by Lois Lenski
“Tell me where you been, young feller!” demanded his mother again. But her tone was not as fierce as the words sounded.
It was hard for her to be stern, Billy knew, when Uncle Pozy was there. Everybody liked Old Man Pozy, who was fat and jovial, and called him Uncle. He was no kin to the Honeycutts. He lived by himself in a cabin in Honeysuckle Hollow, on the far side of Solitude.
“Oh, Mammy!” cried Billy. “Jeb Dotson’s bed got flooded and him in it! The water rose three feet high there in his store, and hit washed that leg that stood in the creek clean off, and switched the whole store roundabout. Hit’s the Roundabout Store now for sure. The front door’s round on the side facin’ the road. And Jeb’s bedroom’s restin’ on that big flat rock that used to be his doorstep.”
“Bless goodness!” cried Mrs. Honeycutt. “Why didn’t you tell us, Uncle Pozy?”
“Hit’s shore news to me,” replied the old man. “I come through Solitude yesterday, Ruthie. Mind I said I spent the night at Jerushy Wilcox’s? I come down the Turn-Off to get here. I figgered I could get this far nohow and maybe you’d be needin’ some baskets.”
“And Jeb’s bed, did hit get washed away?” asked Letty Jo.
“He woke up in the night and heard water washin’ and he thought he was ridin’ in a boat,” Billy continued. “Then he felt his feet gettin’ wet, and then his cornshuck mattress, and then his pillow. By that time he was wide awake, and seen the walls bein’ switched around …”
“Could he see in the dark?” asked Red Top. “Has he got eyes like a tabbity cat?”
Billy ignored the question. “When he got outa bed, he waded water up to his waist, till he found a match to light his lamp——”
“The lamp musta been up on the shelf, so hit kept dry,” interrupted Letty Jo, “and the matches too.”
Billy glared. “Who’s tellin’ this story, you or me? Well, Jeb climbed up on the counter in the store and slept the rest of the night there, as comfortable as a settin’ hen on her nest.”
“But you said he was all wet!” protested Letty Jo.
Billy frowned and went on: “When daylight come and he looked out, the store was all switched roundabout. He don’t have to put a new leg under the corner, ’cause hit’s restin’ right on that big ole door stone, as solid as can be. And the door faces the road now, so wagons can back right up and dump their pokes off. Jeb says he don’t need no doorstep.”
“How’s women-folks to get up there?” asked Mammy.
“Jump, I reckon,” said Billy, “if they come afoot. But hit’s just right for lightin’ down from a nag.”
Everybody laughed.
“And Jeb ain’t got pneumony?” asked Uncle Pozy.
“Not as I noticed,” said Billy. “He looked spry as a cricket to me. So many folkses come to see and hear all about the flood, he was a-doin’ a roarin’ trade. They say hit’s the worst freshet there’s been in fifty year.”
“Was the water all gone down when you was there?” asked Letty Jo.
“Law, yes,” said Billy. “And the floor was dry.”
“Three foot high you say the water was?” asked Uncle Pozy.
“That’s what Jeb said.”
“Went down mighty quick, didn’t hit?” said Mammy, with a faint smile on her lips.
“Hit’s a ‘so’ tale!” said Billy crossly. “If you don’t believe me, just listen to this. I seen all Jeb’s beddin’ hangin’ out on a rope line to dry, and his nightshirt too, at the side of the store, in the sun. And his shuck mattress was up on the roof …”
“But Jeb ain’t got pneumony,” said Mammy, smiling.
“He’s fit as a fiddle!” Uncle Pozy laughed and so did the others.
Billy let them laugh. He was glad Uncle Pozy was there. Nobody scolded him for running away and staying so long.
“And oh, Mammy!” he went on, his eyes sparkling. “Jeb’s got a banjo in his store that he traded for one day last week. He said there was an old man died over to Cabbage Creek and didn’t leave nothin’ but a banjo, and his daughter traded it to Jeb for sugar and flour. Said she couldn’t eat a banjo.”
“Musta been old Mack Miller’s daughter,” said Uncle Pozy.
“What’ll she eat when the banjo’s et?” asked Mammy.
Uncle Pozy began to gather his baskets together. They were of various shapes and sizes. By running a rope under their handles and draping them over his back and shoulders, he could carry quite a number.
“No need to hurry,” said Mrs. Honeycutt. “Can’t you tarry a while and stay to supper, Uncle Pozy? We ain’t got much, but what we got you’re plumb welcome to. Rudy won’t like it to hear you’ve come and gone.”
“Thank ye kindly, Ruthie,” said Uncle Pozy, “but Ollie Holbrook’s expectin’ me. There’s always welcome bread at Ollie’s too.”
“Spend the night with us,” urged Mrs. Honeycutt, “and get a soon start in the mornin’.”
“Ollie might think I got drownded in the spring freshet, if I don’t go this evenin’,” said Uncle Pozy. “And he wants a half-bushel measurin’ basket, so that’s one I can sell.”
“I wisht we might could buy one,” said Mammy, “but with all the baskets we got already——”
Billy stared hard at Uncle Pozy. “Do you sell ’em?” he asked.
“Why, shore as shootin’,” replied the old man. “What you think I make ’em for? To eat ’em for dinner?”
“You make ’em?” demanded Billy. “What out of?”
Suddenly a commonplace basket, the like of which he had seen every day in his life, became a thing of vital interest. The mere sight of the banjo in the store had done it. All his hunger for music had been aroused. Suddenly Billy wanted that banjo with all his heart, and the baskets suggested a way to get it.
“White-oak splits,” answered Uncle Pozy. “I go in the woods and pick me out a straight oak tree and cut it down.…”
“Can I come help you?” asked Billy breathlessly.
“You shore can, son. I’ll learn you how to make splits and weave ’em into baskets, you little whippersnapper. Wanta rive shingles, too?”
Billy shook his head. He was so excited, he could not speak. He’d earn money and buy that banjo.
Uncle Pozy went to the door.
Mrs. Honeycutt said, “Now, come!”
Uncle Pozy answered, “Yes, I will, and you come.”
After he was gone, Mrs. Honeycutt turned to her son. “What on earth’s got into you, Billy? First runnin’ off, and now makin’ baskets. Who wants baskets, when we got more’n we need already?”
Billy dropped his eyes. It was coming. He was going to get his licking after all. Well, he’d let Mammy whip him and get it over with before Pappy came home.
“I won’t run away no more, Mammy …” His voice became a sorrowful whine, sure to soften Mammy’s heart. Sometimes she was hard outside, but he knew she was always soft inside. And the crust was not very deep.
“MAZIE!” A terrified scream came from Letty Jo, who was looking out of the small front window.
They rushed out on the porch. From there they could see Uncle Pozy, laden down with baskets, crossing the footlog, and little Mazie tagging at his heels. In all her three years, Mazie had never crossed the footlog before, and beneath it, the water was still a raging torrent.
“Looky!” cried Letty Jo, pointing upstream. A large mass of logs, sticks and brush was floating down. Would it clear the footlog?
Billy did not wait to see. He ran on feet that scarcely touched the ground. He ran halfway across the footlog, snatched his little sister up in his arms, and bore her back again. Just then the pile of brush roared past, taking the footlog with it.
Billy shook his finger in Mazie’s face. “Ain’t I told you to stay in the house and behave yourself?”
Uncle Pozy was safe on the other side, walking up the road. He had not seen or heard the child coming. He turned his head only when he heard Billy’s voice. He waved his hand and went on.
Letty Jo stood on the porch and cried aloud, wiping her tears on her cotton-check apron.
Mammy took Mazie in her arms and carried her into the house. She sat down in her split-oak rocker in front of the fire and hugged the child tight. Billy dropped on the floor at her feet, out of breath. She put her hand on his tousled head. Then she said gently:
“Son, you ain’t had no dinner, have you?”
CHAPTER IV
Over the Mountain
“Had me a cat and the cat pleased me,
Fed my cat in yonders tree;
The cat went fiddle-i-dee.
Had me a dog and the dog pleased me,
Fed my dog in yonders tree;
The dog went boo, boo, boo,
And the cat went fiddle-i-dee.
Had me a hen and the hen pleased me,
Fed my hen in yonders tree;
The hen went ka, ka, ka,
The dog went boo, boo, boo,
And the cat went fiddle-i-dee.
Had me a hog and the hog pleased me,
Fed my hog …”
Billy Honeycutt’s singing stopped abruptly. He was well up the side of the mountain, climbing fast. Breathless, he took hold of the limb of a tree and pulled himself up on a rock.
Down, far below he could see his father’s house. Through the valley ran the road and the creek side by side. He saw Pappy’s horse, Old Dandy, on the road, moving along like a tiny crawling ant. He knew the horse carried his mother and the little ones, and that Letty Jo was walking by their side. They were off to spend the day at Uncle Jamie’s in Last Hope Hollow.
Uncle Jamie was his mother’s brother, and Aunt Tallie was his wife. They had three boys, Rick, Glen and Jack, and one girl, Ettie Bell. Billy was fond of his cousins, but this time he did not want to go along. It was the first time he had ever refused to go.
Billy carried the dream of a banjo in the back of his head. Ever since Granny Trivett had talked about it, the dream had been there. He couldn’t forget it, waking or sleeping. He could see that banjo hanging in Jeb Dotson’s store. He could all but feel the strings under his fingers. Uncle Pozy’s visit had made his dream almost a reality. He must get to Uncle Pozy’s. He would make baskets and trade them for the banjo. All his life he had been without one.…
That was why he refused to go to Uncle Jamie’s. “I want to go roamin’,” he had told Mammy.
His mother looked at him closely. “Where?” she asked.
“Up yonder on the mountain,” he said. “Ain’t been up there in a month o’ Sundays. Dogwood’ll soon be out and crab-thorn too.…”
“Not yet awhile,” said Mammy. But she let him go.
Now, as he made his steep way up again, he was glad he had come. Through the cold winter he had been cooped up in the house or in school for so long. He liked school well enough, but was glad it lasted for only two months in the winter. He always got tired of sitting, it made him so restless.
“No matter how whizzin’ cold it gits,” he said to himself, “I druther be outside any day.”
The vision of the banjo returned. But meanwhile, he remembered what Granny Trivett had said—he had a mouth to sing with. All the mountain people liked to sing and, once he thought about it, he was surprised to find how many songs he knew. All day long, tunes kept popping into his head.
He saw some birds hopping on a limb. “Hey, chewink! Hey, chitterlink! If you-uns can sing, reckon I can too.” He went on with his song:
“Had me a calf and the calf pleased me,
Fed my calf in yonders tree;
The calf went ma, ma, ma,
The cow went moo, moo, moo,
The sheep went baa, baa, baa,
The hog went kru-si, kru-si, kru-si,
The hen went ka, ka, ka,
The dog went boo, boo, boo,
And the cat went fiddle-i-dee!”
Now he was on top of the ridge, along which ran a narrow trail. Sometimes people came up here with a land sled to bring down firewood or a load of hay from the far-off side. Looking back, he could see over Solitude, and beyond to Three Top and the Peak. Looking forward, a whole new valley opened up at his feet—Bearskin Hollow and No Man’s Cove, and the long Stone Mountain range that divided North Carolina from Tennessee; and still beyond, far-off ranges lost in blue, blue haze. No wonder they were called the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Uncle Pozy lived down in Honeysuckle Hollow, and Billy was following a short-cut to get there. Around by the road through Solitude, it was seven or eight miles, but up over the ridge and down again, it was only four. Of course he might get off the trail and lose himself, and there might be bears in the laurel thickets, they were so dense. But he knew that if he went about halfway to Bearskin Creek, and then turned right instead of left, he would get there. He’d better hurry, the sun was already high. He’d be plenty hungry by dinnertime.
He started down the mountainside running. Then he slowed up suddenly, for he saw figures in the woods below. At first he thought they were not real. They looked like trees moving. Or were they animals? They seemed to be part of the pattern of branches and trees. They were not people at all. Pappy said people should always wear something bright red in the woods, so hunters wouldn’t shoot them by mistake.
Only when he heard voices was he sure. He hurried on.
“Where you off to, Billy Honeycutt?”
It was Sarey Sue Trivett’s thin voice. And there was her Granny beside her. They were out herbing again. Wherever you went on the mountain, they were always there. They were always taking wood and roots and bark off other people’s land. Pappy said they acted as if they owned the whole mountain, but everybody knew they were too poor to own but a patch.
“Where you off to?” asked Sarey Sue again.
“Nowhere,” he said briefly. “Just a-roamin’.”
“What you roamin’ for?” persisted Sarey Sue.
“Just to be a-roamin’.”
Why did they have to know everything? The two of them looked a disreputable pair. Their ragged clothes were torn by briars and brambles. Their faces and hands were smudged.
“You look like an ole raggedy-drag,” Billy said to Sarey Sue.
The girl tossed her head. “Been to mill lately?” she asked, with a grin.
He remembered he had not seen her since she rode off on Burl Moseley’s horse. Sarey Sue looked perfectly whole. She did not limp or carry an arm in a sling. It would be hard to kill off Sarey Sue.
“Burl’s nag didn’t throw you, did she?” Billy asked.
“That sorry little ole critter?” sniffed Sarey Sue. “No, sir. Just went so slow, I thought I’d git home faster afoot, so I turned her loose.”
Billy laughed. Trust Sarey Sue. Nobody’s fool—Sarey Sue.
“How’s your poor eye?” she asked, full of sympathy.
“What eye?” demanded Billy.
It was yellow and green now instead of black and blue, but no self-respecting boy ever admitted that a black eye hurt.
“Did you come to help us dig yarbs?” asked Sarey Sue, smiling. “To trade for that store-bought banjo you’re hankerin’ for?”
The remark stirred him deeply.
“Naw,” he answered.
The banjo dream was something sacred, that lived only in the back of his head. Why did she have to talk about it out loud?
“Don’t you never breathe a word to nobody about me a-cravin’ a banjo!” he said angrily.
“No?” answered Sarey Sue, in surprise.
“Got a better way to earn money than grubbin’ roots,” he said. “Easier too …” He kicked at the basket sitting on the ground at the girl’s feet. “What you got in there? Nasty bunch of ole dirty weeds, eh?”
Granny Trivett, who had been digging busily and had as yet said no word, turned and looked at the boy almost fiercely.
“There ain’t no such thing as a weed,” was her sharp reply. “Just ’cause the good Lord made a plant to grow so plentiful hit can’t never be killed out, that don’t make hit a w
eed. He never made nary thing that ain’t good for somethin’. Most ‘weeds’ as you call ’em, make good medicine to cure disease.”
“Gran keeps her medicine pot a-simmerin’ by the fire all the time,” put in Sarey Sue. “Sometimes hit smells awful.”
“And who do ye reckon gits all these yarbs we trade in at the store?” Granny’s eyes pierced the boy through.
“Jeb Dotson,” he said sullenly.
“Jeb don’t do nothin’ but sell ’em again. Who buys ’em from Jeb?” demanded Granny.
“Danged if I know!” answered Billy.
“Well, I’ll tell ye. Jeb sells ’em to a big drug company in North Wilkesboro,” said Granny, “and the drug company sends the stuff off somewheres to a factory, where hit’s made up into bottle medicines and pills and powders and I don’t know what-all. Off there, in them fur-off parts, they have drugstores where them furrin’ doctors buy that stuff to cure folkses with. That’s what that ‘nasty ole bunch o’ weeds’ is good for. Didn’t ye know that? And you been goin’ to school too.”
“Don’t learn nothin’ ’bout yarbs at school,” mumbled Billy. “We read outen books.”
Granny picked up her mattock and began to swing it high over her head.
“When Gran’s out of snuff, hit makes her crosser’n a hornet,” explained Sarey Sue. Then in a friendly tone, “I seen a rattlesnake, Billy.”
“Huh! That’s nothin,” grunted the boy.
“I reached down to pull a vine away from a root I was grubbin’ and I jumped back like I’d been shot,” Sarey Sue went on. “First I thought hit was a bull nettle, then I heard hit singin’. I called Granny and we looked for a dogwood or a sourwood tree to get a stout stick to kill hit, but we couldn’t find nary a one. And the rocks was all too heavy to tote. So we picked up that poke o’ bark and my basket and we come down this-a-way in a hurry. Right up there on the ridge hit was.”
Granny Trivett was never one to miss the chance to tell a tale. There had been no real danger, but she had imagination enough to know what might have happened.
