face in it and satfor a moment with closed eyes. "Lord! Lord!" she exclaimed, withdeep-drawn breath, "if I could jest tell how that makes me feel! Ibeen smellin' pennyroy'l all my life, and now, when I get hold of apiece of it, sometimes it makes me feel like a little child, and thenagain it brings up the time when I was a gyirl, and if I was to keepon settin' here and rubbin' this pennyroy'l in my hands, I believe mywhole life'd come back to me. Honey-suckles and pinks and roses ain'tany sweeter to me. Me and old Uncle Harvey Dean was jest alike aboutpennyroy'l. Many a time I've seen Uncle Harvey searchin' around in thefence corners in the early part o' May to see if the pennyroy'l was upyet, and in pennyroy'l time you never saw the old man that he didn'thave a bunch of it somewheres about him. Aunt Maria Dean used to saythere was dried pennyroy'l in every pocket of his coat, and he used toput a big bunch of it on his piller at night. Sundays it looked likeUncle Harvey couldn't enjoy the preachin' and the singin' unless hehad a sprig of it in his hand, and I ricollect once seein' him git updurin' the first prayer and tiptoe out o' church and come back with ahandful o' pennyroy'l that he'd gethered across the road, and he'd setand smell it and look as pleased as a child with a piece o' candy. "

"Piercing sweet" the breath of the crushed wayside herb rose on theair. I had a distinct vision of Uncle Harvey Dean, and wondered if thefields of asphodel might not yield him some small harvest of hismuch-loved earthly plant, or if he might not be drawn earthward in"pennyroy'l time. "

"I was jest settin' here restin', " resumed Aunt Jane, "and thinkin'about Milly Amos. I reckon you heard me singin' fit to scare the crowsas you come along. We used to call that Milly Amos' hymn, and I nevercan hear it without thinkin' o' Milly. "

"Why was it Milly Amos' hymn?" I asked. 

Aunt Jane laughed blithely. 

"La, child!" she said, "don't you ever git tired o' my yarns? Here itis Sunday, and you tryin' to git me started talkin'; and when I gitstarted you know there ain't any tellin' when I'll stop. Come on andle's look at the gyarden; that's more fittin' for Sunday evenin' thantellin' yarns. "

So together we went into the garden and marveled happily over thegrowth of the tasseling corn, the extraordinarily long runners on theyoung strawberry plants, the size of the green tomatoes, and all therest of the miracles that sunshine and rain had wrought since my lastvisit. 

The first man and the first woman were gardeners, and there issomething wrong in any descendant of theirs who does not love agarden. He is lacking in a primal instinct. But Aunt Jane was in thisrespect a true daughter of Eve, a faithful co-worker with thesunshine, the winds, the rain, and all other forces of nature. 

"What do you reckon folks'd do, " she inquired, "if it wasn't forplantin'-time and growin'-time and harvest-time? I've heard folks saythey was tired o' livin', but as long as there's a gyarden to beplanted and looked after there's somethin' to live for. And unlessthere's gyardens in heaven I'm pretty certain I ain't goin' to besatisfied there. "

But the charms of the garden could not divert me from the main theme, and when we were seated again on the front porch I returned to MillyAmos and her hymn. 

"You know, " I said, "that there isn't any more harm in talking about athing on Sunday than there is in thinking about it. " And Aunt Janeyielded to the force of my logic. 

"I reckon you've heard me tell many a time about our choir, " shebegan, smoothing out her black silk apron with fingers that evidentlyfelt the need of knitting or some other form of familiar work. "JohnPetty was the bass, Sam Crawford the tenor, my Jane was the alto, andMilly Amos sung soprano. I reckon Milly might 'a' been called theleader of the choir; she was the sort o' woman that generally leadswherever she happens to be, and she had the strongest, finest voice inthe whole congregation. All the parts appeared to depend on her, andit seemed like her voice jest carried the rest o' the voices alonglike one big river that takes up all the little rivers and carries 'emdown to the ocean. I used to think about the difference between hervoice and Miss Penelope's. Milly's was jest as clear and true as MissPenelope's, and four or five times as strong, but I'd ruther hear onenote o' Miss Penelope's than a whole song o' Milly's. Milly's was jesta voice, and Miss Penelope's was a voice and somethin' else besides, but what that somethin' was I never could say. However, Milly was thevery one for a choir; she kind o' kept 'em all together and led 'emalong, and we was mighty proud of our choir in them days. We alwayshad a voluntary after we got our new organ, and I used to look forwardto Sunday on account o' that voluntary. It used to sound so pretty tohear 'em begin singin' when everything was still and solemn, and I cannever forgit the hymns they sung then--Sam and Milly and John and myJane. 

"But there was one Sunday when Milly didn't sing. Her and Sam come inlate, and I knew the minute I set eyes on Milly that somethin' was thematter. Generally she was smilin' and bowin' to people all around, butthis time she walked in and set the children down, and then set downherself without even lookin' at anybody, to say nothin' o' smilin' orspeakin'. Well, when half-past ten come, my Jane began to play'Welcome, sweet day of rest, ' and all of 'em begun singin' exceptMilly. She set there with her mouth tight shut, and let the bass andtenor and alto have it all their own way. I thought maybe she was outo' breath from comin' in late and in a hurry, and I looked for her tojine in, but she jest set there, lookin' straight ahead of her; andwhen Sam passed her a hymn-book, she took hold of it and shut it upand let it drop in her lap. And there was the tenor and the bass andthe alto doin' their best, and everybody laughin', or tryin' to keepfrom laughin'. I reckon if Uncle Jim Matthews had 'a' been there, he'd'a' took Milly's place and helped 'em out, but Uncle Jim'd been in hisgrave more'n two years. Sam looked like he'd go through the floor, hewas so mortified, and he kept lookin' around at Milly as much as tosay, 'Why don't you sing? Please sing, Milly, ' but Milly never openedher mouth. 

"I'd about concluded Milly must have the sore throat or somethin' likethat, but when the first hymn was give out, Milly started in and sungas loud as anybody; and when the doxology come around, Milly was onhand again, and everybody was settin' there wonderin' why on earthMilly hadn't sung in the voluntary. When church was out, I heard Saminvitin' Brother Hendricks to go home and take dinner withhim--Brother Hendricks'd preached for us that day--and they all droveoff together before I'd had time to speak to Milly. 

"But that week, when the Mite Society met, Milly was there bright andearly; and when we'd all got fairly started with our sewin', andeverybody was in a good-humor, Sally Ann says, says she: 'Milly, Iwant to know why you didn't sing in that voluntary Sunday. I reckoneverybody here wants to know, ' says she, 'but nobody but me's got thecourage to ask you. '

"And Milly's face got as red as a beet, and she burst out laughin', and says she: 'I declare, I'm ashamed to tell you all. I reckon Satanhimself must 'a' been in me last Sunday. You know, ' says she, 'there'ssome days when everything goes wrong with a woman, and last Sunday wasone o' them days. I got up early, ' says she, 'and dressed the childrenand fed my chickens and strained the milk and washed up the milkthings and got breakfast and washed the dishes and cleaned up thehouse and gethered the vegetables for dinner and washed the children'shands and faces and put their Sunday clothes on 'em, and jest as I wasstartin' to git myself ready for church, ' says she, 'I happened tothink that I hadn't skimmed the milk for the next day's churnin'. SoI went down to the spring-house and did the skimmin', and jest as Ipicked up the cream-jar to put it up on that shelf Sam built for me, my foot slipped, ' says she, 'and down I come and skinned my elbow onthe rock step, and broke the jar all to smash and spilled the creamall over creation, and there I was--four pounds o' butter and afifty-cent jar gone, and my spring-house in such a mess that I ain'tthrough cleanin' it yet, and my right arm as stiff as a poker eversince. '

"We all had to laugh at the way Milly told it; and Sally Ann says, 'Well, that was enough to make a saint mad. ' 'Yes, ' says Milly, 'andyou all know I'm far from bein' a saint. However, ' says she, 'I pickedup the pieces and washed up the worst o' the cream, and then I went tothe house to git myself ready for church, and before I could gitthere, I heard Sam hollerin' for me to come and sew a button on hisshirt; one of 'em had come off while he was tryin' to button it. Andwhen I got out my work-basket, the children had been playin' with it, and there wasn't a needle in it, and my thimble was gone, and I had tohunt up the apron I was makin' for little Sam and git a needle offthat, and I run the needle into my finger, not havin' any thimble, and got a blood spot on the bosom o' the shirt. Then, ' says she, 'before I could git my dress over my head, here come little Sam withhis clothes all dirty where he'd fell down in the mud, and there I hadhim to dress again, and that made me madder still; and then, when Ifinally got out to the wagon, ' says she, 'I rubbed my clean dressagainst the wheel, and that made me mad again; and the nearer we gotto the church, the madder I was; and now, ' says she, 'do you reckonafter all I'd been through that mornin', and dinner ahead of me togit, and the children to look after all the evenin', do you reckonthat I felt like settin' up there and singin' "Welcome, sweet day o'rest"?' Says she, 'I ain't seen any day o' rest since the day Imarried Sam, and I don't expect to see any till the day I die; and ifParson Page wants that hymn sung, let him git up a choir of old maidsand old bachelors, for they're the only people that ever see any restSunday or any other day. '

"We all laughed, and said we didn't blame Milly a bit for not singin'that hymn; and then Milly said: 'I reckon I might as well tell you allthe whole story. By the time church was over, ' says she, 'I'd kind o'cooled off, but when I heard Sam askin' Brother Hendricks to go homeand take dinner with him, that made me mad again; for I knew thatmeant a big dinner for me to cook, and I made up my mind then andthere that I wouldn't cook a blessed thing, company or no company. Sam'd killed chickens the night before, ' says she, 'and they was alldressed and ready, down in the spring-house; and the vegetables wasright there on the back porch, but I never touched 'em, ' says she. 'Ihappened to have some cold ham and cold mutton on hand--not much ofeither one--and I sliced 'em and put the ham in one end o' the bigmeat-dish and the mutton in the other, with a big bare place between, so's everybody could see that there wasn't enough of either one to go'round; and then, ' says she, 'I sliced up a loaf o' my salt-risin'bread and got out a bowl o' honey and a dish o' damson preserves, andthen I went out on the porch and told Sam that dinner was ready. '

"I never shall forgit how we all laughed when Milly was tellin' it. 'You know, Aunt Jane, ' says she, 'how quick a man gits up when youtell him dinner's ready. Well, Sam he jumps up, and says he, "Why, you're mighty smart to-day, Milly; I don't believe there's anotherwoman in the county that could git a Sunday dinner this quick. " Andsays he, "Walk out, Brother Hendricks, walk right out. "'"

Here Aunt Jane paused to laugh again at the long-past scene that herwords called up. 

"Milly used to say that Sam's face changed quicker'n a flash o'lightnin' when he saw the table, and he dropped down in his cheer andforgot to ask Brother Hendricks to say grace. 'Why, Milly, ' says he, 'where's the dinner? Where's them chickens I killed last night, andthe potatoes and corn and butter-beans?' And Milly jest looked himsquare in the face, and says she, 'The chickens are in thespring-house and the vegetables out on the back porch, and, ' says she, 'do you suppose I'm goin' to cook a hot dinner for you all on this"sweet day o' rest"?'"

Aunt Jane stopped again to laugh. 

"That wasn't a polite way for anybody to talk at their own table, " sheresumed, "and some of us asked Milly what Brother Hendricks said. AndMilly's face got as red as a beet again, and she says: 'Why, hebehaved so nice, he made me feel right ashamed o' myself for actin' somean. He jest reached over and helped himself to everything he couldreach, and says he, "This dinner may not suit you, Brother Amos, butit's plenty good for me, and jest the kind I'm used to at home. " Sayshe, "I'd rather eat a cold dinner any time than have a woman toilin'over a hot stove for me. "' And when he said that, Milly up and toldhim why it was she didn't feel like gittin' a hot dinner, and why shedidn't sing in the voluntary; and when she'd got through, he says, 'Well, Sister Amos, if I'd been through all you have this mornin' andthen had to git up and give out such a hymn as "Welcome, sweet day o'rest, " I believe I'd be mad enough to pitch the hymn-book and theBible at the deacons and the elders. ' And then he turns around to Sam, and says he, 'Did you ever think, Brother Amos, that there ain't apleasure men enjoy that women don't have to suffer for it?' And Millysaid that made her feel meaner'n ever; and when supper-time come, shelit the fire and got the best hot supper she could--fried chicken andwaffles and hot soda-biscuits and coffee and goodness knows what else. Now wasn't that jest like a woman, to give in after she'd had her ownway for a while and could 'a' kept on havin' it? Abram used to saythat women and runaway horses was jest alike; the best way to manage'em both was to give 'em the rein and let 'em go till they got tired, and they'll always stop before they do any mischief. Milly said thatsupper tickled Sam pretty near to death. Sam was always mighty proudo' Milly's cookin'. 

"So that's how we come to call that hymn Milly Amos' hymn, and as longas Milly lived folks'd look at her and laugh whenever the preachergive out 'Welcome, sweet day o' rest. '"

The story was over. Aunt Jane folded her hands, and we bothsurrendered ourselves to happy silence. All the faint, sweet soundsthat break the stillness of a Sunday in the country came to our earsin gentle symphony, --the lisp of the leaves, the chirp of youngchickens lost in the mazes of billowy grass, and the rustle of thesilver poplar that turned into a mass of molten silver whenever thebreeze touched it. 

"When you've lived as long as I have, child, " said Aunt Janepresently, "you'll feel that you've lived in two worlds. A short lifedon't see many changes, but in eighty years you can see old thingspassin' away and new ones comin' on to take their place, and when Ilook back at the way Sunday used to be kept and the way it's kept now, it's jest like bein' in another world. I hear folks talkin' about howwicked the world's growin' and wishin' they could go back to the oldtimes, but it looks like to me there's jest as much kindness andgoodness in folks nowadays as there was when I was young; and as forkeepin' Sunday, why, I've noticed all my life that the folks that'sstrictest about that ain't always the best Christians, and I reckonthere's been more foolishness preached and talked about keepin' theSabbath day holy than about any other one thing. 

"I ricollect some fifty-odd years ago the town folks got to keepin'Sunday mighty strict. They hadn't had a preacher for a long time, andthe church'd been takin' things easy, and finally they got a newpreacher from down in Tennessee, and the first thing he did was todraw the lines around 'em close and tight about keepin' Sunday. Someo' the members had been in the habit o' havin' their wood chopped onSunday. Well, as soon as the new preacher come, he said that Sundaywood-choppin' had to cease amongst his church-members or he'd have 'emup before the session. I ricollect old Judge Morgan swore he'd havehis wood chopped any day that suited him. And he had a load o' woodcarried down cellar, and the nigger man chopped all day long down inthe cellar, and nobody ever would 'a' found it out, but pretty soonthey got up a big revival that lasted three months and spread 'way outinto the country, and bless your life, old Judge Morgan was one o'the first to be converted; and when he give in his experience, he toldabout the wood-choppin', and how he hoped to be forgiven for breakin'the Sabbath day. 

"Well, of course us people out in the country wouldn't be outdone bythe town folks, so Parson Page got up and preached on the FourthCommandment and all about that pore man that was stoned to death forpickin' up a few sticks on the seventh day. And Sam Amos, he saysafter meetin' broke, says he, 'It's my opinion that that man was aindustrious, enterprisin' feller that was probably pickin' upkindlin'-wood to make his wife a fire, and, ' says he, 'if they wantedto stone anybody to death they better 'a' picked out some lazy, triflin' feller that didn't have energy enough to work Sunday or anyother day. ' Sam always would have his say, and nothin' pleased himbetter'n to talk back to the preachers and git the better of 'em in aargument. I ricollect us women talked that sermon over at the MiteSociety, and Maria Petty says: 'I don't know but what it's a wrongthing to say, but it looks to me like that Commandment wasn't intendedfor anybody but them Israelites. It was mighty easy for them to keepthe Sabbath day holy, but, ' says she, 'the Lord don't rain down mannain my yard. And, ' says she, 'men can stop plowin' and plantin' onSunday, but they don't stop eatin', and as long as men have to eat onSunday, women'll have to work. '

"And Sally Ann, she spoke up, and says she, 'That's so; and these verypreachers that talk so much about keepin' the Sabbath day holy, they'll walk down out o' their pulpits and set down at some woman'stable and eat fried chicken and hot biscuits and corn bread and fiveor six kinds o' vegetables, and never think about the work it took togit the dinner, to say nothin' o' the dish-washin' to come after. '

"There's one thing, child, that I never told to anybody but Abram; Ireckon it was wicked, and I ought to be ashamed to own it, but"--hereher voice fell to a confessional key--"I never did like Sunday till Ibegun to git old. And the way Sunday used to be kept, it looks to melike nobody could 'a' been expected to like it but old folks and lazyfolks. You see, I never was one o' these folks that's born tired. Iloved to work. I never had need of any more rest than I got everynight when I slept, and I woke up every mornin' ready for the day'swork. I hear folks prayin' for rest and wishin' for rest, but, honey, all my prayer was, 'Lord, give me work, and strength enough to doit. ' And when a person looks at all the things there is to be done inthis world, they won't feel like restin' when they ain't tired. 

"Abram used to say he believed I tried to make work for myself Sundayand every other day; and I ricollect I used to be right glad when anyo' the neighbors'd git sick on Sunday and send for me to help nurse'em. Nursing the sick was a work o' necessity, and mercy, too. Andthen, child, the Lord don't ever rest. The Bible says He rested on theseventh day when He got through makin' the world, and I reckon thatwas rest enough for Him. For, jest look; everything goes on Sundaysjest the same as week-days. The grass grows, and the sun shines, andthe wind blows, and He does it all. "

 "'For still the Lord is Lord of might; In deeds, in deeds He takes delight, '"

I said. 

"That's it, " said Aunt Jane, delightedly. "There ain't any religion inrestin' unless you're tired, and work's jest as holy in his sight asrest. "

Our faces were turned toward the western sky, where the sun wassinking behind the amethystine hills. The swallows were darting andtwittering over our heads, a somber flock of blackbirds rose from ahuge oak tree in the meadow across the road, and darkened the sky fora moment in their flight to the cedars that were their nightly restingplace. Gradually the mist changed from amethyst to rose, and thepoorest object shared in the transfiguration of the sunset hour. 

Is it unmeaning chance that sets man's days, his dusty, common days, between the glories of the rising and the setting sun, and his life, his dusty, common life, between the two solemnities of birth anddeath? Bounded by the splendors of the morning and evening skies, whatglory of thought and deed should each day hold! What celestial dreamsand vitalizing sleep should fill our nights! For why should day bemore magnificent than life?

As we watched in understanding silence, the enchantment slowly faded. The day of rest was over, a night of rest was at hand; and in theshadowy hour between the two hovered the benediction of that peacewhich "passeth all understanding. "

V

MILLY BAKER'S BOY

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It was the last Monday in May, and a steady stream of wagons, carriages, and horseback riders had been pouring into town over thesmooth, graveled pike. 

Aunt Jane stood on her front porch, looking around and above withevident delight. This was her gala Monday; and if any thoughts of theCounty Court days of happier years were in her mind, they were notpermitted to mar her enjoyment of the present. There were no waters ofMarah near her spring of remembrance. 

"Clear as a whistle!" she exclaimed, peering through the tendrils of aVirginia creeper at the sea of blue ether where fleecy white cloudswere floating, driven eastward by the fresh spring wind. "Folks'llcome home dry to-night; last time they was as wet as drowned rats. Yonder comes the Crawfords, and there's Jim Amos on horseback in frontof 'em. How d'ye, Jim! And yonder comes Richard Elrod in his newcarriage. Jest look at him! I do believe he grows younger andhandsomer every day of his life. "

A sweet-faced woman sat beside him, and two pretty girls were in theseat behind them. Bowing courteously to the old woman on thedoor-step, Richard Elrod looked every inch a king of the soil and aperfect specimen of the gentleman farmer of Kentucky. 

"The richest man in the county, " said Aunt Jane exultingly, as shefollowed the vanishing carriage with her keen gaze. "He went to thelegislatur' last winter; the 'Hon. Richard Elrod' they call him now. And I can remember the time when he was jest Milly Baker's boy, andnothin' honorable about it, either. "

There was a suggestion of a story in the words and in the look in AuntJane's eyes. What wonder that the tides of thought flowed back intothe channel of old times on a day like this, when every passing facewas a challenge to memory? It needed but a hint to bring forth therecollections that the sight of Richard Elrod had stirred to life. Thehigh-back rocker and the basket of knitting were transferred to theporch; and with the beauty and the music of a spring morning around usI listened to the story of Milly Baker's boy. 

"I hardly know jest where to begin, " said Aunt Jane, wrinkling herforehead meditatively and adjusting her needles. "Tellin' a story issomethin' like windin' off a skein o' yarn. There's jest two ends tothe skein, though, and if you can git hold o' the right one it's easywork. But there's so many ways o' beginning a story, and you neverknow which one leads straightest to the p'int. I wonder many a timehow folks ever finds out where to begin when they set out to write abook. However, I reckon if I start with Dick Elrod I'll git throughsomehow or other. 

"You asked me jest now who Richard Elrod was. He was the son o' DickElrod, and Dick was the son of Richard Elrod, the old Squire. It'scurious how you'll name two boys Richard, and one of 'em will alwaysbe called Richard and the other'll be called Dick. Nobody ever would'a' thought o' callin' Squire Elrod 'Dick, ' he was Richard from theday he was born till the day he died. But his son was nothin' but Dickall his life; Richard didn't seem to fit him somehow. And I've noticedthat you can tell what sort of a man a boy's goin' to make jest byknowin' whether folks calls him Richard or Dick. I ain't sayin' thatevery Richard is a good man and every Dick a bad one. All I mean isthat there's as much difference betwixt a 'Dick' and a 'Richard' asthere is betwixt a roastin' ear and a peck o' corn meal. Both of 'em'scorn, and both of 'em may be good, but they ain't the same thing by along jump. There's been a Richard in the Elrod family as far back asyou could track 'em; all of 'em good, steady, God-fearin' men tillDick come along. He was an only child, and of course that made a badmatter worse. 

"There's some men that's born to git women into trouble, and Dick wasone of 'em. Jest as handsome as a picture, and two years ahead o' hisage when it come to size, and a way about him, from the time he put onpants, that showed jest what kind of a man he was cut out for. If thechildren was playin' 'Jinny, Put the Kittle on, ' Dick would gitkissed ten times to any other boy's once; and if it was 'Drop theHandkerchief, ' every little gyirl in the ring'd be droppin' it behindDick to git him to run after her, and that was the only time Dick everdid any runnin'. All he had to do was jest to sit still, and thegyirls did the runnin'. It was that way all his life; and folks usedto say there was jest one woman in the world that Dick couldn't make afool of, and that was his cousin Penelope, the old Squire's brother'schild. She used to come down to the Squire's pretty near every summer, and when Dick saw how high and mighty she was, he begun to lay himselfout to make her come down jest where the other women was, not becausehe keered anything for her, --such men never keer for anybody buttheirselves, --he jest couldn't stand it to have a woman around unlessshe was throwin' herself at his head or at his feet. But he couldn'tdo anything with his cousin Penelope. She naturally despised him, andhe hated her. Next to Miss Penelope, the only girl that appeared to beanything like a match for Dick was Annie Crawford, Old Man BobCrawford's daughter. Old Man Bob was one o' the kind that thinks thatthe more children they've got the bigger men they are. Always made methink of Abraham and the rest o' the old patriarchs to see him comewalkin' into church with them nine young ones at his heels, makin' somuch racket you couldn't hear the sermon. He was mighty proud of hissons; but after Bob was born he wanted a daughter; and when they allkept turnin' out boys, he got crazier and crazier for a gyirl. Anniewasn't born till he was past sixty, and he like to 'a' lost his senseswith joy. It was harvestin' time, and he jest stopped work and set onhis front porch, and every time anybody passed by he'd holler, 'Well;neighbor, it's a gal this time!' If I'd 'a' been in Ann 'Liza's place, I'd 'a' gagged him. But la! she thought everything he did was allright. It got to be a reg'lar joke with the neighbors to ask Old ManBob how many children he had, and he'd give a big laugh and say, 'Ten, neighbor, and all of 'em gals but nine. '

"Well, of course Annie was bound to be spoiled, especially as hermother died when she was jest four years old. How Ann 'Liza ever stoodOld Man Bob and them nine boys as long as she did was a mystery toeverybody. Ann 'Liza had done her best to manage Annie, with Old ManBob pullin' against her all the time, but after she died Annie tookthe place and everything and everybody on it. Old Man Bob had raisedall his boys on spare-the-rod-and-spile-the-child principle, but whenAnnie come, he turned his back on Solomon and give out that Anniemustn't be crossed by anybody. Sam Amos asked him once how he come tochange his mind so about raisin' children, and Old Man Bob said he wasof the opinion that that text ought to read, 'Spare the rod and spilethe boy'; that Solomon had too much regyard for women to want to whipa gal child. If ever there was an old idiot he was one; I mean Old ManBob, not Solomon; though Solomon wasn't as wise as he might 'a' beenin some things. 

"Well, Annie was a headstrong, high-tempered child to begin with; andhavin' nobody to control her, she got to be the worst young one, Ireckon, in the State o' Kentucky. I used to feel right sorry for herlittle brothers. They couldn't keep a top or a ball or marble or anyplaything to save their lives. Annie would cry for 'em jest for puremeanness, and whatever it was that Annie cried for they had to give itup or git a whippin'. She'd break up their rabbit-traps and theirbird-cages and the little wheelbarrers and wagons they'd make, andthey didn't have any peace at home, pore little motherless things. Iricollect one day little Jim come runnin' over to my house draggin'his wagon loaded up with all his playthings, his little saw and hammerand some nails the cyarpenters had give him when Old Man Bob had hisnew stable built, and says he, 'Aunt Jane, please let me keep my toolsover here. Annie says she's goin' to throw 'em in the well, andpappy'll make me give 'em to her if she cries for 'em. ' Them toolsstayed at my house till Jim outgrowed 'em, and he and Henry, the otherlittle one, used to come and stay by the hour playin' with my Abram. 

"It was all Old Man Bob could do to git a housekeeper to stay with himwhen Annie got older. One spring she broke up all the hen nests andturkey nests on the farm, and they had to buy chickens all summer andturkeys all next winter. They used to tell how she stood and holleredfor two hours one day because the housekeeper wouldn't let her put herhand into a kittle o' boilin' lye soap. It's my belief that she wasall that kept Old Man Bob from marryin' again in less'n a year afterAnn 'Liza died. He courted three or four widders and old maids roundthe neighborhood, but there wasn't one of 'em that anxious to marrythat she'd take Old Man Bob with Annie thrown in. As soon as she gotold enough, Old Man Bob carried her with him wherever he went. CountyCourt days you'd see him goin' along on his big gray mare with Anniebehind him, holdin' on to the sides of his coat with her little fathands, her sunbonnet fallin' off and her curls blowin' all around herface, --like as not she hadn't had 'em combed for a week, --and in theevenin' about sunset here they'd come, Annie in front fast asleep, andOld Man Bob holdin' her on one arm and guidin' his horse with theother. Harvestin' times Annie'd be out in the field settin' on a shocko' wheat and orderin' the hands around same as if she was theoverseer; and Old Man Bob'd jest stand back and shake his sideslaughin' and say: 'That's right, honey. Make 'em move lively. If itwasn't for you, pappy couldn't git his harvestin' done. '

"Every fall and spring he'd go to town to buy clothes for her, andpeople used to say the storekeepers laid in a extry stock jest for OldMan Bob, and charged him two or three prices for everything he bought. He'd walk into Tom Baker's store with his saddle-bags on his arm andholler out, 'Well, what you got to-day? Trot out your silks and yoursatins, and remember that the best ain't good enough for my littlegal. '

"When Annie was twelve years old he took her off to Bardstown to gither education. When he come to say good-bye to her, he cried and shecried, and it ended with him settin' down and stayin' three weeks inBardstown, waitin' for Annie to git over her homesickness. Folks neverdid git through plaguin' him about goin' off to boardin' school, andas soon as Sam Crawford seen him he says, 'Well, Uncle Bob, when doyou reckon you'll git your diploma?'

"I never shall forgit the first time Annie come home to spend herChristmas. The neighbors didn't have any peace o' their lives for OldMan Bob tellin' 'em how Annie had growed, and how there wasn't a galin the state that could hold a candle to her. And Sunday he comewalkin' in church with Annie hangin' on to his arm jest as proud andhappy as if he'd got a new wife. 

"Annie had improved wonderful. It wasn't jest her looks, for shealways was as pretty as a picture, but she was as nice-mannered, well-behaved a gyirl as you'd want to see. There was jest as muchdifference betwixt her then and what she used to be as there isbetwixt a tame fox and a wild one. Of course the wildness is allthere, but it's kind o' covered up under a lot o' cute little tricksand ways; and that's the way it was with Annie. Squire Elrod's pew wasjest across the aisle from Old Man Bob's, and I could see Dickwatchin' her durin' church time. But Annie never looked one way northe other. She set there with her hands folded and her eyes straightbefore her, and nobody ever would 'a' thought that she'd been ridin'horses bare-back and climbin' eight-rail fences ever since she couldwalk, mighty near. 

"When she come back from school in June it was the same thing overagain, Old Man Bob braggin' on her and everybody sayin' how sweet andpretty she was. Dick began to wait on her right away, and before longfolks was sayin' that they was made for each other, especially astheir farms jined. That's a fool notion, but you can't git it out o'some people's heads. 

"Things went on this way for two or three years, Annie goin' andcomin' and gittin' prettier all the time, and Dick waitin' on herwhenever she was at home and carryin' on between times with everygyirl in the neighborhood. At last she come home for good, and Dickdropped all the others in a hurry and set out in earnest to git Annie. Folks said he was mightily in love, but accordin' to my way o'thinkin' there wasn't any love about it. The long and the short of itwas that Annie knew how to manage him, and the other gyirls didn't. They was always right there in the neighborhood, and it don't help awoman to be always under a man's nose. But Annie was here and thereand everywhere, visitin' in town and in Louisville and bringin' thetown folks and the city folks home with her, and havin' dances andpicnics, and doin' all she could to make Dick jealous. And then Ialways believed that Annie was jest as crazy about Dick as the rest o'the gyirls, but she had sense enough not to let him know it. It'shuman nature, you know, to want things that's hard to git. Why, iffleas and mosquitoes was sceerce, folks would go to huntin' 'em andmakin' a big fuss over 'em. Annie made herself hard to git, and that'swhy Dick wanted her instead o' Harriet Amos, that was jest as goodlookin' and better in every other way than Annie was. Everybody wassayin' what a blessed thing it was, and now Dick would give up hiswild ways and settle down and be a comfort to the Squire in his oldage. 

"Well, along in the spring, a year after Annie got through withschool, Sally Ann come to me, and says she, 'Jane, I saw somethin'last night and it's been botherin' me ever since;' and she went on tosay how she was goin' home about dusk, and how she'd seen Dick Elrodand little Milly Baker at the turn o' the lane that used to lead up toMilly's house. 'They was standin' under the wild cherry tree in thefence corner, ' says she, 'and the elderberry bushes was so thick thatI could jest see Dick's head and shoulders and the top of Milly'shead, but they looked to be mighty close together, and Dick wasstoopin' over and whisperin' somethin' to her. '

"Well, that set me to thinkin', and I ricollected seein' Dick comin'down the lane one evenin' about sunset and at the same time I'd caughtsight o' Milly walkin' away in the opposite direction. Our MiteSociety met that day, and Sally Ann and me had it up, and we alltalked it over. It come out that every woman there had seen the samethings we'd been seein', but nobody said anything about it as long asthey wasn't certain. 'Somethin' ought to be done, ' says Sally Ann;'it'd be a shame to let that pore child go to destruction right beforeour eyes when a word might save her. She's fatherless, and prettynear motherless, too, ' says she. 

"You see, the Bakers was tenants of old Squire Elrod's, and afterMilly's father died o' consumption the old Squire jest let 'em live onthe same as before. Mis' Elrod give 'em quiltin' and sewin' to do, andthey had their little gyarden, and managed to git along well enough. Some folks called 'em pore white trash. They was pore enough, goodnessknows, but they was clean and hard-workin', and that's two things that'trash' never is. I used to hear that Milly's mother come of a goodfamily, but she'd married beneath herself and got down in the worldlike folks always do when they're cast off by their own people. Millyhad come up like a wild rose in a fence corner, and she was jest thekind of a girl to be fooled by a man like Dick, handsome and smoothtalkin', with all the ways and manners that take women in. Em'lyCrawford used to say it made her feel like a queen jest to see Dicktake his hat off to her. If men's manners matched their hearts, honey, this'd be a heap easier world for women. But whenever you see a manthat's got good manners and a bad heart, you may know there's troubleahead for some woman. 

"Well, us women talked it over till dark come; and I reckon if we hadapp'inted a committee to look after Milly and Dick, somethin' mighthave been done. But everybody's business is nobody's business, and Ithought Sally Ann would go to Milly and give her a word o' warnin', and Sally Ann thought I'd do it, and so it went, and nothin' was saidor done at last; and before long it was all over the neighborhood thatpore little Milly was in trouble. "

Aunt Jane paused, took off her glasses and wiped them carefully on acorner of her gingham apron. 

"Many's the time, " she said slowly, "that I've laid awake till thechickens crowed, blamin' myself and wonderin' how far I wasresponsible for Milly's mishap. I've lived a long time since then, andI don't worry any more about such things. There's some things that'sgot to be; and when a person is all wore out tryin' to find out whythis thing happened and why that thing didn't happen, he can jestthrow himself back on the eternal decrees, and it's like layin' downon a good soft feather bed after you've done a hard day's work. Thepreachers'll tell you that every man is his brother's keeper, but'tain't so. I ain't my brother's keeper, nor my sister's, neither. There's jest one person I've got to keep, and that's myself. 

"The Bible says, 'A word spoken in due season, how good it is!' Butwhen folks is in love there ain't any due season for speakin' warnin'words to 'em. There was Emmeline Amos: her father told her if shemarried Hal, he'd cut her name out o' the family Bible and leave herclear out o' his will. But that didn't hinder her. She went right onand married him, and lived to rue the day she did it. No, child, there's mighty little salvation by words for folks that's in love. Ireckon if a word from me would 'a' saved Milly, the word would 'a'been given to me, and the season too, and as they wasn't, why I hadn'tany call to blame myself. 

"Abram and Sam Crawford did try to talk to Old Man Bob; but, la! youmight as well 'a' talked to the east wind. All he said was, 'If Anniewants Dick Elrod, Annie shall have him. ' That's what he'd been sayin'ever since Annie was born. Nobody said anything to Annie, for she wasthe sort o' girl who didn't care whose feelin's was tramped on, if shejest had her own way. 

"So it went on, and the weddin' day was set, and nothin' was talkedabout but Annie's first-day dress and Annie's second-day dress, andhow many ruffles she had on her petticoats, and what the lace on hernightgowns cost; and all the time there was pore Milly Baker cryin'her eyes out night and day, and us women gittin' up all our old babyclothes for Dick Elrod's unborn child. "

Aunt Jane dropped her knitting in her lap, and gazed across the fieldsas if she were seeking in the sunlit ether the faces of those whomoved and spoke in her story. A farm wagon came lumbering through thestillness, and she gathered up the double thread of story and knittingand went on. 

"Annie always said she was goin' to have such a weddin' as the countynever had seen, and she kept her word. Old Man Bob had the house fixedup inside and out. They sent up to Louisville for the cakes andthings, and the weddin' cake was three feet high. There was a solidgold ring in it, and the bridesmaids cut for it; and every gyirl therehad a slice o' the bride's cake to carry home to dream on that night. Annie's weddin' dress was white satin so heavy it stood alone, so theysaid. And Old Man Bob had the whole neighborhood laughin', tellin' howmany heifers and steers it took to pay for the lace around the neck ofit. 

"Annie and Dick was married in October about the time the leaves fell, and Milly's boy was born the last o' November. Lord! Lord! what aworld this is! Old Man Bob wouldn't hear to Annie's leavin' him, sothey stayed right on in the old home place. In them days folks didn'tgo a-lopin' all over creation as soon as they got married; theysettled down to housekeepin' like sensible folks ought to do. Old LadyElrod was as foolish over Dick as Old Man Bob was over Annie, and itwas laid down beforehand that they was to spend half the time at OldMan Bob's and half the time at the Squire's, 'bout the worst thingthey could 'a' done. The further a young couple can git from the oldfolks on both sides the better for everybody concerned. And besides, Annie wasn't the kind of a gyirl to git along with Dick's mother. Agyirl with the kind o' raisin' Annie'd had wasn't any fitdaughter-in-law for a particular, high-steppin' woman like Old LadyElrod. 

"There was some people that expected a heap o' Dick after he married, but I never did. If a man can't be faithful to a woman before hemarries her, he ain't likely to be faithful after he marries her. Andshore enough the shine wasn't off o' Annie's weddin' clothes beforeDick was back to his old ways, drinkin' and carryin' on with the womensame as ever, and the first thing we knew, him and Annie had a bigquarrel, and Old Man Bob had ordered him off the place. However, theymade it up and went over to the old Squire's to live, and things wenton well enough till Annie's baby was born. Dick had set his heart onhavin' a boy, but it turned out a girl, and as soon as they told him, he never even asked how Annie was, but jest went out to the stable andsaddled his horse and galloped off, and nobody seen him for two days. He needn't 'a' took on so, for the pore little thing didn't live but aweek. Annie had convulsions over Dick's leavin' her that way, and thedoctor said that was what killed the child. Annie never was the sameafter this. She grieved for her child and lost her good looks, andwhen she lost them, she lost Dick. It wasn't long before Dick waslivin' with his father, and she with hers. At last he went out West;and in less than three years Annie died; and a good thing she did, fora more soured, disappointed woman couldn't 'a' been found anywhere. 

"Well, all this time Milly Baker's baby was growin' in grace, youmight say. And a finer child never was born. Milly had named himRichard, and nature had wrote his father's name all over him. He wasthe livin' image of Dick, all but the look in his eyes; that wasMilly's. Milly worshiped him, and there was few children raised anycarefuler and better than Milly Baker's boy; that was what we alwayscalled him. Milly was nothin' but a child herself when he was born, but all at once she appeared to turn to a woman; acted like one andlooked like one. It ain't time, honey, that makes people old; it'sexperience. Some folks never git over bein' children, and some neverhas any childhood; and pore little Milly's was cut short by trouble. If she felt ashamed of herself or the child, nobody ever knew it. Inever could tell whether it was lack of sense, or whether she jestlooked at things different from the rest of us; but to see her walk inchurch holding little Richard by the hand, nobody ever would 'a'thought but what she was a lawful wife. No woman could 'a' behavedbetter'n she did, I'm bound to say. She got better lookin' all thetime, but she was as steady and sober as if she'd been sixty yearsold. Parson Page said once that Milly Baker had more dignity than anywoman, young or old, that he'd ever seen. It seems right queer to talkabout dignity in a pore gyirl who'd made the misstep she'd made, but Ireckon it was jest that that made us all come to treat her as if shewas as good as anybody. People can set their own price on 'emselves, I've noticed; and if they keep it set, folks'll come up to it. Millydidn't seem to think that she had done anything wrong; and when shebrought little Richard up for baptism there wasn't a dry eye in thechurch; and when she joined the church herself there wasn't anybodymean enough to say a word against it, not even Silas Petty. 

"Squire Elrod give her the cottage rent free after her mother died, and betwixt nursin' and doin' fine needlework she made a good livin'for herself and the boy. 

"Little Richard was a child worth workin' for from the start. Tall andstraight as a saplin', and carried himself like he owned the earth, even when he was a little feller. It looked like all the good blood onboth sides had come out in him, and there wasn't a smarter, handsomerboy in the county. The old Squire thought a heap of him, and nothin'but his pride kept him from ownin' the child outright and treatin' himlike he was his own flesh and blood. Richard had an old head on youngshoulders, though he was as full o' life as any boy; and by the timehe was grown the old Squire trusted him with everything on the placeand looked to him the same as if he'd been a settled man. After OldLady Elrod died, he broke terrible fast, and folks used to say it wasa pitiful sight to see him when he'd be watchin' Richard overseein'the hands and tendin' to things about the place. He'd lean on thefence, his hands tremblin' and his face workin', thinkin' about Dickand grievin' over him and wishin', I reckon, that Dick had been such aman as Milly's boy was. 

"All these years nobody ever heard from Dick. Once in a whilesomebody'd come from town and say they'd seen somebody that had seensomebody else, and that somebody had seen Dick way out in Californiaor Lord knows where, and that was all the news that ever come back. We'd all jest about made up our minds that he was dead, when onemornin', along in corn-plantin' time, the news was brought and spreadover the neighborhood in no time that Dick Elrod had come home and waslyin' at the p'int of death. I remembered hearin' a hack go by on thepike the night before, and wondered to myself what was up. I thought, maybe, it was a runaway couple or some such matter, but it was poreDick comin' back to his father's house, like the Prodigal Son, aftertwenty years. It takes some folks a long time, child, to git tired ofthe swine and the husks. 

"Well, of course, it made a big commotion, and before we'd hardlytaken it in, we heard that he'd sent for Milly, and her and Richardhad gone together up to the big house. 

"Jane Ann Petty was keepin' house for the old Squire, and she told usafterwards how it all come about. 

"We had a young probationer preachin' for us that summer, and as soonas he heard about Dick, he goes up to the big house without bein' sentfor to talk to him about his soul. I reckon he thought it'd be afeather in his cap if he could convert a hardened sinner like Dick. 

"Jane Ann said they took him into Dick's room, and he set down by thebed and begun to lay off the plan o' salvation jest like he waspreachin' from the pulpit, and Dick listened and never took his eyesoff his face. When he got through Dick says, says he:

"'Do you mean to say that all I've got to do to keep out of hell andget into heaven is to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ?' And BrotherJonas, he says:

"'Yes, my dear brother, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thoushalt be saved. The blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us fromall sin. "'

"And they said Dick jest laughed a curious sort o' laugh and says he:

"'It's a pretty God that'll make such a bargain as that!' And says he, 'I was born bad, I've lived bad, and I'm dyin' bad; but I ain't acoward nor a sneak, and I'm goin' to hell for my sins like a man. Likea man, do you hear me?'

"Jane Ann said the look in his eyes was awful; and the preacher turnedwhite as a sheet. It was curious talk for a death-bed; but, when youcome to think about it, it's reasonable enough. When a man's got hellin his heart, what good is it goin' to do him to git into heaven?"

"What, indeed?" I echoed, thinking how delightful it was that AuntJane and Omar Khayyam should be of one mind on this subject. 

"When Dick said this the young preacher got up to go, but Dick calledhim back, and says he, 'I don't want any of your preachin' or prayin', but you stay here; there's another sort of a job for you to do. ' Andthen he turned around to the old Squire and says, 'Send for Milly. '

"When we all heard that Milly'd been sent for, the first thing wethought was, 'How on earth is Milly goin' to tell Richard all he'sgot to know?' I never used to think we was anything over and above theordinary out in our neighborhood, but when I ricollect that RichardElrod come up from a boy to a man without knowin' who his father was, it seems like we must 'a' known how to hold our tongues anyhow. Therewasn't man, woman, or child that ever hinted to Milly Baker's boy thathe wasn't like other children, and so it was natural for us to wonderhow Milly was goin' to tell him. Well, it wasn't any of our business, and we never found out. All we ever did know was that Milly andRichard walked over to the big house together, and Richard held hishead as high as ever. 

"They said that Dick give a start when Milly come into the room. Ireckon he expected to see the same little girl he'd fooled twentyyears back, and when she come walkin' in it jest took him by surprise. 

"'Why, Milly, ' says he, 'is this you?'

"And he held out his hand, and she walked over to the bed and laid herhand in his. Folks that was there say it was a strange sight for anyone that remembered what them two used to be. Her so gentle andsweet-lookin', and him all wore out with bad livin' and wasted to ashadder of what he used to be. 

"I've seen the same thing, child, over and over again. Two people'llstart out together, and after a while they'll git separated, or, maybe, they'll live together a lifetime, and when they git to the endo' fifteen or twenty or twenty-five years, one'll be jest where he waswhen they set out, and the other'll be 'way up and 'way on, andthey're jest nothin' but strangers after all. That's the way it waswith Milly and Dick. They'd been sweethearts, and there was the child;but the father'd gone his way and the mother'd gone hers, and nowthere was somethin' between 'em like that 'great gulf' the Bible tellsabout. Well, they said Dick looked up at Milly like a hungry man looksat bread, and at last he says:

"'I'm goin' to make an honest woman of you, Milly. '

"And Milly looked him in the eyes and said as gentle and easy as ifshe'd been talkin' to a sick child: 'I've always been an honest woman, Dick. '

"This kind o' took him back again, but he says, right earnest andpitiful, 'I want to marry you, Milly; don't refuse me. I want to doone decent thing before I die. I've come all the way from Californiajust for this. Surely you'll feel better if you are my lawful wife. '

"And they said Milly thought a minute and then she says: 'I don'tbelieve it makes any difference with me, Dick. I've been through theworst, and I'm used to it. But if it'll make it any easier for you, I'll marry you. And then there's my boy; maybe it will be better forhim. '

"'Where's the boy?' says Dick; 'I want to see him. '

"So Milly went and called Richard in. And as soon as Dick saw him heraised up on his elbow, weak as he was, and hollered out so you couldhear him in the next room. 

"'Why, ' says he, 'it's myself! It's myself! Stand off there where Ican see you, boy! Why, you're the man I ought to have been andcouldn't be. These lyin' doctors, ' says he, 'tell me that I haven'tgot a day to live, but I'm goin' to live another lifetime in you!'

"And then he fell back, gaspin' for breath, and young Richard stoodthere in the middle o' the floor with his arms folded and his facelookin' like it was made of stone. 

"As soon as Dick could speak, they said he pulled Milly down andwhispered something to her, and she went over to the chair where hisclothes was hangin' and felt in the pocket of the vest and got alittle pearl ring out. They said she shook like a leaf when she sawit. And Dick says: 'I took it away from you, Milly, twenty years ago, for fear you'd use it for evidence against me--scoundrel that I was;and now I'm goin' to put it on your finger again, and the parson shallmarry us fair and square. I've got the license here under my pillow. 'And Milly leaned over and lifted him and propped him up with thepillows, and the young parson said the ceremony over 'em, with JaneAnn and the old Squire for witnesses. 

"As soon as the parson got through, Dick says: 'Boy, won't you shakehands with your father? I wouldn't ask you before. ' But Richard neverstirred. And Milly got up and went to him and laid her hand on his armand says: 'My son, come and speak to your father. ' And he walked upand took Dick's pore wasted hand in his strong one, and the old Squireset there and sobbed like a child. Jane Ann said he held on toRichard's hand and looked at him for a long time, and then he reachedunder the pillow and brought out a paper, and says he: 'It's my will;open it after I'm gone. I've squandered a lot o' money out West, butthere's a plenty left, and that minin' stock'll make you a rich man. It's all yours and your mother's. I wish it was more, ' says he, 'foryou're a son that a king'd be proud of. '

"Them was about the last words he said. Dr. Pendleton said he wouldn'tlive through the night, and sure enough he begun to sink as soon asthe young parson left, and he died the next mornin' about daybreak. Jane Ann said jest before he died he opened his eyes and mumbledsomethin', and Milly seemed to know what he wanted, for she reachedover and put Richard's hand on hers and Dick's, and he breathed hislast jest that way. 

"Milly wouldn't let a soul touch the corpse, but her and Richard. Shewas a mighty good hand at layin' out the dead, and them two washed andshrouded the body and laid it in the coffin, and the next day at thefuneral Milly walked on one side o' the old Squire and Richard on theother, and the old man leaned on Richard like he'd found a prop forhis last days. 

"I ain't much of a hand to believe in signs, but there was one thingthe day of the buryin' that I shall always ricollect. It had beenrainin' off and on all day, --a soft, misty sort o' rain that's goodfor growin' things, --but while they were fillin' up the grave andsmoothin' it off, the sun broke out over in the west, and when weturned around to leave the grave there was the brightest, prettiestrainbow you ever saw; and when Milly and Richard got into the oldSquire's carriage and rode home with him, that rainbow was right infront of 'em all the way home. It didn't mean much for Milly and theSquire, but I couldn't help thinkin' it was a promise o' better thingsfor Richard, and maybe a hope for pore Dick. 

"Milly didn't live long after this. They found her dead in her bed onemornin'. The doctor said it was heart disease; but it's my belief thatshe jest died because she thought she could do Richard a better turnby dyin' than livin'. She'd lived for him twenty years and seen himcome into his rights, and I reckon she thought her work was done. Dyin' for people is a heap easier'n livin' for 'em, anyhow. 

"The old Squire didn't outlive Milly many years, and when he diedRichard come into all the Elrod property. You've seen the Elrod place, ain't you, child? That white house with big pillars and porches infront of it. It's three miles further on the pike, and folks'll driveout there jest to look at it. I've heard 'em call it a 'colonialmansion, ' or some such name as that. It was all run down when Richardcome into possession of it, but now it's one o' the finest places inthe whole state. That's the way it is with families: one generation'lltear down and another generation'll build up. Richard's buildin' upall that his father tore down, and I'm in hopes his work'll last formany a day. "

Aunt Jane's voice ceased, and there was a long silence. The fullharvest of the story-telling was over; but sometimes there was anaftermath to Aunt Jane's tale, and for this I waited. I looked at thefield opposite where the long, verdant rows gave promise of the autumnreaping, and my thoughts were busy tracing backward every link in thechain of circumstance that stretched between Milly Baker's boy offorty years ago and the handsome, prosperous man I had seen thatmorning. Ah, a goodly tale and a goodly ending! Aunt Jane spoke atlast, and her words were an echo of my thought. 

"There's lots of satisfactory things in this world, child, " she said, beaming at me over her spectacles with the smile of the optimist whois born, not made. "There's a satisfaction in roundin' off the toe ofa stockin', like I'm doin' now, and knowin' that your work's goin' tokeep somebody's feet warm next winter. There's a satisfaction inbakin' a nice, light batch o' bread for the children to eat up. There's a satisfaction in settin' on the porch in the cool o' theevenin' and thinkin' o' the good day's work behind you, and anothergood day that's comin' to-morrow. This world ain't a vale o' tearsunless you make it so on purpose. But of all the satisfactions I everexperienced, the most satisfyin' is to see people git their justdeserts right here in this world. I don't blame David for bein' out o'patience when he saw the wicked flourishin' like a green bay tree. 

"I never was any hand for puttin' things off, whether it's work orpunishment; and I've never got my own consent to this way o' skeerin'people with a hell and wheedlin' 'em with a heaven way off yonder inthe next world. I ain't as old as Methuselah, but I've lived longenough to find out a few things; and one of 'em is that if peopledon't die before their time, they'll git their heaven and their hellright here in this world. And whenever I feel like doubtin' thejustice o' the Lord, I think o' Milly Baker's boy, and how he goteverything that belonged to him, and he didn't have to die and go toheaven to git it either. "

 "'Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all. '"

I quoted the lines musingly, watching meanwhile their effect on AuntJane. Her eyes sparkled as her quick brain took in the meaning of thepoet's words. 

"That's it!" she exclaimed, --"that's it! I don't mind waitin' myselfand seein' other folks wait, too, a reasonable time, but I do like tosee everybody, sooner or later, git the grist that rightly belongs to'em. "

[Illustration]

VI

THE BAPTIZING AT KITTLE CREEK

[Illustration]

"There's a heap o' reasons for folks marryin', " said Aunt Jane, reflectively. "Some marries for love, some for money, some for a home;some marries jest to spite somebody else, and some, it looks like, marries for nothin' on earth but to have somebody always around toquarrel with about religion. That's the way it was with Marthy andAmos Matthews. I don't reckon you ever heard o' Marthy and Amos, didyou, child? It's been many a year since I thought of 'em myself. Butlast Sunday evenin' I was over at Elnora Simpson's, and old Uncle SamSimpson was there visitin'. Uncle Sam used to live in the neighborhoodo' Goshen, but he moved up to Edmonson County way back yonder, I can'ttell when, and every now and then he comes back to see hisgrandchildren. He's gittin' well on towards ninety, and I'm thinkin'this is about the last trip the old man'll make till he goes on hislong journey. I was mighty glad to see him, and me and him set andtalked about old times till the sun went down. What he didn't rememberI did, and what I didn't remember he did; and when we got throughtalkin', Elnora--that's his grandson's wife--says, 'Well, Uncle Sam, if I could jest take down everything you and Aunt Jane said to-day, I'd have a pretty good history of everybody that ever lived in thiscounty. '

"Uncle Sam was the one that started the talk about Marthy and Amos. He'd been leanin' on his cane lookin' out o' the door at Elnora'stwins playin' on the grass, and all at once he says, says he, 'Jane, do you ricollect the time they had the big babtizin' down at KittleCreek?' And he got to laughin', and I got to laughin', and we setthere and cackled like a pair o' old fools, and nobody but us twoseein' anything funny about it. "

Aunt Jane's ready laugh began again at the mere remembrance of herformer mirth. I kept discreetly silent, fearing to break the flow ofreminiscence by some ill-timed question. 

"Nobody ever could see, " she continued, "how it was that Amos Matthewsand Marthy Crawford ever come to marry, unless it was jest as I said, to have somebody always handy to quarrel with about their religion;and I used to think sometimes that Marthy and Amos got more pleasurethat way than most folks git out o' prayin' and singin' and listenin'to preachin'. Amos was the strictest sort of a Presbyterian, andMarthy was a Babtist, and to hear them two jawin' and arguin' andbringin' up Scripture texts about predestination and infant babtismand close communion and immersion was enough to make a person wishthere wasn't such a thing as churches and doctrines. Brother Riceasked Sam Amos once if Marthy and Amos Matthews was Christians. Brother Rice had come to help Parson Page carry on a meetin', and hewas tryin' to find out who was the sinners and who was theChristians. And Sam says, 'No; my Lord! It takes all o' Marthy's timeto be a Babtist and all o' Amos' to be a Presbyterian. They ain't gottime to be Christians. '

"Some folks wondered how they ever got time to do any courtin', theywas so busy wranglin' over babtism and election. And after Marthy hadher weddin' clothes all made they come to a dead stop. Amos said hewouldn't feel like they was rightly married if they didn't have aPresbyterian minister to marry 'em, and Marthy said it wouldn't bemarryin' to her if they didn't have a Babtist. I was over at HannahCrawford's one day, and she says, says she, 'Jane, I've been savin' upmy eggs and butter for a month to make Marthy's weddin' cake, and ifher and Amos don't come to an understandin' soon, it'll all be a deadloss. ' And Marthy says, 'Well, mother, I may not have any cake at myweddin', and I may not have any weddin', but one thing is certain: I'mnot goin' to give up my principles. '

"And Hannah sort o' groaned--she hadn't had any easy time with MilesCrawford--and says she, 'You pore foolish child! Principles ain't theonly thing a woman has to give up when she gits married. '

"I don't know whether they ever would 'a' come to an agreement if ithadn't been for Brother Morris. He was the Presidin' Elder from town, and a powerful hand for jokin' with folks. He happened to meet Amosone day about this time, and says he, 'Amos, I hear you and MissMarthy can't decide betwixt Brother Page and Brother Gyardner. It'd bea pity, ' says he, 'to have a good match sp'iled for such a littlematter, and s'pose you compromise and have me to marry you. '

"And Amos says, 'I don't know but what that's the best thing thatcould be done. I'll see Marthy and let you know. ' And, bless yourlife, they was married a week from that day. I went over and helpedHannah with the cake, and Brother Morris said as pretty a ceremonyover 'em as any Presbyterian or Babtist could 'a' said. 

"Well, the next Sunday everybody was on the lookout to see whichchurch the bride and groom'd go to. Bush Elrod bet a dollar thatMarthy'd have her way, and Sam Amos bet a dollar that they'd be at thePresbyterian church. Sam won the bet, and we was all right glad thatMarthy'd had the grace to give up that one time, anyhow. Amos waspowerful pleased havin' Marthy with him, and they sung out of the samehymn-book and looked real happy. It looked like they was startin' outright, and I thought to myself, 'Well, here's a good beginnin', anyhow. ' But it happened to be communion Sunday, and of all theunlucky things that could 'a' happened for Marthy and Amos, that wasabout the unluckiest. I said then that if Parson Page had been awoman, he'd 'a' postponed that communion. But a man couldn't beexpected to have much sense about such matters, so he goes ahead andgives out the hymn, ''Twas on that dark and dreadful day;'

and everybody in church was lookin' at Amos and Marthy and watchin' tosee what she was goin' to do. While they was singin' the hymn thechurch-members got up and went forward to the front seats, and Amoswent with 'em. That left Marthy all alone in the pew, and I couldn'thelp feelin' sorry for her. She tried to look unconcerned, but anybodycould see she felt sort o' forsaken and left out, and folks alllookin', and some of 'em whisperin' and nudgin' each other. I knewjest exactly how Marthy felt. Abram said to me when we was on the wayhome that day, 'Jane, if I'd 'a' been in Amos' place, I believe I'd'a' set still with Marthy. Marthy'd come with him and it looks likehe ought to 'a' stayed with her. ' I reckon, though, that Amos thoughthe was doin' right, and maybe it's foolish in women to care aboutthings like that. Sam Amos used to say that nobody but God Almighty, that made her, ever could tell what a woman wanted and what she didn'twant; and I've thought many a time that since He made women, it's apity He couldn't 'a' made men with a better understandin' o' women'sways. 

"Maybe if Amos'd set still that day, things would 'a' been differentwith him and Marthy all their lives, and then again, maybe it didn'tmake any difference. It's hard to tell jest what makes things go wrongin this world and what makes 'em go right. It's a mighty little thingfor a man to git up and leave his wife settin' alone in a pew for afew minutes, but then there's mighty few things in this life thatain't little, till you git to follerin' 'em up and seein' what theycome to. "

I thought of Pippa's song:

 "Say not a small event! Why 'small'? Costs it more pain that this, ye call A great event, should come to pass, Than that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed!"

And Aunt Jane went serenely on:

"Anyhow, it wasn't long till Amos was goin' to his church and Marthyto hers, and they kept that up the rest of their lives. Still, theymight 'a' got along well enough this way, for married folks don't haveto think alike about everything, but they was eternally arguin' abouttheir church doctrines. If Amos grumbled about the weather, Marthy'dsay, 'Ain't everything predestined? Warn't this drought app'intedbefore the foundation of the world? What's the sense in grumblin' overthe decrees of God?' And it got so that if Amos wanted to grumble overanything, he had to git away from home first, and that must 'a' beenmighty wearin' on him; for, as a rule, a man never does any grumblin'except at home; but pore Amos didn't have that privilege. Sam Amosused to say--­Sam wasn't a church-member himself--that there was someadvantages about bein' a Babtist after all; you did have to go underthe water, but then you had the right to grumble. But if a manbelieved that everything was predestined before the foundations of theworld, there wasn't any sense or reason in findin' fault with anythingthat happened. And he believed that he'd ruther jine the Babtistchurch than the Presbyterian, for he didn't see how he could carry onhis farm without complainin' about the weather and the crops andthings in general. 

"If Marthy and Amos'd been divided on anything but their churches, thechildren might 'a' brought 'em together; but every time a child wasborn matters got worse. Amos, of course, wanted 'em all babtized ininfancy, and Marthy wanted 'em immersed when they j'ined the church, and so it went. Amos had his way about the first one, and I nevershall forgit the day it was born. I went over to help wait on Marthyand the baby, and as soon as I got the little thing dressed, we calledAmos in to see it. Now, Amos always took his religion mighty hard. Itdidn't seem to bring him any comfort or peace o' mind. I've heardpeople say they didn't see how Presbyterians ever could be happy; butla, child, it's jest as easy to be happy in one church as in another. It all depends on what doctrines you think the most about. Now youtake election and justification and sanctification, and you can gitplenty o' comfort out o' them. But Amos never seemed to think ofanything but reprobation and eternal damnation. Them doctrines jestseemed to weigh on him night and day. He used to say many a time thathe didn't know whether he had made his callin' and election sure ornot, and I don't believe he thought that anybody else had made theirssure, either. Abram used to say that Amos looked like he was carryin'the sins o' the world on his shoulders. 

"That day the baby was born I thought to myself, 'Well, here'ssomethin' that'll make Amos forgit about his callin' and election foronce, anyhow;' and I wrapped the little feller up in his blanket andheld him to the light, so his father could see him; and Amos looked athim like he was skeered, for a minute, and then he says, 'O Lord! Ihope it ain't a reprobate. '

"Now jest think of a man lookin' down into a little new-born baby'sface and talkin' about reprobates!

"Marthy heard what he said, and says she, 'Amos, are you goin' to havehim babtized in infancy?'

"'Why, yes, ' says Amos, 'of course I am. '

"And Marthy says, 'Well, hadn't you better wait until you find outwhether he's a reprobate or not? If he's a reprobate, babtizin' ain'tgoin' to do him any good, and if he's elected he don't need to bebabtized. '

"And I says, 'For goodness' sake, Marthy, you and Amos let thedoctrines alone, or you'll throw yourself into a fever. ' And I pusheda rockin'-chair up by the bed and I says, 'Here, Amos, you set here byyour wife, and both of you thank the Lord for givin' you such a finechild;' and I laid the baby in Amos' arms, and went out in the gyardento look around and git some fresh air. I gethered a bunch o'honeysuckles to put on Marthy's table, and when I got back, Marthy andthe baby was both asleep, and Amos looked as if he was beginnin' tohave some little hopes of the child's salvation. 

"Marthy named him John; and Sam Amos said he reckoned it was for Johnthe Babtist. But it wasn't; it was for Marthy's twin brother that diedwhen he was jest three months old. Twins run in the Crawford family. Amos had him babtized in infancy jest like he said he would, and sucha hollerin' and squallin' never was heard in Goshen church. The nextday Sally Ann says to me, says she, 'That child must 'a' been aBabtist, Jane; for he didn't appear to favor infant babtism. '

"Well, Marthy had her say-so about the next child--that one was a boy, too, and they named him Amos for his father--and young Amos wasn'tbabtized in infancy; he was 'laid aside for immersion, ' as Sam Amossaid. Then it was Amos' time to have his way, and so they went on tillyoung Amos was about fifteen years old and Marthy got him convertedand ready to be immersed. The Babtists had a big meetin' that spring, and there was a dozen or more converts to be babtized when it wasover. We'd been havin' mighty pleasant weather that March; I ricollectme and Abram planted our potatoes the first week in March, and I wouldput in some peas. Abram said it was too early, and sure enough thefrost got 'em when they was about two inches high. It turned off realcold about the last o' March; and when the day for the babtizin' come, there was a pretty keen east wind, and Kittle Creek was mighty highand muddy, owin' to the rains they'd had further up. There was sometalk o' puttin' off the babtizin' till better weather, but BrotherGyardner, he says: 'The colder the water, the warmer your faith, brethren; Christ never put off any babtizin' on account of theweather. '

"Sam Amos asked him if he didn't reckon there was some differencebetween the climate o' Kentucky and the climate o' Palestine. Sam wasalways a great hand to joke with the preachers. But the way thingswent that day the weather didn't make much difference anyhow to youngSam. 

"The whole neighborhood turned out Sunday evenin' and went over toKittle Creek to see the big babtizin'. Marthy and Amos and all thechildren was there, and Marthy looked like she'd had a big streak o'good luck. Sam Amos says to me, 'Well, Aunt Jane, Marthy's waited along time, but she'll have her innin's now. '

"Bush Elrod was the first one to go under the water; and when two orthree more had been babtized, it was young Amos' time. I saw Marthypushin' him forward and beckonin' to Brother Gyardner like shecouldn't wait any longer. 

"Nobody never did know exactly how it happened. Some folks said thatyoung Amos wasn't overly anxious to go under the water that cold day, and he kind o' slipped behind his father when he saw Brother Gyardnercomin' towards him; and some went so fur as to say that BrotherGyardner was in the habit o' takin' a little spirits after a babtizin'to keep from takin' cold, and that time he'd taken it beforehand, anddidn't know exactly what he was about. Anyhow, the first thing we knewBrother Gyardner had hold o' Amos himself, leadin' him towards thewater. Amos was a timid sort o' man, easy flustered, and it lookedlike he lost his wits and his tongue too. He was kind o' pullin' backand lookin' round in a skeered way, and Brother Gyardner he holleredout, 'Come right along, brother! I know jest how it is myself; thespirit is willin', but the flesh is weak. ' The Babtists was shoutin''Glory Hallelujah' and Uncle Jim Matthews begun to sing, 'On Jordan'sstormy banks I stand, ' and pretty near everybody j'ined in till youcouldn't hear your ears. The rest of us was about as flustered asAmos. We knew in reason that Brother Gyardner was makin' a bigmistake, but we jest stood there and let things go on, and no tellin'what might 'a' happened if it hadn't been for Sam Amos. Sam was acool-headed man, and nothin' ever flustered him. As soon as he saw howthings was goin' he set down on the bank and pulled off his boots; andjest as Brother Gyardner got into the middle o' the creek, here comeSam wadin' up behind 'em, and grabbed Amos by the shoulder andhollered out, 'You got the wrong man, parson! Here, Amos, take hold o'me. ' And he give Amos a jerk that nearly made Brother Gyardner losehis footin', and him and Amos waded up to the shore and left BrotherGyardner standin' there in the middle o' the creek lookin' like he'dlost his job. 

"Well, that put a stop to the singin' and the shoutin', and the wayfolks laughed was scandalous. They had to walk Amos home in a hurryto git his wet clothes off, and Uncle Jim Matthews and Old Man BobCrawford went with him to rub him down. Amos was subject tobronchitis, anyhow. Marthy went on ahead of 'em in the wagon to havehot water and blankets ready. I'll give Marthy that credit; sheappeared to forgit all about the babtizin' when Amos come up so wetand shiverin'. Sam couldn't git his boots on over his wet socks, andas he'd walked over to the creek, Silas Petty had to take him home inhis spring wagon. Brother Gyardner all this time was lookin' round foryoung Amos, but he wasn't to be found high nor low, and that set folksto laughin' again, and so many havin' to leave, the babtizin' wasclean broke up. Milly come up jest as Sam was gittin' into Old ManBob's wagon, and says she, 'Well, Sam, you've ruined your Sunday pantsthis time. ' And Sam says, 'Pants nothin'. The rest o' you all can saveyour Sunday pants if you want to, but this here's a free country, andI ain't goin' to stand by and see a man babtized against his willwhile I'm able to save him. ' And if Sam'd saved Amos' life, instead o'jest savin' him from babtism, Amos couldn't 'a' been gratefuler. WhenSam broke his arm the follerin' summer, Amos went over and set upwith him at night, and let his own wheat stand while he harvestedSam's. 

"Well, the next time the 'Sociation met, the Babtists had somethin'new to talk about. Old Brother Gyardner got up, and says he, 'Brethren, there's a question that's been botherin' me for some time, and I'd like to hear it discussed and git it settled, if possible;'and says he, 'If a man should be babtized accidentally, and againsthis will, would he be a Babtist? or would he not?' And they begun toargue it, and they had it up and down, and some was of one opinion andsome of another. Brother Gyardner said he was inclined to think thatbabtism made a man a Babtist, but old Brother Bascom said if a manwasn't a Babtist in his heart, all the water in the sea wouldn't makehim one. And Brother Gyardner said that was knockin' the props cleanfrom under the Babtist faith. 'For, ' says he, 'if bein' a Babtist inthe heart makes a man a Babtist, then babtism ain't necessary tosalvation, and if babtism ain't necessary, what becomes o' the Babtistchurch?'

"Somebody told Amos about the dispute they was havin' over his case, and Amos says, 'If them fool Babtists want that question settled, let'em come to me. ' Says he, 'My father and mother was Presbyterians, and my grandfather and grandmother and great-grandfather andgreat-grandmother on both sides; I was sprinkled in infancy, and Ij'ined the Presbyterian church as soon as I come to the age ofaccountability, and if you was to carry me over to Jerusalem andbabtize me in the river Jordan itself, I'd still be a Presbyterian. '"

Here Aunt Jane paused to laugh again. "There's some things, child, "she said, as she wiped her glasses, "that people'll laugh over andthen forgit; and there's some things they never git over laughin'about. The Kittle Creek babtizin' was one o' that kind. Old Man BobCrawford used to say he wouldn't 'a' took five hundred dollars forthat babtizin'. Old Man Bob was the biggest laugher in the country;you could hear him for pretty near half a mile when he got in alaughin' way; and he used to say that whenever he felt like havin' agood laugh, all he had to do was to think of Amos and how he lookedwith Brother Gyardner leadin' him into the water, and the Babtistsa-singin' over him. Bush Elrod was another one that never got over it. Every time he'd see Amos he'd begin to sing, 'On Jordan's stormy banksI stand, ' and Amos couldn't git out o' the way quick enough. 

"Well, that's what made me and old Uncle Sam Simpson laugh so lastSunday. I don't reckon there's anything funny in it to folks thatnever seen it; but when old people git together and call up old times, they can see jest how folks looked and acted, and it's like livin' itall over again. "

"I don't believe you can see it any plainer than I do, Aunt Jane, " Ihastened to assure her. "It is all as clear to me as any picture Iever saw. It was in March, you say, and the wind was cool, but the sunwas warm; and if you sat in a sheltered place you might almost thinkit was the last of April. "

"That's so, child. I remember me and Abram set under the bank on arock that kind o' cut off the north wind, and it was real pleasant. "

"Then there must have been a purple haze on the hills; and, while thetrees were still bare, there was a look about them as if the comingleaves were casting their shadows before. There were heaps of brownleaves from last year's autumn in the fence corners, and as you andUncle Abram walked home, you looked under them to see if the violetswere coming up, and found some tiny wood ferns. "

Aunt Jane dropped her knitting and leaned back in the highold-fashioned chair. 

"Why, child, " she said in an awe-struck tone, "are you afortune-teller?"

"Not at all, Aunt Jane, " I said, laughing at the dear old lady'sconsternation. "I am only a good guesser; and I wanted you to knowthat I not only see the things that you see and tell me, but some ofthe things that you see and don't tell me. Did Marthy ever get youngAmos baptized?" I asked. 

"La, yes, " laughed Aunt Jane. "They finished up the babtizin' twoweeks after that. It was a nice, pleasant day, and young Amos wentunder the water all right; but mighty little good it did him afterall. For as soon as he come of age, he married Matildy Harris (Matildywas a Methodist), and he got to goin' to church with his wife, andthat was the last of his Babtist raisin'. "

Then we both were silent for a while, and I watched the gatheringthunder-clouds in the west. A low rumble of thunder broke thestillness of the August afternoon. Aunt Jane looked up apprehensively. 

"There's goin' to be a storm betwixt now and sundown, " she said, "butI reckon them young turkeys'll be safe under their mother's wings bythat time. "

"Don't you think a wife ought to join her husband's church, AuntJane?" I asked with idle irrelevance to her remark. 

"Sometimes she ought and sometimes she oughtn't, " replied Aunt Janeoracularly. "There ain't any rule about it. Everybody's got to betheir own judge about such matters. If I'd 'a' been in Marthy's place, I wouldn't 'a' j'ined Amos' church, and if I'd been in Amos' place Iwouldn't 'a' j'ined Marthy's church. So there it is. "

"But didn't you join Uncle Abram's church?" I asked, in a laudableendeavor to get at the root of the matter. 

"Yes, I did, " said Aunt Jane stoutly; "but that's a mighty differentthing. Of course, I went with Abram, and if I had it to do over again, I'd do it. You see the way of it was this: my folks was Campbellites, or Christians they'd ruther be called. It's curious how they don'tlike to be called Campbellites. Methodists don't mind bein' calledWesleyans, and Presbyterians don't git mad if you call 'em Calvinists, and I reckon Alexander Campbell was jest as good a man as Wesley and asight better'n Calvin, but you can't make a Campbellite madder than tocall him a Campbellite. However, as I was sayin', Alexander Campbellhimself babtized my father and mother out here in Drake's Creek, andI was brought up to think that my church was _the_ Christian church, sure enough. But when me and Abram married, neither one of us wasthinkin' much about churches. I used to tell Marthy that if a man'dcome talkin' church to me, when he ought to been courtin' me, I'd 'a'told him to go on and marry a hymn-book or a catechism. I believe inreligion jest as much as anybody, but a man that can't forgit hisreligion while he's courtin' a woman ain't worth havin'. That's myopinion. But as I was sayin', me and Abram had the church question tosettle after we was married, and I don't believe either one of usthought about it till Sunday mornin' come. I ricollect it jest like itwas yesterday. We was married in June, and you know how things alwayslook about then. I've thought many a day, when I've been out in thegyarden workin' with my vegetables and getherin' my honeysuckles androses, that if folks could jest live on and never git old and it'dstay June forever, that this world'd be heaven enough for anybody. Andthat's the way it was that Sunday mornin'. I ricollect I had on my'second-day' dress, the prettiest sort of a changeable silk, kind 'odove color and pink, and I had a leghorn bonnet on with pink rosesinside the brim, and black lace mitts on my hands. I stood up beforethe glass jest before I went out to the gate where Abram was, waitin'for me, and I looked as pretty as a pink, if I do say it. 'Self-praisegoes but a little ways, ' my mother used to tell me, when I was agyirl; but I reckon there ain't any harm in an old woman like metellin' how she looked when she was a bride more'n sixty years ago. "

And a faint color came into the wrinkled cheeks, while her clear, highlaugh rang out. The outward symbols of youth and beauty were gone, buttheir unquenchable spirit lay warm under the ashes of nearly eightdecades. 

"Well, I went out, and Abram helped me into the buggy and, instead o'goin' straight on to Goshen church, he turned around and drove out tomy church. When we walked in I could see folks nudgin' each other andlaughin', and when meetin' broke and we was fixin' to go home, AuntMaria Taylor grabbed hold o' me and pulled me off to one side and saysshe, 'That's right, Jane, you're beginnin' in time. Jest break a manin at the start, and you won't have no trouble afterwards. ' And I jestlaughed in her face and went on to where Abram was waitin' for me. Iwas too happy to git mad that day. Well, the next Sunday, when we gotinto the buggy and Abram started to turn round, I took hold o' thereins and says I, 'It's my time to drive, Abram; you had your way lastSunday, and now I'm goin' to have mine. ' And I snapped the whip overold Nell's back and drove right on to Goshen, and Abram jest set backand laughed fit to kill. 

"We went on that way for two or three months, folks sayin' that Abramand Jane Parrish couldn't go to the same church two Sundays straightalong to save their lives, and everybody wonderin' which of us'd havetheir way in the long run. And me and Abram jest laughed in oursleeves and paid no attention to 'em; for there never was but one wayfor us, anyhow, and that wasn't Abram's way nor my way; it was jest_our_ way. There's lots of married folks, honey, and one of 'em's hereand one of 'em's gone over yonder, and there's a long, deep gravebetween 'em; but they're a heap nearer to each other than two livin'people that stay in the same house, and eat at the same table, andsleep in the same bed, and all the time there's two great thick churchwalls between 'em and growin' thicker and higher every day. Sam Amosused to say that if religion made folks act like Marthy and Amos did, he believed he'd ruther have less religion or none at all. But, honey, when you see married folks quarrelin' over their churches, it ain'ttoo much religion that's the cause o' the trouble, it's too littlelove. Jest ricollect that; if folks love each other right, religionain't goin' to come between 'em. 

"Well, as soon as cold weather set in they started up a big revival atGoshen church. After the meetin' had been goin' on for three or fourweeks, Parson Page give out one Sunday that the session would meet onthe follerin' Thursday to examine all that had experienced a change o'heart and wanted to unite with the church. I never said a word toAbram, but Thursday evenin' while he was out on the farm mendin' somefences that the cattle had broke down, I harnessed old Nell to thebuggy and drove out to Goshen. All the converts was there, and thesession was questionin' and examinin' when I got in. When it come myturn, Parson Page begun askin' me if I'd made my callin' and electionsure, and I come right out, and says I, 'I don't know much aboutcallin' and election, Brother Page; I reckon I'm a Christian, ' says I, 'for I've been tryin' to do right by everybody ever since I was oldenough to know the difference betwixt right and wrong; but, if theplain truth was told, I'm j'inin' this church jest because it'sAbram's church, and I want to please him. And that's all the testimonyI've got to give. ' And Parson Page put his hand over his mouth to keepfrom laughin'--he was a young man then and hadn't been married longhimself--and says he, 'That'll do, Sister Parrish; brethren, we'llpass on to the next candidate. ' I left 'em examinin' Sam Crawfordabout his callin' and election, and I got home before Abram come tothe house, and the next day when I walked up with the rest of 'emAbram was the only person in the church that was surprised. Whenthey'd got through givin' us the right hand o' fellowship, and I wentback to our pew, Abram took hold o' my hand and held on to it like henever would let go, and I knew I'd done the right thing and I neverwould regret it. "

There was a light on the old woman's face that made me turn my eyesaway. Here was a personal revelation that should have satisfied themost exacting, but my vulgar curiosity cried out for further light onthe past. 

"What would you have done, " I asked, "if Uncle Abram hadn't turned thehorse that Sunday morning--if he had gone straight on to Goshen?"

Aunt Jane regarded me for a moment with a look of pitying allowance, such as one bestows on a child who doesn't know any better than to askstupid questions. 

"Shuh, child, " she said with careless brevity, "Abram couldn't 'a'done such a thing as that. "

[Illustration]

VII

HOW SAM AMOS RODE IN THE

TOURNAMENT

[Illustration]

"There's one thing I'd like mighty well to see again before I die, "said Aunt Jane, "and that is a good, old-fashioned fair. The apostlesays we must 'press forward, forgetting the things that are behind, 'but there's some things I've left behind that I can't never forget, and the fairs we had in my day is one of 'em. "

It was the quietest hour of an August afternoon--that time when oneseems to have reached "the land where it is always afternoon"--andAunt Jane and I were sitting on the back porch, shelling butter-beansfor the next day's market. Before us lay the garden in the splendidfulness of late summer. Concord and Catawba grapes loaded the vines onthe rickety old arbor; tomatoes were ripening in reckless plenty, tobe given to the neighbors, or to lie in tempting rows on thewindow-sill of the kitchen and the shelves of the back porch; thesecond planting of cucumber vines ran in flowery luxuriance over thespace allotted to them, and even encroached on the territory of thesquashes and melons. Damsons hung purpling over the eaves of thehouse, and wasps and bees kept up a lively buzzing as they feasted onthe windfalls of the old yellow peach tree near the garden gate. Nature had distributed her sunshine and showers with wise generositythat year, and neither in field nor in garden was there lack of anygood thing. Perhaps it was this gracious abundance, presaging fineexhibits at the coming fair, that turned Aunt Jane's thoughts towardsthe fairs of her youth. 

"Folks nowadays don't seem to think much about fairs, " she continued;"but when I was young a fair was something that the grown folks lookedforward to jest like children look for Christmas. The women and themen, too, was gittin' ready for the fair all the year round, the womenpiecin' quilts and knittin' socks and weavin' carpets and puttin' uppreserves and pickles, and the men raisin' fine stock; and when thefair come, it was worth goin' to, child, and worth rememberin' afteryou'd gone to it. 

"I hear folks talkin' about the fair every year, and I laugh to myselfand I say, 'You folks don't know what a fair is. ' And I set out thereon my porch fair week and watch the buggies and wagons goin' by in themornin' and comin' home at night, and I git right happy, thinkin'about the time when me and Abram and the children used to go over thesame road to the fair, but a mighty different sort of fair from whatthey have nowadays. One thing is, honey, they have the fairs too soon. It never was intended for folks to go to fairs in hot weather, andhere they've got to havin' 'em the first week in September, about thehottest, driest, dustiest time of the whole year. Nothin' looks prettythen, and it always makes me think o' folks when they've been wearin'their summer clothes for three months, and everything's all faded anddusty and drabbled. That's the way it generally is in September. Butjest wait till two or three good rains come, and everything's washedclean and sweet, and the trees look like they'd got a new set o'leaves, and the grass comes out green and fresh like it does in thespring, and the nights and the mornin's feel cool, though it's hotenough in the middle o' the day; and maybe there'll come a touch ofearly frost, jest enough to turn the top leaves on the sugar maples. That's October, child, and that's the time for a fair. 

"Lord, the good times I've seen in them days! Startin' early andcomin' home late, with the sun settin' in front of you, and by and bythe moon comin' up behind you, and the wind blowin' cool out o' thewoods on the side o' the road; the baby fast asleep in my arms, andthe other children talkin' with each other about what they'd seen, andAbram drivin' slow over the rough places, and lookin' back every oncein a while to see if we was all there. It's a curious thing, honey; Iliked fairs as well as anybody, and I reckon I saw all there was to beseen, and heard everything there was to be heard every time I went toone. But now, when I git to callin' 'em up, it appears to me that thebest part of it all, and the part I ricollect the plainest, was jestthe goin' there and the comin' back home. 

"Abram knew I liked to stay till everything was over, and he'd gitsomebody to water and feed the stock, and then I never had any hotsuppers to git while the fair lasted; so there wasn't anything tohurry me and Abram. I ricollect Maria Petty come up one day aboutfive o'clock, jest as we was lookin' at the last race, and says she, 'I'm about to drop, Jane; but I believe I'd ruther stay here and sleepon the floor o' the amp'itheater than to go home and cook a hotsupper. ' And I says, 'Don't cook a hot supper, then. ' And says she, 'Why, Silas wouldn't eat a piece o' cold bread at home to save hislife or mine either. '

"There's a heap o' women to be pitied, child, " said Aunt Jane, dropping a handful of shelled beans into my pan with a cheerfulclatter, "but, of all things, deliver me from livin' with a man thathas to have hot bread three times a day. Milly Amos used to say thatwhen she died she wanted a hot biscuit carved on her tombstone; andthat if it wasn't for hot biscuits, there'd be a mighty small crop ofwidowers. Sam, you see, was another man that couldn't eat cold bread. But Sam had a right to his hot biscuits; for if Milly didn't feel likegoin' into the kitchen, Sam'd go out and mix up his biscuits and bake'em himself. Sam's soda biscuits was as good as mine; and when it cometo beaten biscuits, why nobody could equal Sam. Milly'd make up thedough as stiff as she could handle it, and Sam'd beat it till it wassoft enough to roll out; and such biscuits I never expect to eatagain--white and light as snow inside, and crisp as a crackeroutside. Folks nowadays makes beaten biscuits by machinery, but theydon't taste like the old-fashioned kind that was beat by hand. 

"And talkin' about biscuits, child, reminds me of the cookin' I usedto do for the fairs. I don't reckon many women likes to remember thecookin' they've done. When folks git to rememberin', it looks like theonly thing they want to call up is the pleasure they've had, thepicnics and the weddin's and the tea-parties. But somehow the workI've done in my day is jest as precious to me as the play I've had. Ihear young folks complainin' about havin' to work so hard, and I sayto 'em, 'Child, when you git to be as old as I am, and can't work allyou want to, you'll know there ain't any pleasure like good hardwork. '

"There's one thing that bothers me, child, " and Aunt Jane's voice sankto a confidential key: "I've had a plenty o' fears in my life, butthey've all passed over me; and now there's jest one thing I'm afraidof: that I'll live to be too old to work. It appears to me like Icould stand anything but that. And if the time ever comes when I can'thelp myself, nor other folks either, I trust the Lord'll see fit tocall me hence and give me a new body, and start me to work againright away. 

"But, as I was sayin', I always enjoyed cookin', and it's a pleasureto me to set and think about the hams I've b'iled and the salt-risin'bread I've baked and the old-fashioned pound-cake and sponge-cake andall the rest o' the things I used to take to the fair. Abram wasalways mighty proud o' my cookin', and we generally had a half a dozenor more o' the town folks to eat dinner with us every day o' the fair. Old Judge Grace and Dr. Brigham never failed to eat with us. The oldjudge'd say something about my salt-risin' bread every time I'd meethim in town. The first year my bread took the premium, Abram sent thepremium loaf to him with the blue ribbon tied around it. After Abramdied I stopped goin' to the fairs, and I don't know how many yearsit'd been since I set foot on the grounds. I hadn't an idea howthings'd changed since my day till, year before last, Henrietta andher husband come down here from Danville. He'd come to show someblooded stock, and she come along with him to see me. And says she, 'Grandma, you've got to go to the fair with me one day, anyhow;' and Iwent more to please her than to please myself. 

"I'm always contendin', child, that this world's growin' better andbetter all the time; but, Lord! Lord! that fair come pretty nearupsettin' my faith. Why, in my day folks could take their children tothe fair and turn 'em loose; and, if they had sense enough to keepfrom under the horses' feet, they was jest as safe at the fair as theywas at a May meetin'. But, la! the sights I saw that day Henriettatook me to the fair! Every which way you'd look there was some sort ofa trap for temptin' boys and leadin' 'em astray. Whisky and beer andall sorts o' gamblin' machines and pool sellin', and little boys nohigher'n that smokin' little white cigyars, and offerin' to bet witheach other on the races. And I says to Henrietta, 'Child, I don't callthis a fair; why, it's jest nothin' but a gamblin' den and a whiskysaloon. And, ' says I, 'I know now what old Uncle Henry Matthewsmeant. ' I'd asked the old man if he was goin' to show anything at thefair that year, and he said, 'No, Jane. Unless you've got somethin'for the town folks to bet on, it ain't worth while. '

"But there was one thing I did enjoy that day, and that was the races. There's some folks thinks that racin' horses is a terrible sin; but Idon't. It's the bettin' and the swearin' that goes with the racin'that's the sin. If folks'd behave as well as the horses behaves, arace'd be jest as religious as a Sunday-school picnic. There ain't afiner sight to me than a blooded horse goin' at a two-forty gait rounda smooth track, and the sun a-shinin' and the flags a-wavin' and thewind blowin' and the folks cheerin' and hollerin'. So, when Henriettasaid the races was goin' to begin, I says, says I, 'Here, child, takehold o' my arm and help me down these steps; I'm goin' to see one morerace before I die. ' And Henrietta helped me down, and we went over tothe grand stand and got a good seat where I could see the horses whenthey come to the finish. I tell you, honey, it made me feel youngagain jest to see them horses coverin' the ground like they did. Myfather used to raise fine horses, and Abram used to say that when itcome to knowin' a horse's p'ints, he'd back me against any man inKentucky. I'll have to be a heap older'n I am now before I see the daywhen I wouldn't turn around and walk a good piece to look at a finehorse. "

And the old lady gave a laugh at this confession of weakness. 

"It was like old times to see the way them horses run. And when theycome to the finish I was laughin' and hollerin' as much as anybody. And jest then somebody right behind me give a yell, and says he:

"'Hurrah for old Kentucky! When it comes to fine horses and finewhisky and fine women, she can't be beat. '

"Everybody begun to laugh, and a man right in front o' me says, 'It'sthat young feller from Lexin'ton. His father's one o' the biggesthorsemen in the state. That's his horse that's jest won the race. ' AndI turned around to see, and there was a boy about the size o' myyoungest grandchild up at Danville. His hat was set on the back of hishead, and his hair was combed down over his eyes till he looked likehe'd come out of a feeble-minded school. He had a little white cigyarin his mouth, and you could tell by his breath that he'd beendrinkin'. 

"Now I ain't much of a hand for meddlin' with other folks' business, but I'd been readin' about the Salvation Army, and how they preach onthe street; and it come into my head that here was a time for someSalvation work. And I says to him, says I, 'Son, there's another thingthat Kentucky used to be hard to beat on, and that was fine men. But, 'says I, 'betwixt the fine horses and the fine women and the finewhisky, some o' the men has got to be a mighty common lot. ' Says I, 'Holler as much as you please for that horse out there; he's worthhollerin' for. But, ' says I, 'when a state's got to raisin' a betterbreed o' horses than she raises men, it ain't no time to be hollerin'"hurrah" for her. ' Says I, 'You're your father's son, and yonder'syour father's horse; now which do you reckon your father's proudest ofto-day, his horse or his son?'

"Well, folks begun to laugh again, and the boy looked like he wantedto say somethin' sassy, but he couldn't git his wits together enoughto think up anything. And I says, says I, 'That horse never touchedwhisky or tobacco in his life; he's clean-blooded and clean-lived, andhe'll live to a good old age; and, maybe, when he dies they'll buryhim like a Christian, and put a monument up over him like they didover Ten Broeck. But you, why, you ain't hardly out o' your shortpants, and you're fifty years old if you're a day. You'll bring yourfather's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, and you'll go to your owngrave a heap sooner'n you ought to, and nobody'll ever build amonument over you. '

"There was three or four boys along with the Lexin'ton boy, and one of'em that appeared to have less whisky in him than the rest, he says, 'Well, grandma, I reckon you're about right; we're a pretty bad lot. 'And says he, 'Come on, boys, and let's git out o' this. ' And off theywent; and whether my preachin' ever did 'em any good I don't know, butI couldn't help sayin' what I did, and that's the last time I everwent to these new-fashioned fairs they're havin' nowadays. Fair timeused to mean a heap to me, but now it don't mean anything but jest toput me in mind o' old times. "

Just then there was a sound of galloping hoofs on the pike, and loud"whoas" from a rider in distress. We started up with the eagerness ofthose whose lives have flowed too long in the channels of stillnessand peace. Here was a possibility of adventure not to be lost for anyconsideration. Aunt Jane dropped her pan with a sharp clang; Igathered up my skirt with its measure of unshelled beans, and togetherwe rushed to the front of the house. 

It was a "solitary horseman, " wholly and ludicrously at the mercy ofhis steed, a mischievous young horse that had never felt the bridleand bit of a trainer. 

"It's that red-headed boy of Joe Crofton's, " chuckled Aunt Jane. "Nobody'd ever think he was born in Kentucky; now, would they? Old ManBob Crawford used to say that every country boy in this state was asort o' half-brother to a horse. But that boy yonder ain't no kin tothe filly he's tryin' to ride. There's good blood in that filly assure's you're born. I can tell by the way she throws her head and usesher feet. She'll make a fine saddle-mare, if her master ever gets holdof her. Jest look yonder, will you?"

The horse had come to a stand; she gave a sudden backward leap, raisedherself on her hind legs, came down on all fours with a great clatterof hoofs, and began a circular dance over the smooth road. Round shewent, stepping as daintily as a maiden at a May-day dance, while therider clung to the reins, dug his bare heels into the glossy sides ofhis steed, and yelled "whoa, " as if his salvation lay in that word. Then, as if just awakened to a sense of duty, the filly ceased herantics, tossed her head with a determined air, and broke into a brisk, clean gallop that would have delighted a skilled rider, but seemed tobring only fresh dismay to the soul of Joe Crofton's boy. His armsflapped dismally and hopelessly up and down; a gust of wind seized hisragged cap and tossed it impishly on one of the topmost boughs of theOsage-orange hedge; his protesting "whoa" voiced the hopelessness ofone who resigns himself to the power of a dire fate, and hedisappeared ingloriously in a cloud of summer dust. Whereupon wereturned to the prosaic work of bean-shelling, with the feeling ofthose who have watched the curtain go down on the last scene of thecomedy. 

"I declare to goodness, " sighed Aunt Jane breathlessly, as she stoopedto recover her pan, "I ain't laughed so much in I don't know when. Itreminds me o' the time Sam Amos rode in the t'u'nament. " And she beganlaughing again at some recollection in which I had no part. 

"Now, that's right curious, ain't it? When I set here talkin' aboutfairs, that boy comes by and makes me think o' how Sam rode at thefair that year they had the t'u'nament. I don't know how long it'sbeen since I thought o' that ride, and maybe I never would 'a' thoughtof it again if that boy of Joe Crofton's hadn't put me in mind of it. "

I dropped my butter-beans for a moment and assumed a listeningattitude, and without any further solicitation, and in the naturalcourse of events, the story began. 

"You see the town folks was always gittin' up somethin' new for thefair, and that year I'm talkin' about it was a t'u'nament. All theGoshen folks that went to town the last County Court day before thefair come back with the news that there was goin' to be a t'u'namentthe third day o' the fair. Everybody was sayin', 'What's that?' andnobody could answer 'em till Sam Crawford went to town one Saturdayjest before the fair, and come back with the whole thing at histongue's end. Sam heard that they was practisin' for the t'u'namentthat evenin', and as he passed the fair grounds on his way home, hemade a p'int of goin' in and seein' what they was about. He said therewas twelve young men, and they was called knights; and they had a loto' iron rings hung from the posts of the amp'itheater, and they'd teararound the ring like mad and try to stick a pole through every ringand carry it off with 'em, and the one that got the most rings got theblue ribbon. Sam said it took a good eye and a steady arm and a goodseat to manage the thing, and he enjoyed watchin' 'em. 'But, ' says he, 'why they call the thing a t'u'nament is more'n I could make out. Istayed there a plumb hour, and I couldn't hear nor see anything thatsounded or looked like a tune. '

"Well, the third day o' the fair come, and we was all on hand to seethe t'u'nament. It went off jest like Sam said. There was twelveknights, all dressed in black velvet, with gold and silver spangles, and they galloped around and tried to take off the rings on their longpoles. When they got through with that, the knights they rode up tothe judges with a wreath o' flowers on the ends o' theirpoles--lances, they called 'em--and every knight called out the nameo' the lady that he thought the most of; and she come up to the stand, and they put the wreath on her head, and there was twelve prettygyirls with flowers on their heads, and they was 'Queens of Love andBeauty. ' It was a mighty pretty sight, I tell you; and the band wasplayin' 'Old Kentucky Home, ' and everybody was hollerin' and throwin'up their hats. Then the knights galloped around the ring once and wentout at the big gate, and come up and promenaded around theamp'itheater with the gyirls they had crowned. The knight that got theblue ribbon took off ten rings out o' the fifteen. He rode a mightyfine horse, and Sam Amos, he says, 'I believe in my soul if I'd 'a'been on that horse I could 'a' taken off every one o' them rings. ' Samwas a mighty good rider, and Milly used to say that the only thingthat'd make Sam enjoy ridin' more'n he did was for somebody to put uplookin'-glasses so he could see himself all along the road. 

"Well, the next thing on the program was the gentleman riders' ring. The premium was five dollars in gold for the best gentleman rider. Wewas waitin' for that to commence, when Uncle Jim Matthews come up, andsays he, 'Sam, there's only one entry in this ring, and it's about tofall through. '

"You see they had made a rule that year that there shouldn't be anypremiums given unless there was some competition. And Uncle Jim says, 'There's a young feller from Simpson County out there mighty anxiousto ride. He come up here on purpose to git that premium. Suppose youride ag'inst him and show him that Simpson can't beat Warren. ' Samlaughed like he was mightily pleased, and says he, 'I don't care a rapfor the premium, Uncle Jim, but, jest to oblige the man from Simpson, I'll ride. But, ' says he, 'I ought to 'a' known it this mornin' so Icould 'a' put on my Sunday clothes. ' And Uncle Jim says, 'Never mindthat; you set your horse straight and carry yourself jest so, and thejudges won't look at your clothes. ' 'How about the horse?' says Sam. 'Why, ' says Uncle Jim, 'there's a dozen or more good-lookin'saddle-horses out yonder outside the big gate, and you can have yourpick. ' So Sam started off, and the next thing him and the man fromSimpson was trottin' around the ring. Us Goshen people kind o' kepttogether when we set down in the amp'itheater. Every time Sam'd gopast us, we'd all holler 'hurrah!' for him. The Simpson man appearedto have a lot o' friends on the other side o' the amp'itheater, andthey'd holler for him, and the town folks was divided up about even. 

"Both o' the men rode mighty well. They put their horses through allthe gaits, rackin' and pacin' and lopin', and it looked like it wasgoin' to be a tie, when all at once the band struck up 'Dixie, ' andSam's horse broke into a gallop. Sam didn't mind that; he jest pushedhis hat down on his head and took a firm seat, and seemed to enjoy itas much as anybody. But after he'd galloped around the ring two orthree times, he tried to rein the horse in and get him down to a nicesteady trot like the Simpson man was doin'. But, no, sir. That horsehadn't any idea of stoppin'. The harder the band played the faster hegalloped; and Uncle Jim Matthews says, 'I reckon Sam's horse thinksit's another t'u'nament. ' And Abram says, 'Goes like he'd been paid togallop jest that way; don't he, Uncle Jim?'

"But horses has a heap o' sense, child; and it looked to me like thehorse knew he had Sam Amos, one o' the best riders in the county, onhis back and he was jest playin' a little joke on him. 

"Well, of course when the judges seen that Sam'd lost control of hishorse, they called the Simpson man up and tied the blue ribbon on him. And he took off his hat and waved it around, and then he trottedaround the ring, and the Simpson folks hollered and threw up theirhats. And all that time Sam's horse was tearin' around the ring jestas hard as he could go. Sam's hat was off, and I ricollect jest howhis hair looked, blowin' back in the wind--Milly hadn't trimmed it forsome time--and him gittin' madder and madder every minute. Of courseus Goshen folks was mad, too, because Sam didn't git the blue ribbon;but we had to laugh, and the town folks and the Simpson folks theylooked like they'd split their sides. Old Man Bob Crawford jest laidback on the benches and hollered and laughed till he got right purplein the face. And says he, 'This beats the Kittle Creek babtizin' allto pieces. '

"Well, nobody knows how long that horse would 'a' kept on gallopin', for Sam couldn't stop him; but finally two o' the judges they steppedout and headed him off and took hold o' the bridle and led him out o'the ring. And Uncle Jim Matthews he jumps up, and says he, 'Let me outo' here. I want to see Sam when he gits off o' that horse. ' Milly wassettin' on the top seat considerably higher'n I was. And says she, 'Iwouldn't care if I didn't see Sam for a week to come. Sam don't gitmad often, ' says she, 'but when he does, folks'd better keep out o'his way. '

"Well, Uncle Jim started off, and the rest of us set still and waited;and pretty soon here come Sam lookin' mad enough to fight allcreation, sure enough. Everybody was still laughin', but nobody saidanything to Sam till up comes Old Man Bob Crawford with about twoyards o' blue ribbon. He'd jumped over into the ring and got it fromthe judges as soon as he could quit laughin'. And says he, 'Sam, Ihave seen gracefuler riders, and riders that had more control overtheir horses, but, ' says he, 'I never seen one yet that stuck on ahorse faithfuler'n you did in that little t'u'nament o' yours jestnow; and I'm goin' to tie this ribbon on you jest as a premium forstickin' on, when you might jest as easy 'a' fell off. ' Well, everybody looked for Sam to double up his fist and knock Old Man Bobdown, and he might 'a' done it, but Milly saw how things was goin', and she come hurryin' up. Milly was a mighty pretty woman, and alwaysdressed herself neat and trim, but she'd been goin' around with littleSam in her arms, and her hair was fallin' down, and she looked likeany woman'd look that'd carried a heavy baby all day and dragged herdress over a dusty floor. She come up, and says she, 'Well, Sam, ain'tyou goin' to crown me "Queen o' Love and Beauty"?' Folks used to saythat Sam never was so mad that Milly couldn't make him laugh, and sayshe, 'You look like a queen o' love and beauty, don't you?' Of coursethat turned the laugh on Milly, and then Sam come around all right. And says he, 'Well, neighbors, I've made a fool o' myself, and nomistake; and you all can laugh as much as you want to;' and he tookOld Man Bob's blue ribbon and tied it on little Sam's arm, and him andMilly walked off together as pleasant as you please. And that's howSam Amos rode in the t'u'nament, " said Aunt Jane conclusively, as shearose from her chair and shook a lapful of bean pods into a willowbasket near by. 

"Is Sam Amos living yet?" I asked, in the hope of prolonging ano'er-short tale. A softened look came over Aunt Jane's face. 

"No, child, " she said quietly, "Sam's oldest son is livin' yet, andhis three daughters. They all moved out o' the Goshen neighborhoodlong ago. But Sam's been in his grave twenty years or more, and here Iset laughin' about that ride o' his. Somehow or other I've outlivednearly all of 'em. And now when I git to callin' up old times, nomatter where I start out, I'm pretty certain to end over in the oldburyin'-ground yonder. But then, " and she smiled brightly, "there's aplenty more to be told over on the other side. "

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VIII

MARY ANDREWS' DINNER-PARTY

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"Well!" exclaimed Aunt Jane, as she surveyed her dinner-table, "lookslike Mary Andrews' dinner-party, don't it? However, there's a plentyof it such as it is, and good enough what there is of it, as the oldman said; so set down, child, and help yourself. "

A loaf of Aunt Jane's salt-rising bread, a plate of golden butter, apitcher of Jersey milk, and a bowl of honey in the comb, --who wouldask for more? And as I sat down I blessed the friendly rain that hadkept me from going home. 

"But who was Mary Andrews? and what about her dinner-party?" I asked, as I buttered my bread. 

"Eat your dinner, child, and then we'll talk about Mary Andrews, "laughed Aunt Jane. "If I'd 'a' thought before I spoke, which I hardlyever do, I wouldn't 'a' mentioned Mary Andrews, for I know you won'tlet me see any rest till you know all about her. "

And Aunt Jane was quite right. A summer rain, and a story, too!

"I reckon there's mighty few livin' that ricollect about Mary Andrewsand her dinner-party, " she said meditatively an hour later, when thedishes had been washed and we were seated in the old-fashioned parlor. 

"Mary Andrews' maiden name was Crawford. A first cousin of SamCrawford she was. Her father was Jerry Crawford, a brother of Old ManBob, and her mother was a Simpson. People used to say that theCrawfords and the Simpsons was like two mud-puddles with a ditchbetween, always runnin' together. I ricollect one year three Crawfordsisters married three Simpson brothers. Mary was about my age, andshe married Harvey Andrews a little over a year after me and Abrammarried, and there's few women I ever knew better and liked more thanI did Mary Andrews. 

"I ricollect her weddin' nearly as well as I do my own. My Jane wasjest a month old, and I had to ask mother to come over and stay withthe baby while I went to the weddin'. I hadn't thought much about whatI'd wear--I'd been so taken up with the baby--and I ricollect I wentto the big chest o' drawers in the spare room and jerked out myweddin' dress, and says I to mother, 'There'll be two brides at theweddin'!'

"But, bless your life, when I tried to make it meet around my waist, why, it lacked four or five inches of comin' together; and mother setand laughed fit to kill, and, says she, 'Jane, that dress was made fora young girl, and you'll never be a young girl again!' And I says, 'Well, I may never fasten this dress around my waist again, but Idon't know what's to hinder me from bein' a young girl all my life. '

"I wish to goodness, " she went on, "that I could ricollect what I woreto Mary Andrews' weddin'. I know I didn't wear my weddin' dress, and Iknow I went, but to save my life I can't call up the dress I had on. It ain't like me to forgit the clothes I used to wear, but I can'tcall it up. However, what I wore to Mary Andrews' weddin' ain't gotanything to do with Mary Andrews' dinner-party. "

Aunt Jane paused and scratched her head reflectively with a knittingneedle. Evidently she was loath to go on with her story till thememory of that wedding garment should return to her. 

"I was readin' the other day, " she continued, "about somethin' they'vegot off yonder in Washington, some sort of bureau that tells folkswhat the weather'll be, and warns the ships about settin' off on avoyage when there's a storm ahead. And says I to myself, 'Do youreckon they'll ever git so smart that they can tell what sort o'weather there is ahead o' two people jest married and settin' out onthe voyage that won't end till death parts 'em? and what sort o'weather they're goin' to have six months from the weddin' day?' Theworld's gittin' wiser every day, child, but there ain't nobody wiseenough to tell what sort of a husband a man's goin' to make, nor whatsort of a wife a woman's goin' to make, nor how a weddin' is goin' toturn out. I've watched folks marryin' for more'n seventy years, and Idon't know much more about it than I did when I was a ten-year-oldchild. I've seen folks marry when it looked like certain destructionfor both of 'em, and all at once they'd take a turn that'd surpriseeverybody, and things would come out all right with 'em. There wasWick Harris and Virginia Matthews. Wick was jest such a boy as DickElrod, and Virginia was another Annie Crawford. She'd never done astitch o' sewin' nor cooked a meal o' victuals in her life, and Iricollect her mother sayin' she didn't know which she felt sorriestfor, Wick or Virginia, and she wished to goodness there was a law tokeep such folks from marryin'. But, bless your life! instead o' comin'to shipwreck like Dick and Annie, they settled down as steady as anyold married couple you ever saw. Wick quit his drinkin' and gamblin', and Virginia, why, there wasn't a better housekeeper in the state nora better mother'n she got to be. 

"And then I've seen 'em marry when everything looked bright ahead andeverybody was certain it was a good thing for both of 'em, and itturned out that everybody was wrong. That's the way it was with MaryAndrews and Harvey. Nobody had a misgivin' about it. Mary was as happyas a lark, and Harvey looked like he couldn't wait for the weddin'day, and everybody said they was made for each other. To be sure, Harvey was 'most a stranger in the neighborhood, havin' moved in abouta year and a half before, and we couldn't know him like we did theGoshen boys that'd been born and brought up there. But nobody couldsay a word against him. His family down in Tennessee, jest beyond thestate line, was as good people as ever lived, and Harvey himself wasindustrious and steady, and as fine lookin' a man as you'd see in aweek's journey. Everybody said they never saw a handsomer couple thanHarvey and Mary Andrews. 

"Mary was a tall, proud-lookin' girl, always carried herself like aqueen, and hadn't a favor to ask of anybody; and Harvey was half ahead taller, and jest her opposite in color. She was dark and he waslight. They was a fine sight standin' up before the preacher that day, and everybody was wishin' 'em good luck, though it looked like theyhad enough already; both of 'em young and healthy and happy andgood-lookin', and Harvey didn't owe a cent on his farm, and Mary'sfather had furnished the house complete for her. The weddin' come offat four o'clock in the evenin', and we all stayed to supper, and aftersupper Harvey and Mary drove over to their new home. I ricollect howMary looked back over her shoulder and laughed at us standin' on thesteps and wavin' at her and hollerin' 'good-bye. '

"It was the fashion in that day for all the neighbors to entertain anewly married couple. Some would invite 'em to dinner, and some tosupper, and then the bride and groom would have to do the same for theneighbors, and then the honeymoon'd be over, and they'd settle downand go to work like ordinary folks. We had Harvey and Mary over todinner, and they asked us to supper. I ricollect how nice the tablelooked with Mary's new blue and white china and some o' theold-fashioned silver that'd been in the family for generations. Andthe supper matched the table, for Mary wasn't the kind that expectscompany to satisfy their hunger by lookin' at china and silver. Shewas a fine cook like her mother before her. Amos and Marthy Matthewshad been invited, too, and we had a real pleasant time laughin' andjokin' like folks always do about young married people. After supperwe all went out on the porch, and Mary whispered to me and Marthy tocome and see her china closet and pantry. You know how proud a younghousekeeper is of such things. She showed us all through the back parto' the house, and we praised everything and told her it looked likeold experienced housekeepin' instead of a bride's. 

"Well, when we went back to the dinin'-room on our way to the porch, if there wasn't Harvey bendin' over the table countin' the silverteaspoons! A man always looks out o' place doin' such things, and Isaw Mary's face turn red to the roots of her hair. But nobody saidanything, and we passed on through and left Harvey still countin'. Itwas a little thing, but I couldn't help thinkin' how queer it was fora man that hadn't been married two weeks to leave his company and goback to the table to count spoons, and I asked myself how I'd 'a' feltif I'd found Abram countin' spoons durin' the honeymoon. 

"Did you ever take a walk, child, some cloudy night when everything'scovered up by the darkness, and all at once there'll be a flash o'lightnin' showin' up everything jest for a second? Well, that's theway it is with people's lives. Near as Harvey and Mary lived to me, and friendly as we were, I couldn't tell what was happenin' between'em. But every now and then, as the months went by, and the years, I'dsee or hear somethin' that was like a flash of light in a dark place. Sometimes it was jest a look, but there's mighty little a look can'ttell; and as for actions, you know they speak louder than words. Iricollect one Sunday Harvey and Mary was walkin' ahead o' me andAbram. There was a rough piece o' road jest in front of the church, and I heard Harvey say: 'Don't walk there, come over on the side whereit's smooth. '

"I reckon Mary thought that Harvey was thinkin' of her feet, for shestepped over to the side of the road right at once and says he, 'Don'tyou know them stones'll wear out your shoes quicker'n anything?' And, bless your life, if Mary didn't go right back to the middle of theroad, and she took particular pains to walk on the stones as far asthey went. It was a little thing, to be sure, but it showed thatHarvey was thinkin' more of his wife's shoes than he was of her feet, and that ain't a little thing to a woman. 

"Then, again, there was the time when me and Abram was passin'Harvey's place one evenin', and a storm was comin' up, and we stoppedin to keep from gittin' wet. Mary had been to town that day, and shehad on her best dress. She was a woman that looked well in anythingshe put on. Plain clothes couldn't make her look plain, and she setoff fine clothes as much as they set her off. Me and Abram took seatson the porch, and Mary went into the hall to git another chair. Iheard the back hall door open and somebody come in, and then I heardHarvey's voice. Says he, 'Go up-stairs and take off that dress. ' Sayshe, 'What's the use of wearin' out your best clothes here at home?'But before he got the last words out, Mary was on the porch with thechair in her hand, talkin' to us about her trip to town, and lookin'as unconcerned as if she hadn't heard or seen Harvey. That night Isays to Abram, says I, 'Abram, did you ever have any cause to thinkthat Harvey Andrews was a close man?'

"Abram thought a minute, and, says he, 'Why, no; I can't say I everdid. What put such a notion into your head, Jane? Harvey looks afterhis own interests in a trade, but he's as liberal a giver as there isin Goshen church. Besides, ' says Abram, 'who ever heard of a tall, personable man like Harvey bein' close? Stingy people's always driedup and shriveled lookin'. '

"But I'd made up my mind what the trouble was between Harvey and Mary, and nothin' that Abram said could change it. I don't reckon any manknows how women feel about stinginess and closeness in their husbands. I believe most women'd rather live with a man that'd killed somebodythan one that was stingy. And then Mary never was used to anything ofthat kind, for her father, old man Jerry Crawford, was one o' thefreest-handed men in the county. It was 'Come in and make yourself athome' with everybody that darkened his door, and for a woman, raisedlike Mary was, havin' to live with a man like Harvey was about thehardest thing that could 'a' happened to her. However, she had theCrawford pride, and she carried her head high and laughed and smiledas much as ever; but there's a look that tells plain enough whether awoman's married to a man or whether she's jest tied to him and stayin'with him because she can't get free; and when Mary wasn't laughin' orsmilin' I could tell by her face that she wasn't as happy as we allthought she was goin' to be the day she married Harvey. "

Aunt Jane paused a moment to pick up a dropped stitch. 

"It's a good thing you had your dinner, honey, before I started thisyarn, " she said, looking at me quizzically over her glasses, "for I'llbe a long time bringin' you to the dinner-party. But I've got to tellyou all this rigmarole first, so you'll understand what's comin'. If Iwas to tell you about the dinner-party first you'd get a wrong ideaabout Mary. That's how folks misjudges one another. They see peopledoin' things that ain't right, and they up and conclude they're badpeople, when if they only knew somethin' about their lives, they'dunderstand how to make allowance for 'em. You've got to know a heapabout people's lives, child, before you can judge 'em. 

"Well, along about this time, somewhere in the '60's, I reckon it must'a' been, there was a big excitement about politics. I can't somehowricollect what it was all about, but they had speakin's everywhere, and the men couldn't talk about anything but politics from mornin'till night. Abram was goin' in to town every week to some meetin' orspeakin'; and finally they had a big rally and a barbecue at Goshen. One of the speakers was Judge McGowan, from Tennessee, and he was acousin of Harvey Andrews on his mother's side. "

Here Aunt Jane paused again. 

"I wish I could ricollect what it was all about, " she said musingly. "Must 'a' been something mighty important, but it's slipped my memory, sure. I do ricollect, though, hearin' Sam Amos say to old SquireBentham, 'What's the matter, anyhow? Ain't Kentucky politicians gotenough gift o' gab, without sendin' down to Tennessee to git somebodyto help you out?'

"And the old Squire laughed fit to kill; and says he, 'It's all onyour account, Sam. We heard you was against us, and we knew therewasn't an orator in Kentucky that could make you change your mind. Sowe've sent down to Tennessee for Judge McGowan, and we're relyin' onhim to bring you over to our side. ' And that like to 'a' tickled Samto death. 

"Well, when Harvey heard his cousin was to be one o' the big men atthe speakin', he was mighty proud, as anybody would 'a' been, andnothin' would do but he must have Judge McGowan to eat dinner at hishouse. 

"Some of the men objected to this, and said the speakers ought to eatat the barbecue. But Harvey said that blood was thicker than waterwith him, and no cousin o' his could come to Goshen and go awaywithout eatin' a meal at his house. So it was fixed up that everybodyelse was to eat at the barbecue, and Harvey was to take Judge McGowanover to his house to a family dinner-party. 

"I dropped in to see Mary two or three days before the speakin', andwhen I was leavin', I said, 'Mary, if there's anything I can do tohelp you about your dinner-party, jest let me know. ' And she said, 'There ain't a thing to do; Harvey's been to town and boughteverything he could think of in the way of groceries, and Jane Ann'scomin' over to cook the dinner; but thank you, all the same. '

"I thought Mary looked pleased and satisfied, and I says, 'Well, witheverything to cook and Jane Ann to cook it, there won't be anythinglackin' about that dinner. ' And Mary laughed, and says she, 'You knowI'm my father's own child. '

"Old Jerry used to say, ''Tain't no visit unless you waller a bed andempty a plate. ' They used tell it that Aunt Maria, the cook, never hada chance to clean up the kitchen between meals, and the neighbors allcalled Jerry's house the free tavern. I've heard folks laugh many atime over the children recitin' the Ten Commandments Sunday evenin's, and Jerry would holler at 'em when they got through and say:

"'The 'leventh commandment for Kentuckians is, "Be not forgetful toentertain strangers, " and never mind about 'em turnin' out to beangels. Plain folks is good enough for me. '

"Here I am strayin' off from the dinner, jest like I always do when Iset out to tell anything or go anywhere. Abram used to say that if Istarted to the spring-house, I'd go by way o' the front porch and thefront yard and the back porch and the back yard and the flower gyardenand the vegetable gyarden to git there. 

"Well, the day come, and Judge McGowan made a fine speech, and Harveycarried him off in his new buggy, as proud as a peacock. I ricollectwhen I set down to my table that day I said to myself: 'I know JudgeMcGowan's havin' a dinner to-day that'll make him remember Kentucky aslong as he lives. ' And it wasn't till years afterwards that I heardthe truth about that dinner. Jane Ann herself told me, and I don'tbelieve she ever told anybody else. Jane Ann was crippled for a yearor more before she died, and the neighbors had to do a good deal ofnursin' and waitin' on her. I was makin' her a cup o' tea one day, andthe kittle was bubblin' and singin', and she begun to laugh, and saysshe, 'Jane, do you hear that sparrer chirpin' in the peach tree thereby the window?' Says she, 'I never hear a sparrer chirpin' and akittle b'ilin', that I don't think o' the dinner Mary Andrews had theday Judge McGowan spoke at the big barbecue. ' Says she, 'Mary's dead, and Harvey's dead, and I reckon there ain't any harm in speakin' of itnow. ' And then she told me the story I'm tellin' you. 

"She said she went over that mornin' bright and early, and there wasMary sittin' on the back porch, sewin'. The house was all cleaned up, and there was a big panful o' greens on the kitchen table, but not asign of a company dinner anywhere in sight. Jane Ann said Mary spokeup as bright and pleasant as possible, and told her to set down andrest herself, and she went on sewin', and they talked about this andthat for a while, and finally Jane Ann rolled up her sleeves, and saysshe, 'I'm a pretty fast worker, Mis' Andrews, but a company dinnerain't any small matter; don't you think it's time to begin work?'

"And Mary jest smiled and said in her easy way, 'No, Jane Ann, there'snot much to do. It won't take long for the greens to cook, and I wantyou to make some of your good corn bread to go with 'em. ' And then shewent on sewin' and talkin', and all Jane Ann could do was to set thereand listen and wonder what it all meant. 

"Finally the clock struck eleven, and Mary rolled up her work, andsays she, 'You'd better make up your fire now, Jane Ann, and I'll setthe table. Harvey likes an early dinner. '

"Jane Ann said she expected to see Mary get out the best china andsilver and the finest tablecloth and napkins she had, but instead o'that she put on jest plain, everyday things. Everything was clean andnice, but it wasn't the way to set the table for a company dinner, andnobody knew that better than Mary Andrews. 

"Jane Ann said she saw a ham and plenty o' vegetables and eggs in thepantry, and she could hardly keep her hands off 'em, and she didsmuggle some potatoes into the stove after she got her greens washedand her meal scalded. She said she knew somethin' was wrong, but allshe could do was to hold her tongue and do her work. That was JaneAnn's way. When Mary got through settin' the table, she went up-stairsand put on her best dress. Trouble hadn't pulled her down a bit; and, if anything, she was handsomer than she was the day she married. Ireckon it was her spirit that kept her from breakin' and growin' oldbefore her time. Jane Ann said she come down-stairs, her eyessparklin' like a girl's and a bright color in her cheeks, and she hadon a flowered muslin dress, white ground with sprigs o' lilac all overit, and lace in the neck, and angel sleeves that showed off her arms, and her hair was twisted high up on her head, and a bigtortoise-shell comb in it. Jane Ann said she looked as pretty as apicture; and jest as she come down the stairs, Harvey drove up withJudge McGowan, and Mary walked out to give him a welcome, while Harveyput away the buggy. Nobody had pleasanter ways than Mary Andrews. Shealways had somethin' to say, and it was always the right thing to besaid, and in a minute her and the old judge was laughin' like they'dknown each other all their lives, and he had the children on his kneestrottin' 'em and tellin' 'em about his little girl and boy at home. 

"Jane Ann said her greens was about done and she started to put on thecorn bread, but somethin' held her back. She knew corn bread andgreens wasn't a fit dinner for a stranger that had been invited there, but of course she couldn't do anything without orders, and she wasstandin' over the stove waitin' and wonderin', when Harvey, man-like, walked in to see how dinner was gettin' on. Jane Ann said he looked atthe pot o' greens and the pan of corn bread batter, and he went intothe dinin'-room and saw the table all clean, but nothin' on it beyondthe ordinary, and his face looked like a thunder-cloud. And jest thenMary come in all smilin', and the prettiest color in her cheeks, andHarvey wheeled around and says he, 'What does this mean? Where's theham I told you to cook and all the rest o' the things I bought forthis dinner?'

"Jane Ann said the way he spoke and the look in his eyes would 'a'frightened most any woman but Mary; she wasn't the kind to befrightened. Jane Ann said she stood up straight, with her head thrownback and still smilin', and her voice was as clear and sweet as ifshe'd been sayin' somethin' pleasant. And she looked Harvey straightin the eyes, and says she, 'It means, Harvey, that what's good enoughfor us is good enough for your kin. ' Jane Ann said that Harvey lookedat her a second as if he didn't understand, and then he give a startas if he ricollected somethin', and it looked like all the blood inhis body rushed to his face, and he lifted one hand and opened hismouth like he was goin' to speak. There they stood, lookin' at eachother, and Jane Ann said she never saw such a look pass betweenhusband and wife before or since. If either of 'em had dropped dead, she said, it wouldn't 'a' seemed strange. 

"Honey, I read a story once about two men that had quarreled, and oneof 'em picked up a little rock and put it in his pocket, and for eightyears he carried that rock, and once a year he'd turn it over. And atlast, one day he met the man he hated, and he took out the rock he'dbeen carryin' so long, and threw it at him, and it struck him dead. Now I know as well as if Mary Andrews had told me, that Harvey hadsaid them very same words to her years before, and she'd carried 'emin her heart, jest like the man carried the stone in his pocket, waitin' till she could throw 'em back at him and hurt him as much ashe hurt her. It wasn't right nor Christian. But knowin' Mary Andrewsas I did, I never had a word o' blame for her. There never was abetter-hearted woman than Mary, and I always thought she must 'a' gonethrough a heap to make her say such a thing to Harvey. 

"Jane Ann said that when she worked at a place she always tried to beblind and deaf so far as family matters was concerned, and she knewthat she had no business seein' or hearin' anything that went onbetween Harvey and Mary, but there they stood, facin' each other, andshe could hear a sparrer chirpin' outside, and the tea-kittle b'ilin'on the stove, while she stood watchin' 'em, feelin' like she wascharmed by a snake. She said the look in Mary's eyes and the way shesmiled made her blood run cold. And Harvey couldn't stand it. He hadto give in. 

"Jane Ann said his hand dropped, and he turned and walked out o' thehouse and down towards the barn. Mary watched him till he was out o'sight, and then she went back to the front porch, and the next minuteshe was laughin' and talkin' with Harvey's cousin as if nothin' hadhappened. 

"Well, for the next half hour Jane Ann said she made her two hands dothe work of four, and when she put the dinner on the table it wasnothin' to be ashamed of. She sliced some ham and fried it, and madecoffee and soda biscuits, and poached some eggs; and when they setdown to the table, and the old judge'd said grace, he looked around, and, says he: 'How did you know, cousin, that jowl and greens was myfavorite dish?' And while they was eatin' the first course, Jane Annmade up pie-crust and had a blackberry pie ready by the time they wasready to eat it. The old judge was a plain man and a hearty eater, andeverything pleased him. 

"When they first set down, Mary says, says she: 'You'll have to excuseHarvey, Cousin Samuel; he had some farm-work to attend to and won't bein for some little time. '

"And the old judge bows and smiles across the table, and, says he, 'Ihadn't missed Harvey, and ain't likely to miss him when I'm talkin' toHarvey's wife. '

"Jane Ann said she never saw a meal pass off better, and when shelooked at Mary jokin' and smilin' with the judge and waitin' on thechildren so kind and thoughtful, she could hardly believe it was thesame woman that had stood there a few minutes before with that awfulsmile on her face and looked her husband in the eyes till she lookedhim down. She said she expected Harvey to step in any minute, and shekept things hot while she was washin' up the dishes. But two o'clockcome and half-past two, and still no Harvey. And pretty soon here comeMary out to the kitchen, and says she:

"'I'm goin' to drive the judge to town, Jane Ann. And when you getthrough cleanin' up, jest close the house, and your money's on themantelpiece in the dinin'-room. ' Then she went out in the direction ofthe stable, and in a few minutes come drivin' back in the buggy. JaneAnn said the horse couldn't 'a' been unharnessed at all. Her and thejudge got in with the two children down in front, and they drove offto catch the four-o'clock train. 

"Jane Ann said she straightened everything up in the kitchen anddinin'-room, and shut up the house, and then she went out in the yardand walked down in the direction of the stable, and there was Harvey, standin' in the stable-yard. She said his face was turned away fromher, and she was glad it was, for it scared her jest to look at hisback. He was standin' as still as a statue, his arms hangin' down byhis sides and both hands clenched, and it looked like he'd made up hismind to stand there till Judgment Day. Jane Ann said she wondered manya time how long he stayed there, and whether he ever did come to thehouse. 

"I ricollect how everybody was talkin' about the speakin' that day. Abram come home from the barbecue, and, says he, 'Jane, I haven'theard such a speech as that since the days of old Humphrey Marshall;and as for the barbecue, all it needed was Judge McGowan to set at thehead o' the table. But then, ' says he, 'I reckon it was natural forHarvey to want to take his cousin home with him. '

"That was about four o'clock, and it wasn't more than two hours tillwe heard a horse gallopin' way up the pike. I'd jest washed the supperdishes, and me and Abram was out on the back porch, and I had the babyin my arms. There was somethin' in the sound o' the horse's hoofsthat told me he was carryin' bad news, and I jumped up, and says I, 'Abram, some awful thing has happened. ' And he says, 'Jane, are youcrazy?' I could hear the sound o' the gallopin' comin' nearer andnearer, and I rushed out to the front gate with Abram follerin' afterme. We looked up the road, and there was Sam Amos gallopin' like madon that young bay mare of his. The minute he saw us he hollered out toAbram: 'Git ready as quick as you can, and go to town! Harvey Andrewshas had an apoplectic stroke, and I want you to bring the undertakerout here right away. '

"I turned around to say, 'What did I tell you?' But before I could gitthe words out, Abram was off to saddle and bridle old Moll. That wasalways Abram's way. If there was anything to be done, he did it, andthe talkin' and questionin' come afterwards. 

"Sam stopped at the gate and got off a minute to give his horse abreathin' spell. He said he was passin' Harvey's place about fiveo'clock and he heard a child screamin'. 'At first, ' says he, 'I didn'tpay any attention to it, I'm so used to hearin' children holler. Butafter I got past the house I kept hearin' the child, and somethin'told me to turn back and find out what was the matter. I went in, 'said he, 'and follered the sound till I come to the stable-yard, andthere was Harvey, lyin' on the ground stone dead, and Mary standin'over him lookin' like a crazy woman, and the children, pore littlethings, screamin' and cryin' and scared half to death. '

"The horse and buggy was standin' there, and Mary must 'a' found thebody when she come back from town. 

"'I got her and the children to the house, ' says he; 'and then Istarted out to get some person to help me move the body, and, as luckwould have it, ' says he, 'I met the Crawford boys comin' from town, and between us we managed to get the corpse up to the house and laidit on the big settee in the front hall. And now, ' says he, 'I'm goin'after Uncle Jim Matthews; and me and him and the Crawford boys'll laythe body out when the undertaker comes. And Marthy Matthews will haveto come over and stay all night. 

"Says I, 'Sam, how is Mary bearin' it?'

"He shook his head, and says he, 'The worst way in the world. Shehasn't shed a tear nor spoke a word, and she don't seem to noticeanything, not even the children. But, ' says he, 'I can't stand heretalkin'. There's a heap to be done yet, and Milly's lookin' for menow. '

"And with that he got on his horse and rode off, and I went into thehouse to put the children to bed. Then I set down on the porch stepsto wait for Abram. The sun was down by this time, and there was a newmoon in the west, and it didn't seem like there could be any sorrowand sufferin' in such a quiet, happy, peaceful-lookin' world. Butthere was poor Mary not a mile away, and I set and grieved over her inher trouble jest like it had been my own. I didn't know what hadhappened that day between Harvey and Mary. But I knew that Harvey hadbeen struck down in the prime o' life, and that Mary had found hisdead body, and that was terrible enough. From what I'd seen o' theirmarried life I knew that Mary's loss wasn't what mine would 'a' beenif Abram had dropped dead that day instead o' Harvey, but a man andwoman can't live together as husband and wife and father and motherwithout growin' to each other; and whatever Mary hadn't lost, she hadlost the father of her children, and I couldn't sleep much that nightfor thinkin' of her. 

"The day of the funeral I went over to help Mary and get her dressedin her widow's clothes. She was actin' queer and dazed, and nothin'seemed to make much impression on her. I was fastenin' her crapecollar on, and she says to me: 'I reckon you think it's strange Idon't cry and take on like women do when they lose their husbands. But, ' says she, 'you wouldn't blame me if you knew. '

"And then she dropped her voice down to a whisper, and says she, 'Youknow I married Harvey Andrews. But after I married him, I found thatthere wasn't any such man. I haven't got any cause to cry, for the manI married ain't dead. He never was alive, and so, of course, he can'tbe dead. '

"And then she began to laugh; and says she, 'I don't know which is theworst: to be sorry when you ought to be glad, or glad when you oughtto be sorry. '

"And I says, 'Hush, Mary, don't talk about it. I know what you mean, but other folks might not understand. '

"Mary ain't the only one, child, that's married a man, and then foundout that there _wasn't any such man_. I've looked at many a bride andgroom standin' up before the preacher and makin' promises for alifetime, and I've thought to myself, 'You pore things, you! All youknow about each other is your names and your faces. You've got allthe rest to find out, and nobody knows what you'll find out nor whatyou'll do when you find it out. '

"Folks said it was the saddest funeral they ever went to. Harvey'speople all lived down in Tennessee. His father and mother had diedlong ago, and he hadn't any near kin except a brother and a sister;and they lived too far off to come to the funeral in time. Abram saidto me after we got home: 'Well, I never thought I'd help to lay afriend and neighbor in the ground and not a tear shed over him. '

"If Mary had 'a' cried, we could 'a' cried with her. But she set atthe head o' the coffin with her hands folded in her lap, and her mindseemed to be away off from the things that was happenin' around her. Idon't believe she even heard the clods fallin' on the coffin; and whenwe started away from the grave Marthy Matthews leaned over andwhispered to me: 'Jane, don't Mary remind you of somebody walkin' inher sleep?'

"Mary's mother and sister hadn't been with her in her trouble, forthey happened to be down in Logan visitin' a great-uncle. So Marthyand me settled it between us that she was to stay with Mary thatnight and I was to come over the next mornin'. You know how muchthere is to be done after a funeral. Well, bright and early I wentover, and Marthy met me at the gate. She was goin' out as I was comin'in. Says she, 'Go right up-stairs; Mary's lookin' for you. She's morelike herself this mornin'; and I'm thankful for that. '

"The minute I stepped in the door I heard Mary's voice. She'd seen mecomin' in the gate and called out to me to come up-stairs. She was inthe front room, her room and Harvey's, and the closet and the bureaudrawers was all open, and things scattered around every which way, andMary was down on her knees in front of an old trunk, foldin' upHarvey's clothes and puttin' 'em away. Her hands was shakin', andthere was a red spot on each of her cheeks, and she had a strange lookout of her eyes. 

"I says to her, 'Why, Mary, you ain't fit to be doin' that work. Youought to be in bed restin'. ' And says she, 'I can't rest till I geteverything straightened out. Mother and sister Sally are comin', ' saysshe, 'and I want to get everything in order before they get here. ' AndI says, 'Now, Mary, you lay down on the bed and I'll put these thingsaway. You can watch me and tell me what to do, and I'll do it; butyou've got to rest. ' So I shook everything out and folded it up asnice as I could and laid it away in the trunk, while she watched me. And once she said, 'Don't have any wrinkles in 'em. Harvey was alwaysmighty particular about his clothes. '

"Next to layin' the body in the ground, child, this foldin' up deadfolks' clothes and puttin' 'em away is one o' the hardest thingspeople ever has to do. It's jest like when you've finished a book andshut it up and put it away on the shelf. I knew jest how Mary felt, when she said she couldn't rest till everything was put away. The lifeshe'd lived with Harvey was over, and she was closin' up the book andputtin' it out of sight forever. Pore child! Pore child!

"Well, when I got all o' Harvey's clothes put away, I washed out theempty drawers, lined 'em with clean paper and laid some o' littleHarvey's clothes in 'em, and that seemed to please Mary. The fatherwas gone, but there was his son to take his place. Then I shut it uptight, and Mary raised herself up out o' bed and says she, 'Take hold, Jane, I'm goin' to take this to the attic right now. ' And take it wedid, though the trunk was heavy and the stairs so steep and narrer wehad to stop and rest on every step. We pushed the trunk way backunder the eaves, and it may be standin' there yet for all I know. 

"When we got down-stairs, Mary drew a long breath like she'd got a bigload off her mind, and says she, 'There's one more thing I want you tohelp me about, and then you can go home, Jane, and I'll go to bed andrest. ' She took a key out of her pocket, and says she, 'Jane, this isthe key to the little cabin out in the back yard. Harvey used to keepsomething in there, but what it was I never knew. As long as we livedtogether, I never saw inside of that cabin, but I'm goin' to see itnow. '

"The children started to foller us when we went out on the back porch, but Mary give 'em some playthings and told 'em to stay around in thefront yard till we come back. Then we went over to the far corner ofthe back yard where the cabin was, under a big old sycamore tree. Iricollect how the key creaked when Mary turned it, and how hard thedoor was to open. 

"Mary started to go in first, and then she fell back, and says she, ina whisper, 'You go in first, Jane; I'm afraid. ' So I went in first andMary follered. For a minute we couldn't see a thing. There was twowindows to the cabin, but they'd been boarded up from the outside, and there was jest one big crack at the top of one of the windows thatlet in a long streak of light, and you could see the dust dancin' init. The door opened jest enough to let us in, and we both stood therepeerin' around and tryin' to see what sort of a place we'd got into. The first thing I made out was a heap of old rusty iron. I started totake a step, and my foot struck against it. There was old bolts andscrews and horseshoes and scraps of old cast iron and nails of everysize, all laid together in a big heap. The place seemed to be full ofsomethin', but I couldn't see what it all was till my eyes got used tothe darkness. There was a row of nails goin' all round the wall, andold clothes hangin' on every one of 'em. And down on the floor therewas piles of old clothes, folded smooth and laid one on top o' theother jest like a washerwoman would fold 'em and pile 'em up. Harvey'sold clothes and Mary's and the children's, things that anyright-minded person would 'a' put in the rag-bag or given away toanybody that could make use of 'em; there they was, all hoarded up inthat old room jest like they was of some value. And over in one cornerwas all the old worn-out tin things that you could think of: bucketsand pans and milk-strainers and dippers and cups. And next to themwas all the glass and china that'd been broken in the years Mary andHarvey'd been keepin' house. And there was a lot of old brooms, nothin' but stubs, tied together jest like new brooms in the store. And there was all the children's broken toys, dolls, and doll dresses, and even some glass marbles that little Harvey used to play with. Thedust was lyin' thick and heavy over everything, and the spiderwebslooked like black strings hangin' from the ceilin'; but things of thesame sort was all lyin' together jest like some woman had put theplace in order. 

"You've heard tell of that bird, child, that gathers up all sorts o'rubbish and carries it off to its nest and hides it? Well, I thoughtabout that bird; and the heap of old iron reminded me of a littleboy's pocket when you turn it wrong side out at night, and the chinaand glass and doll-rags made me think of the playhouses I used to makeunder the trees when I was a little girl. I've seen many curiousplaces, honey, but nothin' like that old cabin. The moldy smellreminded me of the grave; and when I looked at all the dusty, oldplunder, the ragged clothes hangin' against the wall like so manyghosts, and then thought of the dead man that had put 'em there, Itell you it made my flesh creep. 

"Well, we stood there, me and Mary, strainin' our eyes tryin' to seeinto the dark corners, and all at once the meanin' of it come over melike a flash: _Harvey was a miser!_"

Aunt Jane stopped, took off her glasses and polished them on the hemof her gingham apron. I sat holding my breath; but, all regardless ofmy suspense, she dropped the thread of the story and followed memoryin one of her capricious backward flights. 

"I ricollect a sermon I heard when I was a gyirl, " she said. "It ain'toften, I reckon, that a sermon makes much impression on a gyirl'smind. But this wasn't any ordinary sermon or any ordinary preacher. Presbytery met in town that year, and all the big preachers in thestate was there. Some of 'em come out and preached to the countrychurches, and old Dr. Samuel Chalmers Morse preached at Goshen. He wasone o' the biggest men in the Presbytery, and I ricollect his looks asplain as I ricollect his sermon. Some preachers look jest like othermen, and you can tell the minute you set eyes on 'em that they ain'tany wiser or any better than common folks. But Dr. Morse wasn't thatkind. 

"You know the Bible tells about people walkin' with God and talkin'with God. It says Enoch walked with God, and Adam talked with Him. Some folks might find that hard to believe, but it seems jest asnatural to me. Why many a time I've been in my gyarden when the sun'sgone down, and it ain't quite time for the moon to come up, and thedew's fallin' and the flowers smellin' sweet, and I've set down in thesummer-house and looked up at the stars; and if I'd heard a voice fromheaven it wouldn't 'a' been a bit stranger to me than the blowin' ofthe wind. 

"The minute I saw Dr. Morse I thought about Adam and Enoch, and I saidto myself, 'He looks like a man that's walked with God and talked withGod. '

"I didn't look at the people's hats and bonnets that day half as muchas I usually did, and part of that sermon stayed by me all my life. Hepreached about Nebuchadnezzar and the image he saw in his dream withthe head of gold and the feet of clay. And he said that every humanbeing was like that image; there was gold and there was clay in everyone of us. Part of us was human and part was divine. Part of us wasearthly like the clay, and part heavenly like the gold. And he saidthat in some folks you couldn't see anything but the clay, but thatthe gold was there, and if you looked long enough you'd find it. Andsome folks, he said, looked like they was all gold, but somewhere orother there was the clay, too, and nobody was so good but what he hadhis secret sins and open faults. And he said sin was jest another namefor ignorance, and that Christ knew this when he prayed on the cross, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. ' He saideverybody would do right, if they knew what was right to do, and thatthe thing for us to do was to look for the gold and not the clay inother folks. For the gold was the part that would never die, and theclay was jest the mortal part that we dropped when this mortal shallhave put on immortality. 

"Child, that sermon's come home to me many a time when I've caughtmyself weighin' people in the balance and findin' 'em wantin'. That'swhat I'd been doin' all them years with pore Harvey. I'd seen thingsevery once in a while that let in a little light on his life andMary's, but the old cabin made it all plain as day, and it seemed likeevery piece o' rubbish in it rose up in judgment against me. I neverfelt like cryin' at Harvey's funeral, but when I stood there peerin'around, the tears burnt my eyes, and I says to myself, 'Clay and gold!Clay and gold!'

"The same thought must 'a' struck Mary at the same minute it did me, for she fell on her knees moanin' and wringin' her hands and cryin':

"'God forgive me! God forgive me! I see it all now. He couldn't helpit, and I've been a hard woman, and God'll judge me as I judgedHarvey. '

"The look in her eyes and the sound of her voice skeered me, and I sawthat the quicker I got her out o' the old cabin the better. I put myhand on her shoulder, and says I, 'Hush, Mary. Get up and come back tothe house; but don't let the children hear you takin' on so. You mightskeer little Harvey. '

"She stopped a minute and stared at me, and then she caught hold o' myhand, and says she: 'No! no! the children mustn't ever know anythingabout it, and nobody must ever see the inside o' that awful place. Come, quick!' says she; and she got up from her knees and pulled meoutside of the door and locked it and dropped the key in her apronpocket. 

"Little Harvey come runnin' up to her, and I was in hopes the sight ofthe child would bring her to herself, but she walked on as if shehadn't seen him; and as soon as she got up-stairs she fell down in aheap on the floor and went to wringin' her hands and beatin' herbreast and cryin' without tears. 

"Honey, if you're done a wrong to a livin' person, you needn't setdown and grieve over it. You can go right to the person and make itright or try to make it right. But when the one you've wronged isdead, and the grave lies between you, that's the sort o' grief thatbreaks hearts and makes people lose their minds. And that was whatMary Andrews had to bear when she opened the door o' that old cabinand saw into Harvey's nature, and felt that she had misjudged andcondemned him. 

"I couldn't do anything for a long time, but jest sit by her andlisten while she called Harvey back from the dead, and called on Godto forgive her, and blamed herself for all that had ever gone wrongbetween 'em. But at last she wore herself out and had to stop, andsays I, 'Mary, I don't know what's passed between you and Harvey--'And she broke in, and says she:

"'No! no! you don't know, and nobody on this earth knows what I'vebeen through. I used to feel like I was in an iron cage that gotsmaller and smaller every day, and I knew the day was comin' when itwould shut in on me and crush me. But I wouldn't give in to Harvey, Iwouldn't let him have his own way, and I fought him and hated him anddespised him; and now I see he couldn't help it, and I feel like I'dbeen strikin' a crippled child. '

"A crippled child! That was jest what pore Harvey was; but I knew itwasn't right for Mary to take all the blame on herself, and says I:

"'Mary, if Harvey could keep other people from knowin' what he was, couldn't he have kept you from knowin' it, too? If he was free-handedto other people, what was to hinder him from bein' the same way toyou?' Says I, 'If there's any blame in this matter it belongs as muchto Harvey as it does to you. When you look at that old cabin, ' says I, 'you can't have any hard feelin's toward pore Harvey. You've forgivenhim, and now, ' says I, 'there's jest one more person you've got toforgive, and that's yourself, ' says I. 'It's jest as wrong to be toohard on yourself as it is to be too hard on other folks. '

"I never had thought o' that before, child, but I've thought of itmany a time since and I know it's true. It ain't often you find ahuman bein' that's too hard on himself. Most of us is jest the otherway. But Mary was one of that kind. I could see a change come overher face while I was talkin', and I've always believed them words wasput in my mouth to give Mary the comfort and help she needed. 

"She grabbed hold o' my hand, and says she:

"'Do you reckon I've got a right to forgive myself?' Says she, 'I knowI'm not a mean woman by nature, but Harvey's ways wasn't my ways. Hemade me do things I didn't want to do and say things I didn't want tosay, and I never was myself as long as I lived with him. But God knowsI wouldn't 'a' been so hard on him if I'd only known, ' says she. 'Godmay forgive me, but even if He does, it don't seem to me that I've gota right to forgive myself. '

"And says I, 'Mary, if you don't forgive yourself you won't be able tokeer for the children, and you haven't got any right to wrong thelivin' by worryin' over the dead. And now, ' says I, 'you lie down onthis bed and shut your eyes and say to yourself, "Harvey's forgivenme, and God's forgiven me, and I forgive myself. " Don't let anotherthought come into your head. Jest say it over and over till you go tosleep, and while you're sleepin', I'll look after the children. '

"I didn't have much faith in my own remedy, but she minded me like achild mindin' its mother; and, sure enough, when I tiptoed up-stairsan hour or so after that, I found her fast asleep. Her mother and hersister Sally come while she was still sleepin', and I left for home, feelin' that she was in good hands. 

"That night about half-past nine o'clock I went outdoors and set downon the porch steps in the dark, as I always do jest before bedtime. That's been one o' my ways ever since I was a child. Abram used to sayhe had known me to forgit my prayers many a night, but he never knewme to forgit to go outdoors and look up at the sky. If there was amoon, or if the stars was shinin', I'd stay out and wander around inthe gyarden till he'd come out after me; and if it was cloudy, I'd setthere and feel safe in the darkness as in the light. I always havethought, honey, that we lose a heap by sleepin' all night. Well, I wassittin' there lookin' up at the stars, and all at once I saw a brightlight over in the direction of Harvey Andrews' place. Our house wasbuilt on risin' ground, and we could see for a good ways around thecountry. I called Abram and asked him if he hadn't better saddle oldMoll and ride over and see if he couldn't help whoever was in trouble. But he said it was most likely some o' the neighbors burnin' brush, and whatever it was it would be out before he could git to it. So weset there watchin' it and speculatin' about it till it died down, andthen we went to bed. 

"The next mornin' I was out in the yard weedin' out a bed o' clovepinks, and Sam Amos come ridin' by on his big bay mare. I hollered tohim and asked him if he knew where the fire was the night before. Andsays he, 'Yes, Aunt Jane; it was that old cabin on Harvey Andrews'place. ' He said that Amos Matthews happened to be goin' by at the timeand took down the fence-rails to keep it from spreadin', but that wasall he could do. Sam said Amos told him there was somethin' mysteriousabout that fire. He said it must 'a' been started from the inside, forthe flames didn't burst through the windows and roof till after he gotthere, and the whole inside was ablaze. But, when he tried to open thedoor, it was locked fast and tight. He said Mary and her mother andsister was all out in the yard, and Mary was standin' with her handsfolded in front of her, lookin' at the burnin' house jest as calm asif it was her own fireplace. Amos asked her for the key to the cabindoor, and she went to the back porch and took one off a nail, but itwouldn't fit the lock, and before she could get another to try, theroof was on fire and cavin' in. Amos told Sam the cabin appeared to befull of old plunder of all sorts, and you could smell burnt rags for amile around. 

"Of course there was a good deal o' talk about the fire, and everybodysaid how curious it was that it could catch on the inside when thedoor was locked. I never said a word, not even to Abram, but I knewwell enough who set the old cabin afire, and why the key Mary gaveAmos wouldn't fit the lock. Harvey's clothes was packed away under theold garret; the old cabin was burned, and the ashes and rubbish hauledaway, and there wasn't anything much left to remind Mary of the thingsshe was tryin' to forget. That's the best way to do. When a thing'sdone and you can't undo it, there's no use in frettin' and worryin'yourself. Jest put it out o' your mind, and go on your way and gitready for the next trial that's comin' to you. 

"But Mary never seemed like herself after Harvey died, until littleHarvey was taken with fever. That seemed to rouse her and bring hersenses back, and she nursed him night and day. The little thing wentdown to the very gates of death, and everybody give up hope exceptthe old doctor. He'd fight death off as long as there was breath inthe body. The night the turnin' point was to come I set up with Mary. The child'd been moanin' and tossin', and his muscles was twitchin', and the fever jest as high as it could be. But about three o'clock hegot quiet and about half-past three I leaned over and counted hisbreaths. He was breathin' slow and regular, and I touched his foreheadand found it was wet, and the fever was goin' away. I went over toMary, and says I, 'You go in the other room and lie down, Mary, thefever's broke, and Harvey's goin' to git well. ' She stared at me likeshe couldn't take in what I was sayin'. Then her face begun to worklike a person's in a convulsion, and she jumped up and rushed out o'the room, and the next minute she give a cry that I can hear yet. Thenshe begun to sob, and I knew she was cryin' tears at last, and I setby the child and cried with her. 

"She wasn't able to be up for two or three days, and every littlewhile she'd burst out cryin'. Some folks said she was cryin' for joyabout the child gittin' well; and some said she was cryin' the tearsshe ought to 'a' cried when Harvey was buried; but I knew she wascryin' over all the sorrows of her married life. She told meafterwards that she hadn't shed a tear for six or seven years. Saysshe, 'I used to cry my eyes out nearly over the way things went, andone day somethin' happened and I come near cryin'; but the childrenwas around and I didn't want them to see me; so I says to myself, "Iwon't cry. What's the use wastin' tears over such things?" And fromthat day, ' says she, 'I got as hard as a stone, and it looks like Iwas jest turnin' back to flesh and blood again. '

"There's only two ways o' takin' trouble, child; you can laugh over itor you can cry over it. But you've got to do one or the other. TheLord made some folks that can laugh away their troubles, and he madetears for them that can't laugh, and human bein's can't hardenthemselves into stone. 

"I reckon, as Mary said, nobody on earth knew what she'd been through, livin' with a man like Harvey. If he'd been an out-and-out miser, itwould 'a' been better for everybody concerned. But it looked likeNature started out to make him a miser and then sp'iled the job, so'she was neither one thing nor the other. The gold was there, and heshowed that to outsiders; and the clay was there, and he showed thatto Mary. And that's the strangest part of all to me. If he had enoughsense not to want his neighbors to know his meanness, it looks like heought to have had sense enough to hide it from his wife. A man oughtto want his wife to think well of him whether anybody else does ornot. You see, a woman can make out to live with a man and not lovehim, but she can't live with him and despise him. She's jest got torespect him. But there's some men that never have found that out. Theythink that because a woman stands up before a preacher and promises tolove and honor him, that she's bound to do it, no matter what he does. And some women do. They're like dogs; they'll stick to a man no matterwhat he does. Some women never can see any faults in their husbands, and some sees the faults and covers 'em up and hides 'em fromoutsiders. But Mary wasn't that sort. She couldn't deceive herself, and nobody could deceive her; and when she found out Harvey's meannessshe couldn't help despisin' him in her heart, jest like Michaldespised David when she saw him playin' and dancin' before the Lord. 

"There's something I never have understood, and one of 'em is why sucha woman as Mary should 'a' been permitted to marry a man like HarveyAndrews. It kind o' shakes my faith in Providence every time I thinkof it. But I reckon there was a reason for it, whether I can see it ornot. "

Aunt Jane's voice ceased. She dropped her knitting in her lap andleaned back in the old easy-chair. Apparently she was looking at thedripping syringa bush near the window, but the look in her eyes toldme that she had reached a page in the story that was not for my eyesor my ears, and I held inviolate the silence that had fallen betweenus. 

A low, far-off roll of thunder, the last note of the storm-music, roused her from her reverie. 

"Sakes alive, child!" she exclaimed, starting bolt upright. "Have Ibeen sleepin' and dreamin' and you settin' here? Well, I got throughwith my story, anyhow, before I dropped off. "

"Surely that isn't all, " I said, discontentedly. "What became of MaryAndrews after Harvey died?"

Aunt Jane laughed blithely. 

"No, it ain't all. What's gittin' into me to leave off the endin' of astory? Mary was married young; and when Harvey died she had the bestpart of her life before her, and it was the best part, sure enough. About a year after she was left a widow she went up to ChristianCounty to visit some of her cousins, and there she met the man sheought to 'a' married in the first place. I ain't any hand for secondmarriages. 'One man for one woman, ' says I; but I've seen so manysecond marriages that was happier than any first ones that I never sayanything against marryin' twice. Some folks are made for each other, but they make mistakes in the road and git lost, and don't git foundtill they've been through a heap o' tribulation, and, maybe, thebiggest half o' their life's gone. But then, they've got all eternitybefore 'em, and there's time enough there to find all they've lost andmore besides. But Mary found her portion o' happiness before it wastoo late. Elbert Madison was the man she married. He was an oldbachelor, and a mighty well-to-do man, and they said every old maidand widow in Christian County had set her cap for him one time oranother. But whenever folks said anything to him about marryin', he'dsay, 'I'm waitin' for the Right Woman. She's somewhere in the world, and as soon as I find her I'm goin' to marry. '

"It got to be a standin' joke with the neighbors and the family, andhis brother used to say that Elbert believed in that 'Right Woman' thesame as he believed in God. 

"They used to tell how one Christmas, Elbert's nieces had a lot o'young company from Louisville, and they had a big dance Christmas Eve. Elbert was there, and the minute he come into the room the oldestniece, she whispered, 'Here's Uncle Elbert; he's come to see if theRight Woman's at the ball. ' And with that all them gyirls rushed up toElbert and shook hands with him and pulled him into the middle o' theroom under a big bunch o' mistletoe, and the prettiest and sassiestone of 'em, she took her dress between the tips of her fingers andspread it out and made a low bow, and says she, lookin' up intoElbert's face, says she:

"'Mr. Madison, don't I look like the Right Woman?'

"Everybody laughed and expected to see Elbert blush and act like hewanted to go through the floor. But instead o' that he looked at herserious and earnest, and at last he says: 'You do look a little likeher, but you ain't her. You've got the color of her eyes, ' says he, 'but not the look of 'em. Her hair's dark like yours, but it don'tcurl quite as much, and she's taller than you are, but not quite soslim. '

"They said the gyirls stopped laughin' and jest looked at each other, and one of 'em said:

"'Well, did you ever?' And that was the last time they tried to teaseElbert. But Elbert's brother he turns to somebody standin' near him, and says he, 'Unless Elbert gets that "right-woman" foolishness out ofhis head and marries and settles down like other men, I believe he'llend his days in a lunatic asylum. '

"But it all turned out the way Elbert said it would. The minute he sawMary Andrews, he whispered to his sister-in-law, and says he, 'SisterMary, do you see that dark-eyed woman over there by the door? Well, that's the woman I've been lookin' for all my life. '

"He walked across the room and got introduced to her, and they saidwhen him and Mary shook hands they looked each other in the eyes andlaughed like two old friends that hadn't met for years. 

"Harvey hadn't been dead much over a year and Mary wanted to put offthe weddin'. But Elbert said, 'No; I've waited for you a lifetime andI'm not goin' to wait any longer. ' So they got married as soon as Marycould have her weddin' clothes made, and a happier couple you neversaw. Elbert used to look at her and say:

"'God made Eve for Adam, and he made you for me. '

"And he didn't only love Mary, but he loved her children the same asif they'd been his own. A woman that's been another man's wife caneasy enough find a man to love her, but to find one that'll love theother man's children, that's a different matter. "

One! two! three! four! chimed the old clock; and at the same momentout came the sun, sending long rays across the room. The rain hadsubsided to a gentle mist, and the clouds were rolling away before asouth-west wind that carried with it fragrance from wet flowers andleaves and a world cleansed and renewed by a summer storm. We movedour chairs out on the porch to enjoy the clearing-off. There werehealth and strength in every breath of the cool, moist air, and forevery sense but one a pleasure--odor, light, coolness, and the faintmusic of falling water from the roof and from the trees that sent downminiature showers whenever the wind stirred their branches. 

Aunt Jane drew a deep breath of satisfaction, and looked upward at theblue sky. 

"I don't mind how much it rains durin' the day, " she said, "if it'lljest stop off before night and let the sun set clear. And that's theway with life, child. If everything ends right, we can forget allabout the troubles we've had before. I reckon if Mary Andrews could'a' seen a few years ahead while she was havin' her trials with poreHarvey, she would 'a' borne 'em all with a better grace. But lookin'ahead is somethin' we ain't permitted to do. We've jest got to standup under the present and trust for the time we can't see. And whetherwe trust or not, child, no matter how dark it is nor how long it staysdark, the sun's goin' to come out some time, and it's all goin' to beright at the last. You know what the Scripture says, 'At evening timeit shall be light!'"

Her faded eyes were turned reverently toward the glory of the westernsky, but the light on her face was not all of the setting sun. 

"At evening time it shall be light!"

Not of the day but of human life were these words spoken, and withAunt Jane the prophecy had been fulfilled. 

IX

THE GARDENS OF MEMORY

[Illustration]

Each of us has his own way of classifying humanity. To me, as a child, men and women fell naturally into two great divisions: those who hadgardens and those who had only houses. 

Brick walls and pavements hemmed me in and robbed me of one of mybirthrights; and to the fancy of childhood a garden was a paradise, and the people who had gardens were happy Adams and Eves walking in agolden mist of sunshine and showers, with green leaves and blue skyoverhead, and blossoms springing at their feet; while those others, dispossessed of life's springs, summers, and autumns, appeared darklyentombed in shops and parlors where the year might as well have been aperpetual winter. 

As I grew older I learned that there was a small subclass composed ofpeople who not only possessed gardens, but whose gardens possessedthem, and it is the spots sown and tended by these that blossometernally in one's remembrance as veritable vailimas--"gardens ofdreams. "

In every one's mind there is a lonely space, almost abandoned ofconsciousness, the time between infancy and childhood. It is like thatperiod when the earth was "without form, and void; and darkness wasupon the face of the deep. " Here, like lost stars floating in thefirmament of mind, will be found two or three faint memories, remoteand disconnected. With me one of these memories is of a garden. I wasriding with my father along a pleasant country road. There weresunshine and a gentle wind, and white clouds in a blue sky. We stoppedat a gate. My father opened it, and I walked up a grassy path to theruins of a house. The chimney was still standing, but all the rest wasa heap of blackened, half-burned rubbish which spring and summer werecovering with wild vines and weeds, and around the ruins of the houselay the ruins of the garden. The honeysuckle, bereft of its trellis, wandered helplessly over the ground, and amid a rank growth of weedssprang a host of yellow snapdragons. I remember the feeling of rapturethat was mine at the thought that I had found a garden where flowerscould be gathered without asking permission of any one. And as long asI live, the sight of a yellow snapdragon on a sunny day will bringback my father from his grave and make me a little child againgathering flowers in that deserted garden, which is seemingly inanother world than this. 

A later memory than this is of a place that was scarcely more than apaved court lying between high brick walls. But because we childrenwanted a garden so much, we called it by that name; and here and therea little of Mother Earth's bosom, left uncovered, gave us some warrantfor the misnomer. Yet the spot was not without its beauties, and aless exacting child might have found content within its boundaries. 

Here was the Indian peach tree, whose pink blossoms told us thatspring had come. Its fruit in the late summer was like the pomegranatein its rich color, "blood-tinctured with a veined humanity;" and itsfriendly limbs held a swing in which we cleft the air like the birds. Yet even now the sight of an Indian peach brings melancholy thoughts. A yellow honeysuckle clambered over a wall. But this flower has noperfume, and a honeysuckle without perfume is a base pretender, to becast out of the family of the real sweet-scented honeysuckle. Therewere two roses of similar quality, one that detestable mockery knownas the burr-rose. I have for this flower the feeling of repulsion thatone has for certain disagreeable human beings, --people with cold, clammy hands, for instance. I hated its feeble pink color, its roughcalyx, and its odor always made me think of vast fields of snow, andicicles hanging from snow-covered roofs under leaden wintry skies. Unhappy mistake to call such a thing a rose, and plant it in a child'sgarden! The only place where it might fitly grow is by the side of theroad that led Childe Roland to the Dark Tower: between the bit of"stubbed ground" and the marsh near to the "palsied oak, " with itsroots set in the "bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. "

The other rose I recall with the same dislike, though it was pleasingto the eye. The bush was tall, and had the nature of a climber; for itdrooped in a lackadaisical way, and had to be tied to a stout post. Ithink it could have stood upright, had it chosen to do so; and itsdrooping seemed only an ugly habit, without grace. The cream-whiteflowers grew in clusters, and the buds were really beautiful, butcolor and form are only the body of the rose; the soul, the real self, is the rose odor, and no rose-soul was incarnated in its petals. Againand again, deceived by its beauty, I would hold it close to my face tobreathe its fragrance, and always its faint sickening-sweet odorbrought me only disappointment and disgust. It was a Lamia amongroses. Another peculiarity was that it had very few thorns, and thosefew were small and weak. Yet the thorn is as much a part of the truerose as its sweetness; and lacking the rose thorn and the roseperfume, what claim had it to the rose name? I never saw this falserose elsewhere than in the false garden, and because it grew there, and because it dishonored its royal family, I would not willingly meetit face to face again. 

We children cultivated sweet-scented geraniums in pots, but a flowerin a pot was to me like a bird in a cage, and the fragrant geraniumsgave me no more pleasure than did the scentless many-huedlady's-slippers that we planted in tiny borders, and the purpleflowering beans and white blossoms of the madeira vines that grew ona tall trellis by the cistern's grassy mound. There was nothing hereto satisfy my longing, and I turned hungrily to other gardens whosegates were open to me in those early days. In one of these was a vastbed of purple heartsease, flower of the beautiful name. Year afteryear they had blossomed and gone to seed till the harvest of flowersin their season was past gathering, and any child in the neighborhoodwas at liberty to pluck them by handfuls, while the wicked ones playedat "chicken fighting" and littered the ground with decapitated bodies. There is no heartsease nowadays, only the magnificent pansy of whichit was the modest forerunner. But one little cluster of dark, spicyblooms like those I used to gather in that old garden would be more tome than the most splendid pansy created by the florist's art. 

The lily of the valley calls to mind a garden, almost in the heart oftown, where this flower went forth to possess the land and spreaditself in so reckless a growth that at intervals it had to be uprootedto protect the landed rights of the rest of the community. Never werethere such beds of lilies! And when they pierced the black loam withtheir long sheath-like leaves, and broke their alabaster boxes ofperfume on the feet of spring, the most careless passer-by was forcedto stay his steps for one ecstatic moment to look and to breathe, toforget and to remember. The shadow of the owner's house lay on thisgarden at the morning hour, and a tall brick building intercepted itsshare of the afternoon sunshine; but the love and care of the wrinkledold woman who tended it took the place of real sunshine, andeverything planted here grew with a luxuriance not seen in sunnier andmore favored spots. The mistress of the garden, when questioned as tothis, would say it was because she gave her flowers to all who asked, and the God of gardens loved the cheerful giver and blessed her withan abundance of bud and blossom. The highest philosophy of human lifeshe used in her management of this little plant world; for, buryingthe weeds at the roots of the flowers, the evil was made to ministerto the good; and the nettle, the plantain and all their kind weretransmuted by nature's fine chemistry into pinks, lilies, and roses. 

The purple splendor of the wisteria recalls the garden that I alwaysentered with a fearful joy, for here a French gardener reignedabsolute, and the flowers might be looked at, but not pulled. Howdifferent from those wild gardens of the neighboring woods where wechildren roamed at will, shouting rapturously over the finding of abed of scentless blue violets or delicate anemones that withered andwere thrown away before we reached home, --an allegory, alas! of ourlater lives. 

There was one garden that I coveted in those days as Ahab coveted hisneighbor's vineyard. After many years, so many that my childishlonging was almost forgotten, I had it, I and my children. Together weplayed under the bee-haunted lindens, and looked at the sunset throughthe scarlet and yellow leaves of the sugar maples, and I learned that"every desire is the prophecy of its own fulfilment;" and if thefulfilment is long delayed, it is only that it may be richer anddeeper when it does come. 

All these were gardens of the South; but before childhood was over Iwatched the quick, luxuriant growth of flowers through the briefsummer of a northern clime. The Canterbury-bell, so like a prim, pretty maiden, the dahlia, that stately dame always in court costumeof gorgeous velvet, remind me of those well-kept beds where not a leafor flower was allowed to grow awry; and in one ancient garden theimagination of a child found wings for many an airy flight. The townitself bore the name of the English nobleman, well known inRevolutionary days. Not far away his mansion sturdily defied the touchof time and decay, and admonished the men of a degenerate present toremember their glorious past. The house that sheltered me that summerwas known in colonial days as the Black-Horse Tavern. Its walls hadechoed to the tread of patriot and tory, who gathered here to drink ahealth to General Washington or to King George; and patriot, and tory, too, had trod the paths of the garden and plucked its flowers and itsfruit in the times that tried men's souls. By the back gate grew astrawberry apple tree, and every morning the dewy grass held a night'swindfall of the tiny red apples that were the reward of the child whorose earliest. A wonderful grafted tree that bore two kinds of fruitgave the place a touch of fairyland's magic, and no explanation of theprocess of grafting ever diminished the awe I felt when I stood underthis tree and saw ripe spice apples growing on one limb and greenwinter pearmains on all the others. The pound sweeting, thespitzenberg, and many sister apples were there; and I stayed longenough to see them ripen into perfection. While they ripened Igathered the jewel-like clusters of red and white currants and acertain rare English gooseberry which English hands had brought frombeyond the seas and planted here when the sign of the Black-Horseswung over the tavern door. The ordinary gooseberry is a plebeianfruit, but this one was more patrician than its name, and its name was"the King George. " Twice as large as the common kind, translucent andyellowish white when fully ripe, and of an incomparable sweetness andflavor, it could have graced a king's table and held its own with thedelicate strawberry or the regal grape. And then, best of all, it wasa forbidden fruit, whereof we children ate by stealth, and solemnlydeclared that we had not eaten. Could the Garden of the Hesperideshave held more charms?

At the end of the long Dutch "stoop" I found the wands of thesnowberry, whose tiny flowers have the odor and color of the trailingarbutus, and whose waxen berries reminded me of the crimson"buckberry" of Southern fields. Fuchsias and dark-red clove pinks grewin a peculiarly rich and sunny spot by the back fence, and over a potof the musk-plant I used to hang as Isabella hung over her pot ofbasil. I had never seen it before, and have never seen it since, butby the witchery of perfume one of its yellow flowers, one of its softpale green leaves could place me again in that garden of the old inn, a child walking among the ghosts and memories of a past century. 

In all these flowery closes there are rich aftermaths; but when Memorygoes a-gleaning, she dwells longest on the evenings and mornings oncespent in Aunt Jane's garden. 

"I don't reckon Solomon was thinkin' about flower gyardens when hesaid there was a time for all things, " Aunt Jane was wont to say, "butanyhow it's so. You know the Bible says that the Lord God walked inthe gyarden of Eden in 'the cool of the day, ' and that's the best timefor seein' flowers, --the cool of the mornin' and the cool of theevenin'. There's jest as much difference between a flower with the dewon it at sun-up and a flower in the middle o' the day as there isbetween a woman when she's fresh from a good night's sleep and whenshe's cookin' a twelve-o'clock dinner in a hot kitchen. You think thempoppies are mighty pretty with the sun shinin' on 'em, but the poppyain't a sun flower; it's a sunrise flower. "

And so I found them when I saw them in the faint light of a summerdawn, delicate and tremulous, like lovely apparitions of the nightthat an hour of sun will dispel. With other flowers the miracle ofblossoming is performed so slowly that we have not time to watch itsevery stage. There is no precise moment when the rose leaves become abud, or when the bud turns to a full-blown flower. But at dawn by abed of poppies you may watch the birth of a flower as it slips fromthe calyx, casting it to the ground as a soul casts aside its outgrownbody, and smoothing the wrinkles from its silken petals, it faces theday in serene beauty, though the night of death be but a few hoursaway. 

"And some evenin' when the moon's full and there's a dew fallin', "continued Aunt Jane, "that's the time to see roses, and to smellroses, too. And chrysanthemums, they're sundown flowers. You come intomy gyarden about the first o' next November, child, some evenin' whenthe sun's goin' down, and you'll see the white ones lookin' likestars, and the yeller ones shinin' like big gold lamps in the dusk;and when the last light o' the sun strikes the red ones, they looklike cups o' wine, and some of 'em turn to colors that there ain't anynames for. Chrysanthemums jest match the red and yeller leaves on thetrees, and the colors you see in the sky after the first frosts whenthe cold weather begins to set in. Yes, honey, there's a time and aseason for everything; flowers, too, jest as Solomon said. "

An old garden is like an old life. Who plants from youth to age writesa record of the years in leaf and blossom, and the spot becomes assacred as old wine, old books, and old friends. Here in the garden ofAunt Jane's planting I found that flowers were also memories; thatreminiscences were folded in the petals of roses and lilies; that arose's perfume might be a voice from a vanished summer; and even thesnake gliding across our path might prove a messenger bearing a storyof other days. Aunt Jane made a pass at it with her hoe, and laughedas the little creature disappeared on the other side of the fence. 

"I never see a striped snake, " she said, "that I don't think o' SamAmos and the time he saw snakes. It wasn't often we got a joke on Sam, but his t'u'nament and his snake kept us laughin' for many a day. 

"Sam was one o' them big, blunderin' men, always givin' Milly trouble, and havin' trouble himself, jest through pure keerlessness. He meantwell; and Milly used to say that if what Sam did was even half as goodas what Sam intended to do, there'd be one perfect man on God'searth. One of his keerless ways was scatterin' his clothes all overthe house. Milly'd scold and fuss about it, but Sam got worse insteado' better up to the day he saw the snake, and after that Milly saidthere wasn't a more orderly man in the state. The way of it was this:Sam was raisin' an embankment 'round one of his ponds, and Uncle JimMatthews and Amos Crawford was helpin' him. It was one Monday mornin', about the first of April, and the weather was warm and sunny, jest thekind to bring out snakes. I reckon there never was anybody hated asnake as much as Sam did. He'd been skeered by one when he was achild, and never got over it. He used to say there was jest two thingshe was afraid of: Milly and a snake. That mornin' Uncle Jim and Amosgot to the pond before Sam did, and Uncle Jim hollered out, 'Well, Sam, we beat you this time. ' Uncle Jim never got tired tellin' whathappened next. He said Sam run up the embankment with his spade, andset it in the ground and put his foot on it to push it down. The nextminute he give a yell that you could 'a' heard half a mile, slung thespade over in the middle o' the pond, jumped three feet in the air, and run down the embankment yellin' and kickin' and throwin' his armsabout in every direction, and at last he fell down on the ground agood distance from the pond. 

"Amos and Uncle Jim was so taken by surprise at first that they jeststood still and looked. Amos says, says he: 'The man's gone crazy allat once. ' Uncle Jim says: 'He's havin' a spell. His father andgrandfather before him used to have them spells. '

"They run up to him and found him shakin' like a leaf, the cold sweatstreamin' out of every pore, and gaspin' and sayin', 'Take it away!Take it away!' and all the time he was throwin' out his left foot inevery direction. Finally Uncle Jim grabbed hold of his foot and therewas a red and black necktie stickin' out o' the leg of his pants. Hepulled it out and says he: 'Why, Sam, what's your Sunday necktie doin'up your pants leg?'

"They said Sam looked at it in a foolish sort o' way and then he fellback laughin' and cryin' at the same time, jest like a woman, and itwas five minutes or more before they could stop him. Uncle Jim broughtwater and put on his head, and Amos fanned him with his hat, and atlast they got him in such a fix that he could sit up and talk, andsays he:

"'I took off my necktie last night and slung it down on a chair wheremy everyday pants was layin'. When I put my foot in my pants thismornin' I must 'a' carried the necktie inside, and by the time I gotto the pond it'd worked down, and I thought it was a black snake withred stripes. '

"He started to git up, but his ankle was sprained, and Uncle Jim says:'No wonder, Sam; you jumped about six feet when you saw that snakecrawlin' out o' your pants leg. '

"And Sam says: 'Six feet? I know I jumped six hundred feet, UncleJim. '

"Well, they got him to the house and told Milly about it, and shesays: 'Well, Sam, I'm too sorry for you to laugh at you like UncleJim, but I must say this wouldn't 'a' happened if you'd folded up thatnecktie and put it away in the top drawer. '

"Sam was settin' on the side of the bed rubbin' his ankle, and he givea groan and says he: 'Things has come to a fine pass in Kentucky whena sober, God-fearin' man like me has to put his necktie in the topdrawer to keep from seein' snakes. '

"I declare to goodness!" laughed Aunt Jane, as she laid down hertrowel and pushed back her calico sunbonnet, "if I never heardanything funny again in this world, I could keep on laughin' till Idied jest over things I ricollect. The trouble is there ain't alwaysanybody around to laugh with me. Sam Amos ain't nothin' but a name toyou, child, but to me he's jest as real as if he hadn't been deadthese many years, and I can laugh over the things he used to do thesame as if they happened yesterday. "

Only a name! And I had read it on a lichen-covered stone in the oldburying-ground; but as I walked home through the twilight I wouldhardly have been startled if Sam Amos, in the pride of life, had comeriding past me on his bay mare, or if Uncle Jim Matthews' voice ofcheerful discord had mingled with the spring song of the frogssounding from every marsh and pond. 

It was Aunt Jane's motto that wherever a weed would grow a flowerwould grow; and carrying out this principle of planting, her gardenwas continually extending its boundaries; and denizens of the gardenproper were to be found in every nook and corner of her domain. In thespring you looked for grass only; and lo! starting up at your feet, like the unexpected joys of life, came the golden daffodil, the palernarcissus, the purple iris, and the red and yellow tulip, flourishingas bravely as in the soil of its native Holland; and for a few sunnyweeks the front yard would be a great flower garden. Then blossom andleaf would fade, and you might walk all summer over the velvet grass, never knowing how much beauty and fragrance lay hidden in the darknessof the earth. But when I go back to Aunt Jane's garden, I pass throughthe front yard and the back yard between rows of lilac, syringas, calycanthus, and honeysuckle; I open the rickety gate, and find myselfin a genuine old-fashioned garden, the homely, inclusive spot thatwelcomed all growing things to its hospitable bounds, type of the dayswhen there were no impassable barriers of gold and caste between manand his brother man. In the middle of the garden stood a"summer-house, " or arbor, whose crumbling timbers were knit togetherby interlacing branches of honeysuckle and running roses. Thesummer-house had four entrances, opening on four paths that dividedthe ground into quarter-sections occupied by vegetables and smallfruits, and around these, like costly embroidery on the hem of ahomespun garment, ran a wide border of flowers that blossomed fromearly April to late November, shifting from one beauty to another aseach flower had its little day. 

There are flower-lovers who love some flowers and other flower-loverswho love all flowers. Aunt Jane was of the latter class. The commonestplant, striving in its own humble way to be sweet and beautiful, wassure of a place here, and the haughtiest aristocrat who soughtadmission had to lay aside all pride of place or birth and acknowledgeher kinship with common humanity. The Bourbon rose could not holdaside her skirts from contact with the cabbage-rose; the lavendercould not disdain the companionship of sage and thyme. All must livetogether in the concord of a perfect democracy. Then if the greatGardener bestowed rain and sunshine when they were needed, mid-summerdays would show a glorious symphony of color around the grayfarmhouse, and through the enchantment of bloom and fragrance flittedan old woman, whose dark eyes glowed with the joy of living, and thejoy of remembering all life's other summers. 

To Aunt Jane every flower in the garden was a human thing with a lifestory, and close to the summer-house grew one historic rose, heroineof an old romance, to which I listened one day as we sat in the arbor, where hundreds of honeysuckle blooms were trumpeting their fragranceon the air. 

"Grandmother's rose, child, that's all the name it's got, " she said, in answer to my question. "I reckon you think a fine-lookin' rose likethat ought to have a fine-soundin' name. But I never saw anybody yetthat knew enough about roses to tell what its right name is. Maybewhen I'm dead and gone somebody'll tack a French name on to it, but aslong as it grows in my gyarden it'll be jest grandmother's rose, andthis is how it come by the name:

"My grandfather and grandmother was amongst the first settlers ofKentucky. They come from the Old Dominion over the Wilderness Road wayback yonder, goodness knows when. Did you ever think, child, howcurious it was for them men to leave their homes and risk their ownlives and the lives of their little children and their wives jest togit to a new country? It appears to me they must 'a' been led jestlike Columbus was when he crossed the big ocean in his little ships. Ireckon if the women and children had had their way about it, the bearsand wildcats and Indians would be here yet. But a man goes where hepleases, and a woman's got to foller, and that's the way it was withgrandfather and grandmother. I've heard mother say that grandmothercried for a week when she found she had to go, and every now and thenshe'd sob out, 'I wouldn't mind it so much if I could take mygyarden. ' When they began packin' up their things, grandmother took upthis rose and put it in an iron kittle and laid plenty of good richearth around the roots. Grandfather said the load they had to carrywas heavy enough without puttin' in any useless things. Butgrandmother says, says she: 'If you leave this rose behind, you canleave me, too. ' So the kittle and the rose went. Four weeks they wason their way, and every time they come to a creek or a river or aspring, grandmother'd water her rose, and when they got to theirjourney's end, before they'd ever chopped a tree or laid a stone orbroke ground, she cut the sod with an axe, and then she tookgrandfather's huntin' knife and dug a hole and planted her rose. Grandfather cut some limbs off a beech tree and drove 'em into theground all around it to keep it from bein' tramped down, and when thatwas done, grandmother says: 'Now build the house so's this rose'llstand on the right-hand side o' the front walk. Maybe I won't die ofhomesickness if I can set on my front door-step and see one flowerfrom my old Virginia gyarden. '

"Well, grandmother didn't die of homesickness, nor the rose either. The transplantin' was good for both of 'em. She lived to be ninetyyears old, and when she died the house wouldn't hold the children andgrandchildren and great-grandchildren that come to the funeral. Andhere's her rose growin' and bloomin' yet, like there wasn't any suchthings in the world as old age and death. And every spring I gether abasketful o' these pink roses and lay 'em on her grave over yonder inthe old buryin'-ground. 

"Some folks has family china and family silver that they're mightyproud of. Martha Crawford used to have a big blue and white bowl thatbelonged to her great-grandmother, and she thought more o' that bowlthan she did of everything else in the house. Milly Amos had a set o'spoons that'd been in her family for four generations and was tooprecious to use; and I've got my family rose, and it's jest as dear tome as china and silver are to other folks. I ricollect after fatherdied and the estate had to be divided up, and sister Mary and brotherJoe and the rest of 'em was layin' claim to the claw-footed mahoganytable and the old secretary and mother's cherry sideboard and suchthings as that, and brother Joe turned around and says to me, sayshe:

"'Is there anything you want, Jane? If there is, speak up and make itknown. ' And I says: 'The rest of you can take what you want of thefurniture, and if there's anything left, that can be my part. If thereain't anything left, there'll be no quarrelin'; for there's jest onething I want, and that's grandmother's rose. '

"They all laughed, and sister Mary says, 'Ain't that jest like Jane?'and brother Joe says, says he:

"'You shall have it, Jane, and further than that, I'll see to thetransplantin'. '

"That very evenin' he come over, and I showed him where I wanted therose to stand. He dug 'way down into the clay--there's nothin' a roselikes better, child, than good red clay--and got a wheelbarrer load o'soil from the woods, and we put that in first and set the roots in itand packed 'em good and firm, first with woods' soil, then with clay, waterin' it all the time. When we got through, I says: 'Now, youpretty thing you, if you could come all the way from Virginia in a oldiron kittle, you surely won't mind bein' moved from father's place tomine. Now you've got to live and bloom for me same as you did formother. '

"You needn't laugh, child. That rose knew jest what I said, and didjest what I told it to do. It looked like everything favored us, forit was early in the spring, things was beginnin' to put out leaves, and the next day was cloudy and cool. Then it began to rain, andrained for thirty-six hours right along. And when the sun come out, grandmother's rose come out, too. Not a leaf on it ever withered, andme and my children and my children's children have gethered flowersfrom it all these years. Folks say I'm foolish about it, and I reckonI am. I've outlived most o' the people I love, but I don't want tooutlive this rose. We've both weathered many a hard winter, and two orthree times it's been winter-killed clean to the ground, and I thoughtI'd lost it. Honey, it was like losin' a child. But there's never beena winter yet hard enough to kill the life in that rose's root, and Itrust there never will be while I live, for spring wouldn't be springto me without grandmother's rose. "

Tall, straight, and strong it stood, this oft transplanted pilgrimrose; and whether in bloom or clothed only in its rich green foliage, you saw at a glance that it was a flower of royal lineage. When springcovered it with buds and full blown blossoms of pink, the true rosecolor, it spoke of queens' gardens and kings' palaces, and everysatiny petal was a palimpsest of song and legend. Its perfume was theattar-of-rose scent, like that of the roses of India. It satisfied andsatiated with its rich potency. And breathing this odor and gazinginto its deep wells of color, you had strange dreams of those otherpilgrims who left home and friends, and journeyed through the perilsof a trackless wilderness to plant still farther westward the rose ofcivilization. 

To Aunt Jane there were three epochs in a garden's life, "daffodiltime, " "rose time, " and "chrysanthemum time"; and the blossoming ofall other flowers would be chronicled under one of these periods, justas we say of historical events that they happened in the reign of thisor that queen or empress. But this garden had all seasons for its own, and even in winter there was a deep pleasure in walking its paths andnoting how bravely life struggled against death in the frozen bosom ofthe earth. 

I once asked her which flower she loved best. It was "daffodil time, "and every gold cup held nepenthe for the nightmare dream of winter. She glanced reprovingly at me over her spectacles. 

"It appears to me, child, you ought to know that without askin', " shesaid. "Did you ever see as many daffydils in one place before? No;and you never will. I've been plantin' that flower every spring forsixty years, and I've never got too many of 'em yet. I used to call'em Johnny-jump-ups, till Henrietta told me that their right name wasdaffydil. But Johnny-jump-up suits 'em best, for it kind o' tells howthey come up in the spring. The hyacinths and tulips, they hang backtill they know it'll be warm and comfortable outside, but thesedaffydils don't wait for anything. Before the snow's gone you'll seetheir leaves pushin' up through the cold ground, and the buds comehurryin' along tryin' to keep up with the leaves, jest like they knewthat little children and old women like me was waitin' and longin' for'em. Why, I've seen these flowers bloomin' and the snow fallin' over'em in March, and they didn't mind it a bit. I got my start o'daffydils from mother's gyarden, and every fall I'd divide the rootsup and scatter 'em out till I got the whole place pretty wellsprinkled with 'em, but the biggest part of 'em come from the oldHarris farm, three or four miles down the pike. Forty years ago thatfarm was sold, and the man that bought it tore things up scandalous. He called it remodelin', I ricollect, but it looked more like ruinin'to me. Old Lady Harris was like myself; she couldn't git enough ofthese yeller flowers. She had a double row of 'em all around hergyarden, and they'd even gone through the fence and come up in thecornfield, and who ever plowed that field had to be careful not totouch them daffydils. 

"Well, as soon as the new man got possession he begun plowin' up thegyarden, and one evenin' the news come to me that he was throwin' awayJohnny-jump-ups by the wagon-load. I put on my sunbonnet and went outwhere Abram was at work in the field, and says I, 'Abram, you've gotto stop plowin' and put the horse to the spring wagon and take me overto the old Harris place. ' And Abram says, says he, 'Why, Jane, I'dlike mighty well to finish this field before night, for it looks likeit might rain to-morrow. Is it anything particular you want to gofor?'

"Says I, 'Yes; I never was so particular about anything in my life asI am about this. I hear they're plowin' up Old Lady Harris' gyardenand throwin' the flowers away, and I want to go over and git awagon-load o' Johnny-jump-ups. '

"Abram looked at me a minute like he thought I was losin' my senses, and then he burst out laughin', and says he: 'Jane, who ever heard ofa farmer stoppin' plowin' to go after Johnny-jump-ups? And who everheard of a farmer's wife askin' him to do such a thing?'

"I walked up to the plow and begun to unfasten the trace chains, andsays I: 'Business before pleasure, Abram. If it's goin' to rainto-morrow that's all the more reason why I ought to have myJohnny-jump-ups set out to-day. The plowin' can wait till we comeback. '

"Of course Abram give in when he saw how I wanted the flowers. But hebroke out laughin' two or three times while he was hitchin' up andsays he: 'Don't tell any o' the neighbors, Jane, that I stoppedplowin' to go after a load of Johnny-jump-ups. '

"When we got to the Harris place we found the Johnny-jump-ups lyin' ina gully by the side o' the road, a pitiful sight to anybody that lovesflowers and understands their feelin's. We loaded up the wagon withthe pore things, and as soon as we got home, Abram took his hoe andmade a little trench all around the gyarden, and I set out theJohnny-jump-ups while Abram finished his plowin', and the next day therain fell on Abram's cornfield and on my flowers. 

"Do you see that row o' daffydils over yonder by the front fence, child--all leaves and no blossoms?"

I looked in the direction of her pointing finger and saw a long lineof flowerless plants, standing like sad and silent guests at thefestival of spring. 

"It's been six years since I set 'em out there, " said Aunt Janeimpressively, "and not a flower have they had in all that time. Somefolks say it's because I moved 'em at the wrong time o' the year. Butthe same week I moved these I moved some from my yard to ElizabethCrawford's, and Elizabeth's bloom every year, so it can't be that. Some folks said the place I had 'em in was too shady, and I put 'emright out there where the sun strikes on 'em till it sets, and stillthey won't bloom. It's my opinion, honey, that they're jest homesick. I believe if I was to take them daffydils back to Aunt Matilda's andplant 'em in the border where they used to grow, alongside o' the sageand lavender and thyme, that they'd go to bloomin' again jest likethey used to. You know how the children of Israel pined and mournedwhen they was carried into captivity. Well, every time I look at mydaffydils I think o' them homesick Israelites askin', 'How can we singthe songs o' Zion in a strange land?'

"You needn't laugh, child. A flower is jest as human as you and me. Look at that vine yonder, takin' hold of everything that comes in itsway like a little child learnin' to walk. And calycanthus buds, seehow you've got to hold 'em in your hands and warm 'em before they'llgive out their sweetness, jest like children that you've got to loveand pet, before they'll let you git acquainted with 'em. You see thatpink rose over by the fence?" pointing to a La France heavy withblossoms. "Well, that rose didn't do anything but put out leaves thefirst two years I had it. A bud might come once in a while, but itwould blast before it was half open. And at last I says to it, says I, 'What is it you want, honey? There's somethin' that don't please you, I know. Don't you like the place you're planted in, and the hollyhocksand lilies for neighbors?' And one day I took it up and set it betweenthat white tea and another La France, and it went to bloomin' rightaway. It didn't like the neighborhood it was in, you see. And did youever hear o' people disappearin' from their homes and never bein'found any more? Well, flowers can disappear the same way. The yearbefore I was married there was a big bed o' pink chrysanthemumsgrowin' under the dinin'-room windows at old Dr. Pendleton's. Itwasn't a common magenta pink, it was as clear, pretty a pink as thatLa France rose. Well, I saw 'em that fall for the first time and thelast. The next year there wasn't any, and when I asked where they'dgone to, nobody could tell anything about 'em. And ever since thenI've been searchin' in every old gyarden in the county, but I've neverfound 'em, and I don't reckon I ever will. 

"And there's my roses! Just look at 'em! Every color a rose could be, and pretty near every kind there is. Wouldn't you think I'd besatisfied? But there's a rose I lost sixty years ago, and thericollection o' that rose keeps me from bein' satisfied with all I'vegot. It grew in Old Lady Elrod's gyarden and nowhere else, and thereain't a rose here except grandmother's that I wouldn't give up foreverif I could jest find that rose again. 

"I've tried many a time to tell folks about that rose, but I can'tsomehow get hold of the words. I reckon an old woman like me, withlittle or no learnin', couldn't be expected to tell how that roselooked, any more'n she could be expected to draw it and paint it. Ican say it was yeller, but that word 'yeller' don't tell the color therose was. I've got all the shades of yeller in my garden, but nothin'like the color o' that rose. It got deeper and deeper towards themiddle, and lookin' at one of them roses half-opened was like lookin'down into a gold mine. The leaves crinkled and curled back towards thestem as fast as it opened, and the more it opened the prettier it was, like some women that grow better lookin' the older they grow, --MaryAndrews was one o'that kind, --and when it comes to tellin' you how itsmelt, I'll jest have to stop. There never was anything like it forsweetness, and it was a different sweetness from any other rose Godever made. 

"I ricollect seein' Miss Penelope come in church one Sunday, dressedin white, with a black velvet gyirdle 'round her waist, and a bunch o'these roses, buds and half-blown ones and full-blown ones, fastened inthe gyirdle, and that bunch o' yeller roses was song and sermon andprayer to me that day. I couldn't take my eyes off 'em; and I thoughtthat if Christ had seen that rose growin' in the fields aroundPalestine, he wouldn't 'a' mentioned lilies when he said Solomon inall his glory was not arrayed like one of these. 

"I always intended to ask for a slip of it, but I waited too long. Itgot lost one winter, and when I asked Old Lady Elrod about it shesaid, 'Mistress Parrish, I cannot tell you whence it came nor whitherit went. ' The old lady always used mighty pretty language. 

"Well, honey, them two lost flowers jest haunt me. They're like deadchildren. You know a house may be full o' livin' children, but ifthere's one dead, a mother'll see its face and hear its voice aboveall the others, and that's the way with my lost flowers. No matter howmany roses and chrysanthemums I have, I keep seein' Old Lady Elrod'syeller roses danglin' from Miss Penelope's gyirdle, and that bed o'pink chrysanthemums under Dr. Pendleton's dinin'-room windows. "

"Each mortal has his Carcassonne!" Here was Aunt Jane's, but it was nomatter for a tear or even a sigh. And I thought how the sting of lifewould lose its venom, if for every soul the unattainable were embodiedin nothing more embittering than two exquisite lost flowers. 

One afternoon in early June I stood with Aunt Jane in her garden. Itwas the time of roses; and in the midst of their opulent bloom stoodthe tall white lilies, handmaidens to the queen. Here and there overthe warm earth old-fashioned pinks spread their prayer-rugs, on whicha worshiper might kneel and offer thanks for life and spring; andtowering over all, rows of many-colored hollyhocks flamed and glowedin the light of the setting sun like the stained glass windows ofsome old cathedral. 

Across the flowery expanse Aunt Jane looked wistfully toward theevening skies, beyond whose stars and clouds we place that other worldcalled heaven. 

"I'm like my grandmother, child, " she said presently. "I know I've gotto leave this country some day soon, and journey to another one, andthe only thing I mind about it is givin' up my gyarden. When Johnlooked into heaven he saw gold streets and gates of pearl, but hedon't say anything about gyardens. I like what he says about nosorrer, nor cryin', nor pain, and God wipin' away all tears from theireyes. That's pure comfort. But if I could jest have Abram and thechildren again, and my old home and my old gyarden, I'd be willin' togive up the gold streets and glass sea and pearl gates. "

The loves of earth and the homes of earth! No apocalyptic vision cancome between these and the earth-born human heart. 

Life is said to have begun in a garden; and if here was our lostparadise, may not the paradise we hope to gain through death be, tothe lover of nature, another garden in a new earth, girdled by foursoft-flowing rivers, and watered by mists that arise in the night tofall on the face of the sleeping world, where all we plant shall growunblighted through winterless years, and they who inherit it go withwhite garments and shining faces, and say at morn and noon and eve:_My soul is like a watered garden?_

[Illustration]

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Varmint, The. By Owen Johnson. 

Vigilante Girl, A. By Jerome Hart. 

Village of Vagabonds, A. By F. Berkeley Smith. 

Visioning, The. By Susan Glaspell. 

Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 

Wanted--A Chaperon. By Paul Leicester Ford. 

Wanted: A Matchmaker. By Paul Leicester Ford. 

Watchers of the Plains, The. Ridgwell Cullum. 

Wayfarers, The. By Mary Stewart Cutting. 

Way of a Man, The. By Emerson Hough. 

Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker. 

When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish. 

Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge. 

White Sister, The. By Marion Crawford. 

Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rhinehart. 

Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright. 

With Juliet In England. By Grace S. Richmond. 

Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

Woman in Question, The. By John Reed Scott. 

Woman In the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green. 

Yellow Circle, The. By Charles E. Walk. 

Yellow Letter, The. By William Johnston. 

Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers. 

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The Newest Books in Popular Reprint Fiction

Only Books of Superior Merit and Popularity are Published in this List

THE WOOD-CARVER OF 'LYMPUS. By Mary E. Waller. 

 A strong tale of human loves and hopes set in a background of the granite mountain-tops of remote New England. 

 Hugh Armstrong, the hero, is one of the pronouncedly high class character delineations of a quarter century. 

THE REASON WHY. By Elinor Glyn. 

 A fine love story, the chief interest lies in the personality of a beautiful girl whose uncle arranges a match for her with a titled Englishman. 

THE PLACE OF HONEYMOONS. By Harold MacGrath. 

 Courtlandt, the young American hero, is a typical MacGrath creation. He is past thirty, without a wife, and so rich that he cannot get rid of his money fast enough. No love plot was ever more original. 

AUNT JANE OF KENTUCKY. By Eliza Calvert Hall. 

 This story is destined to make a strong appeal to every human heart. Everyone is sure to love Aunt Jane and her neighbors, her quilts and her flowers, her stories and her quaint, tender philosophy. 

THE POSTMASTER. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 

 "The Postmaster" has more pure fun in it than anything Mr. Lincoln has written recently. The episode where the Christian Science lady meets the nervous old gentleman in the home of the spiritualist is uproarious. 

TRUTH DEXTER. By Sidney McCall. 

 The novel bears the unmistakable imprint of genius. .. . Truth Dexter, the heroine, is one of the most lovable women in fiction--pure, worshipful, worthy and thoroughly womanly--the woman who makes a heaven of earth. 

THE BANDBOX. By Louis Joseph Vance. 

 "The Bandbox" is one of those delightful romances that you read through to the end at a sitting, forgetful of time, troubles, or tired feelings, and then breathe a sigh of regret because there's no more. 

JAPONETTE. By Robert W. Chambers. 

 A Chambers' novel is always one of the literary events of the year, and nothing more fascinating than "Japonette" has been penned by this most gifted writer. 

THE WIND BEFORE THE DAWN. By Dell H. Munger. 

 The author has gone below the surface, seized upon the spirit of the pioneers, and dramatized into her story their love for the region and their stubborn faith in what held them there. It is a good, human, realistic story, full of real people and thrilling with the real pulses of life. 

MISS GIBBIE GAULT. By Kate Langley Bosher. 

 To read a book like this is like taking a sun-bath. No one will finish the book without thanking the author for the keen pleasure it has given, and the vision of something good in human nature that it has brought before them. 

THE ONE-WAY TRAIL. By Ridgwell Cullum. 

 This is a wholesome story of life and love in Montana, with real men and women, a strong plot and thrilling situations. Intensely interesting from beginning to end. 

THE GUESTS OF HERCULES. By C. N. And A. M. Williamson. 

 This is a story of the Riviera and Monte Carlo--and a clever and rather complicated plot. The girl is particularly unusual and piquant, the man more than ever loverlike and fascinating. 

MOLLY McDONALD, A Tale of the Old Frontier. By Randall Parrish. 

 This is the story of a charming, whole-hearted girl, who leaving an Eastern school joins her father at a military post in Kansas during the Indian wars of 1868. 

TO M. L. G. , OR ONE WHO PASSED. 

 This is a life-story written by a woman who had not dared to risk telling it to the man she loved. She preferred to send him away rather than to lose his respect; knowing her life to have been so different from what he fancied it. 

For sale by most booksellers at the popular price of 50 cents. Published by the

A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52 Duane Street, New York. 

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AUNT JANE

OF KENTUCKY

By ELIZA CALVERT HALL

With Aunt Jane a real personage has come into literature. 

In this dear old philosopher in homespun--with her patchwork quilts, which were her albums and diary, and in the midst of her garden, whereeach "flower was a human thing with a life-story"--we seem to renewacquaintance with a character which each of us has known and lovedback in our own gardens of memory. 

Where so many have made caricatures of old-time country folk, ElizaCalvert Hall has caught at once the real charm, the real spirit, thereal people, and the real joy of living which was theirs. 

ALSO BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Land of Long Ago

 "The Land of Long Ago, " in which reappears that famous character, "Aunt Jane of Kentucky, " is a delightful picture of rural life in the Blue Grass country, showing the real charm and spirit of the old time country folk--a book full of sentiment and kindliness and high ideals. It cannot fail to appeal to every reader by reason of its sunny humor, its sweetness and sincerity, its entire fidelity to life. Aunt Jane with her calm philosophy, her captivating stories, her sweet, womanly ways, is a character that wins the reader at once. 

A. L. BURT COMPANY, Publishers, New York

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