The Soldier of the Valley | Page 3

"Nonsense," retorted Isaac. "You're allus mixin' dates, Henery. You're
thinkin' of Tip Pulsifer's last baby. He come July six, for don't you
mind how they called him Cevery out of pity and generosity for the
Spayniards? Piney's spring-bed arrived the same day and on the same
stage as brung us the news of Mark here havin' his left leg shot off."
"Mebbe--mebbe--mebbe," muttered Henry, shaking his head dubiously.
"It certainly do beat all how things happens all at once in this world.
Come to think of it, the wery next day six of my sheep was killed by
dogs."
"It's good you're gittin' your dates cleared," snapped old Bolum. "On
history, Henery Holmes, you are the worst."
Henry retorted with an angry protest against the indictment, declaring
that he was studying history when Bolum was being nourished on "soft
food." That was true. Isaac admitted it frankly. He wasn't his mother's

keeper, that he could regulate his own birthday. Had that been in his
power he would certainly have set it a half century earlier or later to
avoid being constantly annoyed by the "onreasonablest argeyments"
Six Stars had ever heard. This made old Holmes smile softly, and he
turned and winked at me. The one thing he had ever been thankful for,
he said, was that his life had fallen with that of Isaac Bolum. Whenever
he done wrong; whenever the consciousness of sin was upon him and
he needed the chastisin' rod, he just went to the store and set and
listened to Ike. To this Isaac retorted that it was a wonder the rod had
not worn out long ago; it was pleasing to know, at least, that he was
made of tough old hickory. Henry admitted this to be a "good 'un" on
him--an unusual one, considering the source--but that did not settle the
exact date of the arrival of Piney Martin's spring-bed.
It was time for me to protest that it mattered little whether the event
occurred on July sixth or a week later, since what really interested me
was the question as to who was the owner of the third of these luxuries.
Isaac's serious, self-conscious look answered me, but I pressed the
inquiry to give him an opportunity to sing the praises of this newest of
his household gods. Mr. Bolum's pleasure was evident. Once launched
into an account of the comfort of springs as compared to a straw-tick on
ropes, he would have monopolized our attention to the end of the
journey, but the sagacious Henry blocked him rudely by a tug at the
reins which almost threw the lemon-colored mules on their haunches.
We were at the foot of the slope where the road to Buzzards Glory
branches from the pike. The Arkers had spied us coming, and ran down
from the tannery to greet us. Arnold, after he had a dozen times
expressed his delight at my return, asked if I had seen any shooting. His
son Sam's wife nudged him and whispered in his ear, upon which he
apologized abruptly, explaining that he had dropped his spectacles in
the tanning vat. Sam sought to extricate his father from these imaginary
difficulties by demanding that I go coon-hunting with him on the next
night. This set Sam's wife's elbow going again very vigorously, and the
further embarrassment of the whole family was saved by Henry
Holmes swinging the whip across the backs of the mules.

On went the state-coach of Black Log. We clattered quickly over the
last level stretch. We dragged up the last long hill, and from its brow I
looked on the roofs of Six Stars rising here and there from the green
bed of trees. I heard the sonorous rumble of the mill, and above it a
shrill and solitary crow. On the state-coach went, down the steep,
driving the mules madly before it. Their hoofs made music on the
bridge, and my journey was ended.
Home again! Even Tip Pulsifer was dear to me then. He was between
the wheels when we stopped, and I planted a crutch on one of his bare
feet and embraced him.
He grinned and cried, "Mighty souls!"
That embrace, that grin and that heart-born exclamation marked the
entrance of the Pulsifer family into my life. Theretofore I had regarded
them with a suspicion born of a pile of feathers at the door of their
shanty on the ridge, for they kept no chickens. Now the six little
Pulsifers, all with the lower halves of their faces washed and their hair
soaped down, were climbing around me, and the latest comer, that
same Cevery who arrived with Piney Martin's spring-bed, was hoisted
into kissing distance by his mother, who was thinner and more wan
than ever, but still smiling. But this was