Mothering on Perilous Part 4

"A pot of string beans calls for a big chunk of fat pork and about four handful' of lard throwed in, to be fitten to eat," he said; "I haint tasted a right bean sence I come here."

This afternoon arrived a solemn little man of eleven from over on Clinch, named Hosea Fields, to take the one vacant place.

When Jason came up from his bath to-night, he rolled up his gown sleeve and held out a pink arm to me. "Just feel my muscle," he said, "Oh, I'm _so_ nervy!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Just feel my muscle,' he said, 'Oh, I'm so nervy!'"]

"I reckon he is," said Keats, "I seed him lay out three-at-a-time of them little primaries at recess to-day."

Last time it was two, now it is three. Of course these reports must be exaggerated,--such a baby could not be so warlike. Taking him in my arms and giving him a good hug, I said, "Jason, dear, I want you to remember that it is wrong for little boys to fight."

Objections to bathing have been withdrawn, and the boys for some nights have gone to the wash-house with such alacrity that my suspicions were aroused, and I found they were taking advantage of their nude condition, and freedom from interruption, to do great stunts of fighting, the bathing being entirely lost sight of. I have been compelled to make a rule that each boy must present himself in his clean gown after his bath at my door for inspection of head, ears, neck and feet.

VII

HEROES AND HERO WORSHIP

_Sat.u.r.day Bed-time._

While the boys were scrubbing their rooms after breakfast this morning, Keats sauntered in, saying he had finished his job of cleaning the chicken-yard. I went back, found it anything but clean, and called up to Hen, who was sweeping the back steps, "Tell Keats to come back here and clean this yard better!" He had just pa.s.sed the word along, "Hi, son, she says for you to come back and lick your calf over!" (I am becoming used to being "she" and "her" on all occasions) when Nucky appeared in the back door, waving excitedly for me. Not knowing what battle, murder or sudden death might be in progress, I flew up the walk. The boys were all hanging out the front door. Nucky shot me through them like a catapult, saying, "Take a look at that 'ere man,--it's Asher Hardwick, from over in b.l.o.o.d.y Boyne. He's kilt twenty-four in war, and nine in peace, and wouldn't wipe his foot on Achilles!"

A gray, venerable-looking man was pa.s.sing down the road on an ambling nag. "That man wouldn't hurt a fly," I said; "you must be mistaken."

"No, I haint,--I've seed him before. Of course he wouldn't hurt n.o.body less'n he was driv' to it; but the Mohuns just wouldn't give him no peace at all till they was all kilt off,--same as the Cheevers does us."

"But how could he kill nine in peace?" I asked.

"Kilt them just accidental,--they was witless folk that never knowed enough to keep out of his way when he was out after Mohuns. Asher he'd feel terrible about such as that."

To-night as I related more Trojan War, there were frequent interruptions from Nucky (who, during the stories, holds the place at my right hand always) such as, "I can beat that with Asher Hardwick!", "Blant wouldn't have took no such sa.s.s from Agamemnon or n.o.body!", and then would follow stories which did indeed sometimes beat Greeks and Trojans.

Later, he remarked, "If Hector and Achilles and them had a-lived now-a-days, they'd have got song-ballads made up about 'em, same as Asher and Blant. There's four or five about Asher--"

"I know one," interrupted Absalom.

"And there's one about Blant's revengement on the Cheevers when they laywayed him in April,--Basil Beaumont, over on Powderhorn, he made it."

"I know that, too," said Absalom.

"Achilles and Hector," I said, "did have song ballads made up about them, the very tales I am relating to you now; and a great blind poet, named Homer, went about singing them from palace to palace."

"Same as Basil Beaumont," said Nucky; "he don't never do a lick of work,--folks gives him his bed and vittles just to set in the chimley-corner and pick and sing song-ballads."

Geordie had left the room when Absalom spoke; he now returned with a small, homemade banjo--produced, I suppose, from the mysterious locked box he keeps there--and Absalom, tuning it, began to pick and sing an indescribably b.l.o.o.d.y and doleful song, "The Doom of the Mohuns," which fairly made my blood run cold. This finished, "Blant's Revengement" was demanded and sung, the words of it being as follows:

Blant Marrs he was a fighting boy, Most handy with his gun.

On Trigger Branch of Powderhorn His famous deeds were done.

For thirty year' the war it raged All o'er a strip of bottom.

Sometimes the Ma.r.r.s.es triumphed strong, Again, the Cheevers got 'em.

His paw lamed up, his uncles kilt, Five year' Blant mourned his land, Until, good-grown, beside the fence He took his battle-stand.

Then Ben and Jeems they bit the dust And perished in their gore, And many Cheevers his good gun Felt sharp, and dreaded sore.

Elhannon, Todd and Dalton then Planned Blant for to layway All unbeknownst, while travelling Upon a fair spring day.

Beneath a cliff where Trigger bends In ambush they lay low.

Oh, Blant, you better say your prayers!

Death lurks at your elbow!

Oh, Blant, I wish you was safe at home; I think you'll never be; I would not give a tallow-dip For all your chance I see!

He comes, he hears a swift lock click, And, swifter than the wind, He turns, six barrels emptying Before they can begin.

Elhannon nevermore will see The sun rise o'er the peak; And Todd and Dalt, up from their wounds, Far, absent countries seek.

During the singing, the other boys cast envious glances in Nucky's direction, and Philip probably voiced the sentiments of all when he exclaimed,

"Dag gone, I wisht I had a big brother as mean as Blant!"

VIII

DRESS, CHIVALRY AND THE TROJAN WAR

_Sunday Evening._

When we were ready to start for church this morning, I was surprised to see Nucky halt before me, and eye me frowningly from head to foot. "What makes you allus wear ole ugly clothes?" he inquired. "Haint you got no pretty ones, like t'other women?"

I looked down at my black crepe de chine,--of course I have worn deep mourning since I lost Mother, and for six years before I had not had on a color. "You don't like it?" I asked.

"I'd as soon look at a coal-bank, or a buzzard," he replied.

It suddenly struck me that the dear ones I have loved and lost would be of much the same opinion. "Wait a minute, boys," I said. I flew back and pulled from my trunk a white dress and some black ribbons laid away a year ago. When I emerged, there was a chorus of pleased "gee-ohs" and a decided accession of friendliness, the boys trying who could be first in helping me over the frightful mudholes between the school and the village. I see my duty clear now,--white dresses instead of black.

_Thursday._

Considering the antecedents of Nucky and Killis, I was not surprised when they informed me this morning they would make beds no longer, but would leave unless given men's work all the time. My reply, "But making beds _is_ men's work," was met by incredulous whistles.