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 thesteamboat."
"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'll hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand right where you are. Rouseout Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George Jackson, isthere anybody 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'tyou got any sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, ifyou and Tom are ready, 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. Ifthere's anybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'llbe shot. Come along now. Come slow; push the door open yourself--justenough to squeeze 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 littlebehind me. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard themunlocking and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door andpushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, "There,that's enough--put your head in." I done it, but I judged they wouldtake it off.
The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me,and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men withguns pointed 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 tooka good look at me, and all said, "Why, _he_ ain't a Shepherdson--no,there ain't any Shepherdson about him." Then the old man said he hopedI wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean noharm by it--it was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into mypockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was allright. He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all aboutmyself; but the old lady 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 himsomething to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girlsgo and wake up Buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself. Buck, takethis little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dresshim up in some of 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 diggingone fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the otherone. 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;I don't get no show."
"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have showenough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. Go 'long with younow, and do 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, noway.
"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.Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? Youbet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches! Ireckon I'd better put 'em on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm. Areyou all ready? All right. Come along, old hoss."
Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk--that is whatthey had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that everI've come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cobpipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two youngwomen. They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. The youngwomen had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. Theyall asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all thefamily was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, andmy sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of nomore, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, andTom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and papleft, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of histroubles; so when he died I took what there was left, because the farmdidn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and felloverboard; and that was how I come to be here. So they said I couldhave a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it was most daylightand everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, and when Iwaked up in the morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was.So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when Buck waked upI 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'tno slouch 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't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice andhad so much style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nora wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, thesame as houses in town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a signof a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. There was abig fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was keptclean
and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with anotherbrick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that theycall Spanish-brown, same as they do in town. They had big brassdog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on themiddle of the mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on thebottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of itfor the sun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. It wasbeautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of thesepeddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape,she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she gottuckered out. They wouldn't took any money for her.
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 open theirmouths 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 peachesand grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower andprettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could seewhere pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, orwhatever it was, 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 Ididn't read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and anotherwas Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about what to do ifa body was sick or dead. There was a hymn-book, and a lot of otherbooks. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound,too--not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket.
They had pictures hung on the walls--mainly Washingtons andLafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called "Signingthe Declaration." There was some that they called crayons, which oneof the daughters 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 slimblack dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like acabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovelbonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about withblack tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she wasleaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weepingwillow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a whitehandkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "ShallI Never See Thee More Alas." Another one was a young lady with herhair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted therein front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into ahandkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other handwith its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall NeverHear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one where a young ladywas at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down hercheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing-waxshowing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chainto it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "And ArtThou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas." These was all nice pictures, Ireckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever Iwas down a little they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody wassorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of these picturesto do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost.But I reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better timein the graveyard. She was at work on what they said was her greatestpicture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was herprayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never gotthe chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown,standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hairall down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears runningdown her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and twoarms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up toward themoon--and the idea was to see which pair would look best, and thenscratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she died beforeshe got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the headof 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 topaste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in itout of the Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out ofher own head. It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about aboy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and wasdrownded:
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D
And did young Stephen sicken, And did young Stephen die? And did the sad hearts thicken, And did the mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate of Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sad hearts 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, Nor stomach troubles laid him low, Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no. Then list with tearful eye, Whilst I his fate do tell. His soul did from this cold world fly By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied him; Alas it was too late; His spirit was 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.Buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't everhave to stop to think. He said she would slap down a line, and if shecouldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out andslap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she couldwrite about anything you choose to give her to write about just so itwas sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died,she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. She calledthem tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor first, thenEmmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead ofEmmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the deadperson's name, which was Whistler. She warn't ever the same afterthat; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not livelong. Poor thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the littleroom that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and readin it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured onher a little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn'tgoing to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry aboutall the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right thatthere warn't nobody to make some about her now she was gone; so Itried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I couldn't seem to makeit go somehow. They kept Emmeline's room trim and nice, and all thethings fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she wasalive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady took care of the roomherself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there agood deal and read her Bible there mostly.
Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtainson the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles withvines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was alittle old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothingwas ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "The Last Link isBroken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. The walls of all therooms was plaster
ed, and most had carpets on the floors, and the wholehouse was whitewashed 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 ofthe day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't bebetter. And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too!
