Wit and Humor of America, Vol 08 — Girl and the Julep, The
BY EMERSON HOUGH
In the warm sun of the southern morning the great plantation lay as though half-asleep, dozing and blinking at the advancing day.
The plantation house, known in all the country side as the Big House, rested calm and self-confident in the middle of a wide sweep of cleared lands, surrounded immediately by dark evergreens and the occasional primeval oaks spared in the original felling of the forest.
Wide and rambling galleries of one height or another crawled partially about the expanses of the building, and again paused, as though weary of the attempt to circumvent it.
The strong white pillars, rising from the ground floor straight to the third story, shone white and stately, after the old Southern fashion, that Grecian style, simplified and made suitable to provincial purses by those Adams brothers of old England who first set the fashion in early American architecture.
White-coated, with wide, cool, green blinds, with ample and wide-doored halls, and deep, low windows, the Big House, here in the heart of the warm southland, was above all things suited to its environment.
It was all so safe and sure that there was no need for anxiety.
Life here was as it had been for generations, even for the generation following the upheaval of the Civil War.
But if this were a kingdom apart and self-sufficient, what meant this thing which crossed the head of the plantation--this double line, tenacious and continuous, which shone upon the one hand dark, and upon the other, where the sun touched it, a cold gray in color?
What meant this squat little building at the side of these rails which reached on out straight as the flight of a bird across the clearing and vanished keenly in the forest wall?
This was the road of the iron rails.
It clung close to the ground, at times almost sinking into the embankment now grown scarcely discernible among the concealing grass and weeds, although the track itself had been built but recently.
This railroad sought to efface itself, even as the land sought to aid in its effacement, as though neither believed that this was lawful spot for it.
One might say it made a blot upon this picture of the morning.
Perhaps it seemed thus to the tall young girl who now stood upon its long gallery, her tangle of high-rolled, red-brown hair held back by the hand which half shaded her eyes as she looked out discontentedly over the familiar scene.
Miss Lady--for thus she was christened by the Big House servants; and she bore well the title--frowned now as she tapped a little foot upon the gallery floor.
Perhaps it was not so much what she saw as what she did not see that made Miss Lady discontented, for this white rim of the forest bounded the world for her; yet after all, youth and the morning do not conspire with discontent.
A moment more, light, fleet of foot, Miss Lady fled down the gallery steps, through the gate and out along the garden walk.
Beyond the yard fence she was greeted riotously by a score of dogs and puppies, long since her friends and devoted admirers; as, indeed, were all dwellers, dumb or human, thereabout.
Had Miss Lady, or any observer, looked from the gallery off to the southward and down the railway track, there might thus have been discovered two figures just emerging from the rim of the forest something like a mile away; and these might have been seen growing slowly more distinct, as they plodded up the railway track toward the Big House.
Presently they might have been discovered to be a man and a woman; the former tall, thin, dark and stooped; his companion, tall as himself, quite as thin, and almost as bent.
The garb of the man was nondescript, neutral, loose; his hat dark and flapping.
The woman wore a shapeless calico gown, and on her head was a long, telescopic sunbonnet of faded pink, from which she must perforce peer forward, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
The travelers, indeed, needed not to look to the right or the left, for the path of the iron rails led them directly on.
They did not step to the gallery, did not knock at the door, or, indeed, give any evidences of their intentions, but seated themselves deliberately upon a pile of boards that lay near in the broad expanse of the front yard.
Here they remained, silent and at rest, fitting well enough into the sleepy scene.
No one in the house noticed them for a time, and they, tired by the walk, seemed willing to rest under the shade of the evergreens before making known their errand.
They sat speechless and content for several moments, until finally a mulatto house-servant, passing from one building to another, cast a look in their direction, and paused uncertainly in curiosity.
The man on the board-pile saw her.
"Here, Jinny!
Jinny!"
he called, just loud enough to be heard, and not turning toward her more than half-way.
"Come here."
"Yessah," said the girl, and slowly approached.
"Get us a little melk, Jinny," said the speaker.
"We're plumb out o' melk down home."
"Yessah," said Jinny, and disappeared leisurely, to be gone perhaps half an hour.
There remained little sign of life on the board-pile, the bonnet tube pointing fixedly toward the railway station, the man now and then slowly shifting one leg across the other, but staring out at nothing, his lower lip drooping laxly.
When the servant finally brought back the milk-pail and placed it beside him, he gave no word of thanks.
To all appearances, he was willing to wait here indefinitely, forgetful of the pail of milk, toward which the sun was creeping ominously close.
The way back home seemed long and weary at that moment.
His lip drooped still more laxly, as he sat looking out vaguely.
Not so calm seemed his consort, she of the sunbonnet.
Restored to some extent by her tarrying in the shade, she began to shift and hitch about uneasily upon the board-pile.
At length she leaned a bit to one side, reached into a pocket and taking out a snuff-stick and a parcel of its attendant compound, began to take a "dip" of snuff, after the habit of certain of the population of that region.
This done, she turned with a swift jerk of the head, bringing to bear the tube of her bonnet in full force upon her lord and master.
"Jim Bowles," she said, "this here is a shame!
Hit's a plumb shame!"
There was no answer, save an uneasy hitch on the part of the person so addressed.
He seemed to feel the focus of the sunbonnet boring into his system.
The voice in the bonnet went on, shot straight toward him, so that he might not escape.
"It's a plumb shame," said Mrs. Bowles again.
"I know it, I know it," said her husband at length, uneasily.
"But, now, Sar' Ann, how kin I help it?
The cow's daid and I kain't help it, and that's all about it.
My God, woman!"
--this with sudden energy,--"do you think I kin bring a cow to life that's been killed by the old railroad kyahs?
I ain't no 'vangelist.
It ain't my fault old Muley got killed."
"Ain't yore fault!"
"No, it ain't my fault.
Whut am I going to do?
I kaint get no otheh cow right now, and I done tol' you so.
You reckon cows grows on bushes?"
"Grows on bushes!"
"Yes, or that they comes for nuthin'?"
"Comes for nuthin'!"
"Yes, Sar' Ann, that's whut I said.
I tell you, it ain't so fur to come, ain't so fur up here, if you take it easy; only three mile.
And Cunnel Blount'll give us melk as long as we want.
I reckon he would give us a cow, too, if I ast him.
I s'pose I could pay him out o' the next crop, if they wasn't so many things that has to be paid out'n the crop.
It's too blame bad 'bout Muley."
He scratched his head thoughtfully.
"Yes," responded his spouse, "Muley was a heap better cow then you'll ever git agin.
Why, she gave two quo'ts o' melk the very mornin' she was done killed, two quo'ts.
I reckon we didn't have to walk no three mile that mornin', did we?
And she that kin' and gentle like--oh, we ain't goin' to git no new cow like Muley, no time right soon, I want to tell you that, Jim Bowles."
"Well, well, I know all that," said her husband, conciliatingly, a trifle easier now that the sunbonnet was for the moment turned aside.
"That's all true, mighty true.
But what kin you _do_?"
"Do?
Why, do _somethin'_!
Somebody sho' ought to suffer for this here.
This new-fangled railroad a-comin' through here, a-killing things an' a-killing _folks_!
Why, Bud Sowers said just the other week he heard of three darkies gittin' killed in one bunch down to Allenville.
They standin' on the track, jes' talkin' and visitin' like.
Didn't notice nuthin'.
Didn't notice the train a-comin'.
'Biff!'
says Bud; an' thah was them darkies."
"Yes," said Mr. Bowles, "that's the way it was with Muley.
She just walk up out'n the cane, and stan' thah in the sun on ther track, to sort o' look aroun' whah she could see free for a little ways.
Then, 'long comes the railroad train, an' biff!
Thah's Muley!"
"Plumb daid."
"Plumb daid."
"And she a good cow fer us fer fo'teen yeahs.
It don't look exactly right, now, does it?
It sho' don't." "It's a outrage, that's whut it is," said Sar' Ann Bowles.
"Well, we got the railroad," said her husband, tentatively.
"Yes, we got the railroad," said Sar' Ann Bowles, savagely, "and what yearthly good is hit?
Who wants any railroad?
Why, all the way here this mornin', I was skeered every foot of the way, afearin' that there ingine was goin' to come along an' kill us both!"
"Sho!
Sar' Ann," said her husband, with superiority.
"It ain't time for the train yit--leastwise I don't think it is."
He looked about uneasily.
"That's all right, Jim Bowles.
One of them ingines might come 'long most any time.
It might creep up behine you, then, biff!
Thah's Jim Bowles!
Whut use is the railroad, I'd like to know?
I wouldn't be caught a climbin' in one o' them thar kyars, not for big money.
Supposin' it run off the track?"
"Oh, well, now," said her husband, "maybe it don't, always."
"But supposin' it _did_?"
The front of the telescope turned toward him suddenly, and so burning was the focus this time that Mr. Bowles shifted his seat, and took refuge upon another board at the other end of the board-pile, out of range.
"Whut made you vote for this yere railroad?"
said Sarah Ann, following him mercilessly with the bonnet tube.
"We didn't want no railroad.
We never did have one, and we never ought to a-had one.
You listen to me;
that railroad is goin' to ruin this country.
Th' ain't a woman in these yeah bottoms but would be skeered to have a baby grow up in her house.
Supposin' you got a baby; nice little baby, never did harm no one.
You a-cookin' or somethin'--out to the smoke-house, like enough; baby alone for about two minutes.
Baby crawls out on to the railroad track.
Along comes the ingine, an' biff!
Thah's baby!"
Mrs. Bowles shed tears at this picture which she had conjured up, and even her less imaginative consort became visibly affected, so that for a moment he half-straightened up.
"Well, I dunno," said he, vaguely, and sighed softly; all of which irritated Mrs. Bowles to such an extent that she flounced suddenly around to get a better gaze upon her master.
In this movement, her foot struck the pail of milk which had been sitting near, and overturned it.
"Jinny," she called out, "you, Jinny!"
"Yassam," replied Jinny, from some place on the gallery.
"Come here," said Mrs. Bowles.
"Git me another pail o' melk.
I done spilled this one."
"Yassam," replied Jinny, and presently returned with the refilled vessel.
"Well, anyway," said Jim Bowles at length, rising and standing with hands in pockets, inside the edge of the shade line of the evergreens, "I heard that there was a man came down through yere a few days ago.
He was sort of taking count of the critters that done got killed by the railroad kyahs."
"That so?"
said Sarah Ann, somewhat mollified.
"I reckon so," said Jim Bowles.
"I 'lowed I'd ast Cunnel Blount here at the Big House, about that some time.
O' course it don't bring Muley back, but then--" "No, hit don't," said Sarah Ann, resuming her original position.
"And our little Sim, he just loved that Muley cow, little Sim, he did.
Say, Jim Bowles, do you heah me!"
--this with a sudden flirt of the sunbonnet in an agony of actual fear.
"Why, Jim Bowles, do you know that our little Sim might be a playin', out thah in front of ouah house, on to that railroad track, at this very minute?
S'pose, s'posen--'long comes that there railroad train?
Say, man, whut you standin' there in that there shade fer?
We got to go!
We got to git home!
Come right along this minute, er we may be too late."
And so, smitten by this sudden thought, they gathered themselves together as best they might and started toward the railroad for their return.
Even as they did so there appeared upon the northern horizon a wreath of smoke rising above the forest.
There was the far-off sound of a whistle, deadened by the heavy intervening vegetation; presently there puffed into view one of the railroad trains, still new upon this region.
Iconoclastic, modern, strenuous, it wabbled unevenly over the new-laid rails up to the station house, where it paused for a few moments ere it resumed its wheezing way to the southward.
The two visitors at the Big House gazed at it open-mouthed for a time, until all at once her former thought crossed the woman's mind.
She turned upon her husband.
"Thar hit goes!
Thar hit goes!"
she cried.
"Right on straight to our house!
Hit kaint miss hit!
And little Sim, he's sure to be playin' out thah on the track.
Oh, he's daid right this minute, he shorely is!"
Her speech exercised a certain force upon Jim Bowles.
He stepped on the faster, tripped upon a clod and stumbled, spilling half the milk from the pail.
"Thah, now," said he.
"Thah hit goes agin.
Done spilled the melk.
Well, hit's too far back to the house now fer mo'.
But, now, mabbe Sim wasn't playin' on the track."
"Mabbe he wasn't!"
said Sarah Ann scornfully.
"Why, _o' course_ he was."
"Well, if he was," said Jim Bowles, philosophically, "why, Sar' Ann, from whut I done notice about this here railroad train, why--it's too _late_ now."
He might perhaps have pursued this logical line of thought further, had not there occurred an incident which brought the conversation to a close.
Looking up, the two saw approaching them across the lawn, evidently coming from the little railway station, and doubtless descended from this very train, the alert, quick-stepping figure of a man evidently a stranger to the place.
Jim and Sarah Ann Bowles stepped to one side as he approached and lifted his hat with a pleasant smile.
"Good morning," said the stranger.
"It's a fine day, isn't it?
Can you tell me whether or not Colonel Blount is at home this morning?"
"Well, suh," said Jim Bowles, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "he is, an' he ain't. He's home, o' course; that is, he hain't gone away no whah, to co'te er nothin'.
But then ag'in he's out huntin', gone after b'ah.
I
reckon he's likely to be in 'most any day now."
"'Most any day?"
"Yessah.
You better go on up to the house."
"Thank you," said the stranger.
"I am very much obliged to you, indeed.
I believe I'll wait here for just a little while.
Good morning, sir.
Good morning, madam."
He turned and walked slowly up the path toward the house, as the others pursued their way to the railroad track, down which they presently were plodding on their homeward journey.
There was at least a little milk left in the pail when finally they reached their small log cabin, with its yard full of pigs and chickens.
Eagerly they scanned the sides of the railway embankment as they drew near, looking for signs of what they feared to see.
One need not describe the fierce joy with which Sarah Ann Bowles fell upon little Sim, who was presently discovered, safe and dirty, knocking about on the kitchen floor in abundant company of puppies, cats and chickens.
"I knowed he would be killed," said Sarah Ann.
"But he _hain't_," said her husband, triumphantly.
And for one time in their married life there seemed to be no possible way in which she might contradict him, which fact for her constituted a situation somewhat difficult.
"Well, it hain't yore fault ef he hain't," said she at length.
The new-comer at the Big House was a well-looking figure enough as he advanced up the path toward the white-pillared galleries.
In height just above middle stature, and of rather spare habit of body, alert, compact and vigorous, he carried himself with a self-respect redeemed from aggressiveness by an open candor of face and the pleasant forthright gaze of a kindly blue-gray eye.
In spite of a certain gravity of mien, his eyes seemed wont to smile upon occasions, as witnessed divers little wrinkles at the corners.
A hurried observer might have guessed his age within ten years, but might have been wrong upon either side, and might have had an equal difficulty in classifying his residence or occupation.
It was evident that he was not ill at ease in this environment; for as he met coming around the corner an old colored man, who, with a rag in one hand and a bottle in the other, seemed intent upon some errand at the dog kennel beyond, he paused not in query or salutation, but tossed his umbrella to the servant and at the same time handed him his traveling-bag.
"Take care of these, Bill," said he.
Bill, for that was indeed his name, placed the bag and umbrella upon a gallery floor, and with the air of owning the place himself, invited the visitor to enter.
"The Cunnel's not to home, suh," said Bill.
"But you better come in and sed-down.
I'll go call the folks."
"Never mind," said the visitor.
"I reckon I'll just walk around a little outside.
I hear Colonel Blount is off on a bear hunt."
"Yassah," said Bill.
"An' when he goes he mostly gets b'ah.
I'm right 'spondent dis time, though, 'deed I is, suh."
"What's the matter?"
"Why, you see, suh," replied Bill, leaning comfortably back against a gallery post.
"It's dis-a-way.
I'm just gwine out to fix up Old Hec's foot.
He's ouah bestest b'ah dog, but he got so blame biggoty, las' time he was out, stuck his foot right intoe a ba'h's mouth.
Now, Hec's lef' home, an' me lef' home to 'ten' to Hec.
How kin Cunnel Blount git any b'ah widout me an' Hec along?
I'se right 'spondent, dat's whut I is."
"Well, now, that's too bad," said the stranger, with a smile.
"Too bad?
I reckon it sho' is.
Fer, if Cunnel Blount don't get no b'ah--look out den, _I_ kin tell you."
"Gets his dander up, eh?"
"Dandah--dandah!
You know him?
Th' ain't no better boss, but ef he goes out huntin' b'ah and don't get no _b'ah_--why, den dey ain't no reason gwine _do_ foh him.
"Now, when you see Cunnel Blount come home, he'll come up along dat lane, him an' de dogs, an' dem no 'count niggers he done took 'long with him; an' when he gits up to whah de lane crosses de railroad track, ef he come' ridin' 'long easy like, now an' den tootin' his hawn to sort o' let us know he's a-comin'--ef he do dat-a-way, dat's all right,--dat's all right."
Here the garrulous old servant shook his head.
"But ef he don't--well den--" "That's bad, if he doesn't, eh?"
"Yessah.
Ef he don' come a-blowin' an' ef he _do_ come _a-singin_', den look out!
I allus did notice dat ef Cunnel Blount 'gins to sing 'ligious hymns, somethin's wrong, and somethin' gwine ter drap.
He hain't right easy ter git 'long wif when he's a-singin'.
But if you'll 'scuse me, suh, I got ter take care o' Hec.
Jest make yourself to home, suh,--anyways you like."
The visitor contented himself with wandering about the yard, until at length he seated himself on the board-pile beneath the evergreen trees, and so sank into an idle reverie, his chin in his hand, and his eyes staring out across the wide field.
He sat thus for some time, and the sun was beginning to encroach upon his refuge, when suddenly he was aroused by the faint and far-off sound of a hunting-horn.
That the listener distinguished it at such a distance might have argued that he himself had known hound and saddle in his day; yet he readily caught the note of the short hunting-horn universally used by the Southern hunters, and recognized the assembly call for the hunting-pack.
As it came near, all the dogs in the kennel yards heard it and raged to escape from their confinement.
Old Bill came hobbling around the corner.
Steps were heard on the gallery.
The visitor's face showed a slight uneasiness as he caught a glance of a certain spot now suddenly made alive by the flutter of a soft gown and the flash of a bunch of scarlet ribbons.
Thither he gazed as directly as he might under these circumstances, but the girl was gone before he had opportunity even to rise and remove his hat.
"That's her.
That's Miss Lady," said Bill to his new friend, in a low voice.
"Han'somest gal in the hull Delta.
They'll all be right glad ter see the Cunnel back.
He's got a b'ah shore, fer he's comin' a-blowin'."
Bill's joy was not long-lived, for even as the little cavalcade came in view, a tall figure on a chestnut hunting horse riding well in advance, certain colored stragglers coming behind, and the party-colored pack trotting or limping along on all sides, the music of the summoning horn suddenly ceased.
Looking neither to the right nor to the left, the leader of the hunt rode on up the lane, sitting loose and careless in the saddle, his right hand steadying a short rifle across the saddle front.
He rode thus until presently those at the Big House heard, softly rising on the morning air, the chant of an old church hymn: "On Jordan's strand I'll take my stand, An-n-n--" "Oh, Lawd," exclaimed Bill.
"Dat's his very wustest chune!"
--saying which he dodged around the corner of the house.
Turning in from the lane at the yard gate, Colonel Calvin Blount and his retinue rode close up to the side door of the plantation house; but even here the master vouchsafed no salutation to those who awaited his coming.
He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, lean and muscular; yet so far from being thin and dark, he was spare rather from physical exercise than through gaunt habit of body; his complexion was ruddy and sun-colored, and the long mustache hanging across his jaws showed a deep mahogany-red.
Western ranchman one might have called him, rather than Southern planter.
Scotch-Irish, generations back, perhaps, yet Southern always, and by birthright American, he might have been a war-lord of another land and day.
No feudal baron ever dismounted with more assuredness at his own hall, to toss careless rein to a retainer.
He stood now, tall and straight, a trifle rough-looking in his careless planter's dress, but every inch the master.
A slight frown puckered up his forehead, giving to his face an added hint of sternness.
Colonel Blount busied himself with directions as to the horses and dogs.
The latter came straggling along in groups or pairs or singly, some of them hobbling on three legs, many showing bitter wounds.
The chase of the great bear had proved stern pastime for them.
Of half a hundred hounds which had started, not two-thirds were back again, and many of these would be unfit for days for the resumption of their savage trade.
None the less, as the master sounded again, loud and clear, the call for the assembly, all the dogs about the place, young and old, homekeepers and warriors, came pouring in with heads uplifted, each pealing out his sweet and mournful music.
Blount spoke to dozens of them, calling each by its proper name.
In the confusion of the disbandment of the hunt, the master of the Big House had as yet hardly had time to look about him, but now, as the conclave scattered he found himself alone, and turning discovered the occupant of the board-pile, who arose and advanced, offering his hand.
"This is Colonel Blount, I presume," said he.
"Yes, sir, that's my name.
I beg your pardon, I'm sure, but I didn't know you were there.
Come right on into the house and sit down, sir.
Now, your name was--?"
"Eddring," said the new-comer.
"John Eddring.
I am just down on the morning's train from the city."
"I'm right glad to see you, Mr. Eddring," said Colonel Blount, extending his hand.
The two, without plan, wandered over toward the shade of the evergreen, and presently seated themselves at the board-pile.
"Well, Colonel Blount," said the visitor, "I reckon you must have had a good hunt."
"Yes, sir, there ain't a ba'h in the Delta can get away from those dogs.
We run this fellow straight on end for ten miles; put him across the river twice, and all around the Black Bayou, but the dogs kept him hot all the time, I'm telling you, for more than five miles through the cane beyond the bayou."
"Who got the shot, Colonel?"
asked Eddring--a question apparently most unwelcome.
"Well, I ought to have had it," said Blount, with a frown of displeasure.
"The fact is, I did take a flying chance from horseback, when the ba'h ran by in the cane half a mile back of where they killed him.
Somehow I must have missed.
But man!
you ought to have heard that pack for two hours through the woods.
It certainly would have raised your hair straight up.
You ever hunt ba'h, sir?"
