In Happy Valley | Page 6

him one Jeb
Mullins, a stooping, gray old man, was stirring something in a great
brass kettle. A tin cup was going the round of three men squatting near.
On a log two men were playing with greasy cards, and near them
another lay in drunken sleep. The boy grinned, slid down through the
bushes, and, deepening his voice all he could, shouted:
"Throw up yo' hands!"
The old man flattened behind the big kettle with his pistol out. One of
the four men leaped for a tree--the others shot up their hands. The
card-players rolled over the bank near them, with no thought of where
they would land, and the drunken man slept on. The boy laughed
loudly.
"Don't shoot!" he cried, and he came through the bushes jeering. The
men at the still dropped their hands and looked sheepish and then angry,
as did the card-players, whose faces reappeared over the edge of the
bank. But the old man and the young one behind the tree, who alone
had got ready to fight, joined in with the boy, and the others had to look
sheepish again.
"Come on, Chris!" said the old moonshiner, dipping the cup into the
white liquor and handing it forth full, "Hit's on me."
Christmas is "new Christmas" in Happy Valley. The women give scant
heed to it, and to the men it means "a jug of liquor, a pistol in each
hand, and a galloping nag." There had been target-shooting at Uncle
Jerry's mill to see who should drink old Jeb Mullins's moonshine and
who should smell, and so good was the marksmanship that nobody
went without his dram. The carousing, dancing, and fighting were

about all over, and now, twelve days later, it was the dawn of "old
Christmas," and St. Hilda sat on the porch of her Mission school alone.
The old folks of Happy Valley pay puritan heed to "old Christmas."
They eat cold food and preserve a solemn demeanor on that day, and
they have the pretty legend that at midnight the elders bloom and the
beasts of the field and the cattle in the barn kneel, lowing and moaning.
The sun was just rising and the day was mild, for a curious warm spell,
not uncommon in the hills, had come to Happy Valley. Already singing
little workers were "toting rocks" from St. Hilda's garden, corn-field,
and vineyard, for it was Monday, and every Monday they
gathered--boys and girls--from creek and hillside, to help her as
volunteers. Far up the road she heard among them taunting laughter and
jeers, and she rose quickly. A loud oath shocked the air, and she saw a
boy chasing one of the workers up the vineyard hill. She saw the
pursuer raise his hand and fall, just as he was about to hurl a stone.
Then there were more laughter and jeers, and the fallen boy picked
himself up heavily and started down the road toward her--staggering.
On he came staggering, and when he stood swaying before her there
was no shocked horror in her face--only pity and sorrow.
"Oh, Chris, Chris!" she said sadly. The boy neither spoke nor lifted his
eyes, and she led him up-stairs and put him to bed. All day he slept in a
stupor, and it was near sunset when he came down, pale, shamed, and
silent. There were several children in the porch.
"Come, Chris!" St. Hilda said, and he followed her down to the edge of
the creek, where she sat down on a log and he stood with hanging head
before her.
"Chris," she said, "we'll have a plain talk now. This is the fourth time
you've been"--the word came with difficulty--"drunk."
"Yes'm."
"I've sent you away three times, and three times I've let you come back.
I let you come back after new Christmas, only twelve days ago."
"Yes'm."

"You can't keep your word."
"No'm."
"I don't know what to do now, so I'm going to ask you."
She paused and Chris was silent, but he was thinking, and she waited.
Presently he looked straight into her eyes, still silent.
"What do you think I'd better do?" she insisted.
"I reckon you got to whoop me, Miss Hildy."
"But you know I can't whip you, Chris. I never whip anybody."
Several times a child had offered to whip himself, had done so, and she
wondered whether the boy would propose that, but he repeated,
obstinately and hopelessly:
"You got to whoop me."
"I won't--I can't." Then an idea came. "Your mother will have to whip
you."
Chris shook his head and was silent. He was not on good terms with his
mother. It was a current belief that she had "put pizen in his daddy's
liquer." She had then married a man younger than