A Knight of the Cumberland [5]
the old woman knocked the ashes out of her pipe.
``I reckon you hain't had nothin' to eat,'' she said and disappeared. The old man asked questions, the young mother rocked her baby on her knees, the children got less shy and drew near the fireplace, the Blight and the little sister exchanged a furtive smile and the contrast of the extremes in American civilization, as shown in that little cabin, interested me mightily.
``Yer snack's ready,'' said the old woman. The old man carried the chairs into the kitchen, and when I followed the girls were seated. The chairs were so low that their chins came barely over their plates, and demure and serious as they were they surely looked most comical. There was the usual bacon and corn-bread and potatoes and sour milk, and the two girls struggled with the rude fare nobly.
After supper I joined the old man and the old woman with a pipe--exchanging my tobacco for their long green with more satisfaction probably to me than to them, for the long green was good, and strong and fragrant.
The old woman asked the Blight and the little sister many questions and they, in turn, showed great interest in the baby in arms, whereat the eighteen-year-old mother blushed and looked greatly pleased.
``You got mighty purty black eyes,'' said the old woman to the Blight, and not to slight the little sister she added, `` An' you got mighty purty teeth.''
The Blight showed hers in a radiant smile and the old woman turned back to her.
``Oh, you've got both,'' she said and she shook her head, as though she were thinking of the damage they had done. It was my time now--to ask questions.
They didn't have many amusements on that creek, I discovered--and no dances. Sometimes the boys went coon-hunting and there were corn-shuckings, house-raisings and quilting-parties.
``Does anybody round here play the banjo?''
``None o' my boys,'' said the old woman, ``but Tom Green's son down the creek --he follers pickin' the banjo a leetle.'' ``Follows pickin' ''--the Blight did not miss that phrase.
``What do you foller fer a livin'?'' the old man asked me suddenly.
``I write for a living.'' He thought a while.
``Well, it must be purty fine to have a good handwrite.'' This nearly dissolved the Blight and the little sister, but they held on heroically.
``Is there much fighting around here?'' I asked presently.
``Not much 'cept when one young feller up the river gets to tearin' up things. I heerd as how he was over to the Gap last week--raisin' hell. He comes by here on his way home.'' The Blight's eyes opened wide--apparently we were on his trail. It is not wise for a member of the police guard at the Gap to show too much curiosity about the lawless ones of the hills, and I asked no questions.
``They calls him the Wild Dog over here,'' he added, and then he yawned cavernously.
I looked around with divining eye for the sleeping arrangements soon to come, which sometimes are embarrassing to ``furriners'' who are unable to grasp at once the primitive unconsciousness of the mountaineers and, in consequence, accept a point of view natural to them because enforced by architectural limitations and a hospitality that turns no one seeking shelter from any door. They were, however, better prepared than I had hoped for. They had a spare room on the porch and just outside the door, and when the old woman led the two girls to it, I followed with their saddle-bags. The room was about seven feet by six and was windowless.
``You'd better leave your door open a little,'' I said, ``or you'll smother in there.''
``Well,'' said the old woman, `` hit's all right to leave the door open. Nothin's goin' ter bother ye, but one o' my sons is out a coon-huntin' and he mought come in, not knowin' you're thar. But you jes' holler an' he'll move on.'' She meant precisely what she said and saw no humor at all in such a possibility--but when the door closed, I could hear those girls stifling shrieks of laughter.
Literally, that night, I was a member of the family. I had a bed to
``I reckon you hain't had nothin' to eat,'' she said and disappeared. The old man asked questions, the young mother rocked her baby on her knees, the children got less shy and drew near the fireplace, the Blight and the little sister exchanged a furtive smile and the contrast of the extremes in American civilization, as shown in that little cabin, interested me mightily.
``Yer snack's ready,'' said the old woman. The old man carried the chairs into the kitchen, and when I followed the girls were seated. The chairs were so low that their chins came barely over their plates, and demure and serious as they were they surely looked most comical. There was the usual bacon and corn-bread and potatoes and sour milk, and the two girls struggled with the rude fare nobly.
After supper I joined the old man and the old woman with a pipe--exchanging my tobacco for their long green with more satisfaction probably to me than to them, for the long green was good, and strong and fragrant.
The old woman asked the Blight and the little sister many questions and they, in turn, showed great interest in the baby in arms, whereat the eighteen-year-old mother blushed and looked greatly pleased.
``You got mighty purty black eyes,'' said the old woman to the Blight, and not to slight the little sister she added, `` An' you got mighty purty teeth.''
The Blight showed hers in a radiant smile and the old woman turned back to her.
``Oh, you've got both,'' she said and she shook her head, as though she were thinking of the damage they had done. It was my time now--to ask questions.
They didn't have many amusements on that creek, I discovered--and no dances. Sometimes the boys went coon-hunting and there were corn-shuckings, house-raisings and quilting-parties.
``Does anybody round here play the banjo?''
``None o' my boys,'' said the old woman, ``but Tom Green's son down the creek --he follers pickin' the banjo a leetle.'' ``Follows pickin' ''--the Blight did not miss that phrase.
``What do you foller fer a livin'?'' the old man asked me suddenly.
``I write for a living.'' He thought a while.
``Well, it must be purty fine to have a good handwrite.'' This nearly dissolved the Blight and the little sister, but they held on heroically.
``Is there much fighting around here?'' I asked presently.
``Not much 'cept when one young feller up the river gets to tearin' up things. I heerd as how he was over to the Gap last week--raisin' hell. He comes by here on his way home.'' The Blight's eyes opened wide--apparently we were on his trail. It is not wise for a member of the police guard at the Gap to show too much curiosity about the lawless ones of the hills, and I asked no questions.
``They calls him the Wild Dog over here,'' he added, and then he yawned cavernously.
I looked around with divining eye for the sleeping arrangements soon to come, which sometimes are embarrassing to ``furriners'' who are unable to grasp at once the primitive unconsciousness of the mountaineers and, in consequence, accept a point of view natural to them because enforced by architectural limitations and a hospitality that turns no one seeking shelter from any door. They were, however, better prepared than I had hoped for. They had a spare room on the porch and just outside the door, and when the old woman led the two girls to it, I followed with their saddle-bags. The room was about seven feet by six and was windowless.
``You'd better leave your door open a little,'' I said, ``or you'll smother in there.''
``Well,'' said the old woman, `` hit's all right to leave the door open. Nothin's goin' ter bother ye, but one o' my sons is out a coon-huntin' and he mought come in, not knowin' you're thar. But you jes' holler an' he'll move on.'' She meant precisely what she said and saw no humor at all in such a possibility--but when the door closed, I could hear those girls stifling shrieks of laughter.
Literally, that night, I was a member of the family. I had a bed to