A Son of the Hills | Page 3

in an unguarded hour and one
bleak, dreary springtime he met the Woman Mary and--let go! That
was when Sandy was seven. He brought Mary to the cabin and almost
shamefacedly explained, to the wondering boy, his act.
"Son, she's come 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