Mothering on Perilous Part 16

_Friday._

I was permitted to visit Nucky to-day. He is still forbidden to talk, but he smiled his old bright smile, and I read Pilgrim's Progress to him until he fell asleep.

_Sunday Morning._

All the boys came back to school yesterday from their vacation, several with gifts for me,--a dozen eggs from the little Salyers, a fine ground-hog-hide from Joab ("it'll make you shoe-strings enough to last a lifetime," he said), a handsome hen from Taulbee, four huge sweet-potatoes from Hosea, and an elegant green gla.s.s breastpin from Geordie. Of course the one topic of conversation last night was "Trojan" and his performance, in which they take endless pride. "I allow Basil Beaumont will sure make up a song-ballad about him now,"

said Absalom.

They also brought the news that Dalt Cheever is probably "aiming to live",--thank heaven if it is true, for I cannot bear that Nucky's hands should be stained with human blood. Doubtless, however, it will be a keen disappointment to him.

_Monday._

As I was about to leave the cottage for the hospital last night after supper, the boys were all bewailing the fact that they had not been able to stay at home over Old Christmas. I asked them what they meant by "Old Christmas."

"You brought-on women," said Taulbee, "thinks New Christmas is real Christmas; but it haint. Real Christmas comes to-morrow, on the sixth of January; and to-night is right Christmas Eve."

"What makes you think so?"

"All the old folks says so, for one thing, and they knows better than young ones; and the plants and the beasts knows better still. Tonight's the night when the elder blossoms out at midnight, and the cattle kneels down and prays,--anybody can hear 'em a-lowing and mowing if they stay awake to listen."

I have a hazy recollection of the English calendar having been changed and set forward eleven days in the middle of the eighteenth century, and of the ma.s.s of the people in England and the colonies refusing to accept the new date for Christmas. This survival in the mountain country is indeed remarkable.

I sat keeping watch beside Nucky when the clock struck midnight, and got up and went to the window to look and listen. If, in the wintry moonlight, any gaunt, bare stalks put forth miraculous blossoms above the snow, or if reverent cattle knelt and lowed loving welcome to their Lord, my eyes and ears were holden that I did not see and hear; but I know that it was Real Christmas in my heart as I turned back and saw my child breathing quietly on his bed, a faint color in his pale cheeks again.

_Wednesday._

Another visit from Blant to Nucky last night. In reply to eager questions, Blant gave Nucky a very encouraging account of the state of affairs on Trigger. "Never seed things quieter," he said; "it looks like your shot had settled 'em a while. The talk now is that Dalt will likely get well, which I allow you will grieve to hear." A shade of heavy disappointment immediately fell upon Nucky's countenance. "But,"

continued Blant, "it is good news to me,--I don't like the notion of your having to start in killing at your age."

After we were out on the porch, Blant repeated to me, "Yes, I am proud to know the little chap haint got blood on his hands yet awhile. You may think it quare, but it really goes again' the grain with me to see a man kilt, even when he needs killing."

"Is it true," I questioned him as he stepped out into the snow, "that things are so quiet on Trigger?"

He smiled slightly. "Oh yes," he said; "quiet enough,--in fact, they are quiet as death,--not a speck of trouble in plain sight nowhere. But I got a bullet through my hat Friday night as I crossed the pa.s.sage from the kitchen to t'other house, and heared another whiz nigh while I watered the nags yesterday evening. It all happens along towards dark."

"This is horrible," I said.

"Yes, it's low-down. Folks ought to fight in the open if they got any fighting to do."

"Is Richard staying with you?"

"Day and night. I allow he's setting with the babe this minute. All I'm afeared of is that they will shoot him in place of me. But we keep all the windows blanketed and c.h.i.n.ks stopped of a night."

XXII

THE EECH, AND TRAGEDY

_Thursday._

Ever since Philip's return he has been scratching himself in the most annoying manner. Before I started for the hospital to-night, he came into my room, clawing viciously at his ankles. "Gimme something for the eech," he said.

"For what?" I asked.

"For the eech,--I knowed I'd ketch it when I seed Dewey Lovel pawing round so them nights I spent with him."

"Do you mean the itch?" I inquired, sharply.

"No, I mean the eech,--the seven-year-eech I reckon this is, by the way it feels."

"I have no idea what to do for such a disease as the itch!" I replied, helplessly.

Philip danced on one foot, clawing his arms now. "'Itch',--listen at that now, boys,--she calls the eech the itch,--don't know no better,--ha! ha!"

"What do people do for it?" I asked.

"Some rubs on lard-and-sulphur; and some axle-grease."

"I'll ask the nurse for medicine,--go along now, please,--_don't_ stand so near me!"

"Get enough for three," was his parting remark, "Taulbee and Hose is beginning to scratch too!"

Yes, get enough for a dozen, he had better say!

_Sat.u.r.day, P. M._

This afternoon bows and spikes (arrows) became violently the fashion.

All the boys went up the mountain side to get hickory limbs for bows, and arrowwood for "spikes". But from Geordie alone can be bought the horse-shoe nails (Hosea's before popgun time) which, when hammered flat at the head, shaped around a nail, and then fitted on the end of a spike, make a truly dangerous and desirable weapon. These nails are held at five cents apiece; but when the buyer has no money, as usually happens, the set of marbles received in his Christmas stocking is acceptable. As Keats says, what good are "marvles" anyway, with the ground either snow or slush all the time?

_Sunday Morning._

My fears are verified. Every boy on the place is scratching; and I too have an irresistible impulse in that direction.

_Sunday Night._

All my family in quarantine with the itch, and I myself experiencing all the agonies. I think it is King James who says, "The Itch is a disease well worth the having, for the satisfaction afforded by scratching"; but I am forced to dissent from the royal opinion. And the cure,--the being swathed for days in lard-and-sulphur--is almost as bad as the disease.

Worst of all is the thought that for a week I shall not see Nucky.