Part 6 (1/2)

'Ye know squirrels are a savin' people. In the day o' plenty they think o' the day o' poverty an' lay by fer it. All at once one uv 'em thought uv a few kernels o' corn, he hed pushed through a little crack in the tin floor one day a long time ago. It happened there was quite a hole under the crack an' each uv 'em bad stored some kernels unbeknown t'

the other. So they hed a good supper 'n' some left fer a bite 'n the mornin'. 'Fore daylight the s.h.i.+p made her pott 'n' lay to, 'side liv a log in a little cove. The bullfrogs jumped on her main deck an' begun t' holler soon as she hove to: ”all ash.o.r.e! all ash.o.r.e! all ash.o.r.e!” The two squirrels woke up but lay quiet 'til the sun rose. Then they come out on the log 'et looked like a long dock an' run ash.o.r.e 'n' foun' some o' their own folks in the bush. An' when they bed tol' their story the ol' father o' the tribe got up 'n a tree an' hollered himself hoa.r.s.e preachin' 'bout how 't paid t' be savin'.

'”An' we should learn t' save our wisdom es well es our nuts,” said a sa.s.sy brother; ”fer each needs his own wisdom fer his own affairs.”

'An the little s.h.i.+p went back 'n' forth 'cross the cove as the win'

blew. The squirrels hed many a fine ride in her an' the frogs were the ferrymen. An' all 'long thet sh.o.r.e 'twas known es Frog Ferry 'mong the squirrel folks.'

It was very dark when he finished the tale an' as we lay gaping a few minutes after my last query about those funny people of the lake margin I could hear nothing but the chirping of the crickets. I was feeling a bit sleepy when I heard the boards creak above our heads. Uncle Eli raised himself and lay braced upon his elbow listening. In a few moments we heard a sound as of someone coming softly down the ladder at the other end of the room. It was so dark I could see nothing.

'Who's there?' Uncle Eb demanded.

'Don't p'int thet gun at me,' somebody whispered. 'This is my home and I warn ye t' leave it er I'll do ye harm.'

Chapter 5

Here I shall quote you again from the diary of Uncle Eb. 'It was so dark I couldn't see a han' before me. ”Don't p'int yer gun at me,” the man whispered. Thought 'twas funny he could see me when I couldn't see him.

Said 'twas his home an' we'd better leave. Tol him I was sick (rumatiz) an' couldn't stir. Said he was sorry an' come over near us. Tol' him I was an' ol' man goin' west with a small boy. Stopped in the rain. Got sick. Out o' purvisions. 'Bout ready t' die. Did'n know what t' do.

Started t' stike a match an' the man said don't make no light cos I don't want to hev ye see my face. Never let n.o.body see my face. Said he never went out 'less 'twas a dark night until folks was abed. Said we looked like good folks. Scairt me a little cos we couldn't see a thing.

Also he said don't be 'fraid of me. Do what I can fer ye.'

I remember the man crossed the creaking floor and sat down near us after he had parleyed with Uncle Eb awhile in whispers. Young as I was I keep a vivid impression of that night and, aided by the diary of Uncle Eb, I have made a record of what was said that is, in the main, accurate.

'Do you know where you are?' he enquired presently, whispering as he had done before.

'I've no idee,' said Uncle Eb.

'Well, down the hill is Paradise Valley in the towns.h.i.+p o' Faraway,'

he continued. 'It's the end o' Paradise Road an' a purty country. Been settled a long time an' the farms are big an' prosperous--kind uv a land o' plenty. That big house at the foot o' the hill is Dave Brower's. He's the richest man in the valley.'

'How do you happen t' be livin' here?--if ye don't min' tellin' me,'

Uncle Eb asked.

'Crazy,' said he; ”fraid uv everybody an' everybody's 'fraid o' me.

Lived a good long time in this way. Winters I go into the big woods. Got a camp in a big cave an' when I'm there I see a little daylight. Here 'n the clearin' I'm only up in the night-time. Thet's how I've come to see so well in the dark. It's give me cat's eyes.'

'Don't ye git lonesome?' Uncle Eb asked.

'Awful--sometimes,' he answered with a sad sigh, 'an' it seems good t'

talk with somebody besides myself. I get enough to eat generally. There are deer in the woods an' cows in the fields, ye know, an' potatoes an'

corn an' berries an' apples, an' all thet kind o' thing. Then I've got my traps in the woods where I ketch partridges, an' squirrels an' c.o.o.ns an' all the meat I need. I've got a place in the thick timber t' do my cookin'--all I want t' do--in the middle of the night Sometimes I come here an' spend a day in the garret if I'm caught in a storm or if I happen to stay a little too late in the valley. Once in a great while I meet a man somewhere in the open but he always gits away quick as he can. Guess they think I'm a ghost--dunno what I think o' them.'

Our host went on talking as if he were glad to tell the secrets of his heart to some creature of his own kind. I have often wondered at his frankness; but there was a fatherly tenderness, I remember in the voice of Uncle Eb, and I judge it tempted his confidence. Probably the love of companions.h.i.+p can never be so dead in a man but that the voice of kindness may call it back to life again.

'I'll bring you a bite t' eat before morning,' he said, presently, as he rose to go, 'leet me feel o' your han', mister.'