In thinking about this, I realized that too many well-meaning solicitors present only one side—the need. Certainly need can be made appealing, especially to the sentimental. But more realistically, the poor, the improvident, and the lazy will always be with us. Therefore the sketching in of the potential seemed to me to be as important as portraying the need. A man with Mr. Hazen L. Smith’s rapier-sharp mind would want to know what would be the return on any money invested.
Still there was Miss Alice’s admonition, so I had to put this in such a way that I would not be begging, but offering Mr. Smith the privilege of sharing in the adventure of turning human potential into productivity for Tennessee and for the nation.
Already, even in describing the crude living conditions of the Cove set down in such unbelievable beauty, I knew that I had Mr. Smith interested. When I told him about my astonishment at finding such an authentic Anglo-Saxon heritage (with a little German thrown in) preserved almost intact from eighteenth-century Europe, he broke in only occasionally to ask a question or to clarify a point. From there, I went on to talk enthusiastically about the fine minds and budding talents of some of my pupils.
“There’s a girl named Bessie Coburn,” I told him, “not quite thirteen, who’s worked her way through a second-year Latin book by herself. Mr. Smith, the funny part of this is that it’s given Bessie real status in the Cove.”
“Status? Latin?”
“I know it’s crazy, but the mountaineers don’t think you’re really educated if you can’t read Latin. Another carry-over from old-time Britain, I guess.
“Then there are some mathematical geniuses,” I went on. “A boy named John Spencer is soon going to be beyond the point where any of us at the mission can teach him, he’s ready for calculus. And a girl, Lizette Holcombe, can add any figures in her head fast—no matter how complicated we make them—as fast as we can read them out to her.
“And there are amazing memories. You should hear some of those children reel off long lists of dates and specifics. A few minutes’ study of the page of a book and it’s stamped on their minds.
“Then I’ve one boy, Rob Allen, who has a real gift for writing. Rob can put details on paper so that you can see and hear and smell them. And he has a feel for the rhythms and the cadences of the language.”
My audience of one had been following me so intently that I was becoming more exuberant by the minute. “Children like that are so great. Who knows what they can do or where they’ll end up?”
“Did I understand you to say,” Mr. Smith asked, “that you’re trying to handle sixty-seven children all by yourself in one room?”
“That’s right. But, Mr. Smith, don’t feel sorry for me. Lots of one-room country schools have more than that. Odd thing too—I’d always thought that lumping all grades together in one room would slow everybody down. It works the other way. The children finish their own work, then listen to the recitations of the older ones. They retain a surprising amount. Gives them a sense of direction too.”
“They’re that eager about schoolwork?”
“Yes, that eager. In fact, it’s been a shock comparing them with my friends and me back in Asheville. We took school for granted, certainly didn’t consider it any great privilege.”
“Yes—I know. Mrs. Smith and I have a fourteen-year-old son.” A frown creased his forehead. “I know just what you mean.”
“Well, in the mountains it’s different. Those youngsters think lessons are a treat. And competition! I’ve never seen anything like it. Their enthusiasm terrifies me sometimes. How am I ever going to keep ahead of them?”
“I can’t imagine how you do.”
“But the point is, Mr. Smith, children as bright and eager as those simply have to have the chance for more education. It would be a crime for some of them not to go on to college. If necessary, I’ll plead their cause right up to the President of the United States.”
The eyes behind the glasses smiled. “I think the President would like your vehemence on behalf of higher education.”
“For girls too? What’s the right thing for positively brilliant girls like Lizette Holcombe and Bessie? Is it enough that they end up just having babies, cooking corn-pone, and churning?”
“You’re a feminist already, Miss Huddleston?”
His voice was teasing, but remembering that David had hurled this at me too, I answered seriously, “No, Mr. Smith, I don’t think so. Not really. Because there’s always the danger that the extreme feminist will end up quite unfulfilled as a girl.”
He looked at me in astonishment. His eyes widened, and he almost whistled again as he’d done when I’d first entered his office.
“You have to admit,” I said more timidly now, “that up to now you men have been inclined to play down and pooh-pooh a fine mind just because it happens to be in a woman’s body.”
Conflicting thoughts were apparently flitting across the masculine features before me. I had the feeling that with this latest idea, Mr. Smith was doing his best to take me seriously, but wasn’t quite making it. “We men bow our heads in deep contrition,” he said, half mockingly. “I could make another comment—but I won’t.”
He turned and stared out the window, drumming a pencil softly on the side of the chair. While he thought, I did not break the silence. Oddly, the lull in the conversation was not uncomfortable. In less than an hour I had opened my mind and heart to this man to such a degree that already he seemed like an old friend.
Just as suddenly, he stopped and looked straight at me. “You’re an unusual girl, you know. Am I the first person you’ve come to for help for the school?”
“The very first.”
“Why? Why me?”
For a moment I hesitated, then took the plunge. “You’re a businessman. I think you’d like honesty. So all right, I’ll be honest. I’ve been to church all my life but it never meant much really. Just routine, you know. But recently I’ve learned something exciting about it. It’s that a Christian has no business being satisfied with mediocrity. He’s supposed to reach for the stars. Why not? He’s not on his own any more. He has God’s help now.
“So educating boys and girls takes money. Lots of money. And who has money? Who’s the most successful businessman in East Tennessee? Mr. Hazen L. Smith, of course. I was told to reach for the stars. So I walked in on you.”
Sitting there looking across at me, Mr. Smith laughed delightedly. It was almost a chortle. “That’s refreshing candor all right, even if it is a trifle materialistic. So I’m supposed to be old Moneybags himself, eh?”
His use of the word “materialistic” made me remember Dr. Ferrand and his philosophy of giving. Had I overstepped myself again? “It isn’t as materialistic as it sounds, Mr. Smith,” I added, talking too fast. I could feel the color creeping up into my face. “Honestly, I don’t want you to give a single dollar to this work unless you really feel that you should. Probably you have certain funds earmarked for charity. If your conscience has laid other causes on you, then I’ll respect a loud resounding ‘No’ from you for my cause. And I really mean that.”
“I believe you do mean it.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “All right—so now for my reaction. I like what you’ve told me, Miss Huddleston, and I like your way of telling it. I’m flattered that you came to me first, even though”—and a teasing note crept into his voice—“you did think of me as old Moneybags. I’ll help all right. I want to, very much. That is my decision—with no pressure from you. But I’ve felt selfish sitting here listening to a story that deserves a bigger audience. If I can arrange it, would you come back to Knoxville and speak to the University Club? Maybe to a church group too?”
This was something I had not expected. “Mr. Smith, I’ve never done any speaking of that kind.”
“Never mind that. You’re a natural. You’ve asked a favor. Now I’m asking one. How about it?”
Impulsively I rose and held out my hand to him. “Mr. Smith, if you think I can speak to audiences like
that—well, I’ll do my best.”
As Mr. Smith moved forward to open the door for me, he paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I’ve decided to make that comment after all. Let me put it in this framework. After my initial reaction to you, you could have flirted with me a bit. A lot of girls would have. You didn’t. Sometime in the future I suppose I could try to take some sort of advantage of your friendship. I won’t. So we understand each other perfectly. But here’s something for you to remember some dark day when schoolteaching seems like a thankless task . . . Here’s one man who thinks you have the most beautiful eyes God ever put in a woman’s face.”
Upon my return from Knoxville, there were letters from mother and father awaiting me, urging me to use the coming holiday for a visit home. Surely, father wrote, I was ready for some relief from missionary work by now. And mother held out a ball at the new Battery Park Hotel, a spate of receptions, luncheons, teas and clothes-shopping to lure me, even mentioned two families with attractive sons my age who had recently moved to Asheville.
I puzzled over what good reason I could give my parents for not going, since I guessed that the truth would not please them: I was beginning to enjoy my new life too much to want to leave again right now.
Of course compared to Asheville’s social whirl, recreation in Cutter Gap was limited, but we found many ways of having fun. For instance, of an evening after supper, we in the mission house could not often resist the shiny new piano in the big parlor. Miss Ida was a reasonably good pianist while I was a limping one who read music only tolerably well.
David had brought with him to the mountains a ukulele which he would produce at the slightest provocation—to the delight of the children and young folks. They were familiar with fiddles, dulcimers and banjos, but the ukulele was as strange and fascinating an instrument as the piano. By the time I got to the Cove, David already had a reputation as a “song-followin’ man.” With his sense of rhythm, his rafter-raising baritone, and his nimble fingers, David had a ready-made way into the hearts of the people, for music was the universal language of the highlanders. They sang as readily as they talked. There was a song or a ballad for all occasions: to lighten housework, for hunting or hoeing corn or driving the cows home or churning or piecing a quilt or rocking the baby. And if the right ditty did not come readily to mind, then one was promptly improvised.
I noticed that more and more David just “happened” to have his ukulele along when he went calling in the homes. As soon as he would bring it out, he told me, barriers would go down. The young children would creep up to him and ask shyly for a “gettin’-goin’ tune” or a “foolery one.” The older people would plead for some of the familiar old gospel hymns which they loved . . . “Twilight A-stealin” . . . “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” . . . “Just As I Am” . . . “Wondrous Love.” Everyone would join in, voices mingling, heads keeping time. “Prettiest durn music ever heerd” was the invariable pronouncement. “His fingers goin’ like a blue streak on that thar ukalale could tear down the house and put hit in the loft.”
“I don’t need to say much of anything,” David remarked to me. “The hymns say it for me, probably minister to folks better than I could anyway.”
One evening soon after I got back from Knoxville, some of the older boys from school—Arrowhead Holcombe, Wraight Holt, and Will Beck—heard us singing and stopped in. “Be tickled to death,” Wraight requested of David, “if ye’d take a runago at one of them whittleding songs.”
“Aye,” chimed in Ruby Mae, “dizzifyin’ music, that’s what we want.”
So David started in on
“Oh, you beautiful doll,
You great big beautiful doll . . .”
as I tried to pick it out on the piano. Soon the boys were patting and clapping, then tapping and wheeling and clogging while they sang.
“Look at them rambunctious boys a-flaxin’ east and west,” Ruby Mae exulted. “Feel spirited as bucks, don’t they! Makin’ so much ruckus, now the preacher’s got t’ put on his shouty voice.”
After that, with apples roasting in the fire and corn popping, we had a party. By the next morning word “got norated around” of the fun to be had at the mission house. Soon we had to limit the open houses to two a week to leave us time for our homework and the necessary grading of papers. Then too, no matter whom we invited, Wraight and some of the other boys would try to crash the party. Finally David called an after-school planning session for all the boys to work out a plan fair to all.
But when we were by ourselves for a few minutes’ recreation after supper—as on this evening—our impromptu concerts were more sedate. So far we were limited by owning only a hymnbook and one songbook, All America Sings, but David had sent a big order to New York for some more books and a stack of popular sheet music.
I was trying to carry the melody of “Danny Boy” but was missing a lot of notes, and several times lost my place while David kept right on twanging and singing away. Every few bars, we hit a screeching discord. Ruby Mae dramatically clapped her hands to her ears. “Gee-oh! Ol-oo-whee-ee-ee law! Scrapes my eardrums.”
“It would scrape anybody’s,” Miss Ida put in from the doorway, sucking in her lower lip and looking at us as if she were a bird about to pounce. Sometimes her hands reminded me of a bird’s claws. “Do you call that music?”
David shrugged. “Would you like to play for us, Ida?”
“Certainly not! I would not deprive Miss Huddleston of the chance to practice. However—” she advanced to the center of the room where she stood balancing a letter on the palm of her hand as she looked piercingly at me. “Here’s a letter that came earlier today.”
“And saved for this moment. And interruption a relief to all,” David observed drily, as I slid off the piano stool to take the letter.
“Oh, it’s from Mr. Smith!” I tore the envelope open eagerly . . .
Knoxville, Tenn.
April 24, 1912
Dear Miss Huddleston:
Your visit to my office on Tuesday last has given me a great deal to think about. I know good salesmanship. You could scarcely realize what a quality selling job you did. However, I want to give considerable thought to what my part should be in your work, keep in touch with you, and go slowly.
For the moment, enclosed, please find a cheque for two hundred ($200.00) to be used as a start towards your boarding school and adult education program. There will be more from time to time.
Then I have shipped you two boxes of new textbooks, all on the High School level, and some maps.
Eventually, I would like to look forward to helping individual (carefully selected) worthy students—yes, a few girls too!—towards college, with job placement for the boys. More about that later.
Finally, the arrangements for your talk before the University Club are pending. At that time, you might like to call on other outstanding businessmen whom I can hand-pick for you.
Your visit afforded me real pleasure. By the way, are you related to the John L. Huddleston family of Asheville? I’ve known John Huddleston for many years. Mrs. Smith looks forward to meeting you and joins me in best of good wishes.
Sincerely yours,
Hazen L. Smith
Underneath his signature, he had crudely sketched in a tiny money bag with coins spilling out of it.
David was watching me. “Her eyes are bright. Her cheeks are glowing. Must be good news. Want to share? Or is it a secret?”
I tossed the letter at him. “Of course I’ll share. It’s great news.” I couldn’t help humming and doing a little waltz around his chair as I waved the check in the air . . .
“Whirl and twirl,
Tiddley-um—
This ole girl
Feels frolicsome . . .”
I had forgotten that Miss Ida was still standing there.
David finished the letter, looked up at me and laughed. “You are a daffy girl. May I have this dance?” He put one hand lightly on my waist, grasped my hand and we went whirling and
twirling around the chairs, faster and faster.
We heard a snort as Miss Ida strode out of the room, her heavy footsteps echoing down the hall and up the stairs. I knew that I would hear from her later about this.
It came the next day when she sought me out to ask, “Christy, where is David? I need him to put up a clothes line.”
“Don’t have the least idea, Miss Ida. Haven’t seen him.”
“Do tell!” she clucked irritably. “You’re always seeing him. See more of him than I do. You girls are all alike when it comes to David. All got notions about him. That was quite apparent last night.”
I was annoyed and choked back a retort. But on second thought, I knew that I should not let this one pass. “Miss Ida, I don’t like what you said and it isn’t true. If I had nothing on my mind but getting a husband, do you think I would have picked Cutter Gap, Tennessee? Believe me, there are lots of eligible men in Asheville, lots more than here.”
“Really! Now do tell!” And she dropped the conversation as if it had been one of those hot marbles in my schoolroom.
During these days of freedom from school, we had time for more calling. Aunt Polly Teague was high on our list, but before we could get there, she sent for David and me. After ninety-three years, Dr. MacNeill told us, her tired heart was failing.
The old lady’s dollhouse of a cabin was set on a V-shaped plot of earth between the dirt road and a stream, with a waterfall close by the side of the house. Some twenty years before, after she was a widow, Aunt Polly had settled her eldest son, Dale, and his family into the big family homestead where she and her husband, Freeman, had reared eighteen children. Then she had prevailed on her boys to build her the tiny house where she could be independent.
David’s knock was rewarded by a hearty “Come on in! Howdy-do, come in and set.” The front room was almost filled with an old cherry post-and-spindle bed, but Aunt Polly was not in the bed; she was sitting in a chair like a queen on a throne, only this queen was wearing an outing flannel nightgown with a shawl around her shoulders, a black stocking cap on her head pulled down almost to her eyes. The bright blue eyes in the wrinkled face lighted with pleasure as we walked in.
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