CHAPTER XII

BACK TO THE OLD HOME AND THE HILLS

Back to the noisy city and to hard work went Paul Waffington. He turned over to the paper on his desk and read the paragraph again. It was the column of local items from Tusculum College, of the week preceding the commencement of that institution that was absorbing his attention in the paper just now.

“Mr. L. Texas won the tennis pennant,” he read, “who in turn in a beautiful little ceremony presented it to his partner, Miss Gena Filson.” Still a little further down the column another paragraph attracted his attention. The paragraph ended by saying: “It was a beautiful affair. Those who stood together were ---- and Miss Gena Filson and Mr. L. Texas.” He folded the paper and turned again to his work, with the firm belief in his heart that the man who tried for the hand of Gena Filson had an aggressive and formidable rival.

* * * * *

The days following the end of the college year were inspiring ones for the humble folks of the village among the hills--Blood Camp. Slade Pemberton had duly harnessed his mules into the wagon, driven down to the little station and met the new collegian and her trunk.

But would she be changed much? was the question that was upon the lips of all Blood Camp. There were free expressions all around, that she would return from college “stuck up.” And what was still another ghost, that overshadowed every heart in the village, was the avowal of Fen Green and his friends that she would certainly return “proud.” But at length the homecoming was over, and the new college girl returned to the cabin upon the mountainside with Emeline Hobbs again acting as her housekeeper.

The first few days after her return the little cabin was overflowing with callers. Aged women; mothers with bawling babies upon their hips, old men and all, came to see and pay their respects to Gena Filson.

“Jist come up to see ye and take a good look at ye an’ say howdy,” was the unanimous greeting of all.

“Yes, she’s changed. Grow’d a lot. Prettier, too! an’ not a bit stuck up,” was the final verdict of all.

But there was one certain individual who had been a little slow in going to the cabin to visit its mistress since she had returned, and that one was Boaz Honeycutt. Since her return, Boaz Honeycutt had been quick to perceive the difference in the dress of Gena Filson and his own ragged clothes. The clothes of Gena Filson were better now, and alas! his own--rags they had always been--were growing worse with the passing years.

However, he had a few times ventured up to the cabin and had been each time cordially received. But each succeeding time that he went he was the more convinced that there was something--something that he could not explain--fixing a gulf between their friendship. It bruised and crushed his boy heart, lacerated it and left it bleeding and sore. The power of it bore down upon him with force, and left his face the picture of despair. The only other friend that he cherished next to Gena Filson was Paul Waffington. And now, at the thought of his name, his broken little heart went out over the high mountain’s fastnesses towards the far-away city and yearned for his comfort.

Lately he had taken his position upon the grave-yard hill to watch.

From his position on the grass plot he could command both a view of the store and of the road that led into the gorge, or “out into the big world som’ers,” as Emeline Hobbs had one day told him. Sometimes he would get up from his place on the grass plot, and as a diversion pass in at the little wicker gate and busied himself plucking the weeds from the mounds of two certain graves there. Then perchance, if shouts came up from the store a hundred yards away, that told of an extra good story that was being told there by one of “the boys,” he went down and heard it through only to return at length and resume his watch.

He had gathered up in his mind fragments of conversation that he had had with Gena Filson and Paul Waffington, about college; the city with its alluring charms, its street cars, steam trains and all. He sniffed it into his nostrils again, and it burnt his soul to know more about the big world beyond the hills.

It was growing late in the afternoon of Saturday, July 2, 1904. Boaz Honeycutt lay in his accustomed place on the knoll, stretched at full length in the grass with his hands in his palms, spelling out the words on a paper before him. Yes, Boaz Honeycutt had a father, a man who was used to hard toil, a lumberman, a man who felled the trees and by the hardest toil dragged them to a distant market. But there were seven other mouths to feed in the little shack that Boaz Honeycutt called home, and hence gross neglect had been the lot of the oldest child Boaz. The boy’s school days had been of sufficient length to allow him to hardly read and no longer.

“Congress, President Roosevelt, tariff,” he laboriously spelled out. “Shucks! I never seed nothin’ like none of them things! Papers ain’t fit fur nothin’ ’cept to wrap calico in nohow,” he concluded, brushing aside the paper and laying his head down in the fresh green grass.

The rider emerged from the gorge, rode up the little hill slowly and with little noise.

“Hello! Boaz, is that you?” called out Paul Waffington.

“Well, I wisht I may drap ded!” shouted the boy, jumping up into the air with delight. He hurriedly made a cross in the grass with his right foot, spat into the center of it five times, jumped up into the air again and bounded towards Waffington.

“By giggers, I’m glad to see ye. Git down an’ lemme take your hoss an’ put ’im up an’ feed ’im. When all uv ’em find out your here they’ll shore be glad, I bet. The Sunday-skule’s agoin’. Emeline’s well, Slade’s sellin’ more goods than he ever did--no, I’ll put ’im up myself--ten ears of corn and hay? Well, I’ll do it right, by giggers I will.”

On Sunday morning the little cracked bell on the school-house rang out in wheezen tones, warning the people that the Sunday-school would begin an hour earlier than was the custom. The founder of the Sunday-school was to be present, and Emeline Hobbs wanted to get a fair chance to show off the gracious qualities of the school that by persistent effort she had built up. She was indeed proud of her Sunday-school--boldly so--since Gena Filson had returned from college and had been elected vice-president or assistant superintendent and teacher of the intermediate class.

At the appointed time, Emeline Hobbs took her place at the front of the room, balanced herself on the wooden peg, and looked at the little audience with a grave countenance. Now and then she gave a quick jerk at the white, stiff collar that was fast cutting off circulation from her neck. Then she hopped over and arranged the “little class” on the left side of the room. Then the “big class” in the middle of the room. After settling the “intermedium class” on the right, she made another final round to see that all was ready to begin.

“Sh----s! Sh----! You Emmy! Set down, Boaz! Git ready, Carrie!” she made the entire command in a single breath.

“Turn to ‘Over There’ in your song-books. Git ready!” Then with a movement of both arms she led off. She hopped over in front of the “big class” and stood beating the air with her arms and thumping the floor with her wooden peg, endeavoring to hurry up those who were miserably dragging behind. Then she swung over and spurred up the “little class” who were piping away in some five or six different keys. Then back to the center of the room she went, and they all sang. The chorus swelled up and fairly lifted the roof, and the blend of harmony was about the same as the blending of kerosene and water.

Far back in the rear two or three good mothers, with crying babies swinging to and fro on their knees, were piping away in falsetto voices, coming out at least a line behind all the others. But it was singing. It was music--real worship, from the very bottom of hearts of Blood Camp--and methinks He who controls the destinies of all must have heard.

That day’s session of the Sunday-school ended in a blaze of glory with Emeline Hobbs, and she went back to the cabin on the side of the mighty Snake with her heart loving everybody--even Boaz Honeycutt was not forgotten.

But the glorious Fourth was drawing near, and preparations were under way for the picnic at Blowing Rock. Blood Camp did not understand in its fullest meaning the day we celebrate. They had heard little indeed of the great cities with their miles of bunting and the flag that we so dearly love floating from every window and door on July the Fourth. Of the fireworks; the great military pageants and the patriotic speeches from ocean to ocean, they knew little. But Paul Waffington had fittingly made mention of it in the Sunday-school, and the outcome of his remarks was the proposed picnic to Blowing Rock on the glorious Fourth.

The morning of the Fourth of July, 1904, was indeed glorious! The early sun had found the lunch ready and tucked away in baskets and pushed back under the seats in Slade Pemberton’s wagon. There were seats in the wagon for a party of eight. Fen Green sat in the driver’s place with Boaz Honeycutt and the three Allisons occupying the next two seats. Paul Waffington assisted Gena Filson into the rear seat and was himself seated with her, thereby leaving but one unoccupied seat in the wagon, and that by the side of Fen Green, the driver.

“Attention everybody!” cried Waffington, standing up in the wagon. “Miss Hobbs is the chaperon of this party, and rightly belongs to her the first seat by the driver.” Whereupon Emeline Hobbs allowed herself to be assisted to the side of Fen Green.

The big, gray mules fairly flew over the rocks, and the happy party laughed, babbled and sang snatches of song as they went. The way led under the tall trees, where the shade was deep. Then, coming out on the spur of the mountain, the road wound in and out of shallow ravines in beautiful turns. Some put out their hands and plucked rhododendron sprays as they bowled along. Stopping before a large clump of rhododendrons that were in full bloom,[A] they wove garlands of the flowers, decorated the bridles and harness and resumed their journey. Paul Waffington plucked a single daisy and roguishly fastened it in the hat of Gena Filson, and for his trouble she blushed sweetly and smiled upon him. On and on they went through the crisp morning air, finally turning into the neighboring village of Boone.

Yes, it was really Boone! a town named in honor of Daniel Boone. Here within its borders was the very spot where the great pioneer and man of iron nerve had pitched his camp, brought down the needed game with his rifle from the wilderness about him, deftly prepared his evening meal, and went to his sleep in the midst of the red man’s country, with little apparent fear.

“Three cheers for Daniel Boone!” cried Waffington, and they were given with a will as they cleared the village.

A long and beautiful stretch of mountain road was now before them. Acres and acres of full-blooming rhododendrons lent beauty and color to the scene. On the left water, crystal clear, tumbled down over the rocks and fell into pebbled bottomed pools below. The cool morning breezes coming down from the mountaintops laden with the invigorating smell of the balsam brought shouts of joy from all.

“Oh my everlastin’ sweetterbacker!” yelled Boaz Honeycutt, going over the side of the wagon and disappearing in the direction from which they had just come.

“What’s the matter!” all cried excitedly and in the same breath. Paul Waffington was climbing out of the wagon to make investigation when Boaz was seen coming back at a fast trot.

“Why, Boaz, what is the matter?” together all cried again.

“Oh nothin’,” replied the boy climbing into his seat. “But you doan’t git Boaz Honeycutt to pass no forks of the road ’thout crossin’ an’ spitten’. No sire--ee! It’s bad luck. Onst I had a stone-bruise an’ a sore toe fur two year, summer an’ winter, ’account not crossin’ an’ spitten’ when passin’ the forks of a road. No sire--ee, you needn’t expect to see Boaz Honeycutt fail to cross an’ spit whin he comes to the forks of the road no more’n you ’spect to see a jay-bird awalkin’ on crutches.”

The next turn of the road brought the party out into the open again. The hot July sun came down, and Emeline Hobbs moved uneasily in her seat.

“Gee, but I’m dry!” she finally bawled out.

“What did you say, Miss Hobbs?” inquired Paul Waffington.

“I’m dry,” she again bawled out at him over her shoulder. “I salted the gravy too much this mornin’. Gee, but I’m dry--want water,” she finished.

“Oh! You’re thirsty. Well, here is a house, and a spring too. We shall all have some water here,” was Waffington’s reply.

Fen Green, the driver, brought the wagon to a stand. Paul Waffington got out of the wagon, jumped the fence and ran down the little path in the direction of the spring.

“Good morning, madam,” he said as he lifted his hat and bowed to the lady standing with her pailful of water near the spring.

“Does this spring belong to you, madam?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if you please, madam, we would like to get some water for the ladies of our party.”

“All right,” came the reply. “There’s a gourd hangin’ up there on that stick, you can take ’em some water in it, I guess.”

“Fine spring you have here, fine farm, too, and plenty of everything growing on it too. Your husband must be a great worker, madam,” he ventured to say.

“He’s dead,” she simply said. “He died las’ month, an’ left me and the children here to do everything.”

“Too bad, too bad!” he said as he looked at her in a kind and benevolent way.

“Yes, I wouldn’t have minded it much,” she called out after him as he went up to the road, “if it ’ed a happened atter the crops wuz gathered.”

The little company in the wagon had heard what the woman had said, and giggled. Paul Waffington saved his own face with the blowing of his nose in his handkerchief. But Boaz Honeycutt swelled up to the danger line, exploded, and said:

“Well, I wisht I may die!”