A Knight of the Cumberland | Page 5

to make sure of the way, and thus the
ridiculous descent was made with those girls in high spirits behind.
Indeed, the darker, rockier, steeper it got, the more they shrieked from
pure joy--but I was anything than happy. It was dangerous. I didn't
know the cliffs and high rocks we might skirt and an unlucky guidance
might land us in the creek-bed far down. But the blessed stars came out,
the moon peered over a farther mountain and on the last spur there was
the gray horse browsing in the path--and the sound of running water not
far below. Fortunately on the gray horse were the saddle-bags of the
chattering infants who thought the whole thing a mighty lark. We
reached the running water, struck a flock of geese and knew, in
consequence, that humanity was somewhere near. A few turns of the
creek and a beacon light shone below. The pales of a picket fence, the
cheering outlines of a log-cabin came in view and at a peaked gate I
shouted:
``Hello!''
You enter no mountaineer's yard without that announcing cry. It was
mediaeval, the Blight said, positively--two lorn damsels, a benighted
knight partially stripped of his armor by bush and sharp-edged rock, a

gray palfrey (she didn't mention the impatient asses that had turned
homeward) and she wished I had a horn to wind. I wanted a ``horn''
badly enough --but it was not the kind men wind. By and by we got a
response:
``Hello!'' was the answer, as an opened door let out into the yard a
broad band of light. Could we stay all night? The voice replied that the
owner would see ``Pap.'' ``Pap'' seemed willing, and the boy opened the
gate and into the house went the Blight and the little sister. Shortly, I
followed.
There, all in one room, lighted by a huge wood-fire, rafters above,
puncheon floor beneath--cane-bottomed chairs and two beds the only
furniture-``pap,'' barefooted, the old mother in the chimney- corner with
a pipe, strings of red pepper- pods, beans and herbs hanging around and
above, a married daughter with a child at her breast, two or three
children with yellow hair and bare feet all looking with all their eyes at
the two visitors who had dropped upon them from another world. The
Blight's eyes were brighter than usual--that was the only sign she gave
that she was not in her own drawing- room. Apparently she saw
nothing strange or unusual even, but there was really nothing that she
did not see or hear and absorb, as few others than the Blight can.
Straightway, the old woman knocked the ashes out of her pipe.
``I reckon you hain't had nothin' to eat,'' she said and disappeared. The
old man asked questions, the young mother rocked her baby on her
knees, the children got less shy and drew near the fireplace, the Blight
and the little sister exchanged a furtive smile and the contrast of the
extremes in American civilization, as shown in that little cabin,
interested me mightily.
``Yer snack's ready,'' said the old woman. The old man carried the
chairs into the kitchen, and when I followed the girls were seated. The
chairs were so low that their chins came barely over their plates, and
demure and serious as they were they surely looked most comical.
There was the usual bacon and corn-bread and potatoes and sour milk,
and the two girls struggled with the rude fare nobly.

After supper I joined the old man and the old woman with a
pipe--exchanging my tobacco for their long green with more
satisfaction probably to me than to them, for the long green was good,
and strong and fragrant.
The old woman asked the Blight and the little sister many questions
and they, in turn, showed great interest in the baby in arms, whereat the
eighteen-year-old mother blushed and looked greatly pleased.
``You got mighty purty black eyes,'' said the old woman to the Blight,
and not to slight the little sister she added, `` An' you got mighty purty
teeth.''
The Blight showed hers in a radiant smile and the old woman turned
back to her.
``Oh, you've got both,'' she said and she shook her head, as though she
were thinking of the damage they had done. It was my time now--to ask
questions.
They didn't have many amusements on that creek, I discovered--and no
dances. Sometimes the boys went coon-hunting and there were
corn-shuckings, house-raisings and quilting-parties.
``Does anybody round here play the banjo?''
``None o' my boys,'' said the old woman, ``but Tom Green's son down
the creek --he follers pickin' the banjo a leetle.'' ``Follows pickin' ''--the
Blight did not miss that phrase.
``What do you foller fer a livin'?'' the old man asked me