by Mark Twain
CHAPTER XVII.
IN about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting hishead out, and says:
"Be done, boys! ?Who's there?"
I says:
"It's me."
"Who's me?"
"George Jackson, sir."
"What do you want?"
"I don't want nothing, sir. ?I only want to go along by, but the dogswon't let me."
"What are you prowling around here this time of night for--hey?"
"I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat."
"Oh, you did, did you? ?Strike a light there, somebody. ?What did yousay your name was?"
"George Jackson, sir. ?I'm only a boy."
"Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid--nobody'llhurt you. ?But don't try to budge; stand right where you are. ?Rouse outBob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. ?George Jackson, is thereanybody with you?"
"No, sir, nobody."
I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light.The man sung out:
"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool--ain't you got any sense?Put it on the floor behind the front door. ?Bob, if you and Tom areready, take your places."
"All ready."
"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?"
"No, sir; I never heard of them."
"Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. ?Now, all ready. ?Step forward,George Jackson. ?And mind, don't you hurry--come mighty slow. ?If there'sanybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'll be shot.Come along now. ?Come slow; push the door open yourself--just enough tosqueeze in, d' you hear?"
I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. ?I took one slow step ata time and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart.?The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behindme. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking andunbarring and unbolting. ?I put my hand on the door and pushed it alittle and a little more till somebody said, "There, that's enough--putyour head in." I done it, but I judged they would take it off.
The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, andme at them, for about a quarter of a minute: ?Three big men with gunspointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, grayand about sixty, the other two thirty or more--all of them fine andhandsome--and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her twoyoung women which I couldn't see right well. ?The old gentleman says:
"There; I reckon it's all right. ?Come in."
As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred itand bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, andthey all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor,and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the frontwindows--there warn't none on the side. ?They held the candle, and took agood look at me, and all said, "Why, _he_ ain't a Shepherdson--no, thereain't any Shepherdson about him." ?Then the old man said he hoped Iwouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm byit--it was only to make sure. ?So he didn't pry into my pockets, but onlyfelt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. ?He told me tomake myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the oldlady says:
"Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don'tyou reckon it may be he's hungry?"
"True for you, Rachel--I forgot."
So the old lady says:
"Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him somethingto eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wakeup Buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself. ?Buck, take this littlestranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in someof yours that's dry."
Buck looked about as old as me--thirteen or fourteen or along there,though he was a little bigger than me. ?He hadn't on anything but ashirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. ?He came in gaping and digging onefist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one.He says:
"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"
They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.
"Well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, I reckon I'd a got one."
They all laughed, and Bob says:
"Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow incoming."
"Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right I'm always kept down; Idon't get no show."
"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough,all in good time, don't you fret about that. ?Go 'long with you now, anddo as your mother told you."
When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and aroundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. ?While I was at it heasked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started totell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woodsday before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when the candlewent out. ?I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it before, no way.
"Well, guess," he says.
"How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never heard tell of itbefore?"
"But you can guess, can't you? ?It's just as easy."
"_Which_ candle?" ?I says.
"Why, any candle," he says.
"I don't know where he was," says I; "where was he?"
"Why, he was in the _dark_! ?That's where he was!"
"Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?"
"Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? ?Say, how long are yougoing to stay here? ?You got to stay always. ?We can just have boomingtimes--they don't have no school now. ?Do you own a dog? ?I've got adog--and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in. ?Doyou like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? ?You betI don't, but ma she makes me. ?Confound these ole britches! ?I reckonI'd better put 'em on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm. ?Are you allready? All right. ?Come along, old hoss."
Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk--that is what theyhad for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever I'vecome across yet. ?Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes,except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women. ?Theyall smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. ?The young women hadquilts around them, and their hair down their backs. ?They all asked mequestions, and I told them how pap and me and all the family was livingon a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my sister Mary Annrun off and got married and never was heard of no more, and Bill wentto hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died,and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was justtrimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he diedI took what there was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, andstarted up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was howI come to be here. ?So they said I could have a home there as long as Iwanted it. ?Then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and Iwent to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the morning, drat it all,I had forgot what my name was. So I laid there about an hour trying tothink, and when Buck waked up I says:
"Can you spell, Buck?"
"Yes," he says.
"I bet you can't spell my name," says I.
"I bet you what you dare I can," says he.
"All right," says I, "go ahead."
"G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n--there now," he says.
"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could. ?It ain't noslouch of a name to spell--right off without studying."
I set it down, private, because somebody might want _me_ to spell itnext, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I wasused to it.
It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. ?I hadn'tseen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so muchstyle. ?It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden onewith a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses intown. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heapsof parlors in towns has beds in th
em. ?There was a big fireplace thatwas bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red bypouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimesthey wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown,same as they do in town. ?They had big brass dog-irons that could holdup a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece, witha picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, anda round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see thependulum swinging behind it. ?It was beautiful to hear that clock tick;and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured herup and got her in good shape, she would start in and strike a hundredand fifty before she got tuckered out. ?They wouldn't took any money forher.
Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock,made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. ?By one of theparrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other;and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't opentheir mouths nor look different nor interested. ?They squeaked throughunderneath. ?There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread outbehind those things. ?On the table in the middle of the room was a kindof a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and peaches andgrapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettierthan real ones is, but they warn't real because you could see wherepieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever itwas, underneath.
This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red andblue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. ?Itcome all the way from Philadelphia, they said. ?There was some books,too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. ?One was abig family Bible full of pictures. ?One was Pilgrim's Progress, about aman that left his family, it didn't say why. ?I read considerable in itnow and then. ?The statements was interesting, but tough. ?Another wasFriendship's Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but I didn'tread the poetry. ?Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was Dr.Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about what to do if a bodywas sick or dead. ?There was a hymn book, and a lot of other books. ?Andthere was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too--not baggeddown in the middle and busted, like an old basket.
They had pictures hung on the walls--mainly Washingtons and Lafayettes,and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called "Signing theDeclaration." There was some that they called crayons, which one of thedaughters which was dead made her own self when she was onlyfifteen years old. ?They was different from any pictures I ever seebefore--blacker, mostly, than is common. ?One was a woman in a slim blackdress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage inthe middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet witha black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, andvery wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on atombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other handhanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule,and underneath the picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee More Alas."?Another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up straightto the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like achair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead birdlaying on its back in her other hand with its heels up, and underneaththe picture it said "I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas."?There was one where a young lady was at a window looking up at themoon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter inone hand with black sealing wax showing on one edge of it, and she wasmashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneaththe picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas." ?Thesewas all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to taketo them, because if ever I was down a little they always give me thefan-tods. ?Everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lotmore of these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had donewhat they had lost. ?But I reckoned that with her disposition she washaving a better time in the graveyard. ?She was at work on what theysaid was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day andevery night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got itdone, but she never got the chance. ?It was a picture of a young womanin a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jumpoff, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon, withthe tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded across herbreast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching uptowards the moon--and the idea was to see which pair would look best,and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she diedbefore she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over thehead of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hungflowers on it. ?Other times it was hid with a little curtain. ?The youngwoman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was somany arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me.
This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to pasteobituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of thePresbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head.It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy by the nameof Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was drownded:
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D
And did young Stephen sicken, ? ?And did young Stephen die? And did thesad hearts thicken, ? ?And did the mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate of ? ?Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sadhearts round him thickened, ? ?'Twas not from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame, ? ?Nor measles drear with spots;Not these impaired the sacred name ? ?Of Stephen Dowling Bots.
Despised love struck not with woe ? ?That head of curly knots, Norstomach troubles laid him low, ? ?Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no. Then list with tearful eye, ? ?Whilst I his fate do tell. His souldid from this cold world fly ? ?By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied him; ? ?Alas it was too late; His spiritwas gone for to sport aloft ? ?In the realms of the good and great.
If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she wasfourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by and by. ?Bucksaid she could rattle off poetry like nothing. ?She didn't ever have tostop to think. ?He said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn'tfind anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap downanother one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write aboutanything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful.Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be onhand with her "tribute" before he was cold. ?She called them tributes.The neighbors said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then theundertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, andthen she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which wasWhistler. ?She warn't ever the same after that; she never complained,but she kinder pined away and did not live long. ?Poor thing, many's thetime I made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and getout her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had beenaggravating me and I had soured on her a little. ?I liked all thatfamily, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come betweenus. ?Poor Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she wasalive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make someabout her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or twomyself, but I couldn't seem to make it go somehow. ?They kept Emmeline'sroom trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way sheliked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there.?The old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plentyof niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible theremostly.
Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains onthe windows: ?white, with pictures painted on them of castles with vinesall down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. ?There was a littleold piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing was everso lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "The Last Link is
Broken"and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. ?The walls of all the rooms wasplastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the whole house waswhitewashed on the outside.
It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofedand floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of theday, and it was a cool, comfortable place. ?Nothing couldn't be better.?And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too!