A Son of the Hills | Page 3

to take care of us--mind your ways, lad."
Sandy gave Mary's handsome smiling face one quick look, then fled down the hill, across the bottom pasture and Branch, up on the farther side to the woods--his sanctury and haven, and there, lifting his eyes and little clenched fists, he moaned over and over:
"Curse her! curse her! I hate her!"
He had never hated before; never cursed, but at that moment he cursed that which he hated.
It was early spring then, and under the tall, dark trees the dogwood bushes were in full bloom. Sandy was touched, always, by beauty, and in his excited state he thought in that desperate hour that the dogwood blossoms were like stars under a stormy cloud. Heaven seemed reaching down to him, and closing him in--his thoughts were tinged by Martin's religious outbursts and the native superstition of the hills. It was then and there that the child first knew he must go away! The call was distinct and compelling--he must go away! And from that hour he made preparation. At first the effort was small and pitiful. He began to gather whatever Nature provided freely, and turn it into money. With shrewd perception he realized he must overcome his deadly shyness and carry his wares farther than The Hollow if he wished to achieve that upon which he was bent. The Hollow people were poor; The Forge people would give food and clothing for berries and sassafras roots; but Sandy demanded money or that which could be exchanged for money, and so he travelled far with his basket of fragrant berries or shining nuts and in time he found himself at the Waldens' back door facing a tall black woman, in turban and kerchief, with the child Cynthia beside her.
"Do you-all want to buy eight quarts of wild strawberries?" he asked in that low fine voice of his.
"Buy?" demanded Lily Ivy scornfully. "Miss Cyn, honey, go fotch Miss Ann and tell her one ob dem Morleys is here axing us-all to buy his berries, and him in shreds and tatters!"
Presently Cynthia returned with her aunt. Miss Walden was then sixty, but she looked seventy-five at least; she was a stern, detached woman who dealt with things individually and as she could--she never sought to comprehend that which was not writ large and clear. She was not a dull nor an ignorant woman, but she had been carried on the sluggish current of life with small effort or resistance. She did her task and made no demands.
"So you're Morley's boy?" she asked curiously; she had still the interest of the great lady for her dependents. The Morleys had become long since "poor whites," but Ann Walden knew their traditions. The family had slunk into hiding ever since Martin had taken the Woman Mary into his cabin, and Miss Walden was surprised and aroused to find one of them coming to the surface at her back door with so unusual a request as Cynthia had repeated.
"Yes, ma'am;" Sandy replied, his strange eyes fixed upon the calm old face.
"And what do you want?"
"I want to sell eight quarts of strawberries, ma'am. They are five cents a quart; that's what they are giving down to The Forge."
"Then why don't you take them to The Forge?"
"The heat, ma'am, will wilt them. They are right fresh now--I thought I'd give you-all the first chance."
"And you want money for the berries--and you in rags and starved, I warrant?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Ann Walden grew more interested.
"Would you--take eggs for them?" she asked; "eggs are bringing twenty cents a dozen now."
"Yes, ma'am."
"How do I know you are honest? How do I know the basket isn't stuffed with leaves in the bottom? What's your name?"
"Sandy, ma'am. And please, ma'am, you can measure the berries."
"Ivy, bring the quart measure, and the earthen bowl."
When the implements were brought, Miss Walden took things in her own hands, while Ivy, with the disdain of the old family black servant for the poor white, stood by like an avenging Fate. The child Cynthia was all a-tremble. She was young, lovely, and vital. Youth took up arms for youth, and watched the outcome with jealous and anxious eyes.
"One, two, three----" the rich, fragrant fruit fell into the bowl with luscious, soft thuds; the red juice oozed out like fresh blood.
"Five, six, seven--eight, and----"
"A lot left over, Aunt Ann, counting dents in the measure and all."
It was Cynthia who spoke, and her big, gray eyes were dancing in triumph.
"More'n eight quarts, Aunt Ann."
"Umph!" ejaculated Ivy.
"Give the boy two dozen eggs and three over," commanded Miss Walden. "Take them to Tod Greeley at the post office and tell him they are Walden eggs."
After Sandy had departed Ivy aired her views.
"I reckon we-all better make jam of dem berries right soon. I clar I allers 'spect to