The Crossing | Page 2

of which I write, my
early childhood, he was a frontiersman and hunter. I can see him now,
with his hunting shirt and leggings and moccasins; his powder horn,
engraved with wondrous scenes; his bullet pouch and tomahawk and
hunting knife. He was a tall, lean man with a strange, sad face. And he
talked little save when he drank too many "horns," as they were called
in that country. These lapses of my father's were a perpetual source of
wonder to me,--and, I must say, of delight. They occurred only when a
passing traveller who hit his fancy chanced that way, or, what was
almost as rare, a neighbor. Many a winter night I have lain awake under
the skins, listening to a flow of language that held me spellbound,
though I understood scarce a word of it.
"Virtuous and vicious every man must be, Few in the extreme, but all
in a degree."
The chance neighbor or traveller was no less struck with wonder. And
many the time have I heard the query, at the Cross-Roads and
elsewhere, "Whar Alec Trimble got his larnin'?"
The truth is, my father was an object of suspicion to the frontiersmen.
Even as a child I knew this, and resented it. He had brought me up in
solitude, and I was old for my age, learned in some things far beyond
my years, and ignorant of others I should have known. I loved the man
passionately. In the long winter evenings, when the howl of wolves and
"painters" rose as the wind lulled, he taught me to read from the Bible
and the "Pilgrim's Progress." I can see his long, slim fingers on the page.
They seemed but ill fitted for the life he led.
The love of rhythmic language was somehow born into me, and many's
the time I have held watch in the cabin day and night while my father

was away on his hunts, spelling out the verses that have since become
part of my life.
As I grew older I went with him into the mountains, often on his back;
and spent the nights in open camp with my little moccasins drying at
the blaze. So I learned to skin a bear, and fleece off the fat for oil with
my hunting knife; and cure a deerskin and follow a trail. At seven I
even shot the long rifle, with a rest. I learned to endure cold and hunger
and fatigue and to walk in silence over the mountains, my father never
saying a word for days at a spell. And often, when he opened his mouth,
it would be to recite a verse of Pope's in a way that moved me strangely.
For a poem is not a poem unless it be well spoken.
In the hot days of summer, over against the dark forest the bright green
of our little patch of Indian corn rippled in the wind. And towards night
I would often sit watching the deep blue of the mountain wall and
dream of the mysteries of the land that lay beyond. And by chance, one
evening as I sat thus, my father reading in the twilight, a man stood
before us. So silently had he come up the path leading from the brook
that we had not heard him. Presently my father looked up from his
book, but did not rise. As for me, I had been staring for some time in
astonishment, for he was a better-looking man than I had ever seen. He
wore a deerskin hunting shirt dyed black, but, in place of a coonskin
cap with the tail hanging down, a hat. His long rifle rested on the
ground, and he held a roan horse by the bridle.
"Howdy, neighbor?" said he.
I recall a fear that my father would not fancy him. In such cases he
would give a stranger food, and leave him to himself. My father's
whims were past understanding. But he got up.
"Good evening," said he.
The visitor looked a little surprised, as I had seen many do, at my
father's accent.
"Neighbor," said he, "kin you keep me over night?"

"Come in," said my father.
We sat down to our supper of corn and beans and venison, of all of
which our guest ate sparingly. He, too, was a silent man, and scarcely a
word was spoken during the meal. Several times he looked at me with
such a kindly expression in his blue eyes, a trace of a smile around his
broad mouth, that I wished he might stay with us always. But once,
when my father said something about Indians, the eyes grew hard as
flint. It was then I remarked, with a boy's wonder, that despite his dark
hair he had yellow