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�The Brindle Mule
Stories and Poems
of the Brushy Mountains
by
ghdfgf
�The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization
composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From
1973 to 2004, its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies
documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian
Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of
the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day.
With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National
Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program,
Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access
digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press.
www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a
copy of the license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses.
Original copyright © 1983 by the Appalachian Consortium Press.
ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3825-6
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3827-0
Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press
www.uncpress.org
�APPALACHIAN CONSORTIUM
PRESS
BOONE, NORTH CAROLINA
The Appalachian Consortium Press is a division of the Appalachian
Consortium Incorporated, specializing in the publication of carefully
produced books of particular interest to Southern Appalachia. The
Press is controlled by the Publications Committee and the Board of
Directors, the members of which are appointed by the Chief Ad
ministrative Officers of the member institutions and agencies of the
corporation.
The member institutions of the Appalachian Consortium are:
Appalachian State University
Blue Ridge Parkway
East Tennessee State University
First Tennessee-Virginia Development District
Mars Hill College
U.S. Forest Service
Warren Wilson College
Western Carolina University
Western North Carolina Historical Association
North Carolina Division of Archives and History
III
�The Appalachian Consortium Press wishes
to acknowledge the time and assistance
given by Jo Stahle, Allison Houchins and Jacqueline Stewart
in the production of this book.
IV
�To all those who through
the years have helped to shape
these stories and poems, especially
my wife, Sarah Lou, and my parents,
Dr. and Mrs. Donald Harper Leeper.
V
�CONTENTS
Preface
VIII
The Brindle Mule
3
Sarah
12
Banner Elk
16
Whistling Man
14
When The Mad Dog Came
19
Confederate Bandmaster II
30
Confederate Bandmaster I
29
Jim Boles
31
Jerry
32
The Peeping Tom
37
Morning
46
Ballad Singer
47
Song
49
Stream Crossing
48
Feast of Wild Honey
53
Cripple Creek
60
Brook
61
Mountain Song
62
Devils Den
64
Twelve Hundred Dollars Reward
Cling To This Branch
In A Lonely Field I
67
78
79
In A Lonely Field II
80
A Friend of Jake's
83
For My Father
93
Grandmother Eunice I
94
Grandmother Eunice II
95
On Barren Land
96
Empty House
97
VI
�Journey To Iron Creek
101
English Teacher
HI
Peaseblossom
112
Morgiana
H3
Phoebe
H4
The Canterbury Tales I
115
The Canterbury Tales II
116
A Stone From Tintagel
119
Pilgrim Church I
129
Haw Creek
128
Pilgrim Church II
130
VII
�PREFACE
These stories and poems grew out of the experiences of a
childhood and youth spent in the mountain country of
Western North Carolina. My father was a physician in
Alexander County, practicing mainly in rural homes along
the slopes of the Brushy Mountains. He was a valiant
fighter against disease, and was much loved by the people
he served.
In growing up I was very close to the cultural heritage of
the region. Afoot or on horseback, in good weather or bad,
I roamed the roads, the footpaths, the fields, the woods of
the area, talking with farming people, storekeepers,
lumbermen, mill hands.
In the homes, by the fireside, in the fields, at husking
bees, in the school, in churches, at picnics, on hunts we
listened to stories and songs. This may explain the folk ele
ment in my stories. The rushing cadences of the folk songs,
the imagery of the ballads, the tone and color of folk music
are found in the poems in this volume.
These stories and poems were written in my student
days at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and
later at Columbia University in New York City. The names
of the characters are fictionalized, but the events are based
on local lore.
Persons with whom I have shared these stories and
poems have enjoyed them and have identified with them. It
gives me great satisfaction to share these writings through
the Hiddenite Center.—R.R.L.
VIII
�The Brindle Mule
�This page intentionally left blank
�T H E BRINDLE M U L E
Faite Lummus had no notion of doing good to anyone,
that day he came across Third Creek and up to my place.
It happened on a Sunday afternoon, when it had been so
quiet you could hear a wagon half a mile away along the
wooded road. We were all sitting on the porch of my store.
Milt Williams was there and Walter Allison. Regular
customers they were, though I never figured to sell much on
Sunday in those days. We just watched the people drive
past in their buggies, and got in a bit of gossip now and
then.
August it was, and hot. Third Creek valley stretched out
from where we sat over to the clearings in the pine woods
on the other side. Those clearings were worked-out red
fields where Faite Lummus did his farming.
Maybe I had napped off for a minute when I heard
somebody coming up the footpath from Third Creek.
Whoever it was, he sounded mad, and the air was filled
with a stream of profanity.
"Sounds like Faite Lummus," said Milt.
"Couldn't be him," Walter said, listening to the noise.
Then he looked at his watch. "Nope. Couldn't be Faite. He
saves all his racket for his mule, Maud. And at this time on
Sunday, he's always over at Stillman's getting drunk."
But Faite it was, limping as though his foot hurt him.
Up the path he came, across the road and onto the porch of
the store. Little man, Faite Lummus, but with the biggest
voice I ever heard. There was murder in every line of his
wrinkled face, in the way he clenched and unclenched his
rough hands. He was still swearing as he came into the
store. Such anger was terrible to see, though we always
made allowances for Faite.
3
�"Mister Henry," he says, breathing hard, "show me how
to use that telephone contraption."
"Why sure, Mister Lummus," I said, "glad to. Anything
wrong at your place?"
Faite stood still a minute, looking distrustfully at us, as
though we were partly to blame for his condition. Walter
and Milt stirred a little uneasily under the glare he gave
them.
"Everything's wrong, Mister Henry," Faite said, "but
I'm too mad to talk about it now."
I took Faite back to where the telephone was, and show
ed him how to get "Central," then told him how to ring the
other parties on the line. I could see Milt and Walter had
their heads stuck in the front door and were listening all the
time.
"Never tried one of these here things," Faite said, "but
now's a good time to begin. Central," he says into the
telephone, "get me the county sheriff."
I went back to the front porch and Milt and Walter and
I pretended not to be interested any further in Faite's
troubles.
Finally Faite got the sheriff on the phone. "Sheriff," he
says, in a voice so loud he scarcely needed a phone at all.
"Sheriff, my brindle mule has been stole, and my red-top
buggy, and my daughter along with them."
The sheriff must have said something then, for Faite
shouted into the phone, "Certainly, I know who done it.
That lazy, trifling, no-good Frank Finley. I've been keep
ing him away from my girl for two years now. Sheriff, I
want him caught and locked up for stealing my brindle
mule, Maudie, and my red-top buggy." Then the sheriff
must have said something else, for Faite yelled, "No,
Sheriff, just lock up Finley, and I'll take care of the girl
myself. But nobody can steal my brindle mule and not suf
fer for it."
The sheriff must have talked some more, for Faite swore
into the phone every now and then. Finally, he slammed
4
�the receiver on the hook and started yelling, "What kind of
a sheriff have we got, anyway? Won't be disturbed on a
Sunday. Not even for grand larceny and abduction. Thinks
Finley just borrowed my mule and buggy. Borrowed, mind
you! I'll cook that sheriff's goose, come next election."
Then Faite started ringing people all along the party
line. He asked them if they had seen a brindle mule and a
red-top buggy with a young couple in it going past that
afternoon. Finally we heard a shout, and we knew he had
found someone who had seen them. Faite came limping
and stamping back out to the front porch.
"Mister Henry," he said, "how much do I owe you?"
"Twenty cents for the call to the county seat. Nothing
for the party-line calls."
Faite brought out his old worn purse from his overalls
pocket and fished in it for some coins.
"Thank the Lord," he yelled, "I've got twenty cents.
Now," he went over and sat down on the plank steps.
Reaching down, he started unlacing his right shoe.
"Gentlemen," he announced, "if the good Lord lets me live
till I get this grain of corn out of my shoe, I'll find that
deceitful little female!"
"Your daughter?" Milt asked Faite.
Faite was nearly beside himself. "I mean that brindle
mule, Maud. Never until this day has anybody driven that
mule but me. She is the stubbornnest piece of mule-flesh in
the world. And how that overgrown oaf, Frank Finley,
ever drove her off, I don't know. You can't trust even your
own family any more. Nor even a hard-headed little mule."
Walter asked, "Where you reckon they've gone?"
Faite put his shoe back on and tied the string. He stood
up and tightened the galluses on his overalls. Then he an
nounced, "Swinging Limb Arbor. And that's where I'm go
ing, on shank's mare."
Now, Swinging Limb Arbor, where they used to hold
the summer revivals, is a matter of five to six miles away
from the store. "Mister Lummus," I said, "this looks like an
5
�emergency. Wait a minute and I'll get my carriage hitched
up and we'll take you to Swinging Limb."
Faite stood there and looked at me and then at Milt and
at Walter. He couldn't tell whether to trust us or not. He
was mistrustful of everybody, since his brindle mule had
deserted him. Some way, he felt that the neighbors were in
league against him, trying to rob him of his mule, his
buggy, and his daughter. You could read these things in
Faite's face as he looked at us.
"Mister Henry," he said, "I wouldn't trust myself in the
chariot of the Lord on this day. Everybody on Third Creek
wants to do me out of what's mine. Nobody wants me to
find that traitorous little mule of mine. Nope, you might
cart me off in the wrong direction. I'll take it on foot."
With that, he stamped off down the dusty road, taking
extra long steps.
Milt and Walter and me stood it as long as we could,
then we had a good laugh. This was too good, having Faite
Lummus deserted by his little brindle mule. This was
enough spice for a week-day afternoon, let alone a quiet
Sunday.
"And the corn in his shoe, from scrambling about his
barn, looking for Maudie," Walter said.
"Men," I said, "what's the use in keeping the store open
on a Sunday afternoon?"
Milt and Walter got the idea fast. "Why not hitch up
and go for a ride?" Walter said.
We hitched the team to the carriage and started off
down the road. Faite's profanity still stayed in my ears. His
constant references to the Lord had nothing to do with the
kind of life he led, for neither he, his wife, nor his daughter
ever had been known to go to a preaching service before.
That's why it struck us so funny that Frank Finley had
managed to slip off to Swinging Limb Arbor with the
daughter when they thought the old man was at Stillman's.
Milt started talking about Faite and his mule. "Never in
my life saw anything like it. That little brindle Maud, is the
6
�only friend he has in the world. He thinks more of that
mule than he does of his wife and daughter."
"Maybe that's why he yells at her the way he does when
he's working in the fields?" Walter suggested.
That started me thinking of all the hours I have sat on
the front porch of the store and listened to the sound of
Faite's shouting at his mule.
"Whoa-gee-haw!" he would yell in a single breath, far
over on the other side of Third Creek. "How can I plow," he
would ask the brindle mule, at the other end of the single
plow line, "with you in one row and the plow in another
and me in another?"
Milt said he once went past Faite's farm and could hear
him yelling at his mule. He claimed that Faite was trying to
plow with a cultivator, and the mule had stopped in the
middle of a row. The animal was standing with her head
twisted around, gazing straight at Faite. Even her long,
rabbit ears were pointed at the man. Faite yelled at the top
of his lungs for the mule to "Gittap!" But the mule wouldn't
budge a single inch. Faite was so mad he jumped up and
down behind the cultivator.
"Maudie," he yelled, "if n you don't like the looks of me
in over-halls, I'll have to put on my Sunday suit with a
yaller necktie for you!" Then Maud started to work again,
though Milt swore he couldn't see why.
By that time, Walter had recalled the day when Faite
was breaking one of his red fields in the spring. When they
got to the end of the row, Maud forgot to stop, and Faite for
once was so mad he couldn't make a sound. The mule just
kept on walking, right through the patch of woods and up
to her stable door before she stopped. Then Faite talked to
her so loud that the neighbors up and down Third Creek for
a mile away could have heard him.
There seemed to be some sort of understanding between
the mule and the little man. We wondered whether it was
his profanity or some other secret cue that made the animal
respond to him. It was well known that the little mule
7
�would work for no other man but Faite. This fact caused
Faite to keep away from his neighbors, for he suspected
they laughted at him behind his back. Perhaps this was the
reason he kept his family away from the husking-bees, cane
grindings, and the blue-back spelling contests.
Milt spoke about how hard Faite had tried to keep his
daughter from seeing any of the boys of the neighborhood.
He said the man would go to any extremes to prevent Alice
from seeing Frank Finley. He even threatened to beat
Finley up, and this amused the neighbors, since Finley was
the biggest young fellow we ever saw in this section. About
twice the size of Faite, anyway. We figured that Faite was
actually afraid of Frank. But this made him all the more
careful to keep Alice from seeing the boy.
That was a hot trip, driving along the dusty road, trying
to catch up with Faite. We knew he would walk every step
of the way, for he was too angry to accept a ride with
anyone, even if they were so generous as to offer it. So we
kept on, following him. After a while, the sun began to get
lower and lower, and we knew it would be nearly dark by
the time we reached Swinging Limb Arbor.
Then we came in sight of Faite, far ahead, striding
along the road, with his arms swinging far out from his
sides as though he were hitting at something. We gradually
overtook him.
"You about ready for a lift, Mister Lummus?" I asked.
Faite didn't even hesitate. He kept right on walking,
never even looking up to see who was talking to him.
"Everybody wanting to give me a ride," he said.
"Everybody trying to trick me, trying to keep me from
finding my worthless little mule. But I'll find her, if n it
takes from now till kingdom come."
We could see no use in pestering him further. So we just
rode along behind him, keeping a good distance away.
Through the last of the twilight and the afterglow, we
could hear him talking, though it was not always plain
what he was saying.
8
�Finally we came to the long hill beyond Muddy Creek.
When we topped that, we were at the place where the big
revival meetings used to be held each year. People drove in
from miles around then, especially on a Sunday. Such fire
and brimstone sermons you never heard. And the singing
and the shouting of the redeemed was something to
remember.
By the time Faite got up that last hill, you could tell the
long walk through the heat and the dust had begun to tell
on him. But his great anger returned to him as he came
within sight of Swinging Limb Arbor.
Darkness had begun to settle down. We could hear the
loud voice of the revivalist as he exhorted the crowd in the
arbor. We felt a great tenseness in the air, as though
anything could happen.
But Faite was more interested in his mule than he was in
the sermon. He kept right on past the arbor until he came to
the patch of trees where the horses were tied, near the emp
ty carriages.
Faite hunted around among the animals until he found
his little mule. Milt, Walter and me watched from a
distance while he untied the mule and tried to lead her out
to the buggy. But Maudie would not budge one inch from
where she stood. We heard Faite begin to swear at her,
though he tried to keep his voice down to where it wouldn't
be heard in the arbor. But still the mule refused to move.
Then we saw Faite reach in the pocket of his overalls.
Whatever it was he was reaching for, he failed to find.
Then he searched through all his pockets, and we could tell
by his expression that something serious was wrong.
We had gotten out of the carriage now and had walked
near enough to hear Faite cursing.
"Stole my tobacco!" he shouted. "I'll murder the wench
for that!"
He then retied the mule's rein to the tree and made off
toward the arbor. What happened next will always be a lit
tle confused for us, because we afterwards heard too many
9
�conflicting stories, and we were not near enough ourselves
to get the straight of it.
But we could tell that when Faite got close to the arbor,
the preacher was laboring hard to move the congregation.
There was only the sound of the revivalist's voice through
the darkness. Then the congregation stood up and started to
sing one of the revival songs.
By that time, Faite went in at the rear of the arbor.
When he started down the aisle, looking to right and left,
the congregation had come to the chorus of the revival
song, and they were singing it as loud as they could. Then
Faite caught sight of his daughter in the crowd, and he
shouted at her at the top of his voice, "Allie!" he yelled. Im
mediately the preacher, thinking somebody had become
happy, as they used to at revivals, shouted right back,
"Alleluia! Brother, God bless you!"
With that, the congregation went wild. On every side
you could hear the shouts, even drowning out the singing,
"Alleluia!" And Faite was right in the middle of all the
commotion. His red face and the dishevelled look he had
taken on during his long walk to the arbor made the people
think that he was really beside himself with joy. They
threw their arms around him and pounded him on the
shoulders and soon he found himself in the front of the ar
bor on the mourner's bench, along with several other people.
The singing continued and the shouting became even
louder. Faite had broken into the meeting at exactly the
right moment, according to the pleased expression on the
face of the evangelist. The congregation looked as if it had
suddenly turned into a whirlpool, the way the people were
moving back and forth, shaking hands with each other and
crying and laughing and singing.
Pretty soon we saw Faite's daughter, Alice, making her
way down front to her father's side. Big Frank Finley
followed right after her. Together, they managed to get
Faite out of the milling crowd inside the arbor.
Once they were in the open, Faite looked like he was
10
�beginning to get some of his old orneriness back. Milt,
Walter and me had come close enough to hear what he said
next.
"Allie," he said to his daughter, "give me back that plug
of 'Favorite Twist' you stole from my pockets." He held his
hand out to her.
Allie had some of her old man's spunk in her, but this
was too much for her. She turned to Frank. "Give him his
plug of tobacco," she said.
Frank gave him the tobacco, and Faite lit off toward the
place where the mule was tied. We hurried in that direction
and saw him feed some of the tobacco to the brindle
animal. After that, she went without hesitation toward the
buggy. Faite hitched her up and they started off into the
night, leaving his daughter and Finley behind.
I looked at Milt and Walter. They nodded, and Milt
remarked, "Now we know Faite's secret for sure."
Then Milt said, "Miss Lummus and Mister Finley, will
you allow us to give you a lift home in our carriage?"
They allowed us, and we started off through the
darkness, once more following Faite, only this time toward
home.
11
�SARAH
When Sarah went to visit Hattie
Beyond Shallow Creek
She rode half an autumn day
With wind on her cheek.
And when she came near Hattie's home
About dark fall
She heard a lone whippoorwill
In the woods call.
And welling down the valley came
The bay of Hattie's hounds,
And never had she heard such fire
And tears in any sounds.
Hattie's people came to meet her,
A kindly natured folk,
And Sarah soon could hear soft music
In the level way they spoke.
They gave her spoonbread from the hearth
And sourwood honey too,
And took her out upon the porch
When the meal was through.
There they sang old mountain songs
While stars moved down the west,
Till Hattie's mother took them in
And sent them off to rest.
And Sarah dreamed by Hattie's side
Of keen wind on her face,
And through her tired limbs all the night
She felt the horse's pace.
12
�She knew she never could forget
One song that they had sung,
One drop of all the fragrant honey
So cool upon her tongue.
13
�WHISTLING MAN
He came to my house one night, he did,
When the swamp-wind whined like a hound;
I opened my door and asked him in
And said, "Won t you sit down?"
Whoo-lay, whooo-low,
Swamp-wind whined at the door.
He warmed his hands at the flickering blaze,
And I fed him pone and lasses-cake;
And he sat there still and solemn-like
And listened to the wind in the brake.
My girl, Agie, she came in,
And looked surprised at a stranger there;
She made her smilingest bow and asked,
"Howdy do?" He said, "Pretty fair."
I brought my jug of cider out
And chunked the fire till the blaze was red,
And then we talked and dreamed for a while.
"Pretty good night for a tune," he said.
He puckered his thin red lips and whistled
A tune begun down deep in his mouth,
Soft and gentle like the rustling sedge
When the wind is warm in the south.
He whistled high like the redbird sings
And cheeped like new biddies call to the hen;
And then he looked Agie in the eye and stopped.
I said, "Whistle that tune again."
14
�He whistled again like a whippoorwill calls,
"Whippawill, whippawill," all soft and low;
He blew in his hands and mocked the wind
That whined like a hound at the door.
The very next morning the man was gone,
And Agie went with him and never came back,
And her pappy sits remembering here
When the wind whines off in the brake.
Whooo-low, whooo-lay,
Swamp-wind whines all night and day.
15
�BANNER E L K
We woke when heavy cows crunched by
Along the paths of broken gravel;
Daylong we challenged earth and sky
In the ecstasy of travel.
Daylong we garnered sunbright dreams,
To be recalled in quiet hours
When frost has clutched the mountain streams
And killed the mountain flowers.
16
�When the Mad Dog Came
�This page intentionally left blank
�W H E N T H E MAD D O G GAME
Someone came knocking at the front door before
daybreak. Knocking and calling. And the sounds were so
much like those of the November frost-wind that neither
the doctor nor Ann wakened for a while. But the noises
became louder and more insistent, so he finally went and
opened the door.
Mrs. Garvey stood on the porch, wearing her severe
black coat, and with her hair wrapped about with a shawl,
to keep off the chill of the air.
"Come in, Mrs. Garvey."
"No, doctor, I'll stand here. It's better for me to tell you
what I must say, then get back home." She appeared taut
and nervous, and her voice was shrill.
"Doctor Rogers," she announced, "I couldn't sleep one
single wink the whole night long."
"I'll be glad to give you a prescription, Mrs. Garvey."
"It isn't a prescription I need." She shrugged her thin
shoulders. "As I lay down to sleep, I was thinking of my
dog, Fluff, and of the Leonard child he bit yesterday. I was
terribly fond of my dog, doctor, and it was a real tragedy
when I had to lose him."
"Hydrophobia is a worse tragedy, Mrs. Garvey. The
dog's head had to be sent off for examination for rabies."
"I understand, doctor," she shrilled. "I lay thinking of
all that had happened during that terrible day. And sud
denly there came to me," she paused dramatically, "the
distinct memory of a dog that was playing with my poodle
yesterday, just before he bit the child. That dog, doctor,
was your big collie, Shady."
Doctor Rogers had been trying to blink the sleep out of
his eyes and to disregard the sting of the wind through the
19
�thin shirt he had pulled on so hastily. But the mention of
the collie's name brought him awake.
"Just what are you trying to say, Mrs. Garvey?"
The woman continued, as though she had begun to
relish her task, "I'd know your Shady anywhere, big and
reddish-gold. Just as well as I knew my own dog. And there
they were, the two of them together, romping and frisking
about over on the Turner property across from my yard. I'd
completely forgotten about it until right then at bedtime
last night." She finished, and smacked her thin lips in
satisfaction.
"Could you swear to the truth of what you're saying,
Mrs. Garvey?" There was almost a note of pleading in the
doctor's voice. "Are you certain, beyond a doubt, that this
happened yesterday, and not on some other day that you
remember just as distinctly?"
"My memory has not begun to fail me yet, Doctor
Rogers." Mrs. Garvey drew herself up and tugged the ends
of the shawl tighter about her.
The doctor knew there was little use in trying to get the
woman to believe her memory might have played a trick on
her. Mrs. Garvey was not a person to alter an opinion, once
she had expressed it. He realized, too, that the whole village
would soon know the story from her viewpoint, and the
neighbors would be demanding that Shady be destroyed,
just as Mrs. Garvey's poodle had been, as a safety precau
tion against rabies.
The doctor thanked the woman, rather unen
thusiastically, for the disturbing information she had
brought. Turning back into the house, he found Ann was
already up and had started preparing breakfast in the kit
chen.
"Ann," he spoke to her in a low voice, so as not to
disturb the children, "Mrs. Garvey was just here. She
thinks she saw Shady playing with her poodle yesterday,
over in the Turner lot, across from her yard."
Instant dismay showed in Ann's face. "Oh, John, does
20
�that mean—?"
"It means Shady will have to go, if what she says is true.
And even if it wasn't true originally, by the time the story
spreads through the village everyone will believe it. Mrs.
Garvey's dog had to be killed so its brain could be examined
for rabies in the State laboratory in Raleigh. If Shady was
bitten, then she must be examined. The risk is too great
otherwise."
"What will we do, John?" Ann seemed overwhelmed.
"Should we let the children know? It will truly break their
hearts. They've loved Shady since they were babies, and she
has watched over them and guarded them almost as well as
we have."
"We had better not tell them, Ann. Help them through
breakfast and after we see them off to school, we'll decide
what we must do."
Ann turned impulsively toward the kitchen door. "It
won't hurt at all for us to examine the dog, John. We might
find a real scratch or tooth-mark on her. Then we'd know a
little more definitely that she had been bitten."
Shady came into the kitchen, wagging and panting with
pleasure at the attention being paid her so early in the
morning. She submitted to the hands that placed her on her
side and began a careful examination, then turned her on
the other side and continued the search. At last, John stood
up. "It's no use, Ann. We'd better get the children up."
He went to call the children. Soon they came sleepily
down the stairs, Harold first, followed by the younger
Ellen.
"Mother," Harold said, "I woke up early this morning,
and I thought I heard someone talking."
"Oh, you probably did, Harold," Ann said calmly. "One
of your father's patients came to talk with him."
Harold was persistent. "But, mother, I thought it sound
ed like Mrs. Garvey. What could that old busybody be
wanting over here? Is she mad at father for having to ship
off her dog's head?"
21
�Ann's eyes met those of her husband. "Harold, however
do you imagine such things? Now, eat your oatmeal. And
try to remember how many times I've told you not to call
Mrs. Garvey a busybody. You must respect your elders,
even though," she relented a little, on this particular morn
ing, "you may not always understand them or what they
sometimes do."
Ellen now took over the conversation with all the
wonderful plans for her day in the second grade, and Mrs.
Garvey was not mentioned again.
John listened while the children prattled on with their
school talk, but his attention soon came back to the im
mediate problem. He had never realized before just how
much a part of their home the big, reddish-gold collie had
become, in the years since he and Ann were first married.
In so many ways, Shady and the family were almost in
separable in his mind. Even before Harold was born, Shady
had been their constant companion when he and Ann had
gone on their long, quiet walks through the countryside.
How the collie had entertained them with her capers,
dashing about the autumn woodland like a whirling,
golden and white leaf, then running up to them, panting
with her collie good humor.
He remembered, too, the time when Harold was so sick
with scarlet fever. Doctor Grove, whom he had called in
for consultation, had simply said that there was no hope for
the boy. But he and Ann had fought on desperately. Shady
had been a great comfort to them then. Sometimes, when
he would leave Ann beside the boy's bed, he would go out
and sit on the back porch alone. Then Shady would come
and sit near him on the floor, putting her white head with
the golden markings on the arm of the chair beside him. He
always felt that Shady had understood a part of their great
despair at the time, and was trying in a wordless, animal
way to comfort them.
The children's breakfast again required the doctor's
whole attention for a few moments. Then, as he looked at
22
�Harold's blonde hair, he suddenly remembered the day
when they had taken the children and Shady with them in
to the country to pick dewberries, about a mile from their
home. Shady had been quite excited that morning, dashing
about on her own adventures among the trees and
undergrowth of the little woodland, and running up and
down the sunny side of the big ditch that ran through the
field where the dewberries grew.
All of them had busied themselves with picking the pur
ple berries from the low-lying briars, when Ann screamed.
John's eyes were attracted to a whirling, twisting, fighting
golden mass of collie, running down the bank, away from
the children. She held a long, writhing snake in her mouth,
and was shaking it angrily back and forth. Before the doc
tor could get to the dog's assistance, she had dropped the re
mains of the snake on the ground, literally chewed into two
pieces. Ann found the spot near the children from which
the snake had been snatched.
After this incident, Shady had always accompanied the
children on their expeditions into the woods and fields.
The children now had finished their breakfast and were
bundled into their coats and started off to school. They
waved to their mother before they boarded the bus that
stopped for them.
"Now, dear. What shall we do?" The doctor's voice was
greatly troubled. "Much as I hate the thought, I suppose we
must get rid of Shady."
"But on such unreliable evidence, John! You know
Shady never played much with other dogs. She stays right
on the back porch. I honestly believe that Mrs. Garvey has
only imagined all of this."
"Even if she did, she wouldn't admit it now."
"But, John, if only there were another collie in this
neighborhood that looked something like Shady. Then we
would know there was a chance of error in Mrs. Garvey's
statement."
Ann's voice had become muted with despair and
23
�hopelessness, for both of them knew that Shady was the
only collie in the village.
Again they made a careful examination of the dog, look
ing for the tiniest mark which might have been left by the
teeth of the unfortunate poodle. But no such mark was
found. Shady lay very still for the inspection, evidently feel
ing some of the anxiety in the manner of the two.
"Is there no way of testing her blood, John, so we could
know for sure whether she has been exposed or not?"
John shook his head. "There isn't any way of telling un
til after the disease has developed. Even then, an examina
tion is sometimes doubtful. But an examination of the brain
is the usually accepted test."
"But that means the children will be exposed and
anyone else who comes near the dog," Ann faltered.
"We might shut her up in a cage for several weeks until
we are certain there is no danger of her developing the
disease. But this would be very risky, considering the
human lives at stake."
"Is it worth such a risk?" Ann asked her husband.
"Only if we could prove Mrs. Garvey wrong in her state
ment that Shady was the dog she saw. And that," he paus
ed, "doesn't seem possible. By now, Mrs. Garvey has been
up and down the whole street, telling the neighbors her
story. If we don't destroy Shady, someone else will. People
are almost insane in their fear of mad-dogs."
The doctor finally took up his bag and stood ready to
leave the house. Ann kissed him tenderly. "Don't look so
troubled, John. Whatever you decide to do about it, I'll
understand."
Driving through the clear sunlight of the November
morning, the doctor made his way to the home of Timothy
Messer. He could see the big man down by the barn, going
about his morning chores, pitchfork in hand. Timothy hail
ed him from a distance.
"Hi, doc, any more poodles to be killed?"
Not feeling in a joking mood, the doctor waited until he
24
�was near the man before he answered.
"No, Tim, this time it isn't a poodle." He hesitated, try
ing to answer the last, lingering doubts in his mind. As the
doctor in the community, he must set an example of firm
ness and dispatch in this matter.
"Well, what is it, doc?" Tim looked worried at the in
decision on the doctor's face.
"Today I want you to dispose of my collie, Shady, in the
same way you did the poodle yesterday. Only," he added
quickly, "we won't need to ship off the head."
Tim's face was a big map of unbelief. "Why, doc, is this
a gag? What's the matter with your collie? Ain't bit
anybody, has she?"
The doubts began to well up again in the doctor's mind.
If only he had some little bit of evidence that Shady had not
been the dog that was seen with the poodle yesterday.
"No, Shady hasn't bitten anyone. But Mrs. Garvey
claims she saw my dog playing with the poodle yesterday,
before the Leonard child was bitten. That makes it likely
that my dog was exposed. It's better not to take the chance
of Shady going mad."
Tim's big hand gripped the pitchfork as though it were a
club. "I'm surprised at you, doc. That old Garvey woman
would swear her own flesh and blood to death in order to
get even with someone. She's sore at you because we had to
kill her dog yesterday. I wouldn't believe a word of it."
"You might not, but everybody else will. And I can't risk
the chance of the children being exposed. Even the Pasteur
treatment is an ordeal in itself. Tim, you will find the dog
lying in the sun beside the kitchen window. Tell my wife I
sent you, and she will understand."
He put some money in Tim's hand, and turned away.
He shouldn't have thought of the big dog, lying with her
muzzle between her white paws by the window. He got in
to his car and drove away, expecting to make his first call of
the morning.
But as he neared the house of his patient, he suddenly
25
�changed his mind and turned instead in the direction of the
Garvey home. Almost mechanically, he pulled to a stop in
front of the prim, white house. He was thinking about Tim,
and of where he would be right at this time. Probably going
up to the door of his house now and explaining to Ann why
he had come and that he was sorry he had to do such a
thing. Then the stricken look on Ann's face as she turned
Shady over to the big man.
He shouldn't have allowed Ann to face this alone. He
must go to her and try to comfort her as best he could. On
this one morning, at least, the patients could wait.
He had become so abstracted, he had almost forgotten
he had stopped in front of the Garvey home. But there he
was, in front of the prim house, its green shutters fastened
back. And across the street lay the Turner lot. That place
was really an eyesore and should be cleaned up. But old
Jimmie Turner, who lived on the other side of the lot,
claimed that only the law could force him to clean it up. He
had bought the lot, he told the indignant townspeople, as a
"storage space," and he declared that this was the use to
which he was putting it. That was the end of the clean-up
crusades, usually. In the meantime, the lot continued to
serve as a general nuisance.
The doctor's eye was suddenly caught by the sight of a
dog at the far side of the lot. The animal had abruptly ap
peared and then as quickly disappeared behind a pile of
empty barrels. The doctor wrenched open the car door and
started up the path to the Garvey house.
Mrs. Garvey answered his insistent twirling of the knob
of the doorbell. She looked nervous and frightened at the
excitement on the doctor's face.
"Is - is there something wrong, Doctor Rogers?" she ask
ed breathlessly.
"You bet there's something wrong." He wanted to shout
it, but managed to control his voice. "Come with me a
minute over to the Turner property. I've something to show
26
�The woman threw a coat over her shoulders and they
went across the street.
As they neared the stack of empty barrels, the doctor
began to whistle shrilly, as though he were calling a dog.
Mrs. Garvey began to look questioningly at the doctor.
Then from behind the pile of barrels came a collie dog,
wagging its tail in a friendly manner. But it would not
come near enough for the doctor to catch hold of it.
"Mrs. Garvey, could this have been the dog you saw
with your poodle yesterday morning?"
The woman considered for a minute. "It could have
been, doctor." There was a growing doubt in her voice.
"But this is your collie, isn't it?"
"My dog is shut up in the kitchen in my home," the doc
tor said.
Just then, they became conscious of a voice yelling at
them. Turning in the direction of the Turner house, they
could see old Jimmie waving his walking stick at them.
"Leave my dog be, you two!"
The doctor cupped his hands and shouted, "Uncle Jim
mie, when did you get the collie?"
The old man's voice came back, "Day before yesterday.
Purty, ain't he?"
The doctor did not wait to answer or even to take leave
of Mrs. Garvey. He ran for his car. At reckless speed, he
drove down the street to his home. Ann heard him as he
came in the front door. One look at her face told him that
Tim had already come for Shady.
"Tim was here." He made it a statement, not a question.
Ann nodded, wordlessly.
"How long has he been gone?"
"Fifteen minutes." Ann looked at him wonderingly,
almost like a grief-stricken little girl.
Fifteen minutes. He would hardly have gotten to the
woodlot as yet. He could at least get within hailing distance
before it was too late.
"Stop crying, Ann. It's going to be all right."
27
�He ran out of the house, across the back yard and
through the wide field beyond. He must get to Tim quickly,
before it was too late to save the collie. He was already pan
ting from the exertion. But he might be able to make it if he
could keep up a steady jog-trot.
He topped the sloping hill and came within sight of the
woodlot. Putting his hands to his face he began to shout
Tim's name. Finally he heard a faint answer from the
woods. Messer had heard him. Now he would not kill the
dog until he found out why he was being hailed.
When Tim came out of the woods, gun in hand, and
leading Shady on a leash, the doctor approached them.
"Tim, the job's off. Mrs. Garvey now thinks the collie
she saw her poodle playing with was a new dog old Jimmie
Turner bought day before yesterday."
"Just like that old gossip," Tim kicked a rock in the field.
"I guess she was only trying to do her duty as a citizen,
Tim. Take the dog back to my house. You can keep the
money, though, and I'll add some to it. I want you to build
a tight wire cage for me, so I can shut the collie up until I'm
certain she's all right."
The doctor turned back toward the house. As a second
thought, he added. "Also, Tim, when you've finished with
the cage in my yard, you had better go over to Jimmie
Turner's place. After I've talked with him, you'll probably
get the job of building a cage for his collie, too. And, Tim,
see that you make that cage even stronger than you do the
one for my dog."
28
�C O N F E D E R A T E BANDMASTER
I
He played a cornet through the battle years,
The leader of a regimental band
That strengthened the resolves of volunteers
And spread a dream of glory through the land.
He led the gray parades through dusty towns
Where men had heard their side was losing strength,
Had worried through the days with brooding frowns,
And come to fear the wartime's growing length.
And when they played, the war was pulsing song,
A fire along the veins, a battle cry;
No teasing questions then of right or wrong,
But only knife-edged airs flung toward the sky.
And soldiers followed them with quickened breath,
Content with battle-life or battle-death.
29
�C O N F E D E R A T E BANDMASTER
II
We saw him one day when a storm had broken,
Come marching down the street through wind and rain,
His head held high, his thin beard like a token
Of battles won through hells of shock and pain.
His old sack clothes blew loosely on his limbs
With every gust of wind that filled the street;
His distant eyes cared nothing for the whims
Of new-brown leaves that swirled about his feet.
But marching, marching down the street he came,
A soldier still, though ninety years he knew;
About him all the timelessness of fame
No rain can dampen, and no wind undo.
A dauntless, deathless splendor in his form,
We saw him marching, marching through the storm.
30
�JIM BOLES
What do neighbors talk about
When a strong man's life is winging?
That harvest will go slow this year
Without his cradle swinging.
Harvest will go slow this year
Upon the rocky land
Without his song across the fields,
Without his steady hand.
What do crickets sing about
In their grinding and chirring?
That never bolder man than he
With morning will be stirring.
Never stronger man than he
Will sing upon the hill
When dawn has brought the daylight in
And cricket songs are still.
31
�JERRY
Jerry had a brave laugh,
He had a quick tongue;
Jerry never heard the wind
While he was young.
He never heard the storm wind
Moaning at the logs,
Racing by the corners
Like a pack of foxdogs.
He never heard the north wind
Bringing the snow;
His laugh was always drowning
Its fiercest blow.
He had wild parties
In his old log shack;
They danced their way to dreamland
And slept their way back.
They drank red wine
And sang so bold
They stole away the long years
Till Jerry was old.
Jerry first heard the wind
After sixty-two;
He sat and listened to it
With nothing else to do.
He heard the wild storms come
Tearing through the trees;
He heard the old winds...
And his laugh would freeze.
32
�Jerry was a bold lad,
As brave as there goes,
And how he came to fear the
Nobody knows.
33
�This page intentionally left blank
�The Peeping Tom
�This page intentionally left blank
�T H E PEEPING T O M
Guess you haven't heard about Jim Lundley, since you
don't get through Granite Knob so often any more. Takes a
traveled man like you to appreciate the kind of a fix Jim got
himself into a couple of months back.
Just push the door to, will you, so's the "Private" sign
will keep some of them farmers from barging right in here,
looking for plows or stoves. They don't need to hear what
we're discussing. Not that I'm a man who would violate any
confidences, you understand.
You never seen Jim, did you? A little squirrelly-looking
fellow, with squinty brown eyes. A little stooped like his
daddy was afore him. He don't come in the store very often,
especially since the thing happened I'm telling you about.
Jim was the youngest of six kids, and the other five was
girls. You could say he was spoilt, only that'd be putting it
in too mild a way. His sisters waited on him like slaves. The
Lundleys always were a poor family, trying to scratch a liv
ing from their red clay fields, up in the hills beyond town.
If you happened to ride up that way you could have seen
the girls chopping cotton and suckering tobacco, so's they
could buy clothes and books and fixings to send Jim to the
grade school.
The girls even tried to do his learning for him, once they
got him started to school. But they hadn't got too far with
learning themselves, and Jim wasn't too bright, so they soon
decided to call it quits, as far as school is concerned. You
know how it is in this state—the law says you have to go to
school up to sixteen years. But nobody enforced it on Jim
when he quit school. I reckon everybody agreed he'd be
better off learning to help his daddy on the farm than
wasting his time trying to get through his grades.
37
�Jim's sisters married off fast, once the oldest took the
step, and they all scattered away from Granite. Jim was the
only one of the brood left at home. He never amounted to
nothing, just working a little on his daddy's land, loafing
around the tobacco barns and the blacksmith shop, chew
ing on his homemade twist, listening to the dirty stories the
men told and never saying anything himself.
Maybe that was what was wrong with Jim. Never said
anything. The men—the substantial citizens, I mean—had
no use for him, and they made that plain many a time. But
by and large they considered him harmless, I reckon. Or at
least they did until this thing happened I'm telling you
about.
Now this is the part of the story I don't want you to
repeat, since it would be violating my word of honor to
Charley Stover, who told me about Jim Lundley getting
himself into trouble.
You may not know it but we've got a mighty strong
lodge in this town. Mighty strong and exclusive. Only the
educated, upstanding, and prosperous citizens can belong.
Yes sir, our local chapter of the Loyal Order of Mountain
Sheep will compare well with any of the one hundred and
seventy-five other chapters in this country. Wish you was a
member yourself. You certainly got the character it takes to
make a genuine Mountain Sheep. Lots of integrity, you
know, and never telling a secret, and sizing up a real
gentleman when you meet him. That's what goes into the
sterling makeup of a true Mountain Sheep.
Anyway, getting back to Jim. It was the second Wednes
day night in October, and a black, foggy night it was, too.
The reason I remember the date is because I'd been over in
to Yancey County that afternoon, trying to collect the
balance of the interest a man still owed me on a kitchen
stove he bought from me on time. It was lodge meeting
night, and I tried like anything to get back for the session.
But it was just too foggy in them passes and the clay road
38
�was cut up so bad by wagon wheels, I just couldn't get back
in time in my old Model T.
So what happened at that meeting, I've got to tell you
from what Charley Stover told me in strict confidence, you
understand.
The meeting hall of the Loyal Order of Mountain Sheep
is in the second story of the feed-store building, just before
you cross the sidetrack, coming into town. The old tobacco
warehouse they don't use any more stands right smack up
against the side of the feed-store, you recall. It's a nice hall,
situated away from things, sort of, where our sessions can
be kept strictly secret.
On this particular night, black and foggy as it was, the
loyal brothers had straggled in, giving the secret knock at
the door, climbing the stairs, shaking hands all round, and
being seated in the proper chairs. They were called to
order, the minutes of the last meeting was read and ap
proved, and a couple of resolutions was moved and passed,
so Charley told me later. Next, old Buck Barlow, the horse
trader from the other side of town, got up on his feet and
moved that the members of the Mountain Sheep lodge do
something about catching a "Peeping Tom" that he said he
had reason to believe was loose in Granite Knob. Then old
Buck sat down.
Charley got recognized by the chair, stood up and asked
the esteemed brother to be so kind as to elaborate on his
reasons for believing there was a Peeping Tom loose in our
fair metropolis.
Old Buck said that he was more than glad to oblige the
sovereign session with the evidence to which he had already
alluded. He said the only reason he had failed to present his
resolution in the previous meeting was the fact that he had
happened to drowse off during a prolonged speech by a
worthy brother.
He said that three times during the past summer and
early fall, his wife and daughter had wakened at night and
told him they thought someone was spying on them through
39
�the windows of the house. Of course, he had got down his
old shotgun, loaded up with double-ought buckshot, and
went out to investigate. He didn't find anything the first
two times, he said, so he just tut-tutted his wife and
daughter, and went back to bed. But the third time this
happened, which was just a couple of weeks before this
meeting I'm telling you about, old Buck ran out onto the
porch, trying to get a fair shot at the prowler, if there was a
prowler. Well, this time, he slipped and fell like a ton of
brick, right at the edge of the porch. Yes sir, old Buck took a
tumble, though he didn't break anything.
His wife and girl run out, carrying a lamp, to see if the
old man was hurt. By then, old Buck was picking himself
up from the floor. Suddenly he noticed what he had slipped
on. Yes sir, it was tobacco juice, where somebody had miss
ed the edge of the porch.
Now old Buck got to figuring. He didn't chew, himself,
and he could't think how the tobacco juice had got there ex
cept by this Peeping Tom he'd been telling about.
So old Buck was putting the resolution to the session that
drastic steps should be taken to catch the aforementioned
Peeping Tom, when all of a sudden, one of the brothers
nearest the windows on the warehouse side of the hall
jumped to his feet and started waving his hands.
The chairman pounded his wooden mallet on the table
and told the worthy brother to set down, since he was out of
order, that Brother Barlow still had the floor. But the ex
cited brother wouldn't set down. He yelled out, "Mister
Chairman, I wish to inform the sovereign session that I just
heard a noise at the window. I think there's somebody on
the warehouse roof. I move we adjourn and apprehend this
villain."
The motion was never seconded, you understand. The
brothers raced over to the windows, pulled them open and
started piling out onto the roof as if there was a fire. One of
the men claimed he heard the sound of somebody scram
bling down the fire-ladder on the far side of the old
40
�warehouse. Charley told me later that Aleck and Tom
Jenkins, both of them being fairly young and in good condi
tion, took out across the warehouse roof like rabbits. It be
ing such a foggy night, they had to slow down considerably
when they came to the ladder. But they got down to the
ground some way and kept right after the Peeping Tom.
The rest of the brothers stood around on that warehouse
roof for the better part of an hour, waiting for Aleck and
Tom to come back and report to the sovereign session as to
the success or failure of their undertaking. Then they began
to hear noises off beyond the edge of the warehouse roof.
After a while, here come Aleck and Tom, with a little,
moaning shrimp of a man between them, his coat pulled up
over his head so's he couldn't see where he was going. They
shoved him up the ladder and across the roof to the win
dows outside the lodge hall. The brothers by then had
recognized the little man as Jim Lundley, and they was like
a powder keg, ready to explode. Anything could've happen
ed.
But the chairman kept his head. He climbed back
through the window, went to his table, sat down, and
banged his wooden mallet for order. The brothers heard it,
and like the genuine, loyal Mountain Sheep they are, they
came crawling through the windows and taking their prop
er seats. Aleck and Tom remained outside on the warehouse
roof, holding the prisoner, who was shaking as if he had the
agar, and who kept mumbling and moaning. They took the
handkerchief out of his mouth once, and he started telling
them how he hadn't meant any harm to anybody, so they
stuffed the handkerchief back again.
Meantime, the sovereign session had under considera
tion a resolution, formally introduced by old Buck Barlow,
that the members present should perform immediate execu
tion upon the person of one James Lundley, caught in the
act of espionage. Surely such an act merited the severest
penalty.
Charley Stover got the floor then. He's a lawyer, you
41
�know, and a durn good one. He started in on a speech about
the seriousness of committing execution upon the person of
any citizen without recourse to what he called the due pro
cess of law. This, he further explained, meant that the
penalty could only be administered by a court of law.
Brother Bud Wilkins then got on his feet and said that such
a case as this could never be submitted to trial in a regular
court, since it might involve the revelation of the innermost
secrets of the Loyal Order of Mountain Sheep. This, he
said, no member could ever do, even in a court of law, since
it would be breaking his sacred oath.
So the brothers argued back and forth. One was for
whipping Jim Lundley within an inch of his life. This was
voted down, because one brother maintained that the lodge
could be prosecuted for such an action. Another moved that
Jim be tarred and feathered. This resolution failed because
nobody could think where there was any tar, although they
could lay their hands on plenty of feathers.
By this time, old Buck Barlow had reintroduced his
resolution to have Jim executed, then and there, only this
time he had polished the phrasing to "hung by the neck un
til he be dead." The chairman pounded on the table with
his wooden mallet and announced in proper language that
the session was wasting time, the hour was wearing late,
and they were getting nowhere. He reminded them that
Brother Aleck and Brother Tom were probably getting
plenty tired holding the prisoner out on the roof. A decision
must be reached, he said, and then he offered to open the
floor to any new ideas which might be advanced by the
legal consultant.
Now Charley Stover is the legal consultant, of course. So
Charley took the floor and started off on a long speech
about the rights of man—even of such a dried-up, ornery,
snooping excuse of a man as was then shaking and trem
bling outside the windows of the lodge room of the
sovereign session. Charley's an eloquent man, you know,
42
�once he gets a-going. Lord, how I'd like to of been there to
hear him!
Anyway, after he had thoroughy examined the natural
rights of man, Charley switched off onto a consideration of
the supreme and sacred constitution of the Loyal Order of
Mountain Sheep. The members were getting restless by
then, and two or three of the brothers were holding up their
hands and clearing their throats, trying to get the floor,
figuring that Charley had bumbled off his subject, I
reckon. Even old Buck Barlow had started to drowse off,
lulled by Charley's eloquence, when the lawyer finally got
around to his point and stated in plain language that he was
prepared to offer a resolution which, he claimed, would
solve the difficulty, once and for all. The chairman pound
ed for order and asked Brother Stover to present the resolu
tion.
So Charley rared back and said that, since one Jim
Lundley had been caught red-handed in the act of spying
on the secret sessions of the Loyal Order of Mountain
Sheep, and since any member of the sovereign session is
sworn to absolute secrecy, he moved that the said Jim
Lundley be summarily initiated into the sovereign session as
a duly accepted member. In this way only, in view of the
rights of man which he had briefly outlined for the
sovereign session, could the said Jim Lundley be kept from
divulging any information he may have obtained while he
was eavesdropping upon the session.
For about a minute, you could have heard a pin drop.
Then old Buck Barlow got up and roared out a question
about how the sovereign session proposed to punish this
culprit, who was undoubtedly the Peeping Tom who had
been violating the privacy of his home. He thereupon rein
troduced his resolution that Jim Lundley be executed, or
"lynched," as he now put it.
The chairman beat on the table, and closed the book of
rules of order and put it away, so's he could make a speech
himself. He said that sometimes it's hard for a man to use
43
�his head, especially when he's excited or angry. He said that
this was one of those times. Therefore, he urged that the
esteemed brothers would be sensible and restrained and try
to use their heads in this case. He then moved that the
sovereign session should act on the resolution which had
been introduced by the legal consultant, meaning Charley,
of course.
So the session voted that Jim Lundley be summarily in
itiated into the Loyal Order of Mountain Sheep. Tom and
Aleck brought the little squirrelly man in from the roof, still
gagged and blindfolded. He was informed that he was
about to be initiated into the sovereign session of our an
cient and honorable order, whose members had for cen
turies "walked with unerring footsteps along the high peaks
of human endeavor." Then he was told he was about to
take an oath "freely and without mental reservations,"
never to divulge a word of what would take place in his in
itiation or of any of the secrets of the sovereign session. All
of us had to take that oath when we were initiated, you
understand.
Then the lights were turned out and the duly appointed
brothers proceeded to initiate Jim Lundley. They claimed
he passed out three or four times. Charley even said Jim
was entirely unconscious when the session finally gave him
the brotherly handclasp and welcomed him into the order.
But they managed to bring him to later on, long enough to
get him to understand that, contrary to the usual inter
pretation of the rules of the order, Jim's regular attendance
at future meetings would not be required, though his
Mountain Sheep brothers would strive, in their daily walks
of life, to keep Jim's feet from slipping "off the steep and
rocky paths of high and noble living."
Charley said Jim was a sorry looking Peeping Tom when
he left the lodge hall that night. I doubt there'll be any
more peeping hereabouts.
Well, I've got to get back to selling nails and harness,
and I know you want to hit the road. All this I've told you is
44
�in strict confidence, you understand. Only a rat with no in
tegrity, or a Peeping Tom, would reveal secrets he swore to
keep.
Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Charley Stover told me the
reason he doubts Jim Lundley will make an outstanding
Mountain Sheep. He said the only reason the sovereign ses
sion ever caught him eavesdropping on the roof outside was
because he got careless and fell on some of his own tobacco
juice. Charley claims that a Peeping Tom, like a Mountain
Sheep, needs to be especially sure-footed.
45
�MORNING
Once a splinter of sunlight
found a crevice to shine through
and speared a line of dust
to the cabin wall.
And once
a sleepy bird outside
forgot it was a new day,
and finished a song begun at twilight
the evening before.
Wind came breathing
on high silver tubes
in the pines.
A mountain boy
whistled a melody
laden with loneliness
beyond music.
Then the cabin
was lingeringly
still.
46
�B A L L A D SINGER
O Mary, come from the frosty hills
When the logs are bright with flame,
Wearing the homespun dress you wore
When first you came.
Come again at Octobers bidding,
Singer of ancient rhyme,
Come again from the hills, O Mary,
At husking time.
Be yours a place at the glowing hearth,
With warmth and shelter from frost;
Be yours the air to charm, O Mary,
Till the hours are lost.
47
�STREAM CROSSING
I would not come the way this water comes,
Through pools that throb like wooden drums
With sudden dashings, whispered undertones
Among the laurel roots and stones.
I would not go the way this water goes,
To bear upon my breast the blows
Of rocks that break the current's shining fall
While thrushes perch on them and call.
But here between, where water slows and pools,
Where mirrored daylight moves and cools,
Here would I rest content from dawn to dawn
And lack will-strength to travel on.
48
�SONG
When the wild strawberries bloom
On brown Robin Hill,
Life will be new and full for us
And worth living still.
Some will say, "Spring!" when they hear
Soft rain before dawn,
Some marvel long at the loamy earth
When the frost is gone.
But we who are wise will wait
And have nothing to say,
Till the wild strawberries bloom
On Robin Hill, one day.
49
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�Feast of Wild Honey
�This page intentionally left blank
�FEAST OF WILD HONEY
When his mother brought her head-net, long gloves and
smoke-pot out into the yard, Sam's howl of glee could have
been heard a half-mile away. He slapped his sides, danced
up and down on the frozen ground, his breath steamy and
white in the wind.
"Lookit that, Ralph," he yelled. "See what Ma brought
us? Gloves and a net to keep the bees off. What a laugh!"
Ralph didn't see anything funny about it. "Looks like a
good idea to me. I'll take 'em, Aunt Minnie." He held out
his mittened hands.
Sam stopped laughing. "Oh, don't be a sissy, Ralph. It's
so cold, the bees won't know which way is up—and
couldn't fly if they did. Throw the gear away, Ma!"
Ralph reluctantly gave the things back to Sam's mother.
The thin woman started back toward the kitchen steps,
then turned and called to them, "Don't freeze yourself, son.
And take good care of Ralph."
Sam grabbed up the crosscut saw, holding it in his hand
with the teeth up, and struck out across the fields. Ralph
trotted along back of him, carrying an axe and an agate
bucket. The wind blew straight into their faces as they
crunched along over the frost-crust of the soil. Patches of ice
from the last snow could still be seen wherever the shadow
of a furrow or a slope of land had kept off the direct rays of
the sun.
Ralph had trouble keeping up. He always had trouble
keeping up with Sam. His nose and ears hurt, and he envied
the way Sam could walk into the wind, his dark head held
high, and his cheeks as red as June apples. Sometimes Sam
whistled something that sounded like a racy fiddle-tune,
but Ralph couldn't be sure just which one it was. Every
53
�now and again, Sam would make the long saw in his gloved
hand wriggle like a live snake. Full of himself, Sam was,
and bubbling over.
When they came to the rail fence at the edge of the fields
and started to climb over, Sam again let out a howl. "That
Ma! She still thinks I'm a kid. Imagine wearing all that gear
to rob a bee-tree! Is your ma that crazy?" he asked.
A stricken look came to Ralph's face, but Sam paid no
attention. He was pulling the saw over the fence.
"Yeah, I guess my mom's just as foolish," Ralph said.
Then they were in the edge of the woods, finding their
way among the bare branches of undergrowth and the scat
tered, black-green patches of pines.
Ralph thought of his mother, and of the fight she was
making for life in the hospital in the city. It was because of
her illness that he had been sent on this visit to his uncle's
farm in the hill country. During the whole of the Christmas
holidays, he and Sam had been together almost constantly.
Sam had a blundering, blustery vitality about him that
had simply and completely swept the quiet Ralph off his
feet. Whatever Sam did, Ralph thought he, too must do.
Whatever Sam enjoyed, in his loud and hearty manner,
Ralph felt he must enjoy also. Sam's nature laid a strong,
rough hold upon its surroundings: the wintry farm and
countryside, the frozen woods, and even the sweep of the
wind over the hilly fields seemed to give way before Sam's
gusty laughter and his fierce energy. Ralph had followed
Sam wherever he went, and had helped in activities that
were new and strange to him.
Such an activity had been the daily inspection of Sam's
string of rabbit-traps in the woods before breakfast. The
first morning at the farm, Ralph had found himself dragged
out of bed in total darkness. He had gotten into his clothes
and had followed Sam out into the night, glittering with
stars and frost, before he was fully awake. Sam had whis
tled his jiggy tunes and had swung along the fields and into
the woods.
54
�The third trap they had come to, Sam had let out a yell.
"It's sprung! We've got one." He had lifted the trap on end,
and frantic kicking sounds could be heard inside of it.
The light had grown strong enough by then for Ralph to
watch what had happened next. Sam had reached with his
gloved hand down into the trap, and had finally pulled out
a long, brownish-gray rabbit, shrieking and kicking. It had
struggled violently as he held it up by its hind legs. "Now,"
Sam had yelled, "I'll show you how to stop all this racket."
He had then quite deliberately taken the small wooden
door of the trap and had swung it down against the back of
the rabbit's neck as hard as he could. The shrieking and
kicking had stopped. Then Sam had hung the rabbit by its
hind feet to the belt of his mackinaw, and it had bumped
limply against his legs as they had gone on down the line of
traps. They had found a rabbit in one other trap, and this
one, too, Sam had killed and hung to the belt of his coat.
"What do you do with them?" Ralph had finally man
aged to ask.
"Sell the hides in town for fifteen cents each," Sam had
answered in an offhand manner. "I'll show you how to skin
'em too."
Sam had fixed a special place at the barn where he
always skinned the animals. He had hung them on two
nails by their hind feet. Ralph had noticed the old blood
stains on the wall. Sam had used a hunting knife with a
buckhorn handle, and had explained every step of the pro
cedure to Ralph, telling of the special way he had learned
for saving more of the pelt. Leaving the hides turned
wrong-side out, he had fitted them over stretchers made of
baling-wire, and then had hung them up to get stiff and
frozen in the winter air.
Ralph had noticed how Sam sniffed at the pink and pur
ple meat of the rabbits. He had seemed to enjoy the animal
smell of the carcasses, still slightly warm.
"Ma's afraid of rabbit fever, or we'd have some dump
lings," he had said. Ralph had not answered. They had
55
�taken the carcasses and thrown them into the woods, and
then had gone back to the house.
There had also been the matter of squirrel hunting. Sam
had been using the family shotgun for a whole season now,
and had gone out to hunt squirrels. The second day after
Ralph had arrived, Sam had taken him on a long squirrel
hunt. For hours they had tramped about the woods,
thumping with sticks on trees that looked like they might
have squirrel nests in them. Finally Sam had managed to
get a shot at a squirrel, scrambling along high in the limbs
of an oak. Ralph had felt shocked and almost unbelieving
when he had seen the fluffy, grey body jerked up from the
limb and then had heard it thud against the ground. While
Sam had skinned the squirrel, Ralph had been fascinated by
the sight of the little black pellets of birdshot lodged under
its hide, each one surrounded by a stain of blood.
Sam had had his mother use the meat in a squirrel pie,
and had eaten it at dinner with smacking enjoyment. Ralph
had gagged at its gamey odor, but he had finally tasted it,
upon Sam's insistence.
The two boys had now reached a northern slope of the
woods, and the trees were mostly oak and hickory. Much
snow lay on the ground about them, for the thawing had
been slower here. The wind seemed to be blowing in direct
ly from the white mountains in the distance. It made a big,
hollow sound among the limbs, and then filled the
hollowness with the rattling noise of the tough leaves that
still clung to the branches of many of the oaks. The sun had
dropped past mid-afternoon.
Sam laid the saw on the ground beside a big oak.
"Here she is," he slapped the tree-trunk. "The last beetree in the county—maybe in the whole state, for all I
know!" He expanded. "Here she is, and all ours! More
honey 'n you ever saw in your life, Ralph. Maybe a hundred
pounds. You might have to go back for more buckets."
Ralph had pulled off his mittens and was rubbing his
nose and ears. "Where is the honey?" he asked.
56
�"Up there fifteen feet. Right above the broken limb,"
Sam said, pointing.
"But we don't have to cut the tree down, do we?" Ralph
faltered.
Sam exploded into laughter and hit the side of the tree
with his hand. "Why, you innocent city galoop, how else
could we get it? And why d'you think I've been totin' a saw
all afternoon?"
"Why, I thought it was just a last resort, if you couldn't
make a hole into the place where the honey is stored,"
Ralph said.
Sam took the axe and started chopping a notch in the
side of the oak. He was sure in his stroke, and the big chips
flew out onto the ground. Finally, he put the axe down and
went around to the other side of the tree. "Now we saw.
The trunk's hollow, and it won't take long to get it down."
Sam took one end of the crosscut and Ralph the other.
Ralph had never helped use a crosscut, but he soon got the
swing of it, and the teeth began to bite deeper, pulling out
reddish, strong-scented sawdust, then the darker stuff from
the hollow, decayed middle of the tree.
When they stopped for a rest, Ralph flung himself down
on his coat under the tree, his face turned up toward the sky
that was greying toward dusk. Suddenly he noticed some
tiny, dark insects flying about the trunk of the tree, near the
first limbs. He watched them bucking the force of the wind,
flying in excited circles, darting against the side of the tree.
He knew these were the wild bees that had stored their
honey in the hollow tree, making it their home for the
winter. The chopping and sawing had disturbed them, and
they were flying dizzily about in the chill air.
Ralph watched the wild bees, fascinated. Then he
thought of his mother, and of stories she had told him of
swarms of bees they had found in these woods when she was
young. Now his mother was sick, so sick that he was terribly
afraid he might not see her again. There might not be any
home again for him, either.
57
�"Sam," he said, "What will happen to the bees?"
Sam looked indignant. "Aw, kid, you think too much.
They'll either freeze or starve to death," He was pulling on
his gloves. "Come on, we've got a lot of sawin' to do before
we have that feast of wild honey."
Ralph started to tell Sam what he had been thinking
about. Then he knew that Sam would only look at him in
amazement and start laughing again at his "city softness."
No, Sam wouldn't understand.
Ralph hauled away at the crosscut, trying to get back in
to the movement of it. But either his arms were stiffened a
little in the cold or he had lost interest in the work. He was
thinking of Sam, shuddering at the exuberance with which
he had broken the necks of the rabbits and had skinned
them, and had shot down the graceful wisp of fur which
was the little grey-squirrel, and had gorged himself on the
squirrel-pie. There was something about Sam that he didn't
like at all. He was thinking of his mother, too, more than he
ever had before in his life. He was missing her and the home
she had made for him.
"Hey, watch out!" Sam yelled, and Ralph felt the saw
jerked out of his hands. He jumped back out of the way, as
he felt the tree beginning to lean over with the wind. Then
he heard the furious, crackling sounds as its branches hit
against the limbs of other trees. Then there came the linger
ing crash, followed by the cold stillness of the rattling leaves
and the hollow wind.
Ralph looked up into the greyness where the tree had
stood. He could see the swarm of wild bees milling about in
the air, at the same height at which the nest had been. Mill
ing and darting about confusedly in the freezing wind, they
seemed to be searching desperately for the entrance to the
nest and the cache of honey in a tree which was no longer
there. Some of them made short flights into the bleak
woods, but they came back quickly to the rest of the
swarm. Ralph shivered. He put on his coat.
Sam was already down on his knees beside the hollow
58
�place in the trunk. He reached cautiously with his gloved
hand into the nest, bringing out a piece of the honeycomb.
He held it in his hand, brushing off a few bees that still
clung to it. "Too dark," he said, disappointment in his tone.
"Those blasted bees must've been eatin' a lot of it." He
tasted it, then spit it distastefully to the ground. "Too waxy.
Those beggars must've been havin' a rough winter, or else
they didn't make any honey last summer."
Ralph was only half listening. He was still gazing up at
the dark specks, circling about in the wintry twilight.
"Sam," he said, "I'm going to the house. You can stay
and dig out the honey if you want to, but I'm through."
59
�CRIPPLE CREEK
A dandelion moon
found the lip of the valley
while we were lost
on the lonely road.
"And the madcap ripples
of the cool dark wind
tousled our hair
and sang."
Above and below,
on the banks by the roadside,
herding the moongold asters in fields,
ran a two-rail fence
of cricket song.
"And the thin moonlight
lying under the wind
and the high white stars
hanging over the dimness
were shadowy voices
that sang with the wind and the night."
Pressing the dust of the road
with our feet,
beating the lonely miles with our song,
we passed...
"In the mad moonlight,
going down Cripple Creek,
going down Cripple Creek
to have some fun."
60
�BROOK
The spring:
From
the dark
I come:
from the dark.
The starting:
Silently
over smooth stones
I flow:
smoothly flow.
The spring-house:
In the brown boxes
where the milk is kept,
cool content I find:
cool content.
On-flowing:
Through a channel
among weeds
and over black earth
I move;
light comes and blinds
and goes;
after light comes the shade:
blessed shade.
61
�MOUNTAIN SONG
What mother-voice is this
that stills the restless cradle
and calls green twilight
into the lamp-glow room?
Hear the whippoorwills
weaving a cloth of song
across the valley,
and the lone cricket
in the dooryard singing.
Now the stormwind rises in the hollows
and sounding thunder
stalks the ridges;
lightning burns a purple syllable of song
into the night.
Rain sweeps the trees
on the lonely slopes.
For a moment,
silence.
Firesides of the past flicker here,
old loves live again,
and, strangely vague,
a never-dying chivalry
rides by on night-grey horses.
62
�The generations listen
in the lamp-glow room.
Softly:
what plainsong is this
that sleeps
in the ear?
63
�DEVILS D E N
Quiet.
Clamber down through the laurel bushes
and part the limbs.
Peer into the half darkness of the place
and sniff the dampness in the air.
Hear the drip...drip...drip...
of water from the ledge above.
Quiet.
Some say bats lived here before men
found this land;
and some
that spirits of the night
made this their home.
Quiet.
This is where the madman hid
on the stormy night
when ghosts walked the woods
on forked lightning.
Quiet.
The man with the twisted mind
who crawled into shelter here
out of the blackness
of thunder and wet:
did he talk solemnly
with bats and mildewed spirits
until the grey morning broke?
64
�Twelve Hundred Dollars Reward
�This page intentionally left blank
�T W E L V E HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD
The hall telephone kept up its persistent ringing. Finally
Bain realized that everyone in the house must be awake and
waiting for him to get up and answer it. Struggling into a
pair of trousers and pulling shoes onto his feet, he made his
way down the creaking staircase and took the receiver off
the hook.
"Yes, Sheriff," he said, "when and where?"
The mild, careful voice at the other end of the line said,
"Front of my house, and make it immediately, Bain. It's a
long trip and we'll get breakfast on the way."
Bain hung up the receiver and creaked his way back up
the dark stairs.
"What's cookin' this morning, Bain?" a voice from the
room next to his asked in a stage-whisper that reverberated
through the frame building. "Murder, arson, robbery, or
the bank bandits again?"
"Don't know," Bain answered, as he went into his room
and started getting into his clothes. He was puzzled about it
himself, for the sheriff seldom called him at such an early
hour.
He had hardly come to a stop in front of the sheriff s
house before the officer appeared beside the car and climb
ed in. He was a small man, his sandy hair just beginning to
turn grey at the temples. Bain could tell that the sheriff was
worried about something, but he knew better than to ask
what it was. Mighty close-mouthed, Sheriff Tom Burke
was, but good-natured, and maybe a bit too trustful of his
fellow-men to be a good enforcement officer. At least, Bain
had heard such things said about him when the loafers
whittled together in the afternoon sunlight on courthouse
square.
67
�"Take highway sixty/' the sheriff said. Bain pulled off in
that direction, soon leaving the sleeping town behind.
"We after the bank bandits again, Sheriff Tom?"
"Yes, only this time, we bring them in."
Bain looked surprised. "They been caught yet, Sheriff?"
"No. We'll catch them," the sheriff said. Then he add
ed, in a tone a little less certain, "I hope."
"Does that mean we'll get the twelve hundred reward?"
The sheriff smiled at the sudden enthusiasm. "If my
plan works out, we won't get the reward. But," he added,
"I might stand a chance for reelection, eight weeks from
now. If it doesn't work out, we won't be worried about
elections."
They followed number sixty until shortly after sunrise,
when the sheriff directed Bain to stop at a hamburger joint
for breakfast. He told the driver to help himself to anything
he wanted, since this was on the office. Bain promptly
doubled his order of ham and eggs.
The sheriff didn't seem very hungry, though. This wor
ried Bain a lot, for Sheriff Burke usually had a good ap
petite. He didn't seem to want to talk any more, either. So
Bain ate in silence, knowing how quiet the sheriff liked to
be on occasion.
As they started out again, Bain noticed that the sheriff
had taken a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket and
was studying it carefully. There were pencil-marks on it,
drawn in some sort of crude design.
"When we come to number sixty-eight," the sheriff said,
"we take that highway through the mountains until we get
to the Tennessee line."
Bain almost swerved off the road. "Tennessee? Why,
Sheriff, you know your badge is no good across the state
line."
Sheriff Burke smiled. "Neither has it been any good
since we left the Milam County line. But Tennessee's where
we're going."
Bain had a lot to think about, after that. But the higher
68
�he got into the Blue Ridges, the more attention he had to
put on his driving. Winding and climbing, the highway led
them ever farther into the green and deserted mountain
country. The heat of the day grew as the sun stood higher in
the sky. At noon they came to the Tennessee line, and the
sheriff told Bain to pull off on the side of the road.
"Let's have your gun and your deputy's badge," the
sheriff said.
"Why, what's wrong, Sheriff Tom?" Bain could hardly
believe his ears. His gun and his deputy's badge. What had
he done to cause his dismissal, he wondered. But
mechanically, he started unfastening the badge from his
belt. Then be brought out his revolver and handed both to
the sheriff.
He saw that the sheriff had already removed the big
badge from his vest and had taken off his shoulder holster
with its weapon and extra ammunition. Then the sheriff
got out and Bain could see him putting the weapons in the
trunk of the car.
What had come over Sheriff Tom, anyway? Perhaps the
strain of the past two months had begun to affect his mind,
as Bain had decided long ago might happen. Ever since
June, when Sam Barkley had been killed in the attempted
holdup of the Milam State Bank, Sheriff Burke had been on
the spot, constantly criticized, pestered and driven.
Bain thought that the biggest problem the sheriff had
had to contend with was that of the angry, excited, triggerhappy citizens who insisted on organizing their own expedi
tions to curry the wooded hillsides and the gullies of Milam
County. Each of these groups fully expected to rout out of
hiding the four escaped bandits. When that happened,
summary justice would be done upon the fugitives, then
and there, in the manner traditional to the region.
These unofficial posses, many of which failed to include
even one authorized deputy-sheriff, had given the sheriff
his greatest worry. Ready to open fire on anything that
moved in the brush and ask questions later, these groups
69
�had given Sheriff Burke nightmares at the thought of what
would be the consequences if one of these armed bands
came suddenly upon another in the search for the bandits.
But gradually Bain had watched the enthusiasm of the
citizens die down. The realization began to grow that the
bandits had made good their escape, even though they had
had to abandon their car in the initial mad chase after the
teller had been shot. But while the people of the county had
almost abandoned their part in the search, they still looked
to the man in the sheriffs office to bring the bandits to
justice. On a Saturday afternoon or a Sunday, small bands
would still gather, however, in the area in which the car
with the weapons had been discovered. No doubt some of
the men still had the idea of being about when the bandits
were taken, and thus share in the reward money which had
been offered by the bank for the capture of the outlaws.
When the sheriff got back into the car, Bain noticed that
he put a small parcel wrapped in brown paper beside him.
Then the officer bent his head over the pencilled sketch
again.
"Two miles from here," he said, "we take a road that
leads off to the right."
After a while the sheriff spoke again. "Maybe I shouldn't
have let you drive for me on this trip, Bain." The driver
tried to say something, but the older man continued.
"Though you always say you want to be along, no matter
what the job is. But this trip's different. In fact, maybe I
shouldn't have come myself, even though I'm still sheriff."
Bain stirred uneasily. "What are you driving at, Sheriff
Tom?"
The officer turned to him. "Just this. Between us on the
seat is twelve hundred dollars."
Alarm came to Bain's face. "The reward money?"
"Certainly. That money, provided an old man's word is
good, will buy us four prisoners, the men who shot Sam
Barkley."
They came to the turn-off, and the road they took to the
70
�right was in such a state of disrepair that Bain had little
time for estimating the full meaning of what the sheriff had
told him. The older man was so engrossed in following the
pencilled diagram that there was little time for more than
words of direction to the driver.
They left the graded road and started following one of
clay that was badly rutted and little better than a wagontrail. Bain became conscious of a growing feeling of
uneasiness and of dread, as if they were heading into a trap
from which there was no escape. He knew they would
never be able to get out of this territory in a hurry, in case of
an emergency. The trail was only wide enough for a single
vehicle, and timber came to the very edges of it.
"This is no place for chasing bandits, Sheriff."
"Nor for running away from them, either. Especially,"
he added, "since we have to arrive unarmed, according to
instructions."
A little later, Bain put into words the thought that had
been troubling him. "Suppose this is a double-cross,
Sheriff? Suppose they shoot us like they shot Barkley, and
make off with the reward money, since they failed to get
any in the actual robbery? Suppose—"
The sheriff interrupted him. "Do you want to go back,
Bain?"
"No. I was just thinking aloud. I don't want to run out
on you."
The officer stirred a little. "Those 'supposes' are about
the shape of the picture. I've been wondering the same
thing. The general situation doesn't look too good, I've got
to admit. I've heard it said many a time that I'm too trustful
of others, especially of men just on the borderline of law
and decency. This time I've had only seven hours in which
to make up my mind about what to do. And that seven
hours I could better have spent in sleeping. But my mind's
made up now, and we're going through with it, unless you
back out on me."
"You know I'm with you, whatever you do, Sheriff."
71
�"Very well. Soon we'll come within sight of a deserted
building to the left of the road. That's where old Sol Warr
ington said we'd find the man who would turn the prisoners
over to us."
"What's Sol Warrington got to do with our being here?"
"His wife is a Meacham. The Meacham clan controls
this whole county. Even the sheriff of this county is a
Meacham. Old Sol came to my house last night and told me
that the men who tried to pull the bank job were of the
Meacham kin, and that they are holed up in this county.
His wife's brother is the absolute boss of the whole county.
Sol said his brother-in-law, Zeno, had sent word that he
would rather have the twelve hundred dollars than to hide
four bandits with a capital charge against them."
Bain whistled. "Sheriff you've outdone yourself this
time. Even your giving that road convict an easy parole
won't compare with this. I heard the county commissioners
said some nasty things about you when that bird escaped."
The sheriff looked grim, but still determined. "Old Sol
swore to me that this deal is on the up-and-up, provided we
carry out the terms of the agreement and deliver the money
to his wife's brother."
"But you're taking a mighty long chance, not only with
yourself but with the reward money."
"Bain," the sheriff said in his mild voice. "I grew up in
these mountains. Most of the folks in Milam County know
it, and this may be why they've elected me sheriff for three
different terms now. I'm a mountain man and I know
mountain people. Lots of them you can't depend on. But
the ones who control these big family clans are men whose
word you can mostly risk your life on. Of course, there's
always a gamble that some of the young ones will break
away from the law laid down by the old men. But that's the
chance we have to take."
The dirt road by now had taken them over the hump of
a mountain and down into a densely-wooded valley. They
forded the same stream so often that Bain lost count of the
72
�times they had driven through it. At last they came sudden
ly within sight of an old log building, the first sign of
human habitation they had seen since leaving the highway.
It stood above the road on the left, and looked completely
deserted.
The sheriff had Bain stop the car. Then, apparently ac
cording to arrangement, he told Bain to raise his hands.
The officer held his hands up, too, with the brown package
of money in one of them.
A rumbling voice from the log cabin above asked, "You
the high-sheriff?"
"Yes, Sheriff Burke and this is my deputy, Medlock."
"Come up," the voice ordered.
They climbed out of the car, their hands still held high,
and struggled up through the brush to the ruined cabin. As
they drew near, the door of the cabin was kicked open by
an old man, who held a rifle in his hands. "Come in and
set, Sheriff." The two were then motioned to a bench, on
which they sat down with their backs to the wall.
The old man examined them for weapons. "I see you left
your weapons behind. You can put your hands down now.
I see you've got something for me, Sheriff. Let's have a look
at it."
The sheriff gave him the package. Bain looked at the of
ficer, wondering how a man could get so you couldn't tell
his feelings by the look on his face. Even though he must be
worried and scared and doubtful, Sheriff Tom didn't show
it.
The old mountaineer with the mop of white whiskers
had broken open the brown paper wrapping and was coun
ting the bills. He did this carefully and deliberately, putting
his whole attention on whether or not this was the correct
amount. Twice he counted through the money, then he
stuffed the bills into the pockets of his overalls.
Turning to the sheriff, the old man said, "Zeno
Meacham's my name, Sheriff. I'm the pappy and the
grandpappy of this here county. My word's for law and
73
�order, and my ruling is an eye for an eye and a tooth for a
tooth, even when it's my own kin that's involved. You
calc'lated right, Sheriff, when you took old Sol's word that
even the Almighty couldn't take these men out of my coun
ty without my ordering them to go. Now I'm going to send
them to you, Sheriff. All we ask is that they get a fair trial."
"We'll see that they get it," the sheriff promised.
The old man turned toward the door. "You two set
where you are, and don't dare put a foot out'n this house till
you hear a call. After that, it's up to you."
With these words, the old fellow stepped out into the
light of mid-afternoon and was gone. The sound of his steps
in the brush soon died away and the stillness of the day
returned.
The sheriff and Bain sat motionless, without a word.
Bain had to admit to himself that he was afraid. His palms
were sweating and he had to clench his teeth to keep them
from chattering. He could feel hostile eyes watching the
dilapidated cabin from all sides, and knew that he could
end his life merely by going to the open door and looking
out.
A thin chirring of crickets filled the air and other insect
sounds became magnified by the great silence that had
fallen about the two men in the cabin. Occasionally some
bird would break the stillness with a phrase of song. In the
distance, below the cabin, Bain thought he could make out
the sound of the plunging of the stream as it made its way
down from the mountainside into the level part of the
valley.
But these noises of nature held no reassurance for Bain.
Instead, they only increased his fear. Finally he looked
around at the sheriff.
"Sheriff Tom, you reckon they're making fools of us?"
"Just relax, Bain, we'll soon know. I think the old man
wants to do what's right. But we'll see."
After that the time went even more slowly. A shaft of
afternoon sunlight found its way through a chink in the logs
74
�and dragged slowly across the floor for a little distance,
then disappeared. Later still, the light at the window began
to fail, and Bain knew that darkness was not far off. A
whippoorwill began its maddening, persistent night cry,
and the coolness of the mountain evening began to wash in
to the cabin.
"Sheriff Tom," he faltered, T m scared. Let's get out of
here before it gets any darker."
The sheriff grabbed his arm, pulling him back down on
the bench. "Sit still. Don't you know we're being watched
from every direction?"
Again the tense waiting, and the loud stillness, until
Bain thought he could endure it no longer. "Sheriff," he
said, "did you ever make an arrest like this before?"
The older man laughed. "Never did. And I never knew
an officer to take such a crazy risk either, and live to tell
about it."
A while after that, Bain admitted, "My stummick don't
feel so good, Sheriff."
Late twilight had settled when the stillness was broken
by the sound of a man's voice. The sheriff and Bain got up
and went cautiously to the door and stepped out into the
uncertain dimness. Bain still had knots in his stomach and
felt numb all over. But he stuck close to the side of the
sheriff.
No one was in sight, yet there was still the consciousness
that their every move was being watched from the sur
rounding trees and undergrowth.
"Move on down to your car," the voice shouted to them
from somewhere above.
They clambered through the brush down the bank to
their car. It was filled with men. Three on the back seat
and one in front.
"Now, git out of Tennessee," the voice shouted.
Bain hesitated about getting into the car with the four
men, but the sheriff didn't.
"Get under the wheel, Bain," he ordered. Then the of75
�ficer crawled in beside the man in the front seat.
Some way, Bain managed to get the car turned around
and headed out of the black valley. He felt a great, over
powering sense of cold unreality and of danger as he
crouched in his place, gripping the wheel, and tried to
follow the rough course of the road. He was conscious of the
sullen menace in the eyes of the trio in the rear seat as he
focused his attention on driving. He didn't know yet what
these men looked like, but there was almost a physical
violence, like blows to the body, in the silence they main
tained, mile after mile.
Even the sound of the motor failed to drown out all the
lonely, brooding noises of the mountain night. The
rhythmic, hypnotic cry of the whippoorwill never abated.
At one time the piteous screaming of a screech-owl cut
through the other sounds. This cry so unnerved the
wrought-up Bain that he almost lost control of the car in
the act of fording the stream.
At this the man between him and the sheriff spoke, "If n
you cain't drive, I'll do it myself!"
This brought Bain back to his senses. "No, I'll manage."
One of the trio on the rear seat spoke up. "Shut up yore
trap, Zeke. You're too tetchy. That's what caused the trou
ble when that fool teller throwed the inkwell at us. Now
you shut up till we git a lawyer."
Silence settled again, while the car toiled up the rough
trail. At last, they came to the highway, and Bain felt a
tremendous sense of relief. Now he could make good speed,
and every mile would bring them nearer to Milam County.
But still the consciousness lingered that they might even yet
be the victims of a carefully devised plot. Two unarmed
men would certainly be easy pickings for four men who
might have knives, pistols, or even machine-guns on them,
for all he or the sheriff knew.
The miles of winding highway went by in the darkness,
and they finally passed through the foothills and into the
level country. Bain could almost have shouted when they
76
�finally crossed the line into Milam County. In this territory,
Tom Burke was again a sheriff, with all the power and
authority of the office. But still they rode in the speeding
car, semi-prisoners of the silent mountain men. Even so,
being on the soil of his home county made Bain feel safer.
At the county jail, Bain stopped the car and the sheriff
got out. When the jailer came to the door, Sheriff Burke
ordered him to take custody of the prisoners. A couple of
sleepy deputies helped Bain search the men. Bain found a
wicked-looking knife on his man, but the rest of them had
evidently left all their weapons behind them.
The jailer asked, "Sheriff, how do you want these men
booked?"
"Charge them with the murder of Sam Barkley."
As they drove through the black and deserted streets,
Bain asked, "How do you think their trial will come out,
Sheriff Tom?"
The officer thought for a minute. "My guess is they will
go to the chair. They conspired together to commit a crime,
and that crime turned into a murder. But they'll get a fair
trial, like I promised old Meacham. I'll even try to get them
a jury from some other county, so there won't be any prej
udice." He shrugged. "But the end will be the same. Even
with Clem Winters, the trickiest lawyer in the Blue Ridges,
to defend them."
Bain looked around in surprise. "How do you know
Winters will defend them, Sheriff?"
The officer grinned, "Simple arithmetic. I figured it all
out after Sol Warrington came to see me last night. There
are four men to be tried. Winters won't defend a man for
less than three hundred dollars. That's why old Zeno, head
of his tribe and a man of his word, wanted the twelve hun
dred dollars reward money so he could pay Winters. Such a
deal may not be usual, but you know these men don't have
a red cent otherwise to pay for their trial. Anyway," he
said, "this saves the state from having to furnish them
defense counsel."
77
�CLING T O THIS BRANCH
Cling to this branch and lean upon the gale,
The unsweep of a wind that chills the bone;
The valley lies asleep, the sky is pale
With coming dawn, while we stand high and lone.
The acres that we see are worn with cold,
The grasses dead, the bushes stricken bare;
If we sleep not, but watch here straight and bold
We must feel spring ride in upon the air.
The hour is past, the wind has changed its course,
The sky has lightened toward the break of day;
Do you feel on your cheek the sudden force
Of warmer air — a flood of glad dismay?
Lean on the tempest now and know this thing:
We climbed a weary height and found—the spring!
78
�IN A LONELY FIELD
I
The rain has found me far from any tree;
There is a stream to cross and matted sedge
Before I reach the land that beckoned me
At noon, as I stood by the field's far edge.
Upon my feet the clays have left their mark,
The grasses, heavy drops upon my coat;
Beside the stream I gauge the coming dark
And still the hard-drawn breathing in my throat.
Where is the land that I came out to find?
The fog is closing in with secret veil
This wilderness of grass, and I am blind
And lost where strength and voice and spirit fail.
Yet I must strive toward seeing, late or soon,
The pleasant land that beckoned me at noon.
79
�IN A L O N E L Y FIELD
II
The drops cling long beneath the milkweed husk;
My steps are plodding, free of zeal or pain;
The land I seek is hid in fog and dusk,
Its lone tree lost upon a mystic plain.
The clay, the stream, the sedge I knew are gone,
There is no way but forward into night;
Sometime, somewhere the sky will burgeon dawn
And midnight fear shall vanish in its light.
Where lies the land of promise, this late hour?
What grief is here? What hope is baffled still?
I search the past for some sustaining power
And reach my hands through night and rain until
Joy wells! This pilgrimage has found its mark:
The tree is near — I touch its furrowed bark!
80
�A Friend of Jake's
�This page intentionally left blank
�A FRIEND OF JAKE'S
They had been pretty slick about it, Tom thought, as he
gave the driver his ticket and climbed aboard. Here he was,
on the last bus leaving the city for Island Beach, and Jake
would miss it. How Jake must be running off at the mouth,
his plans for another one of those glorious weekends he was
always raving about smashed to bits!
Good old Jake, his pal—what a jolt it must have been
when Greaves, the head bookkeeper, a couple of minutes
after Tom was safely on his way, would have gotten around
to informing Jake, in that infuriating, sepulchral voice of
his, that he would have to run an extra trial balance on his
ledger that afternoon. Of course, Tom reflected, none of
the other fellows liked Greaves either, but in a special case
like this they had had to do business with the louse in order
to cross up Jake's plans and to leave an open field for Tom
at Island Beach for the weekend.
In one way, Tom decided, it was a raw deal they were
handing Jake, while in another way it served him right.
How Jake had bored them with the never-ending details of
his weekends spent at Island Beach! Surely in all the world
there could be no surf more wonderful to swim in than that
which rolled onto Island Beach; no sunlight more lux
uriant, no sand whiter, no moonlight ever softer or more
magical than that to be found on Island Beach! And how
worn their nerves had become as they listened to Jake's
boasting of the sets of tennis he had played there with Doris
Merman, and of the dances they attended at the beach
clubhouse every Saturday night. No girl was ever so charm
ing or so beautiful as Doris Merman, according to Jake.
And the rest of the bookkeepers, sweating over the sorting
of their cards and the posting of their work through the
83
�sweltering weeks of the summer, became very weary of
hearing about Island Beach, in general, and about Miss
Doris Merman, in particular.
But this weekend would repay them for all that they had
endured, Tom thought. Why couldn't he have contrived
this plan himself, instead of waiting for the other book
keepers to suggest it to him? Of course, the matter of brib
ing old Greaves to assign the extra work to Jake had cost
them a little money, and the expenses of his room and of the
entertaining at Island Beach would amount to something,
too. So, all in all, it was probably a good thing that the
others had chipped in with their money. He was just lucky,
Tom thought, that they had picked him for the job instead
of Pete, for example, or George. A weekend at Island
Beach, with all expenses paid, just so they could have the
laugh on good old Jake! This was certainly his lucky day,
Tom thought, as he relaxed and waited for the bus to pull
out.
His lucky day, beyond the shadow of a doubt! Too bad
the weather had turned so dark and threatening. But that
happened sometimes in late August, he knew, and there
was nothing that could be done about it. It would more
than likely be clear and hot at Island Beach, once he got
there.
The bus was nearly filled by now. Finally a young girl,
carrying several light parcels, as though she had been shop
ping in the city, stepped up into the bus. Tom thought she
wouldn't be bad as a traveling companion, so he slipped
over a little more in his double-seat. The girl hesitated an
instant, then put her packages on the parcel-shelf and took
the seat beside him.
The driver climbed aboard and started the bus. Tom
was glad they were moving at last. Now they could leave
the dampness and the heaviness of the city air behind them,
and he could get more into the spirit of this happy adven
ture—this practical joke on good old Jake!
Anticipation began to grow in him. He could hardly
84
�wait to slip into his swimming trunks and strike out into the
surf at Island Beach and to lead Miss Doris Merman out on
to the dance floor in the gorgeous clubhouse he had heard
so much about. Naturally, getting acquainted with Miss
Merman was not going to be so easy. But he would find her
address in the phone book, and he had a good story, which
he and the others had made up, to tell her. The tenor of this
concoction was that Jake had unexpectedly had to change
his weekend plans at the last minute, but that he had very
thoughtfully sent Tom to entertain her in his stead.
The little blonde beside him stirred a bit, took off her
wide sun-hat and put it on her lap. Tom liked the graceful
and deft movements of her hands. He ventured a remark to
her, "Are you, too, on your way to Island Beach?"
"Why, yes, of course," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
The bus moved on out of the downtown section of the
city. When they had reached the suburbs and were passing
along streets of separate homes with pleasant little yards, he
said, "My name's Tom. Would you mind telling me yours,
since we're to be traveling companions for most of the after
noon?"
The girl considered this matter for the amount of time it
takes to close an eye thoughtfully then open it. "Mine's
Ruth," she admitted, though not with any particular
amount of interest.
Very composed, Tom thought, for a girl so young. He
must be two or three years older, which would make her
eighteen or nineteen. He appraised the brightness of her
blonde hair and the shining, golden transparency of her
complexion. He decided that she must have spent a lot of
time in the sunlight, probably at the beach, for she certain
ly looked like a girl who loved sports.
His luck was holding out well so far, Tom thought. The
other fellows had made a right choice when they had pick
ed him for this job. Here he was, on the way to a great
adventure when this interesting diversion happened along.
He had to remind himself, though, that he must make
85
�careful note of everything that developed, so he would have
an account of his adventures that would hold the interest
and attention of the others for weeks, perhaps. Else how
could they get their money's worth of enjoyment out of this
trip?
"Do you go to Island Beach often, Ruth?" he asked, try
ing to sound disinterested and objective, so she wouldn't
think him too personal.
She smiled, and gave a little-girl toss of her bright hair.
"Quite often, in summer," she said. "You see, my family
lives there."
The last of the city's outskirts fell behind. He saw a few
drops of rain strike the windshield. Then the driver had to
start the wipers working. His lucky day, Tom thought, ex
cept for the weather. Oh, well, even if he couldn't go swim
ming, there was still the beach clubhouse and the hours of
dancing with the graceful and desirable Doris Merman in
his arms. And oh, the sweet revenge he and the other book
keepers would have upon good old Jake when he related
how he, Tom Spencer, had invaded this seaside paradise,
this Eden, of Island Beach!
"This is my first trip to Island Beach," he confided to the
girl beside him. "And it isn't costing me a cent, either."
Now why had he let that slip? he thought. He had given
a clue to the whole plan. Maybe he wasn't so smart, after
all. Naturally, this bit of a girl couldn't mess things up for
him, but he must be more careful.
The girl had noticed his remark. "Oh, it isn't? You're
lucky, in that way, because Island Beach is pretty expen
sive."
He had started it, he thought, and he might as well go
on with it. Anyway, she couldn't do the project any harm.
"You see, Ruth, it's like this. The fellows I work with are
paying all my expenses for the weekend, just to pull a stunt
on one of our friends, a boy who has been boring us to death
all summer telling us about his heavenly weekends at Island
Beach."
86
�Ruth looked a little indignant. "That isn't a very high
and noble purpose, is it?"
Tom had to laugh at that one. Maybe it did sound a lit
tle childish, after all. But she just didn't know what it was
to have to listen to that constant stream of eloquence from
Jake, reaching its ridiculous heights of enthusiasm, all the
while the other fellows were trying to concentrate on ar
ranging their day's work correctly or on operating their
machines.
"Oh, well," he shrugged, "if the other guys want to pay
for it, and send me, why should I object?"
Ruth looked out at the rainy landscape. "I suppose," she
said finally, "this concerns a girl, doesn't it?"
Tom was startled. Ruth was a pretty discerning little
blonde, after all. He would have to be even more careful.
But, then, again, why should he? What could Ruth do to
upset the plan?
He laughed, "Well, it does, in a way. You see, this guy
we're pulling the stunt on has been driving us crazy for
weeks, telling us what a wonderful time he has at Island
Beach, swimming and dancing and playing tennis with a
girl by the name of Doris Merman. Don't happen to know
her, do you?"
"Why, no, I don't," the girl said, quite frankly. "Does
she live there?"
He nodded, and they were silent for a time. Finally, the
girl turned to him again, "So your friend—the victim, I
mean," she made a pretty mouth at that, "is a great Island
Beach enthusiast, is he? I wonder if I know him?"
"Probably not. He's only down there on weekends, of
course. His name is Jake Meadows. He's really a good guy,
and it's too bad to play a trick like this on him. But, after
all, the only objectionable thing we did was to slip the five
dollars to old Greaves, the head bookkeeper. That's what
the old scoundrel charged us before he'd give the extra
assignment to Jake this afternoon."
Ruth was looking at him very closely. "Just why was it
87
�worth so much to the other bookkeepers to play this trick on
Jake?"
"They just wanted a good laugh out of it, at Jake's ex
pense. And as for my part/' Tom couldn't help spreading it
on a bit thickly, "that's a pure pleasure—so far as Miss
Doris Merman is concerned. The other fellows knew they
could depend on me. They know I'm pretty lucky, when it
comes to carrying out affairs of this kind."
They were silent again. Tom looked out the window and
thought about good old Jake, looming like a cloud of misery
over his rattling bookkeeping machine in the close, stale air
of the office, banging the keys, and cursing old man
Greaves with every breath. He probably hadn't guessed yet
that the other fellows had paid Greaves to give him the
assignment. When he found that out, Tom thought, there
would be a major explosion in the bookkeeping depart
ment. But the other fellows would stick together on it, and
they would calm Jake down in some way. If they could
think of nothing better, they could pin part of the blame for
the assignment on old Greaves, since even Jake felt that the
head bookkeeper would sell his own mother, or at least his
mother-in-law, provided the right amount of money was
slipped under his desk.
"Just what makes you think you can get acquainted with
Miss Merman so easily?" the girl asked Tom.
"That shouldn't be difficult. She and Jake aren't really
engaged, so far as I can tell. They just like each other's com
pany. But she's certainly going to be disappointed this
weekend, unless she is satisfied with making my acquain
tance—which I think she will be," he added with proper
modesty.
"Oh, of course she will be," said Ruth, though there was
something less than enthusiasm in her voice.
Tom's attention went back to the road. The bus ran at
good speed, with the water on the highway making a rip
ping sound under the tires. The sky had grown steadily
darker and the rain looked as if it had set in for a long time.
88
�Ruth was leaning thoughtfully back against the head-rest.
Then Tom went to sleep. At first his thoughts were of Jake,
plugging away at the office; then he dreamed that he was
already at Island Beach dancing with the charming Doris
Merman.
When he awoke, the bus was pulling into the Island
Beach terminal. Rain was still falling as he assisted Ruth off
the bus and helped stow her and her parcels into the
dilapidated taxicab he found in front of the station.
"It was terribly nice, traveling with you, Ruth."
"Thanks, awfully, for your help," she said, giving him
her hand. "And I really do hope that your weekend will be
as happy as you want it to be."
The taxi took her off into the rain.
Tom looked about him, more than a little disappointed.
Island Beach, under the grey clouds and the driving rain
certainly did not resemble the magical city of Jake's pas
sionately loyal descriptions. In fact, to Tom the place look
ed exceedingly unkempt and tawdry. Very few of the frame
buildings, crowded together beside the streets, showed any
sign of ever having been painted or cared for. Then, too, he
wondered about the ocean. Some way, he had thought that
it should be in full view from any part of the town of Island
Beach. He sensed the smell of brine in the air, however, and
he soon became conscious of a regular sound which he knew
to be caused by the breaking of the waves on the beach.
He found a room at the "Ocean-view Inn." It was a tiny
room and on the fourth floor, but it did face out over the
ocean. Perhaps that was why they charged ten dollars a day
for it, he thought.
After bathing and changing his clothes, he searched in
the phone book until he found the address of the Merman
home. Then he went downstairs and out into the rain,
walking toward the main part of town. Finally he found a
taxicab, and in this he drove along the sandy streets until he
saw a tiny, whitewashed cottage that he knew must be the
Merman home. Telling the driver to wait for him, Tom
89
�crossed the small yard of white sand and knocked at the
screen door.
"Is this the home of Miss Doris Merman?" he inquired of
the lady who answered his knock.
"Yes, it is. Won t you come in? Fm Doris's mother."
"And I am Tom Spencer, Mrs. Merman. May I speak to
your daughter?"
"I'm terribly sorry, Tom, but she isn't here," Mrs. Mer
man said. "She left for the city just about half an hour ago."
Tom felt as if he had had the breath knocked out of him,
suddenly and painfully. He couldn't say anything. Mrs.
Merman continued, "She had expected a dear friend down
from the city for the weekend. As soon as she got the
telephone call, about an hour ago, with the message that he
wasn't coming, she left for the city at once, catching the bus
on its return trip."
"You say she got a telephone call?" Tom managed to
ask.
"From someone she didn't know at all. A perfect
stranger, so Doris told me. Wasn't it kind of the lady to call
and say Doris's friend wouldn't be coming?"
Tom knew he was licked. He mumbled an assent to Mrs.
Merman's question. He knew that he could have spanked
Ruth, quite cheerfully, in that instant. The nerve of that lit
tle blonde tramp! The colossal nerve!
Mrs. Merman was smiling at him, waiting for him to say
something, or at least to explain the purpose of his call.
"Just tell Miss Merman that a friend of Jake's called," he
finally managed to say. "A friend of Jake's," he repeated
quite needlessly.
Mrs. Merman assured him she would deliver the
message to her daughter, and closed the screen door after
him.
"Where next?" the taxi-driver asked.
"The bus station." Arriving there, he paid the driver
and dismissed him.
"How long until the next bus to the city?" he asked the
90
�man at the window.
"Nine o'clock tomorrow morning," the clerk answered,
"and that's all my business for today," closing the window
with a bang.
Tom went back out into the rain and found a diner that
was open. He ordered a cup of coffee from the fat man back
of the counter. While the fat man was drawing it, Tom
picked up the latest paper on the rack by the door. His eye
was drawn to the top right-hand corner. "Weather predic
tion," he read, "for the middle Atlantic seaboard, con
tinued rain, Saturday and Sunday."
"Don't crumple the paper unless you're going to buy it,"
the fat man admonished.
Tom dropped a quarter on the counter. "Just keep the
coffee," he said. "I've got to hurry some place."
Outside, he asked his way of a passerby and climbed up
onto the bleak, barren and deserted boardwalk. From here
he could see the ocean, restless and black and heaving,
under the storm and the gathering darkness. The wind and
rain were in his face as he turned left and hurried in the
direction of the beach clubhouse. Soon he could see its
shape looming through the dimness, and he was greatly
disappointed that it was not lighted. Surely this place of the
marvelous music and dancing that Jake had described so
often could not be kept closed on this particular Saturday
evening.
Drawing near the main entrance of the clubhouse, he
saw a notice pinned on the door. He struck a match,
shielding it with his cupped hands, and read the words,
"Dance canceled tonight on account of rain."
He turned and started back toward Ocean-view Inn, not
even caring about the rain running down his neck. Oh,
well, he decided, he couldn't have taken the spiteful little
blonde to the dance anyhow, even if he had had sense
enough to get her last name or her address!
At the desk, he left word to be called at eight the follow
ing morning. As he fell asleep, he was estimating roughly
91
�how long it would take him to repay the other bookkeepers
for the amount of their investment in the fun that he had
talked himself out of on the way to Island Beach.
92
�FOR MY FATHER
His hands have pointed out the hills for me
And valleys hidden by the mists that lie
Above bright streams; and they have helped me see
Veins in a stem, a sparrow in the sky,
The fish as clear as water in the pool,
And beasts that shrink away from human gaze
Into the sanctuary of the cool
And quiet leaves. His hands have filled our days
With happiness as great as we can know,
A wonder at the world and every source
Of nature's art unseen by careless men;
The writing in a pebble's heart; the blow,
The shock, the tumult in the midnight course
Of storms that race to strike and strike again.
93
�GRANDMOTHER EUNICE
I
She told us how the snow would sometimes drift
In through the cracks and partly cover her;
How she would wake with early light and lift
Her quilts aside, not long before the stir
Of breakfast-getting clashed up from below;
Then, clothes in hand, how she would clamber down
The ladder to the new-laid fire's first glow
And hold to it her small hands, thin and brown.
When, breakfast over, through the woods she went
To school, how day in all its strength would break
Across the clearing sky, with streamers sent
The glorious sparklings of the snow to wake.
Then all of beauty at her heart would beat,
And joy would walk with her on chastened feet.
94
�GRANDMOTHER EUNICE
II
Before her house lay two shell-bordered rows,
Where daffodils in March first showed their blooms;
She took the nodding blossoms that she chose
And placed their springtime life in all the rooms.
The wind moved long among the dooryard flowers
On sunny days when swift white clouds were high;
And often there she filled the quiet hours
With joy in all the waking earth and sky.
The birds had made the meadow trees their home;
From far away she heard their whistling calls
Come echoing across the fresh-turned loam
Like bugle notes from ancient castle walls.
She knew, with golden flowers and cotton dress,
A monarch's court, without its emptiness.
95
�ON BARREN LAND
I have been far about the fields today
And touched the earth in barren places, heard
The summer insects whirring heated hours away,
The cool, inquiring notes of many a bird.
I took no rest where there was leafy shade
And in the burning sun found no repose;
I touched the places where the year had made
No plant or weed and where no flower grows.
I have been missionary to the fields
This day, caressed the earth with kind intent,
To give to barren acres fruitful yields,
A wide and fulsome harvest, fall content.
At dusk, I run and grasp more fertile lands—
Lest barren earth in turn has touched my hands!
96
�EMPTY HOUSE
The wind will find you the house that has no renter.
It will push the brown oak leaves up to the door,
It will follow you in if you care to enter,
And help you explore,
Explore.
It will swirl the dust of the hearth where fires were laid
And urge into motion the old broken chair
And slam the doors, till you are afraid
And wish for the air,
The air.
The wind will find you the house where no one stays
When morning is high or when evening falls,
The house that is empty through all its days,
Yet whose emptiness calls
And calls.
97
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�Journey to Iron Creek
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�JOURNEY TO IRON CREEK
He asked his way when he reached the village of
Bergdorf. The old attendant made curving gestures with his
hands as he explained how the road would follow Iron
Creek along a valley that was shaped like an "S". John
Morgan lived at the uppermost tip of that letter. "No
mistaking the house when you get there," he said. "It's the
last one. Big farm, but hemmed in. See you're from the
South—got folks in this section?"
Frank Harper shook his head, waved thanks, and pulled
off onto the graveled road. The chill of late afternoon lay in
the valley of the turbulent yellow stream. He would have
called it a river, rather than a creek. But the "Iron" part of
the name was right. He had seen iron springs in his native
mountains that gradually through the years accumulated
the same sort of tawny color that he saw in the water of the
stream.
He noticed that the leaves of the trees were not yet fullgrown. He had left early summer behind him in the North
Carolina mountains, and now he found himself back once
again in late spring. The few houses that he passed were set
well back from the road and the stream. Some of the
buildings showed signs of a former elegance, while others
were in various stages of dilapidation. No one seemed to be
working in the fields of the valley, and he felt a certain
desolation touching him, in spite of his conscious efforts to
resist such an impression. He tried to recognize some of the
farms from the stories he had heard his father tell. But it
was hard to fit the reality and the remembrances together.
He knew that he must do this, though, if the journey were
to be worthwhile for him.
A last curve brought him within sight of what he knew
101
�must be the Morgan home. The farmhouse, surrounded by
grey sycamores, was set back against the steep, wooded
hillside, and a silo and dairy barn stood below it on the
other side of the road.
He stopped his car by the yard fence and let himself in
through the gate. As he closed the latch, he glimpsed the
misty greenness of the fields of alfalfa and wheat that stret
ched out across the valley beyond the barn. He imagined
that he could feel something of the melancholy of late spr
ing in the air, and something, too, of the vitality that the
ancestors of the Morgan family must have felt as they
cleared those valley fields two hundred years before. He
turned, as a ragged-coated sheep-dog came toward him
from the house, wagging his tail, but not barking.
He had whirled the agate knob of the doorbell twice
before he heard quick steps inside the house. A small lady
with a surprised expression opened the door.
"Are you Mrs. Morgan?" he inquired.
"Why, yes, I am," she said. "And your face seems
familiar to me, though I don't believe I know you."
"Would you know me if I told you my name is Frank
Harper?" he asked.
A look of happy recognition spread over her face. "Oh,
of course—you're Albert's son from the South, and grand
son to the Reverend George Harper." She held out her
hands to him. "Your father knew me as Marie Stephens.
But come in and meet my husband, John, and Mary, my lit
tle girl. We're at supper and you must join us. We have an
upstairs room for you, too, for as long as you care to stay.
You came alone?"
"Yes, quite alone."
She led the way through a parlor and into the dining
room. "John," she announced, "here's Frank, the old
Reverend Harper's grandson, come to see us."
John extended him a friendly hand and rumbled a
greeting in his deep voice. Frank felt himself dwarfed by
the size of the man, but strangely warmed by the cordiality
102
�of his greeting. There was an instant feeling of comradeship
between them, as though the introduction had been per
formed by the memory of the Reverend Harper himself.
"I was sent," Frank explained, "to see you on a matter of
business by my father, who was not able to make the trip
himself."
"Yes," John said.
Mrs. Morgan intervened, in her matter-of-fact voice,
"Business should wait, John, while we have our supper.
Frank, this is Mary, our daughter. Mary, meet Frank
Harper, the grandson of the minister of our old Iron Creek
Church." Mary had emerged from the kitchen, a slight girl,
drying her hands on her tiny apron. She smiled a shy
welcome to Frank.
"Fm very happy to meet you," said Frank, touching her
hand.
"Now we must sit down to our supper," said Mrs.
Morgan, bringing things from a sideboard and setting a
fourth place at the table.
John Morgan repeated an old-fashioned grace in his
resonant voice, and then they started their meal. Mrs.
Morgan asked, in her sprightly way, "Won't you tell us
about yourself and your family, Frank? What service did
you see during the war? You know we are expecting our
own two boys to be discharged almost any day now."
Frank told them eagerly of his parents, his brothers and
sister, and of their home life in the hill country of North
Carolina. They were interested in the stories he told of his
father's years of medical practice among the mountain peo
ple there. He also spoke of the innumerable reminiscences
his father had told him of the Iron Creek church and com
munity, and of its people who had lived in the valley since
their ancestors had battled with the Indian tribes over the
possession of the salt deposits by the yellow stream.
"Do you still have the Memorial Day parade each year
from the Civil War monument in the valley up the hill to
Iron Creek Church?" Frank asked.
103
�"Yes," said Mrs. Morgan, with a touch of sadness,
"though every year the marchers are fewer, and we have
now lost our old fife-player. The older families either move
away or just simply disappear, it seems. There are no
regular services at the old church now, you know."
It had turned too chilly to sit on the porch after supper,
so Frank and Mr. Morgan sat in the parlor while the
younger man told the purpose of his visit. His grandfather,
the Reverend George Harper, had owned a farm of two
hundred acres, lying on the plateau above Iron Greek,
directly across from John Morgan's property. When the old
minister sold this land, sometime before his death, he had
retained the mineral rights to the property. Ownership of
these rights had been inherited by Frank's father, who had
almost forgotten about the matter. Recently, however, he
had received a notice from the commissioners of that par
ticular county that he must pay back-taxes of some thirtyyears' accumulation on these mineral rights or permit them
to be sold at public auction. Since such a payment would
involve considerable money, Frank's father had asked his
son, immediately after his discharge from the army, to go to
Ohio and try to find out the facts in the matter. Frank was
to learn whether there was actually any coal under the pro
perty, and, if any, would there be enough to warrant the
payment of such a sum of money in back-taxes?
John listened carefully, puffing at his pipe the while. His
wife and Mary had come in from the kitchen by this time,
and he smiled at them as he said, "Frank, you must know
that all the older families that are left here are suddenly fac
ed with the same problem as your father. Most of the rest of
the county has been strip-mined for the coal lying under the
soil. But in this section of Iron Creek the desposits, if there
are any, lie too deep for stripping, but would have to be
mined. None of us have paid the taxes on the mineral rights
to our lands in all these years, unless there was an actual
mine in operation on the property. We, too, have been bill
ed for the mineral taxes on our land. It is well that you have
104
�come, Frank, for we will try to find out together whether or
not the mineral rights to our land are worth retaining."
Mrs. Morgan said, "Wouldn't Jack Bartick know
whether there is good coal under the Harper land?"
Her husband nodded. "Jack married a niece of mine,
and will tell us the truth in the matter. We'll see him about
it tomorrow."
The talk turned to family matters again, until Mrs.
Morgan finally suggested that it had grown late. "John will
show you to your room, Frank. We will see that you get
around some in the morning. It's good to have our old
minister's grandson here with us."
Frank wished each of them a good night, and was
shown to a room on the second floor at the front of the
house. When he opened the window to let in some night
air, he saw there was dim moonlight, though the valley of
Iron Creek was filled with fog. A delicate, persistent sound
came to his ear, and he suddenly realized that it was
familiar to him from the nights of his boyhood in the North
Carolina mountains—the cry of a whippoorwill. He was
young enough to think it not at all strange that he and the
whippoorwill should find themselves in the same Ohio
valley on the same night in June. He found that he was
quite weary from his drive, and the faint, monotonous
birdsong soon put him to sleep.
II.
Frank got up at seven, intending to help with the farm
chores. But when he came downstairs, Mary was the only
person to be seen. She asked him what he would like for
breakfast.
"Oh, I'll just wait for the others," he said.
Mary laughed. The others had eaten breakfast an hour
before, she said, and were now out finishing the morning
work. So Frank asked for a couple of eggs and a glass of
milk. While she fixed them, he walked out into the back
yard.
105
�A flock of sheep, with heavy, smoky-colored coats of
wool, had drifted down from the steep hillside back of the
house, and now were standing in the corner of their pasture
nearest the back porch. They watched Frank while he mov
ed across the yard toward them and tried to entice the two
little lambs away from their mothers by a gentle clucking
sound made with his tongue. But the lambs could not be
moved. Soon, however, a great sheep with blue eyes and
huge, curled horns came over to him and nuzzled at his
hand. Frank had never been close to a sheep before. He
touched the matted coat, and was surprised when the wool
parted so easily and looked so clean and snow-white
underneath.
Mary called him, and he went to the dining room to find
a plate waiting for him. "That was 'Johnny Doughboy,' "
she said, "my own pet sheep that my father bought me and
that I raised from a lamb."
"They certainly are interesting creatures," Frank said,
"but these are the first I ever saw. They seem so gentle,
when I always had the idea they were a sort of vicious,
stupid animal."
They talked of her life on the farm, and of her studies in
the high school in Bergdorf. He wondered whether she
knew how fortunate she was to be living on such a princely
estate, even at the almost-inaccessible end of Iron Creek
valley.
John and Mrs. Morgan soon came up from the barn and
greeted him. After a few minutes, John took him out and
showed him the farm. Frank, accustomed only to the small
farms in the hill-country of the South, was again surprised
at the size of the Morgan holdings. The land stretched from
the top of the hillside back of the house, down across the
fields to Iron Creek, and up and down the stream farther
than the eye could see, because of the curving of the valley.
"The old Harper farm," John said, pointing, "which
your grandfather owned, lies on top of the ridge on the
other side of Iron Creek. It always looks to me like a kind of
106
�pantry-shelf above the Morgan land. We'll get in the car
and go up there, before we go to Bartick's mine. By the
way," his great laugh rumbled out, "has your father ever
told you about North Hill?"
"Many a time," Frank said, "but it surely isn't as steep as
he made it out?"
"It'll probably seem worse, at least the first time you go
up. But we will have to take that road if you want to see the
Harper land. The North Hill road is the only entrance from
the valley side. It's a terrible grade—and never meant for
cars."
Up the North Hill road they went, with John's car grind
ing along in low gear, and Frank holding his breath for
fear they might meet somebody coming down the narrow
road, or else that they might have to try to stop suddenly on
this grade on which no brakes would hold.
He thought of the trips his father had made up and
down this hill with a team and wagon, hauling great loads
of hay and other crops from the farm on the plateau above.
Wintertime, too, had made the hill unforgettable, for it
had furnished a wonderful track for the reckless speeds of
the bobsleds of the boys of the community.
When they came to the top, they drove along the
backbone of land which his father had spoken of as the
"Ridge." Two miles down this road lay the Harper farm.
Only an old barn was now standing on the place, and the
fields looked neglected. Frank thought of his father as he
had once moved about those fields, breaking land and rais
ing crops of hay and corn.
They went farther along the Ridge, and Morgan pointed
to a pile of stones in one of the distant fields. He said that
this was a marker for the grave of ten of the early pioneers.
III.
The entrance to Jack Bartick's coal mine was on the
Ridge side of Iron Creek, and about a mile up the stream
from the foot of North Hill. The road to the mine was nar107
�row, twisting along between the cliffside and the water. A
couple of two-ton trucks loaded with coal met them as they
were going in. Both vehicles had to go slow in passing, for it
was a close fit.
A truck-loading tipple and three or four frame buildings
marked the entrance to the mine tunnel. One of the shacks
had "Office" written on the door in black paint. Bartick
was seated at a littered table when they went in, but he got
up and greeted them. He was small but looked very
muscular. He had densely black eyes and dark, wavy hair.
His complexion had less of the sallow look of the coal miner
than Frank had expected.
John Morgan told him the purpose of Harper's visit to
Iron Creek, and asked him for his opinion in the matter of
the coal lands. Bartick questioned Frank further, then he
said, with great intensity: "Harper, you take my word for
it—there are at least two deep veins of coal under that land.
I know the tract well. It's still called the 'Old Harper Farm'
by everyone hereabouts. Don't let the mineral rights to that
land go at public auction. Pay the taxes on it if you have to,
for that coal is worth keeping.
"I've worked in coal since I was fourteen," he con
tinued, "and I know the veins in this county about as well
as anyone. There is a good grade of coal under that par
ticular land, with very little slag. It's too deep to be strip
ped from the top. The coal would have to be taken out
through a tunnel made from the creek-side, just as I have
entered this vein here. It's just a matter of digging a
horizontal shaft into the side of the hill, and running tracks
into it so you can load coal onto a car and pull it back out
with a pony."
Bartick took them outside the office and showed them
the entrance to his "truck-mine," as he called it, with the
explanation that all the coal had to be hauled away from it
by truck. A man was oiling an air-compression machine,
which was running full-blast in an open building beside the
tunnel entrance. A distant sound of drilling could be heard
108
�from inside the tunnel as they peered in.
"Want to go in and see what some good coal looks like?"
Bartick asked. "Maybe, too, if the men haven't finished
making repairs, I can show you what a timber looks like
when a tired hill leans down on top of it."
Harper said, "Thanks for the offer, Bartick, but I'm not
up to underground adventures."
When they returned to the office building, Bartick
urged him again to hold onto the coal rights. "Only one
thing I tell you—don't try to mine it yourself. A coal
miner's life is the hardest on earth." He laughed suddenly.
"It's even harder than what I'm trying to do now: operating
an independent truck-mine, doing the bookkeeping, the
timekeeping, the overseeing, the shipping, the weighing,
the checking, and the paying of the men all by myself. Yes,
a miner's life is worse. It's a terrible life, there
underground, with your only friend the pony that pulls the
cart."
Frank Harper thanked Bartick for his advice, then he
and John went to the car and drove back along the creek.
"I guess that's the answer," Frank said.
When they had crossed Iron Creek, Morgan asked,
"Would you like to go to the old Church where your grand
father preached for thirty years?"
"I'm ready," Frank answered.
They followed a road that led them across the valley and
up onto the shoulder of a hill. Then they turned off the
highway into a lane of old Lombardy poplars, and the
white church building was suddenly in sight, surrounded
by elms. To the left lay the cemetery of the Iron Creek com
munity.
They stopped in the yard and got out. Frank asked,
"Where?"
Morgan pointed over to the right. "On that side," he
said.
Frank walked in among the rows of marble stones. Then
he saw the family marker for his grandfather and grand109
�mother. How strange it was, he thought, to see his family
name carved in four-inch letters on such a marker. Harper.
The family name. The part of the family he had scarcely
known except through his father. Frank took off his hat.
The voice of John Morgan rumbled, "It's too bad to see
the old church building locked up and deserted. Those of us
who are left drive to Bergdorf now for the services. We
meet in the little church there that your grandfather and
grandmother started as a mission when the town was only
beginning. In those days, Iron Creek Church was the
parent congregation. But not all of the old congregation is
gone yet. Those of us who are left still come and take care of
the churchyard. "We've all relatives here." John, too, had
uncovered his head.
From the hilltop where they stood, Frank could see the
blue valley of the Iron Creek as it curved off to the right and
to the left. The spring noon was much in the air, and the
calls of birds sounded from the grove of elms. Some of the
graves had spring flowers on them, and there were several
dainty yellow crocuses and a clump of daffodils in bloom. A
good turf of grass covered the footpaths, and the cemetery
looked well-kept.
"Here my grandparents lie among their congregation,"
Frank said.
"And it is as quiet as a Sabbath morning in the old
days," John Morgan added reverently.
Frank turned to go. The Iron Creek, its valley and its
people had become a part of him. And he had the answer
for his father, too.
110
�ENGLISH T E A C H E R
Do you recall how she read "Snowbound"
On the black winter day
When the wind blew at the panes
And then blew away?
How, after that, the flakes came,
Slanting down the air,
Making lines before the woodland
Like grey streaked hair?
Do you recall - why do I ask,
Since one time you have known
The sifting snowflakes in her voice,
Their whisper through her tone?
Ill
�PEASEBLOSSOM
(A Midsummer Night's Dream)
We will come again at fairytime
while a dark wind
whispers in a thousand leaves.
We will call dainty forms
from the forest
to dance in the tempered light.
Then our ears will turn
from the leaves
to a softer strain:
There in the magic stillness
Peaseblossom will be singing
Titania
to sleep.
112
�MORGIANA
(Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves)
Dance, Eastern maiden,
bending music
to the cadence of your motion.
Dance, Morgiana,
while Arabian stars are burning.
Let the silver tinsel glitter
to your rhythmical swaying
and the ankle bells
jingle to your turning.
Pearls at your forehead
lilting in time;
lace of your headdress
wavering white;
acacia-bloom veils
of your dancing gown playing;
Dance Morgiana,
in the beating tensity
of night.
113
�PHOEBE
The stone that you gave me, the one from Tintagel,
Where cross currents strive at the foot of the rock,
The thin stone you gave me with tracings so fragile
I shall keep far away from the rush and the shock
Of the salt-laden water, the wind-driven sea.
You caught up the stone from the side of the ocean,
The stone worn so smooth by the wash of the sand,
And left the wild spot with the conquering motion
Of one with the first flowers of spring in her hand,
And you kept it as safe as a jewel might be.
I felt once when looking at you in the morning
As though I had chanced on the same magic shore;
I caught up the moment and ran without warning
And knew that I must not go back any more
Lest the waves tear the stone and the moment from me.
114
�T H E CANTERBURY TALES
I
Pilgrims Were They All
One night when April blew in from the hills
And tender leaves were thin against the sky,
I wakened at a small bird's startled trills—
And thought I heard the Pilgrims riding by.
Their horses' hooves were loud against the ground
And all their trappings fluttered, fold on fold;
And through the noises came the murmured sound
Of jests they made and stories that they told.
Eternal vagabonds of spring, they came
With holy purpose down the moonlit way:
Too late I tried to call them, name by name—
And only caught their laughter, distant, gay.
Long then I listened, while an April bird
And spring wind shaped the answers that I heard.
115
�T H E CANTERBURY TALES
II
A Monk There Was
In autumn I have heard the wailing cry
Of hounds that hurtled down a fox's trail;
Deep-throated, long, the echoes used to fly
From tree to tree until their strength would fail.
And I have heard an old man, spent and tired,
Upon an autumn evening, nod, and say,
"One thing I did that no one ever hired
Me to—I followed great hounds in my day!"
Now I have read how, years before our time,
A certain merry Churchman loved his hounds
And horses more than all the drone and rhyme
Of holy life, and I hold that the sounds
Of his dogs' baying and his bridle bells,
Wind-blown, would temper half a dozen hells.
116
�A Stone from Tintagel
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�A STONE FROM TINTAGEL
The older of the night-watchmen let him in through the
front entrance and took him up to the fourth floor. He step
ped out of the elevator, the paneled doors closed, and he
was alone in the dimness before morning.
Humming a little, he turned left and walked through
the foyer. He sensed, rather than saw, the forms of several
mannequins standing here and there. The shapes were
familiar, the gloom familiar, and he was so accustomed to
the faint, almost evanescent odor of cloth and fur that he
nearly failed to notice it. His footsteps were muffled by the
carpet, but when he came to the cement floor of the rear
hallway, they made clear, ringing sounds. He liked that
noise on this particular morning.
He fished in his pocket for a key, then opened the
switch-box. Striking a match, so he could see the numbers
on the big panel, he turned on half the switches and closed
the box. Later, the other lights would have to be turned on,
but these would let the cleaners see what they were doing
when they came to the floor.
Back through the hallway he went, and into the foyer.
The lights now plainly showed the mannequins, arranged
about the floor and in the display cases, flaunting their
stylish dresses, coats, and wraps, and holding their untir
ing, graceful attitudes. He had never lost his amazement at
the price of the garments.
Walking across the main floor, he felt a little shut in by
the silence. Yesterday, he would not have noticed the
stillness, he thought. Only those few hours past, he had
been walking about this same floor, weary, discouraged,
and sorry for himself. But somehow he knew that today
would be different.
119
�He pulled one of the front windows part-way open.
Cold air rushed in, and sounds of an occasional automobile
or of a streetcar, rounding the corner. Soon the cry of the
newsboy could be heard from the street below, "Morning
paper, mister, morning paper?" The grey opaqueness was
lightening toward dawn, and the young man turned
restlessly and went to his desk in the middle of the floor.
A few minutes later, the two porters arrived, carrying
the vacuum equipment for cleaning. Perley was short and
fat, with good-humored acceptance of life showing plainly
in his face. The other man, who was named Wood, was
nervous and thin, and never smiled or spoke a word, except
to make a bare answer to a question.
He got up and greeted them, as they started about their
business. He always kept away from Wood, but sometimes
he talked with Perley, while he watched the cleaning.
"Perley," he said above the noise of the sweeper, "do you
know I've been here a year today?"
"Lord, Mr. Andrews," Perley showed his teeth, "it
doesn't seem that long."
"Well, it's been that long." Andrews pulled a plush
chair out of the way of the vacuum cleaner. Then he said,
with sudden directness, "Perley, how long have you worked
at Thornley's?"
"Fifteen years now," he said proudly.
"Did you ever want to leave?" Andrews asked.
Perley looked startled, "Why, Mr. Andrews, how could
I find work if I left Thornley's? There's a depression on."
"Yes, I know. But I mean didn't you ever want to leave
the store, even in the years when things were better than
they are now?"
Perley's face softened, and he paused in his cleaning,
"There was a time when I wanted to be my own boss. But I
came here, instead. And the days pass."
"Yes, they pass," Andrews said.
By the time the men had finished cleaning, morning
light had grown stronger through the windows, and the
120
�sounds of traffic from the street below had increased into a
continuous roar. Andrews enjoyed the positiveness of this
sound, as he went about, mechanically rearranging the fur
niture of the floor. Then he went into the service-hallway
again, to switch on the rest of the lights for the sales-floor
and stockrooms.
Soon the stock-girls arrived, their faces glowing from the
frosty air of the morning. They called their greetings to
him, and went on to their stockrooms. He had trained each
of them in her duties. At first, they had been surprised at his
knowledge of the different sizes, styles, and materials of the
dresses and coats which they had to carry about and classify
each day. They never knew the number of hours and the ef
fort of will he had had to put into learning the work, during
the year he had been with the store.
Kenneth Andrews had hardly seen the inside of a
department store until the day when he had happened to
walk into Thornley's to apply for work. He had expected to
be refused, as he had been by every other employment of
fice he had visited in the city. Only experienced men were
wanted, it seemed, and very few of those. But the personnel
manager at Thornley's must have liked his fresh, collegeboy appearance, for she asked him about his education and
background. Then she hired him as the assistant manager
of the fourth floor. What was sold on this floor, he did not
think to ask until he reported for work the following morn
ing.
He had been bewildered and a little dismayed when he
found that the fourth floor of Thornley's was devoted to the
selling of all types of ladies' dresses and coats. Not even the
appearance of the floor, with its delicate colors, its soothing
lights and soft carpets, had succeeded in making him feel
that he belonged there. Perhaps, once he had grown ac
customed to his surroundings, he should have learned to
like them; but this had not happened.
As assistant manager, he found that it was up to him to
open the floor, supervise its activities during the day,
121
�manage its personnel, and close it up at night. The man
who had the title of "manager of the fourth floor," Mr.
Brownley Smith, spent most of his days elsewhere in the
store, only drifting by once or twice during business hours
"to see how things are going," as he always said. He had
been with Thornley's for five years, and there was con
siderable condescension in the way he looked upon any
employee who had only been with the firm for a shorter
time.
Mr. Smith had been more than glad to delegate the
duties of the fourth floor to the new assistant manager.
Heaviest of these tasks which Andrews had inherited was
the work which had to be done with the stock in the even
ing hours after everyone else had gone home. But it was
during these lonely sessions, between closing time and mid
night, that he gained his acquaintance with the stock on the
fourth floor. From the stockrooms, he had to select
garments of a certain price and style. These he had to bring
out on the floor and arrange on display racks, preparatory
to inspection by Mr. Thornley or the head buyer, who
would be there the following morning before the floor was
opened for customers.
Kenneth had studied the garments in much the same
way that a prisoner might concentrate his attention upon
the bars of his cell. He looked at the garments with intentness, and yet with a wordless sort of resentment. He learned
the different kinds of cloth, the varying styles. The dresses
were light and easy to handle. Some of their qualities had
appealed to him. Especially he liked their colors, as they
hung in orderly arrangement on the display racks.
Sometimes they reminded him of leaves he had seen in the
autumns of his childhood, and sometimes of the rich, warm
colors of crowds he had watched at football games at his
university, and sometimes they made him think of delicate
ly tinted landscapes, changing under the insistence of
spring rains in the mountain valleys he had known.
Once, during an early inspection of garments to be put
122
�on sale, Kenneth had called Mr. Thornley's attention to a
graceful evening gown of lame cloth, shimmering and
golden in the morning light. Before he realized what he was
doing, he had stammered out, "Mr. Thornley, do you sup
pose this is the same kind of cloth from which gowns of gold
and silver were made for queens in the Middle Ages?"
He had thought that perhaps a man who had dealt in
such fabrics all his life would have a ready answer. Mr.
Thornley had straightened up, taken the glasses from his
nose, and turned to him, "Young man, you read too many
books. They won't help you in this store." The important
work of changing price tags had gone on.
Handling the coats had been a different matter. Their
linings made them heavy, and the moving of several hun
dred of them, after his long day on the floor, had made his
body ache all over. Yet he had found some compensation
even here. Laboring in the pungent atmosphere of the coat
stockroom, he had learned all he could of the different
types of furs from which the collars were made. There were
fragile fox furs—grey, silver, and red, and mink, shunk,
badger, lynx, Persian lamb, even leopard. Their mingled
odor reminded him of snow-filled woods and the outdoor
life he had once known. He liked the luxuriousness of the
furs, and had always been careful to teach the stock-girls
not to touch the collars with their hands, and not to crush
them by carrying more than two or three at one time.
Beginning work at Thornley's had been, for him, a
plunge into unknown waters. Nothing in his study of
literature had prepared him for such work. The
desperateness of the times had caused him to take the job,
and perhaps only impetus and habit had made him con
tinue its daily motions for this year. The store had helped
him in one respect: it had allowed him little time for
brooding. On Sundays, when he had his only free time, he
scarcely moved from his bed, he was so utterly weary.
Something he himself could not have put into words
must have kept him at this work. Perhaps some sense of
123
�loyalty to himself, which had made him accept and treat
the position as a challenge, had kept him at Thornley's, or
possibly he had stayed because he had not been able to
make the direct decision to leave.
The saleswomen had begun to arrive on the floor, singly
and in groups of two and three. They were of various ages,
but all of them wore black dresses, as required by the store.
He spoke to each of them, asking one about her husband
and another about her sick child. Then the elevators began
to bring customers to the floor, and the day's duties began.
Telephones rang, stock-girls ran up and asked questions,
and saleswomen wanted special attentions for their
customers. Back and forth about the floor he went,
performing the myriad duties which had become secondnature for him. No one seemed to notice anything about
him that had changed since the day before.
At noon, Mr. B. Smith, the manager of the floor, came
to relieve Kenneth for lunch. He was surprised when Ken
neth came back earlier than usual.
"Mr. Smith," Kenneth asked, almost innocently, "why
must everyone keep his salary a secret in this store?"
Smith's gaunt face expressed astonishment, then in
dignation. "Andrews, who are you to question Mr.
Thornley's policies?"
Kenneth did not back down. "I guess he's ashamed of
what he pays, at that."
"Andrews, you'll have to watch yourself." Smith was
stern. "You know Mr. Thornley is carrying a terrible load
in these depression days."
"It must be difficult," Kenneth said, no longer caring,
"to pay such big income taxes."
"I'm warning you, young fellow, we demand absolute
loyalty of our employees. There isn't room for such talk as
that." Smith had become so indignant that he could hardly
find his way to the elevator.
In mid-afternoon, Mrs. Ross arrived on the floor to
change some of the dresses on the mannequins. When he
124
�saw her, Kenneth left his other duties and spoke to her,
"May we talk a minute?"
She was quick to perceive a new and positive tone in his
voice. "Surely," she said. "But may I listen while I work?"
She was young for a widow, and there was a charm and
graciousness in her manner which set her apart from the
other people he had come to know at Thornley's. Her hus
band had been a writer, and they had lived in England for
several years, until their income had been swept away by
the bank failures. Then her husband had died, and she had
returned alone to America. Her knowledge of styles and
fashions had helped her secure work at the store.
Kenneth watched her slender hands, while she fitted the
evening dress onto the mannequin. No one else was near.
"You know, Irene, you started something when you
gave me that little rock from Cornwall."
"Oh, really?" She laughed, a happy note in her voice.
Then; almost jestingly, imitating a tourist guide, she said,
"The stone a young bride picked up between the tides of
Tintagel Head, where once the child who was to be King
Arthur was swept in on a seventh wave?"
He said, stubbornly, "You may laugh, but maybe the
stone has some sort of magic in it. Even after all these
weeks, it set me thinking. Suddenly, I knew it stood for the
literature I studied before I came here. It's a link to my
past, and perhaps," he took an excited breath, "to the
future."
Mrs. Ross had stopped working and was watching him.
"You mean, you're leaving?"
"Yes," he said slowly, "I don't like this work, and I'm
afraid of what it will do to me if I stay in it any longer."
Mrs. Ross touched his hand and said, very directly, "I'm
glad, Kenneth." Then she smiled. "I've a confession. I gave
you that stone from the Cornish coast, just to remind you of
what you started out to do and to be. I'm glad it has work
ed. Good luck, my dear!" Then she added, "Thanks for tell
ing me first. I won't know a thing until I find out from the
125
�others."
She turned again to her work and, Kenneth thought,
from her changed expression, again to her memories of a
cottage in Cornwall.
The day's business finally slackened, and the late
customers left on the elevators. Kenneth saw the last of the
stock-girls and saleswomen off the floor, then started his
regular rounds, checking to see that all was in order. When
he came to the window he had opened in the morning, he
felt that the wind had turned warmer outside, with the sud
denness of March. The cry of the newsboy came up to him
through the dusk, and he imagined he could detect a new
defiant note in it, a quality he had not heard early that
morning, even though he had listened for it. He closed the
window.
As he went through the foyer, after putting out the
lights, he felt again the presence of the mannequins about
him. Why should he be thinking of these lifeless hussies in
terms of farewell he reflected, as he waited for the elevator.
Yet he knew this was a farewell from them and from the
He surprised the watchman by asking to go up, instead
of down.
"Something wrong, Mr. Andrews?" the old man asked.
"No, Mr. Kerry, everything is fine," Kenneth said, and
suddenly he knew that this was true.
The personnel director was nearly ready to leave for the
night, when he walked up to her desk.
"Miss Taylor, this is an anniversary. You hired me a year
ago today."
"Oh, yes, so I did." She smiled a little.
"And today I have decided to leave the store," he con
tinued, without changing his tone.
A look of astonishment came to her face. "Why I
thought you were happy here. Mr. Thornley hoped to make
an executive of you. We know how hard you have been
working. In fact, he has just authorized me to raise your
126
�salary two dollars a week."
"That's kind of him, and I appreciate it," Kenneth said,
"but I don't like working eighty hours a week, and I don't
like secret salaries, especially when I make less than the
stock-girls on my floor. It's not worth it, even to become an
executive, like B. Smith, for example."
Miss Taylor's startled look showed that she was loyal to
Mr. Thornley. "There's a depression on, you know," she
faltered.
"Yes, and if I had any part in bringing it on—which I
didn't," Kenneth said, "then I've served out my sentence.
I'm going to see Tintagel Head, one of these days."
"You're going to see what?" Miss Taylor asked.
"Oh, nothing," he said, turning away.
The elevator took him down, and he walked out the
front door, into the March wind.
127
�HAW CREEK
He came this way one summer night,
And he was near afraid
Of Haw Creek hollow,
Drowned in shade.
A kindly man he was,
Who loved folk lore,
With no more luggage
Than the clothes he wore.
A harmless wind was moaning
Somewhere in the trees,
And a screech owl screaming—
Calmly as you please.
Yet he feared the long shadow
When he left the moonlight;
He went through the place,
But his throat drew tight.
He saw weird shapes
Back of every bush,
And his blood rushed through him
At his heart's quick push.
He came this way in deep June
A good year ago;
And he will never come again,
As far as we know.
128
�PILGRIM C H U R C H
I
Long mornings I have sat in Pilgrim Church
When cherryblooms outside were blowing white
And heard the preacher telling us to search
For some celestial place of peace and light.
The mountainside had healing for the eye
That found it through the sunbright window pane,
And many times the birds went down the sky
As petals drift and fall in April rain.
The sermon filled the dusty room with sound
As loud as all a forest in a storm,
And people with their drowsy faces frowned
And moved their feet as noon drew close and warm.
Bright heaven, when the strong words all were done
Was still a place of cherryblooms and sun.
129
�PILGRIM C H U R C H
II
Near Pilgrim Church one day toward summer's ending
A hailstorm caught me and I went inside
For shelter. There, while all the trees were bending
And wind with strong blasts at the corners pried,
I crouched and waited in a gloomy seat.
The hail bounced off the roof like earth-flung rocks,
And at my heart a moment's terror beat
As window panes were rattling from the shocks.
The largeness of the room was so subdued
By all the tumult from without, I feared
Almost to breathe, till stillness was renewed
An level sunrays through the window speared.
Then down a path of hail-torn leaves I went
With humbled thoughts and heart made penitent.
130
�ABOUT THE AUTHOR
was born and raised i n Wilkes County,
N o r t h Carolina. H e earned his B . A . from the University of N o r t h
Carolina at Chapel H i l l , his M . A . from George Washington University,
and his Ph.D. i n education from C o l u m b i a University i n 1950. H e was a
proud veteran of the Second W o r l d War. H e served as the editor of the
Educational Leadership journal of the Association for Supervision and
C u r r i c u l u m Development for 28 years. Leeper passed away on A p r i l 9,
2002.
ROBERT ROSBOROUGH
LEEPER
�
Dublin Core
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Appalachian Consortium Press Publications
Description
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Appalachian Consortium Press
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Appalachian Consortium Press
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June 1, 2017
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<a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a>
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Appalachian State University
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The Brindle Mule: Stories and Poems of the Brushy Mountains
Description
An account of the resource
<span>Written in Robert Leeper’s student days at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and later at Columbia University, </span><em>The Brindle Mule</em><span> is a book of stories and poems emphasizing a childhood spent in the mountain country of Western North Carolina. Leeper grew up near Alexander County where his father was a physician and highly involved in the local community. Inspired by the cultural heritage of the region, Leeper decided to write down the stories and poems he heard gathered around the fireside, at picnics, in church, and at friends and family’s homes. Published in 1983, this book is a testament to the local lore of the Western Mountain region of North Carolina.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1iL0WBbjKCcG3C6QAJMet7mQ6Hqj3NUq-" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469638256/the-brindle-mule" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a>
Creator
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Leeper, Robert Rosborough
Language
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English
Subject
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Mountain life--North Carolina--Brushy Mountains--Literary collections
Publisher
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Appalachian Consortium Press
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1983
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PDF
E-books
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Text
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<a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a>
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https://www.geonames.org/4457648/brushy-mountains.html
Source
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<a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a>
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<a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a>
Brushy Mountains
Poems
short stories
WNC