The two old women had started in quarrelin’ about which one had won the bet, and the man in the coffin heard ’em; and when he could stop laughin’ long enough he told ’em, says, “Don’t lay it on me, ladies! He’s got me beat a mile!”
Tom’s clock, hardly noticed until now, suddenly bonged eleven. Talk ceased for a minute or so. The two men who had come to take their children home still showed no signs of leaving. Steve moved to mend up the fire. The green backlog was glowing bright where it was beginning to char, and now the flames rose slowly as Steve fed them.
There was a general re-shifting of all the crowd, a bit more going in and out, the splash of the dipper in the red-cedar bucket, boys stretching and slumping again against each other. Jeems and two boys had gone out the door.
“Snow a-comin’!” Jeems proclaimed as he came back in. “I can smell it!”
Two little boys crawled up on the bed and promptly went off to sleep. The room settled into quietness again. Granny knocked her cold pipe against the hearth at her feet.
“There’s a tale you’ve told us, Granny,” said Delia, “that ’un about the two lost children. I’d like to hear it again.”
Granny turned her head and glanced around at all of us: the sleeping children, the two big girls in straight chairs at the foot of the bed, the gang of boys sprawled near the fireplace and at each chimney corner, the circle of grown-ups, Tom whittling away, Jeems smoking, me with my chair tipped back against the oak chest, the lamp on Tom’s dresser shining down on my big yellow pad.
“You been writin’ down all them tales?”
“Just a scratch or two now and then to help me remember.”
“Don’t your hand give out writin’ so much?”
“Yes’m, it does cramp a little sometimes.”
“What tale was it you wanted, Deely?”
“Buck and Bess—and that other boy, Cooklepea.”
Tom’s big black cat had come in, and Granny reached down and stroked it. The cat purred loudly, arched its back against Granny’s skirts, and squinted up at her. Granny kept fondling the big cat as she began her tale.
The Two Lost Babes
One time there was a man and a woman come from England to the U-nited States—back when this country was first settlin’ up and families was scattered about in the wilderness. This man and his wife they had two children named Buck and Bess, and they lived ’way back in the mountains where it was solid woods. They had one little patch cleared for corn and beans but they had to live mostly off of wild game, and game had got so scarce they was about to starve. And one night the old woman started in talkin’ to the old man, told him she didn’t see how they could make out having two children to feed, said he ought to take ’em off and lose ’em in the wilderness—let ’em make out the best they could. So they decided to take Buck and Bess off the next day and leave ’em somewhere in the woods. Buck he had stayed awake and heard every word they said, so he slipped out just about daylight and picked up little white flint rocks till his pockets was full. Well, that mornin’ the man took Buck and Bess ’way off in the wilderness and when they got a right long ways off from the house they come to a chestnut grove and he told the children to stay there and pick up chestnuts while he hunted some game. Left ’em there and put out. But Buck he told Bess, says, “Come on. No use in us waitin’.” Buck he had dropped them rocks on the way. So he commenced followin’ his trail of white flints and he and Bess got back in home about dark. The man told ’em, says, “Why, we was jest fixin’ to start to hunt for ye. You must ’a not stayed where I told you to. We thought you was lost.”
So the next mornin’ he got up real early and took the children off ’fore daylight. So Buck didn’t have no time to pick up rocks but he pulled a couple of ears of corn and hid ’em under his shirt-tail, and he ’uld shell off some grains every few steps. That time they went about twice as far, and then the old man left ’em and pulled out. Buck he tried to follow that trail of corn and he found it pretty well for about a half a mile but the squirrels and coons and ’possums and birds had come along and eat the corn. So that time the children really was lost. They tried to beat their way back but it got plumb thick dark. Bess she got awful scared ’cause they could hear the wolves howlin’ and pan’ters screamin’. And then she give plumb out and Buck took her up on his back—told her not to cry, said he’d get her out all right.
Come to a big high rock-cliff after a while, cloomb up on it and saw a light off across the holler. Headed for where that light was at, come to a road and directly they found the house. Knocked on the door and an ugly-lookin’ woman opened it. She told ’em to come on in. There was a boy there about Buck’s size, named Cooklepea. So the old woman give the three children some mush and milk and sent ’em up in the loft. Bess she went on off to sleep, but Buck and Cooklepea they got to talkin’ and Cooklepea told Buck the old woman was a witch. Said she killed all the travelers that came by there and the only reason she hadn’t killed him was she had to have somebody to cut her firewood. Said he never could get away ’cause she had clip-boots that went a mile at a clip. So Cooklepea and Buck they made ’em a plan to try to get away. They slipped shingles out the roof till they had a hole big enough to get out of, and then they laid back down and made like they was sleepin’.
The old woman she got out a big butcher knife and commenced whettin’ it on her whet-rock. She whetted it a while, then she called Cooklepea, “Cooklepea, you all asleep yet?”
“No’m.”
So she went on whettin’ her knife—scrape, scrape, scrape.
Then Buck and Cooklepea tied the corner of one of them quilts to a rafter and put it out the hole and woke Bess up and helped her out that hole and down to the ground.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
“Cooklepea, you all asleep yet?”
“Bess is, but Buck and me ain’t.”
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Then Buck and Cooklepea fixed the straw and the quilts so it looked like Buck and Bess was still there a-sleepin’, and then Cooklepea helped Buck out and down to the ground.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
“Cooklepea, you all asleep yet?”
“Bess is, and Buck is, but I ain’t.”
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Then Cooklepea he untied that quilt and fixed it so it looked like he was under it, and then he crawled out the hole and Buck and Bess helped him ease down to the ground. Then the three children they slipped off from there and when they got out in the road they run for life.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
“Cooklepea, you all asleep yet?”
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
And when there didn’t nobody answer, the old woman cloomb up in the loft and slashed her old butcher-knife into Buck’s and Bess’s quilts. Went on back down the ladder and went to sleep. And next mornin’ she built her up a big fire to cook the two children. Hollered for Cooklepea to get up and cut some more wood, and when he never answered she went up in the loft and jerked up Cooklepea’s quilt. Then she jerked up them other two quilts, and she was mad as time! Back down the ladder she went, and grabbed up her clip-boots, and out the door. She smelled around and smelled around till she smelled which-a-way the three children had gone, then she jerked on her clip-boots.
Well, Buck and Bess and Cooklepea they was sharp. They ran to that big old rock-cliff and Cooklepea showed ’em where there was a long cave-like place back up under that rock—just was big enough for them to crawl in, and couldn’t no grown person get in at all. So they slipped in there and went ’way back, and waited, and listened.
And time the old woman had her clip-boots on she took one step and there she was on top of that rock-cliff. Then she took off her clip-boots and smelled around up there till she traced them kids to the mouth of that little cave, and she tried to get in but she couldn’t. So she reached in her long old skinny arm but she couldn’t reach ’em either.
“O yes,” she says, “I’ll jest wait for ye. You’ll git hon
gry enough in a few days.”
So she went and laid down on top of that rock-cliff. Put her boots under her head and waited. She waited and waited, waited till about twelve but there wasn’t a sound from them children, and the sun got good and warm and pretty soon the old woman went on off to sleep.
And when Buck and Bess and Cooklepea heard her snorin’ they slipped up to the top of the rock-cliff, and Buck and Cooklepea give the old woman a quick shove and Bess she grabbed hold on them clip-boots. The old woman went rollin’ and squallin’ down that rock-cliff and landed in a briar thicket, and Bess handed Cooklepea the clip-boots right quick and when he got ’em on he grabbed Buck and Bess around the waist and lifted ’em up off the ground.
The old woman she’d done scrambled out the bresh and here she come a-tearin’ back up the rock-cliff all scratched up and her hair full of leaves and trash, and she reached and made a grab for them children but ’fore she got there Cooklepea he took one step—and that put ’em a mile away from her.
So Cooklepea he held on to Buck and Bess and in about three more clips they landed in the lowland settle-ment. Then Cooklepea took the boots off and they went to the sheriff and told him all about that old woman killin’ folks.
“You may be right,” he told ’em, “but you got to have evidence. You got any evi-dence?”
Cooklepea told him anyhow he could prove the old woman was a witch; said he knew when she had her witch meetin’s. Said she was the head of a big gang of witches. So he told when the next witch meetin’ was appointed, and they waited till that night. Then Cooklepea lent the sheriff the clip-boots and he took Cooklepea up on his back and Cooklepea showed him which way to head with them clip-boots. He stepped out and in just a few clips there they was at the old woman’s house. So they looked through a crack in the logs and listened to the witches. After a while they heard one of’em say, says, “Well, I’ve heard it told a woman never could keep a secret.”
“That ain’t so,” says this old lady, “I’ve kept a secret. I been killin’ travelers that come through here; melted lead and poured it in their ears while they was asleep, and robbed ’em and cooked ’em and eat ’em and buried the bones. Yes, indeed; and that’s a secret I’ve kept more ’n thirty years.”
Well, the sheriff went and banged on the door and hollered.
And all kinds of black cats jumped out the door time he opened it. And when they went in the house there wasn’t a soul in there—just one old black cat. Hit come sidlin’ up to ’em right friendly-like but the sheriff he kicked it away and then it made for the door but Cooklepea already had the door shut. So then the sheriff hollered again and grabbed the black cat and shook it—and there was the old woman.
The sheriff arrested her and clipped on back to the settlement with her under one arm and Cooklepea under the other. And Buck and Bess and Cooklepea witnessed against the old woman and the sheriff he testified, too; and that was evi-dence enough so they burnt that old witch the next day.
And Cooklepea and Bess got married, and him and Buck went to clearin’ land, and Bess she kept house for both of’em. And Bess and Cooklepea had twelve young ’uns and they all done well.
MIDNIGHT
As Granny finished, the clock on the fireboard “scratched for midnight”—the short whirring sound that some old clocks make two or three minutes before the hour. Steve jumped up. “Let’s go see the cows—whether they’re praying or not!” And the whole gang of boys headed out the door.
“What’s this,” I asked when they were gone, “about the cows?”
“Don’t you know?” Jeems answered me. “The cattle kneel down right on the stroke of midnight tonight.”
“That’s just a lot of old superstition,” said Sarah.
“I’ve seen it,” avowed Old Kel. “Me and some boys came in home late one Old-Christmas Eve, came in through the barn, and all the cows were standin’ up and actin’ restless-like, bothered; and then they commenced goin’ down on their knees and one of’em bawled right low and just horned the ground. Then they all laid down and was quiet and natural again. And we looked at the clock when we got to the house and it was about five minutes after twelve.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” snapped Sarah.
The clock struck midnight. Two of the small children turned over and mumbled in their sleep. We sat quite hushed for a few minutes. A far-away rooster crowed, another answered from Tom’s back yard, and a third took up the cry from somewhere across the road. Tom stretched himself, got up and took the broom; swept his chips and whittlings into the fire, gave the whole hearth a brushing-up, and sat down again with his carving. The boys returned and sought their places without a word.
“Well, boys?” queried Old Kel.
“They never done nothin’,” said Steve; “just laid there chewin’ their cuds.”
“That old clock of mine always did run about ten minutes a day slow,” said Tom. “You must ’a just missed it, boys.”
“Don’t you know if’s bad luck to watch for Old-Christmas signs a-purpose?” said Granny. “If you just happen to see ar’ sign it’s all right; but if you try to watch you’ll be like the old man with the water-bucket”
“What was that, Granny?” asked Stan.
“Somebody told him water would turn to wine on Old-Christmas Eve; so he got the water-bucket full a few minutes before midnight and set it before him. He watched, and when the clock began to strike he hollered to his wife:
‘Hit’s turnin’ to wine!’
and right then somethin’ behind him says:
‘Yes, and you’re mine!’
And when the old woman came to look, the old man was gone, and they never knew what it was got him.”
“Is it snowin’ outside yet?” asked Jeems.
“No,” said Steve, “but it’s mighty still and dark, and cold.”
Tom rose and laid knife and carving on the fireboard, and went out toward the back. Delia took the lamp and busied herself in the kitchen. Little Rob and Harry rolled themselves cigarettes. I made a trip to the water-bucket and stretched a bit. A boy crept over near the big girls and made some sort of teasing crack at them. Rhody swatted at him, he swatted back. She grabbed his hair and a merry scuffle took place. “You ’uns behave,” warned Granny, and the boy shot back to his place in the chimney corner.
Tom came in carrying a big wooden bowl. “Here, Steve, you hand these apples around. You boys wait now till your turn. You can go out there and fill your pockets ’fore you leave.”
Delia returned with the lamp in one hand and a large coffeepot in the other. Tom set the lamp back on the dresser and Delia and Steve soon had the coffeepot in place on the trivet. We all crunched apples—crisp, cool Winesaps they were.
“Onriddle this, boys,” spoke up Old Rob. “If ye know it already don’t tell.
‘There was a man who had no eyes
and he went out to view the skies;
he saw a tree that had good apples grown,
he took no apples off, he left no apples on.’
How was that now?”
“Don’t make sense,” droned one of the boys.
“Makes good sense if ye know it,” Steve answered up.
The company pondered the riddle, while little Stan was “bustin’ to tell it.”
“One-eyed man?” ventured Jeems.
“You’re on the right track.”
“Apple tree must work out the same way,” I guessed. “Two apples all it had on it?”
“You got it!”
“I don’t get it at all,” said the same boy.
“One eye ain’t eyes” sputtered Stan, “and he took one apple off and left one apple on, and one apple ain’t apples.”
“I know one,” said Steve.
“I went to the woods and I got it;
I brought it home because I couldn’t find it;
the more I looked for it the less I liked it,
and when I did find it, I threw it away.”
“Where’d ye
learn that ’un?” asked Old Rob. “Hit’s a good ’un.”
Many guesses were made. “No!—No, that ain’t it.” And Steve finally had to hint, “Ain’t you ever been in the woods barefoot?”
“A tick!” shouted Old Rob.
“Aw, you could find a tick easy, and it wouldn’t hurt ye when you looked for it.”
“Hit must ’a been a briar,” said Old Kel.
“That’s right.” The boys all went “Aw-w-w!”—and made Steve say it over till they had it by heart.
Jeems spoke up:
“I went through a field of wheat;
I saw something good to eat.
It was neither feathers, flesh, nor bone;
I kept it till it walked alone.”
“Ha!” came from Granny. “We know that,” said Old Kel.
“Come on, boys,” said Jeems.
The boys tried hard, and Jeems at last lent them a hand. “The old hen don’t always lay where she ought to.”
“A egg!” cried Rhody, beating the boys to it.
More riddles were remembered, told, guessed at, answered, retold so they could be memorized for stumping others. Coffee was poured for us all, in cups of china and cups of tin. Another green log was brought for the fire and great flames from dry wood were soon leaping over it. Tom sent Steve for more apples.
Grandfather Tales Page 12