A Knight of the Cumberland [11]
big girls and Buck and Mart--who was out somewhere--and the hired man, and yes--``Thar was another boy, but he was fitified,'' said one of the big sisters.
``I beg your pardon,'' said the wondering Blight, but she knew that phrase wouldn't do, so she added politely:
``What did you say?''
``Fitified--Tom has fits. He's in a asylum in the settlements.''
``Tom come back once an' he was all right,'' said the old mother; ``but he worried so much over them gals workin' so hard that it plum' throwed him off ag'in, and we had to send him back.''
``Do you work pretty hard?'' I asked presently. Then a story came that was full of unconscious pathos, because there was no hint of complaint--simply a plain statement of daily life. They got up before the men, in order to get breakfast ready; then they went with the men into the fields --those two girls--and worked like men. At dark they got supper ready, and after the men went to bed they worked on-- washing dishes and clearing up the kitchen. They took it turn about getting supper, and sometimes, one said, she was ``so plumb tuckered out that she'd drap on the bed and go to sleep ruther than eat her own supper.'' No wonder poor Tom had to go back to the asylum. All the while the two girls stood by the fire looking, politely but minutely, at the two strange girls and their curious clothes and their boots, and the way they dressed their hair. Their hard life seemed to have hurt them none--for both were the pictures of health--whatever that phrase means.
After supper ``pap'' came in, perfectly sober, with a big ruddy face, giant frame, and twinkling gray eyes. He was the man who had risen to speak his faith in the Hon. Samuel Budd that day on the size of the Hon. Samuel's ears. He, too, was unashamed and, as he explained his plight again, he did it with little apology.
``I seed ye at the speakin' to-day. That man Budd is a good man. He done somethin' fer a boy o' mine over at the Gap.'' Like little Buck, he, too, stopped short. ``He's a good man an' I'm a-goin' to help him.''
Yes, he repeated, quite irrelevantly, it was hunting hogs all day with nothing to eat and only mean whiskey to drink. Mart had not come in yet--he was ``workin' out'' now.
``He's the best worker in these mountains,'' said the old woman; ``Mart works too hard.''
The hired man appeared and joined us at the fire. Bedtime came, and I whispered jokingly to the Blight:
``I believe I'll ask that good-looking one to `set up' with me.'' ``Settin' up'' is what courting is called in the hills. The couple sit up in front of the fire after everybody else has gone to bed. The man puts his arm around the girl's neck and whispers; then she puts her arm around his neck and whispers--so that the rest may not hear. This I had related to the Blight, and now she withered me.
``You just do, now!''
I turned to the girl in question, whose name was Mollie. ``Buck told me to ask you who Dave Branham was.'' Mollie wheeled, blushing and angry, but Buck had darted cackling out the door. ``Oh,'' I said, and I changed the subject. ``What time do you get up?''
``Oh, 'bout crack o' day.'' I was tired, and that was discouraging.
``Do you get up that early every morning?''
``No,'' was the quick answer; ``a mornin' later.''
A morning later, Mollie got up, each morning. The Blight laughed.
Pretty soon the two girls were taken into the next room, which was a long one, with one bed in one dark corner, one in the other, and a third bed in the middle. The feminine members of the family all followed them out on the porch and watched them brush their teeth, for they had never seen tooth-brushes before. They watched them prepare for bed--and I could hear much giggling and comment and many questions, all of which culminated, by and by, in a chorus of shrieking laughter. That climax, as I learned next morning, was over the Blight's hot-water bag. Never had their eyes rested on an article of more wonder and humor than that water bag.
By and by, the feminine members came back and
``I beg your pardon,'' said the wondering Blight, but she knew that phrase wouldn't do, so she added politely:
``What did you say?''
``Fitified--Tom has fits. He's in a asylum in the settlements.''
``Tom come back once an' he was all right,'' said the old mother; ``but he worried so much over them gals workin' so hard that it plum' throwed him off ag'in, and we had to send him back.''
``Do you work pretty hard?'' I asked presently. Then a story came that was full of unconscious pathos, because there was no hint of complaint--simply a plain statement of daily life. They got up before the men, in order to get breakfast ready; then they went with the men into the fields --those two girls--and worked like men. At dark they got supper ready, and after the men went to bed they worked on-- washing dishes and clearing up the kitchen. They took it turn about getting supper, and sometimes, one said, she was ``so plumb tuckered out that she'd drap on the bed and go to sleep ruther than eat her own supper.'' No wonder poor Tom had to go back to the asylum. All the while the two girls stood by the fire looking, politely but minutely, at the two strange girls and their curious clothes and their boots, and the way they dressed their hair. Their hard life seemed to have hurt them none--for both were the pictures of health--whatever that phrase means.
After supper ``pap'' came in, perfectly sober, with a big ruddy face, giant frame, and twinkling gray eyes. He was the man who had risen to speak his faith in the Hon. Samuel Budd that day on the size of the Hon. Samuel's ears. He, too, was unashamed and, as he explained his plight again, he did it with little apology.
``I seed ye at the speakin' to-day. That man Budd is a good man. He done somethin' fer a boy o' mine over at the Gap.'' Like little Buck, he, too, stopped short. ``He's a good man an' I'm a-goin' to help him.''
Yes, he repeated, quite irrelevantly, it was hunting hogs all day with nothing to eat and only mean whiskey to drink. Mart had not come in yet--he was ``workin' out'' now.
``He's the best worker in these mountains,'' said the old woman; ``Mart works too hard.''
The hired man appeared and joined us at the fire. Bedtime came, and I whispered jokingly to the Blight:
``I believe I'll ask that good-looking one to `set up' with me.'' ``Settin' up'' is what courting is called in the hills. The couple sit up in front of the fire after everybody else has gone to bed. The man puts his arm around the girl's neck and whispers; then she puts her arm around his neck and whispers--so that the rest may not hear. This I had related to the Blight, and now she withered me.
``You just do, now!''
I turned to the girl in question, whose name was Mollie. ``Buck told me to ask you who Dave Branham was.'' Mollie wheeled, blushing and angry, but Buck had darted cackling out the door. ``Oh,'' I said, and I changed the subject. ``What time do you get up?''
``Oh, 'bout crack o' day.'' I was tired, and that was discouraging.
``Do you get up that early every morning?''
``No,'' was the quick answer; ``a mornin' later.''
A morning later, Mollie got up, each morning. The Blight laughed.
Pretty soon the two girls were taken into the next room, which was a long one, with one bed in one dark corner, one in the other, and a third bed in the middle. The feminine members of the family all followed them out on the porch and watched them brush their teeth, for they had never seen tooth-brushes before. They watched them prepare for bed--and I could hear much giggling and comment and many questions, all of which culminated, by and by, in a chorus of shrieking laughter. That climax, as I learned next morning, was over the Blight's hot-water bag. Never had their eyes rested on an article of more wonder and humor than that water bag.
By and by, the feminine members came back and