Left behind

by Irving Bacheller

LEFT BEHIND

BY IRVING BACHELLER

THE Bishop was a tall, fine-looking man of middle age and great dignity. He had a handsome house furnished in excellent taste and a handsome, vivacious wife noticeably younger than he. The Bishop took me to my room.

I was to lecture in the parlors at eight. I had an hour's rest and went below stairs where the Bishop's wife was pouring tea. She was a fashionably dressed woman, as gay as the Bishop was solemn. She was the daughter of the richest man in that growing city of the South in which they lived and president of the Ladies' Literary Club.

"I hope your lecture will be funny," she said to me.

"I always hope it will be funny," was my answer. "But no man can be funny without help unless he lives alone on a desert island where he can laugh at his own jokes."

"Our last lecture was such a bore!" she exclaimed.

"I wonder that you pay people to come here and afflict you with their wisdom," I suggested.

"Well, you see women must have something to do," she went on. "They get tired of teas and cards and dances. A lecture is either a joy or a tahsk, and women are in need of both."

The Bishop came to me and said: "Sir, you are going to tell us of the pioneer women. I would like to show you one. She is my mother and a mountain woman."

"Where is she?" I asked.

"I will take you to her," said he.

"When you have had enough of the mountains you can flee and find rest in the library," said the Bishop's wife playfully.

 

THE tall man led me in silence to the top floor of the house.

He rapped on a door. A large, stoop-shouldered, dark-skinned woman in a black dress and gingham apron opened it.

The Bishop introduced me to his mother. She gave me her big, hard hand and said in a pleasant voice:

"Come in and set ef you don't mind my lookin' so."

She walked heavily to an armchair and took up her knitting. Her sleeves were drawn halfway to her elbows, showing big powerful forearms. Her hands were scarred and bony, her fingers knotted. The strength and calmness and patience of the ox were in her face and form. Yet there was a kind of beauty in her countenance hard to define, for it was not a thing of form or color. It was a beauty that shone out of her spirit. I took a chair near her. The Bishop left us together.

"I hope that you are going down to the lecture?" I said.

"Oh, land, no! I've growed crooked with hard work. I don't look fit to be seen in company. I'm ershamed o' myself."

"I like your looks. They show that you are acquainted with useful work," I remarked.

"My hands are iron and my feet are lead," said she. "I've worked till the air felt as thick as water and the floor as hot as a griddle. That's what makes me look so. Myry feels sorry for me and has tried to dress me up sniptious. But the purtier the dress the worst I look. Cain't b'ar to have anything drawed up tight on me; cain't b'ar to have luther on my feet—hit hurts so. Might as well try to put shoes on a goose. I have to wahr these cloth slippers. My old ramshackle body is so bent and wore and scratched and knocked hit ain't no more fit to be seen than Peter Potter's buggy. I give up and told Myry that I were jist ergoin' to stay in here, and she 'lowed 'twere best. Them proud people who have riches and riches would be plumb scared o' me. Myry is a grand, proud lady and as good as gold. She says I'd be more comf'table in my old home down in the mount'ins, and I reckon she's right. Everybody is stooped over down thar. The boys and girls be all gone erway. They've got proud and purty lookin' and be all educated so hit makes my head ache to visit 'em. They done left me 'way behind 'em. Gone down out o' the mount'ins. I feel like I were a livin' disgrace when I go to their houses. Their friends are all so proud, and I look like an old crooked tree. I be goin' back to the log house whar I were born. Plumb still and lonesome thar now, but I'll have some chickens and a cow and my Bible and my work and the little childern'll come playin' eround the door jist as they used to, and I'll play with 'em and scold 'em jist like the old days. The big boys and girls is all gone erway, but the little childern is still thar—every one of 'em. They won't come here or over to Sarey's or down to Jim's or up to Milly's. Don't seem to feel at home any place but the old log house. I always find 'em thar playin' eround in the sunshine, and I mend their clothes and tell 'em stories and give 'em sugar and cookies and put 'em to bed and take 'em up in the mornin'. I ain't told John, but I be goin' back to the mount'ins. I ain't had the heart to tell him yit."

"I guess it will make you feel badly too," I said.

"Well, I'm broke to that. I've learnt how to feel badly and keep cheerful."

"How did you learn?"

"Hit's a long story."

"The story of your life—please let me hear it," I urged.

"I love to ravel hit out," she began as she went on with her knitting. "I've brought up twenty-two babies—nine o' my own, four o' mammy's, five o' my sister's, who died o' tyford fever, four o' my brother's, who was killed, and never had a doctor but onct.

"People don't care for childern so much these days. John's wife has only one sickly little girl. I crave for childern. When the last baby walked out o' my arms I felt kindy cold and lonesome. I were ershamed to open the door ef anybody come. Seemed like I ought to be covered by a baby. I were so broke to havin' a warm, wiggly little body on my breast."

"That's one of the great joys of a mother," I said.

"Well, babies are such good company! They know when you're funnin' with 'em or when you're in earnest. I don't know how the mount'in women could er lived without their babies. They carry 'em miles to mill erfoot, 'cause they cain't b'ar to be parted from 'em. We didn't have no theatre shows, no movin' pictures. But a little troupe o' players come down from another world into every cabin, and hit were a wonderful show they give us, and we laughed and cried about hit, and when hit were all over we felt awful lonesome and sorry."

"Was your father a farmer?"

"My pappy were a minister, name o' Jackson Hicks. Mammy were always peckin' me over the head with a stick. She were turrible ill and cross, pore woman! I were that foundered with the peckin' that I declar'd that I never would whup ef God sent me childern. You'll whup as much into 'em as you whup out o' em."

"You must have had a hard life."

"’Twere like a three-legged cat's. They didn't shoe me till I were nine yur old. I used to walk miles and miles bar'foot in the snow."

"I suppose you got enough to eat."

"Mount'in childern they get nothin' to eat but meat skins boiled up with onions and potaters, but they did grow big and fat and sassy. They could jist mortally do the work—them mount'in huggers! Meat skins? They was the skins off o' pork and bacon and hams."

"How did you happen to bring up your mother's children?"

"Well, one day pappy come home, and the horse done kicked the barn down on top o' him and killed him. I were away to one o' the neighbors. Their childern had some play purties that had been sent, and I were lookin' at 'em and fussin' with 'em. Never played no more in all my life.

"Mammy couldn't do no work much a'ter that; I had to spin around and take the load and be mother to the little uns, and me only eight yur old.

"’Twere hard on me, and mammy as cross as a crow in a cage. I would go off in the woods and hide and jist cry and cry. One day Shed Harmon—a long, gawky feller that had lived next house—seed me go off in the woods, and he follered me and he cried too, and said he'd holp me. And he told me how they pecked on him and bothered him over to his house. Sometimes he'd slip over and holp me with my washin'. Lord o' mercy, how I loved that a boy a'ter that! I were thinkin' a'ter him and worryin' a'ter him night and day.

"I had learnt myself to read so's I could read the Bible a little bit, and that winter they built a log schoolhouse and I went to school two weeks. We studied the Bible and the old blue-back spellin' book, and I got so I could spell powerful g-ood for a mount'in girl.

"I never talked to no boy much. Onct, when Tom Johnson come and asked me to go to meetin' with him, I had a dish o' coff'ee to grind up, and I were so skeered I swallered a button, and what I done with the coffee I never did know—never twil this day.

"Onct, when I went to the neighbors and borryed a gourd o' soap and were walkin' home with hit, I seed Bill Henline come runnin' to ketch up with me. I run like a skeered b'ar and kept out o' his way, I were so ershamed to have him see me with a gourd o' soap in my hands. He wouldn't 'a' ketched me ef he'd bin a horse.

"When I went to school or church Shed would always jump out o' the bushes somewhar, and come hoppin' a'ter me, and tellin' me erbout his troubles, fer his pappy pecked him awful, and his brother Bob were turrible mean to him.

"Onct upon a time, and hit's as true as God's word, he come over to our house one day and said he'd git married ef he could find anybody that were fool ernough to marry him.

"I were jist a little over fifteen yur old. I were kindy skeered, and poured a dipper o' water all over the stove. A few days a'ter that I went to git mammy's spinnin' wheel over to a neighbor's. The snow were half a leg deep, and I were luggin' that old wheel erlong and hit did b'ar down heavy. I got erbout halfways home and I seed Shed acomin'. I felt awful ershamed to have him see me luggin' that old wheel, and I allowed I'd put hit over the fence and go ercrost the fields, so as I wouldn't meet him. I were tired, and I tried to lift hit over, but 'twere too heavy. Then I seed him come runnin', and I jist stood thar and cried. He come up to me and says:

"‘What be you erdoin'?'

"‘Takin' this wheel home.'

"‘Let me holp you.'

"He lifted hit over the fence. Then he leaned ag'in a rail and tuk my hand, and I looked erway off to Yeller Mount'in.

"‘Do you 'member what I said the other day?' sez he.

"‘No, I don't 'member,' sez I. 'What did you say?'

"‘That I were ergoin' to git married, and go erway over to Marshall and take up some land,' sez he. 'Mary, I want you to go. I jist want you to go with me. Will you?'

"‘’Course I will,' sez I.

"He weren't purty—jist a big mount'in hugger—but my! I did love him, and when he drawed me up ergin' him and kissed me I were jist choked with happiness, and they couldn't make me cross a'ter that.

"Shed told his people that he were goin' to git married, and his mammy cut an outdacious swell erbout hit. 'What you goin' to do with her? She ain't nothin' but a child,' sez she.

"Mammy she didn't want me to marry, but my brother were twelve yur old and my sister were thirteen, and I allowed 'twere time fer them to take my place, and I told them I wouldn't stay thar no longer.

"Well, we got married, and nex' day we tuk a honeymoon walk o' twenty-five mile to Marshall, and 'twere rainin' hard when we got thar late in the evenin', and we were wet so our shoes sucked, and our clothes they felt like as ef they bin soaked in a tub.'

"’Fore we got thar we sot down by the road to rest, soppin' wet but plumb happy. He kissed me and says: 'Be you happy?'

"‘Only one thing could make me ary bit happier,' I says.

"‘What is that?' he says.

"‘A weddin' ring,' says I.

"‘You cain have hit, honey,' he says, and he done bought hit for me that night, and I'm erwharin' hit now. Thar hit is," said she proudly as she pointed to her ring, worn to a mere thread of gold, on her finger.

"Shed had seventy dollars in his pocket that day," she added. "I never see so much money in all my life—never.

"Lord o' mercy, we didn't need no more riches than we had—nary bit! We was so happy we didn't feel as heavy as a feather, but the village o' Marshall skeered us—so many people an' things to look at. Made our eyes and ears sore. Pappy hired some land, and we got out. He went to work buildin' a pole cabin. Jist little logs 'twere made of. You could 'a' picked a dog up by the tail and throwed him out o' the chimley, hit were so low and big. I could set my chair in the hearth and look out the top o' hit. We lived thar three yur and cl'ared the ground and made tobacker. We had one old bed, back in a corner, and hit had jist one leg on hit. I saved every feather and put 'em in a poke that hung by the stove.

"When pappy went erway, ef I heard ary un comin', I flew under the bed and hid thar twil he were gone. One baby were born thar the second yur one night when I were alone. Pappy had gone for a neighbor woman."

"Did you use tobacco?"

"No; I never used tobacker. Every one o' the family used tobacker 'fore me, and I had dyspepsey and were a pore, lean, yeller-lookin' thing. Mammy always claimed that were 'cause I did not use tobacker. If I'd use tobacker, I'd be as strong as the other childern. Mammy were that bad a'ter tobacker that if thar wa'n't none in the house she'd be lookin' out o' the door every five minutes to see ef somebody were comin' who could give her a chaw. Down thar all the girls spit amber 'fore they was ten yur old but me.

"A'ter I were married I got sick, and they'd ask me, my mammy and the neighbors would, why I didn't use tobacker, and said I would be strong like the rest o' them ef I would, but I never could use hit."

"Could you save any money?" I asked.

"Never see no money," said she. "Saved everything else or I reckon we'd 'a' starved. Scratched up every feather for my beds. Got the habit o' savin'. All summer I'd kindy scratch up the sunlight and save hit for the dark days. Hit come handy when the childern all got the measles to onct and I got hit too. Holped me to take keer o' them and do the work. Holped me when Maggie had the tyford fever. I had to give her a tea-spoonful o' milk every five minutes. When I'd go to sleep in the night the spoon would drop out o' my hand on to the floor and wake me up and tell me to 'tend to my work. Oh, yes, I had saved up sunlight ernough to keep me cheerful all through that and worse.

"Men and women used to come to me to have the blues took off o' them, and I'd jist show 'em how they ought to be thankful. They always come a'ter me when they was sick.

"I'd find 'em crowded into a little room, eround some un burnin' up with fever, moanin' and wringin' their hands and skeerin' the sick un, and breathin' up the air. I'd drive 'em all out o' the house and open the door and windows, and when the sick were half dead I've pulled 'em up the slant, and with jist air and nourishment and cheerful talk."

"Were you never sick yourself?"

"Twice I were sick—measles and rheumatiz—but I kep' right on with the work. The rheumatiz come like rain out of a clear sky.

"Onct I had been hoppin' eround in the field all day gittin' in the wheat. A'ter supper I set down and quilted twil erbout midnight and went to bed, and when I got inter bed I tuk a ketch in my hip. Oh-h-h-h-oh! hit seemed like lightnin' and thunder were runnin' through my j'ints. Pappy arned erway with a hot arn on them pains twil he eased 'em, but 'twere five months that I walked nary step. I never lost a day's work. They'd holp me out o' bed in the mornin', and I'd cyard and sew and cook and weave and wash. They drug me from the table to the stove and back again.

"A young heifer come in that never had bin milked. Everybody tried to milk that wild cow but couldn't, so I asked pap to drag me out to her, and he drug me close ernough so as I could git holt o' her teat with my hand. I begun milkin' her inter a half-gallon cup. She'd kick, and I'd dodge a little, so she wouldn't hit the cup.

"Pap, he says to me: 'Don't you dodge that erway, and she'll stop kickin'.'

"So I didn't dodge next time she kicked. Pap were standin' out beyond her. Zip went the wild cow's foot. That cup jist sailed right up in the air twil hit got even with pap's face, then hit swung sideerways and jist lammed him right ercross the nose, and the milk rained all over him."

She laughed loudly as she told of this odd adventure.

"How did you manage to educate the children?"

"I learnt 'em how to read and write and use figgers, and I learnt 'em to be honest and fear God, and then I sent 'em down to the mission school and worked nights weavin' to pay the sixty dollars a yur, and God holped me. The boys seen how hard I worked, and they worked too."

"I suppose there was not much in the way of temptation for the boys to contend with there in the mountains," I said.

"Lord o' mercy, yes! But I kep' watch on 'em. The wild stills spoilt half the boys in the mount'ins.

"They called me the revenoo lady, 'cause I done tamed so many wild stills. You see, they couldn't shoot me. I had holped 'em all when they were sick and pore, and I reckon they thought 'twere ergoin' to pay better to kill the still and let me live. The first un I tackled skeered me up turrible.

"One evenin' a'ter meetin' I says to Aunt Tildy, one o' the neighbor women:

"‘Will you take a walk with me in the mornin'?'

"‘Whar to?' says she.

"‘Oh, jist round and round,' says I.

"I went down next mornin' to her house. They were a big skift o' snow on the ground. I give her a stick and I had one myself. We started out and walked a little ways. Then I says:

"‘There be a wild still up here in the mount'ins. I want you to holp me hunt hit. I cain't git my man to holp me, so I be ergoin' to try and find hit.'

"Aunt Tildy ketched her breath. They cut up wild when they thought aryone were a'ter their stills. Onct they were a man come to take the senses o' the people, and Henry Slimp druv him erway at the p'int of a gun—they was so carritly o' strangers.

"‘Hain't ye skeered?' she whispers.

"‘Cain't no more'n kill us,' says I. 'But I reckon the Lord'll take keer o"us. My son-in-law and one o' my boys went over to that still and got drunk las' Sunday, and they fit and fit and scratched eround twil they knocked the skin all off o' each other. They's got to be a stop to hit. Them stills has got to be druv out o' here, and me and you has got to do hit.'

"We started up the mount'in—jist as steep as that, jist like that, so steep—but we could ketch erlong with our sticks on the trees and bushes. And hit were the snowiest day I ever did see in my life. The fog froze on the timber twil 'twere perfectly awful lookin' to be out.

"I went erhead, as I were the youngest; I went pullin' up the mount'in, and by and by we got to the top.

"We went on and started down eround the mount'in. She stepped back and let me in front, and we went on Injunlike.

"I guess we went a mile from thar and the snow most half a leg deep. Then we come to a dreadful la'r'l, hit's la'r'l and ivy, we call hit. I think youse call hit la'r'l and rhodydendrum. Thar were a lot o' big pine trees thar. Oh, how snowy 'twere out o' that la'r'l trail—looked like you'd go down over your head.

"We stopped to git our breaths, and my heart were floppin' like the wings of a skeered potteridge. 'Twere so still down thar. Bang! goes a rifle right nigh us, and a bullet skittered through the bushes over our heads, and down come a lot o' snow on us like hit had tore inter a feather bed. Seemed like my back had bruk in two in the middle. I knowed somebody was watchin' us. Aunt Tildy's face turned white like 'twere snowin' inside o' her.

"‘Skeered?' she whispers.

"‘Bawdacious!' I says. 'Let's pray to God a minute.'

"We done prayed in our hearts. I seed Aunt Tildy's lips movin', but they made nary bit o' noise no more than the wings of a whippoorwill.

"‘They sha'n't skeer me,' I says. 'I'm jist ergoin' right on. The Lord has told me to.'

"The bushes flipped up under our clothes, and our stockin's and dresses was all wet.

"‘Well,' I says: 'Now you take down this erway and I'll go up this erway.'

"So I went erbout twenty-five yards, I reckon, and come to a trail eround the mount'in. Hit's jist as slick as glass. We dug erlong on that trail erbout half a mile eround the side o' the mount'in twil we come to a deep hole, and in that you couldn't see to the right nor to the left, and the only thing you could do were look straight up at a little wavy string o' blue sky—twixt the bushes. That were 'cause the snow had lapped the pine limbs together so. Well, I jist run right into the still-house. I stepped back a step or two. I thought somebody might be in thar and shoot us.

"I stepped back and says: 'Here 'tis, Aunt Tildy.'

"And thar 'twere, and we got home wet and erbout half froze. No, he couldn't afford to kill us. And pap went for the revenoo officer, but when he got down thar the still were gone, and that were the windin' up o' hit."

I saw now a reason for the three sons of this simple woman.

 

IT was growing dusk. A child softly opened the door and peered into the room. It was a waxen-faced, anemic little girl of five with big blue eyes and golden hair.

"Pore little thing! You bin waitin' for gran'mammy? Come here, honey."

So spake the gentle voice of the Bishop's mother.

The little girl ran to her lap.

"This gentleman won't mind our playin' together a minute 'fore you go to bed," the old lady went on. "I'll jist open the door o' my ol' brain house all of a suddenlike and you'll see a heap o' things come flyin' out. The door has been shet so long they're jist crazy. Now you watch. Here comes:

 

"Eight humly, bumly bees;
Seven humpity, crumpity, no-horn cows;
Six hickety, pickety custards;
Five bobtail, skubald nags;
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two ducks,
And a big fat rooster."

 

She was telling a story when I rose and gave her my hand and said: "I will see you at the lecture."

"What would Myry say ef I went down thar 'fore all them grand ladies lookin' as I do?" said she.

"I am sure that Myra will ask you to come."

I went below stairs, and when my time had come to speak the parlors were crowded with a gay company of men and women in evening dress. I began my talk by saying:

"I have come here to tell you of certain great women whose labor and fortitude have made America, and I must begin by mentioning the most heroic woman I have known. She has the strength of a man in her heart and sinews, the beauty of a saint in her face, the courage of a hero, the faith of a prophet in her soul. Yet she has been the tenderest of mothers. I can think of nothing, save the miracles of old, so wonderful as her accomplishment. She lives in this house. I want you all to see her and give her the honor due a great woman. Bishop, will you kindly bring your mother to this platform?"

She came with her son presently and was greeted with cheers, and then I told an old story of the East.

 

A SULTAN once sent his envoys abroad in the empire looking for a man worthy of the honor of the golden crescent. He was to be a man of courage and faith and wisdom and many friends. Two men were brought before the Sultan. His council of wise men had declared that they were unable to decide between them. Both were wise and brave and beloved, and equally great in faith and accomplishment. The Sultan read their records and searched the two with many queries, and was loath to choose between them.

Presently he said: "Show me your hands."

They held them up before him.

Now one of these great men had soft and delicate hands; one showed a pair that were strong and scarred and calloused, and the Sultan pinned the crescent on the breast of the latter, saying:

"This man hath seen human service while the other hath only recommended it."

"If any lady here feels that she has a right to be honored above this woman, I shall want to know her history, and if it should be equally worthy I shall ask her also to show me her hands."

I have heard that those little children have come up from the old cabin in the mountains to play in the Bishop's dooryard, but that their mother is so engaged with men and women who love and admire her that she has little time to give them.