Part 17 (1/2)
”Yes,” said another voice, ”I think she is rather a moody person anyway; she won't say a word if she doesn't feel like it.”
”'Sh--'sh--here she comes,” said another, with the tone and look that told me it was I of whom they were talking.
And so I adjure all youthful and hopeful persons, who have a tendency to be funny, to keep it a profound secret from the world. Indulge in your propensities to any extent in your family circle; keep your immediate relatives, if you like, in convulsions of inextinguishable laughter all the time; but when you mingle in society guard your secret with your life. Never make a joke, and, if necessary, never take one; and by so doing you shall peradventure escape that wrath to come to which I have fallen an innocent victim, and which I doubt not will bring me to an untimely end.--_The Independent._
And a few pages from Miss Murfree, who has shown such rare power in her short character sketches.
A BLACKSMITH IN LOVE.
BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.
The pine-knots flamed and glistened under the great wash-kettle. A tree-toad was persistently calling for rain in the dry distance. The girl, gravely impa.s.sive, beat the clothes with the heavy paddle. Her mother shortly ceased to prod the white heaps in the boiling water, and presently took up the thread of her discourse.
”An' 'Vander hev got ter be a mighty suddint man. I hearn tell, when I war down ter M'ria's house ter the quiltin', ez how in that sorter fight an' scrimmage they hed at the mill las' month, he war powerful ill-conducted. n.o.body hed thought of hevin' much of a fight--thar hed been jes' a few licks pa.s.sed atwixt the men thar; but the fust finger ez war laid on this boy, he jes' lit out, an' fit like a catamount. Right an' lef' he lay about him with his fists, an' he drawed his huntin'-knife on some of 'em. The men at the mill war in no wise pleased with him.”
”'Pears like ter me ez 'Vander air a peaceable boy enough, ef he ain't jawed at an' air lef' be,” drawled Cynthia.
Her mother was embarra.s.sed for a moment. Then, with a look both sly and wise, she made an admission--a qualified admission. ”Waal, wimmen--ef--ef--ef they air young an' toler'ble hard-headed _yit_, air likely ter jaw _some_, ennyhow. An' a gal oughtn't ter marry a man ez hev sot his heart on bein' lef' in peace. He is apt ter be a mighty sour an' disapp'inted critter.”
This sudden turn to the conversation invested all that had been said with new meaning, and revealed a subtle diplomatic intention. The girl seemed deliberately to review it as she paused in her work. Then, with a rising flush: ”I ain't studyin' 'bout marryin' n.o.body,” she a.s.serted staidly. ”I hev laid off ter live single.”
Mrs. Ware had overshot the mark, but she retorted, gallantly reckless: ”That's what yer Aunt Malviny useter declar' fur gospel sure, when she war a gal. An' she hev got ten chil'ren, an' hev buried two husbands; an' ef all they say air true, she's tollin' in the third man now. She's a mighty spry, good-featured woman, an' a fust-rate manager, yer Aunt Malviny air, an' both her husbands lef' her suthin--cows, or wagons, or land. An' they war quiet men when they war alive, an' stays whar they air put now that they air dead; not like old Parson Hoodenpyle, what his wife hears stumpin' round the house an' preachin' every night, though she air ez deef ez a post, an' he hev been in glory twenty year--twenty year an' better. Yer Aunt Malviny hed luck, so mebbe 'tain't no killin'
complaint fur a gal ter git ter talking like a fool about marryin' an'
sech. Leastwise I ain't minded ter sorrow.”
She looked at her daughter with a gay grin, which, distorted by her toothless gums and the wreathing steam from the kettle, enhanced her witch-like aspect and was spuriously malevolent. She did not notice the stir of an approach through the brambly tangles of the heights above until it was close at hand; as she turned, she thought only of the mountain cattle and to see the red cow's picturesque head and crumpled horns thrust over the sa.s.safras bushes, or to hear the brindle's clanking bell. It was certainly less unexpected to Cynthia when a young mountaineer, clad in brown jean trousers and a checked homespun s.h.i.+rt, emerged upon the rocky slope. He still wore his blacksmith's leather ap.r.o.n, and his powerful corded hammer-arm was bare beneath his tightly-rolled sleeve. He was tall and heavily built; his sunburned face was square, with a strong lower jaw, and his features were accented by fine lines of charcoal, as if the whole were a clever sketch.
His black eyes held fierce intimations, but there was mobility of expression about them that suggested changing impulses, strong but fleeting. He was like his forge-fire; though the heat might be intense for a time, it fluctuated with the breath of the bellows. Just now he was meekly quailing before the old woman, whom he evidently had not thought to find here. It was as apt an ill.u.s.tration as might be, perhaps, of the inferiority of strength to finesse. She seemed an inconsiderable adversary, as, haggard, lean, and prematurely aged, she swayed on her prodding-stick about the huge kettle; but she was as a veritable David to this big young Goliath, though she, too, flung hardly more than a pebble at him.
”Laws-a-me!” she cried, in shrill, toothless glee; ”ef hyar ain't 'Vander Price! What brung ye down hyar along o' we-uns, 'Vander?” she continued, with simulated anxiety. ”Hev that thar red heifer o' ourn lept over the fence agin, an' got inter Pete's corn? Waal, sir, ef she ain't the headin'est heifer!”
”I hain't seen none o' yer heifer, ez I knows on,” replied the young blacksmith, with gruff, drawling deprecation. Then he tried to regain his natural manner. ”I kem down hyar,” he remarked, in an off-hand way, ”ter git a drink o' water.” He glanced furtively at the girl, then looked quickly away at the gallant red-bird, still gayly parading among the leaves.
The old woman grinned with delight. ”Now, ef that ain't s'prisin',” she declared. ”Ef we hed knowed ez Lost Creek war a-goin' dry over yander a-nigh the shop, so ye an' Pete would hev ter kem hyar thirstin' fur water, we-uns would hev brung suthin' down hyar ter drink out'n. We-uns hain't got no gourd hyar, hev we, Cynthy?”
”'Thout it air the little gourd with the saft-soap in it,” said Cynthia, confused and blus.h.i.+ng. Her mother broke into a high, loud laugh.
”Ye ain't wantin' ter gin 'Vander the soap-gourd ter drink out'n, Cynthy! Leastwise, I ain't goin' ter gin it ter Pete. Fur I s'pose ef ye hev ter kem a haffen mile ter git a drink, 'Vander, ez surely Pete'll hev ter kem, too. Waal, waal, who would hev b'lieved ez Lost Creek would go dry nigh the shop, an' yit be a-scuttlin' along like that hyarabouts!” and she pointed with her bony finger at the swift flow of the water.
He was forced to abandon his clumsy pretence of thirst. ”Lost Creek ain't gone dry nowhar, ez I knows on,” he admitted, mechanically rolling the sleeve of his hammer-arm up and down as he talked.
From Miss Woolson's story of ”Anne,” I give the pen-portrait of the precise
”MISS LOIS.”
”Codfish b.a.l.l.s for breakfast on Sunday morning, of course,” said Miss Lois, ”and fried hasty-pudding. On Wednesdays, a boiled dinner. Pies on Tuesdays and Sat.u.r.days.”