Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller

  Chapter 4

  We listened awhile then but heard no sound in the thicket, although Fredwas growling ominously, his hair on end. As for myself I never had amore fearful hour than that we suffered before the light of morningcame.

  I made no outcry, but clung to my old companion, trembling. He did notstir for a few minutes, and then we crept cautiously into the smallhemlocks on one side of the opening.

  'Keep still,' he whispered, 'don't move er speak.'

  Presently we heard a move in the brush and then quick as a flash UncleEb lifted his rifle and fired in the direction of it Before the loudecho had gone off in the woods we heard something break through thebrush at a run.

  ''S a man,' said Uncle Eb, as he listened. 'He ain't a losin' no timenuther.'

  We sat listening as the sound grew fainter, and when it ceased entirelyUncle Eb said he must have got to the road. After a little the lightof the morning began sifting down through the tree-tops and was greetedwith innumerable songs.

  'He done noble,' said Uncle Eb, patting the old dog as he rose to pokethe fire. 'Putty good chap I call 'im! He can hev half o' my dinner anytime he wants it.'

  'Who do you suppose it was?' I enquired.

  'Robbers, I guess,' he answered, 'an' they'll be layin' fer us whenwe go out, mebbe; but, if they are, Fred'll find 'em an' I've got Ol'Trusty here 'n' I guess thet'll take care uv us.'

  His rifle was always flattered with that name of Ol' Trusty when it haddone him a good turn.

  Soon as the light had come clear he went out in the near woods with dogand rifle and beat around in the brush. He returned shortly and said hehad seen where they came and went.

  'I'd a killed em deader 'n a door nail,' said he, laying down the oldrifle, 'if they'd a come any nearer.'

  Then we brought water from the river and had our breakfast. Fred went onahead of us, when we started for the road, scurrying through the brushon both sides of the trail, as if he knew what was expected of him. Heflushed a number of partridges and Uncle Eb killed one of them on ourway to the road. We resumed our journey without any further adventure.It was so smooth and level under foot that Uncle Eb let me get in thewagon after Fred was hitched to it The old dog went along soberly andwithout much effort, save when we came to hills or sandy places, whenI always got out and ran on behind. Uncle Eb showed me how to brake thewheels with a long stick going downhill. I remember how it hit the dog'sheels at the first down grade, and how he ran to keep out of the wayof it We were going like mad in half a minute, Uncle Eb coming after uscalling to the dog. Fred only looked over his shoulder, with a wild eye,at the rattling wagon and ran the harder. He leaped aside at the bottomand then we went all in a heap. Fortunately no harm was done.

  'I declare!' said Uncle Eb as he came up to us, puffing like a spenthorse, and picked me up unhurt and began to untangle the harness of oldFred, 'I guess he must a thought the devil was after him.'

  The dog growled a little for a moment and bit at the harness, butcoaxing reassured him and he went along all right again on the level. Ata small settlement the children came out and ran along beside my wagon,laughing and asking me questions. Some of them tried to pet the dog, butold Fred kept to his labour at the heels of Uncle Eb and looked neitherto right nor left. We stopped under a tree by the side of a narrow brookfor our dinner, and one incident of that meal I think of always whenI think of Uncle Eb. It shows the manner of man he was and with whatunderstanding and sympathy he regarded every living thing. In rinsinghis teapot he accidentally poured a bit of water on a big bumble-bee.The poor creature struggled to lift hill, and then another downpourcaught him and still another until his wings fell drenched. Then hisbreast began heaving violently, his legs stiffened behind him and hesank, head downward, in the grass. Uncle Eb saw the death throes of thebee and knelt down and lifted the dead body by one of its wings.

  'Jes' look at his velvet coat,' he said, 'an' his wings all wet n'stiff. They'll never carry him another journey. It's too bad a man hast' kill every step he takes.'

  The bee's tail was moving faintly and Uncle Eb laid him out in the warmsunlight and fanned him awhile with his hat, trying to bring back thebreath of life.

  'Guilty!' he said, presently, coming back with a sober face. 'Thet's adead bee. No tellin' how many was dependent on him er what plans he bed.Must a gi'n him a lot o' pleasure t' fly round in the sunlight, workin'every fair day. 'S all over now.'

  He had a gloomy face for an hour after that and many a time, in the daysthat followed, I heard him speak of the murdered bee.

  We lay resting awhile after dinner and watching a big city of ants.Uncle Eb told me how they tilled the soil of the mound every year andsowed their own kind of grain--a small white seed like rice--and reapedtheir harvest in the late summer, storing the crop in their dry cellarsunder ground. He told me also the story of the ant lion--a big beetlethat lives in the jungles of the grain and the grass--of which Iremember only an outline, more or less imperfect.

  Here it is in my own rewording of his tale: On a bright day one of thelittle black folks went off on a long road in a great field of barley.He was going to another city of his own people to bring helpers for theharvest. He came shortly to a sandy place where the barley was thin andthe hot sunlight lay near to the ground. In a little valley close bythe road of the ants he saw a deep pit, in the sand, with steep sidessloping to a point in the middle and as big around as a biscuit. Nowthe ants are a curious people and go looking for things that are new andwonderful as they walk abroad, so they have much to tell worth hearingafter a journey. The little traveller was young and had no fear, so heleft the road and went down to the pit and peeped over the side of it.

  'What in the world is the meaning of this queer place?' he asked himselfas he ran around the rim. In a moment he had stepped over and the softsand began to cave and slide beneath him. Quick as a flash the biglion-beetle rose up in the centre of the pit and began to reach forhim. Then his legs flew in the caving sand and the young ant struckhis blades in it to hold the little he could gain. Upward he struggled,leaping and floundering in the dust. He had got near the rim and hadstopped, clinging to get his breath, when the lion began flinging thesand at him with his long feelers. It rose in a cloud and fell on theback of the ant and pulled at him as it swept down. He could feel themighty cleavers of the lion striking near his hind legs and pulling thesand from under them. He must go down in a moment and he knew what thatmeant. He had heard the old men of the tribe tell often--how they holdone helpless and slash him into a dozen pieces. He was letting go, indespair, when he felt a hand on his neck. Looking up he saw one of hisown people reaching over the rim, and in a jiffy they had shut theirfangs together. He moved little by little as the other tagged at him,and in a moment was out of the trap and could feel the honest earthunder him. When they had got home and told their adventure, some werefor going to slay the beetle.

  'There is never a pit in the path o' duty,' said the wise old chief ofthe little black folks. 'See that you keep in the straight road.'

  'If our brother had not left the straight road,' said one who stoodnear, 'he that was in danger would have gone down into the pit.'

  'It matters much,' he answered, 'whether it was kindness or curiositythat led him out of the road. But he that follows a fool hath much needof wisdom, for if he save the fool do ye not see that he hath encouragedfolly?'

  Of course I had then no proper understanding of the chiefs counsel, nordo I pretend even to remember it from that first telling, but the talewas told frequently in the course of my long acquaintance with Uncle Eb.

  The diary of my good old friend lies before me as I write, the leavesturned yellow and the entries dim. I remember how stern he grew of anevening when he took out this sacred little record of our wanderings andbegan to write in it with his stub of a pencil. He wrote slowly and readand reread each entry with great care as I held the torch for him. 'Bestill, boy--be still,' he would say when some pressing interrogatorypassed my lips, and then he would bend to his work wh
ile the point ofhis pencil bored further into my patience. Beginning here I shall quotea few entries from the diary as they cover, with sufficient detail, anuneventful period of our journey.

  AUGUST 20 Killed a partridge today. Biled it in the teapot for dinner.Went good. 14 mild.

  AUGUST 21 Seen a deer this morning. Fred fit ag'in. Come near spilin'the wagon. Hed to stop and fix the ex. 10 mild.

  AUGUST 22 Clumb a tree this morning after wild grapes. Come nearfalling. Gin me a little crick in the back. Willie hes got a stun bruze.12 mild.

  AUGUST 23 Went in swinmun. Ketched a few fish before breakfus'. Gotprovisions an' two case knives an' one fork, also one tin pie-plate.Used same to fry fish for dinner. 14 mild.

  AUGUST 24 Got some spirits for Willie to rub on my back. Boots wearingout. Terrible hot. Lay in the shade in the heat of the day. Gypsies comean' camped by us tonight. 10 mild.

  I remember well the coming of those gypsies. We were fishing in sight ofthe road and our fire was crackling on the smooth cropped shore. The bigwagons of the gypsies--there were four of them as red and beautiful asthose of a circus caravan--halted about sundown while the men came overa moment to scan the field. Presently they went back and turned theirwagons into the siding and began to unhitch. Then a lot of barefootedchildren, and women under gay shawls, overran the field gathering woodand making ready for night. Meanwhile swarthy drivers took the horses towater and tethered them with long ropes so they could crop the grass ofthe roadside.

  One tall, bony man, with a face almost as black as that of an Indian,brought a big iron pot and set it up near the water. A big stew of beefbone, leeks and potatoes began to cook shortly, and I remember it hadsuch a goodly smell I was minded to ask them for a taste of it. A littlecity of strange people had surrounded us of a sudden. Uncle Eb thoughtof going on, but the night was coming fast and there would be no moonand we were footsore and hungry. Women and children came over to ourfire, after supper, and made more of me than I liked. I remember takingrefuge between the knees of Uncle Eb, and Fred sat close in front ofus growling fiercely when they came too near. They stood about, lookingdown at us and whispered together, and one young miss of the tribe cameup and tried to kiss me in spite of Fred's warnings: She had flashingblack eyes and hair as dark as the night, that fell in a curling massupon her shoulders; but, somehow, I had a mighty fear of her and foughtwith desperation to keep my face from the touch of her red lips. UncleEb laughed and held Fred by the collar, and I began to cry out interror, presently, when, to my great relief, she let go and ran away toher own people. They all went away to their wagons, save one young man,who was tall with light hair and a fair skin, and who looked like noneof the other gypsies.

  'Take care of yourself,' he whispered, as soon as the rest had gone.'These are bad people. You'd better be off.'

  The young man left us and Uncle Eb began to pack up at once. They weregoing to bed in their wagons when we came away. I stood in the basketand Fred drew the wagon that had in it only a few bundles. A mile ormore further on we came to a lonely, deserted cabin close to the road.It had began to thunder in the distance and the wind was blowing damp.

  'Guess nobody lives here,' said Uncle Eb as he turned in at the sagginggate and began to cross the little patch of weeds and hollyhocks behindit 'Door's half down, but I guess it'll de better'n no house. Goin' t'rain sartin.'

  I was nodding a little about then, I remember; but I was wide awake whenhe took me out of the basket The old house stood on a high hill, andwe could see the stars of heaven through the ruined door and one of theback windows. Uncle Eb lifted the leaning door a little and shoved itaside. We heard then a quick stir in the old house--a loud and ghostlyrattle it seems now as I think of it--like that made by linen shaking onthe line. Uncle Eb took a step backward as if it had startled him.

  'Guess it's nuthin' to be 'fraid of;' he said, feeling in the pet of hiscoat He had struck a match in a moment. By its flickering light I couldsee only a bit of rubbish on the floor.

  'Full o' white owls,' said he, stepping inside, where the rustling wasnow continuous. 'They'll do us no harm.'

  I could see them now flying about under the low ceiling. Uncle Ebgathered an armful of grass and clover, in the near field, and spread itin a corner well away from the ruined door and windows. Covered with ourblanket it made a fairly comfortable bed. Soon as we had lain down,the rain began to rattle on the shaky roof and flashes of lightning litevery corner of the old room.

  I have had, ever, a curious love of storms, and, from the time whenmemory began its record in my brain, it has delighted me to hear atnight the roar of thunder and see the swift play of the lightning. Ilay between Uncle Eb and the old dog, who both went asleep shortly.Less wearied I presume than either of them, for I had done none of thecarrying, and had slept along time that day in the shade of a tree, Iwas awake an hour or more after they were snoring. Every flash lit theold room like the full glare of the noonday sun. I remember it showed mean old cradle, piled full of rubbish, a rusty scythe hung in the rottingsash of a window, a few lengths of stove-pipe and a plough in onecorner, and three staring white owls that sat on a beam above thedoorway. The rain roared on the old roof shortly, and came dripping downthrough the bare boards above us. A big drop struck in my face and Imoved a little. Then I saw what made me hold my breath a moment andcover my head with the shawl. A flash of lightning revealed a tall,ragged man looking in at the doorway. I lay close to Uncle Eb imaginingmuch evil of that vision but made no outcry.

  Snugged in between my two companions I felt reasonably secure and soonfell asleep. The sun, streaming in at the open door, roused me in themorning. At the beginning of each day of our journey I woke to findUncle Eb cooking at the fire. He was lying beside me, this morning, hiseyes open.

  'Fraid I'm hard sick,' he said as I kissed him.

  'What's the matter?' I enquired.

  He struggled to a sitting posture, groaning so it went to my heart.

  'Rheumatiz,' he answered presently.

  He got to his feet, little by little, and every move he made gave himgreat pain. With one hand on his cane and the other on my shoulder hemade his way slowly to the broken gate. Even now I can see clearly thefair prospect of that high place--a valley reaching to distant hills anda river winding through it, glimmering in the sunlight; a long woodedledge breaking into naked, grassy slopes on one side of the valley andon the other a deep forest rolling to the far horizon; between them bigpatches of yellow grain and white buckwheat and green pasture land andgreener meadows and the straight road, with white houses on either sideof it, glorious in a double fringe of golden rod and purple aster andyellow John's-wort and the deep blue of the Jacob's ladder.

  'Looks a good deal like the promised land,' said Uncle Eb. 'Hain't gotmuch further t' go.'

  He sat on the rotting threshold while I pulled some of the weeds infront of the doorstep and brought kindlings out of the house and built afire. While we were eating I told Uncle Eb of the man that I had seen inthe night.

  'Guess you was dreamin',' he said, and, while I stood firm for thereality of that I had seen, it held our thought only for a brief moment.My companion was unable to walk that day so we lay by, in the shelter ofthe old house, eating as little of our scanty store as we could dowith. I went to a spring near by for water and picked a good mess ofblackberries that I hid away until supper time, so as to surprise UncleEb. A longer day than that we spent in the old house, after our coming,I have never known. I made the room a bit tidier and gathered more grassfor bedding. Uncle Eb felt better as the day grew warm. I had a busytime of it that morning bathing his back in the spirits and rubbinguntil my small arms ached. I have heard him tell often how vigorouslyI worked that day and how I would say: 'I'll take care o' you, UncleEb--won't I, Uncle Eb?' as my little hands flew with redoubled energy onhis bare skin. That finished we lay down sleeping until the sun was low,when I made ready the supper that took the last of everything we had toeat. Uncle Eb was more like himself that evening and, sitting up in t
hecorner, as the darkness came, told me the story of Squirreltown and FrogFerry, which came to be so great a standby in those days that, even now,I can recall much of the language in which he told it.

  'Once,' he said, 'there was a boy thet hed two grey squirrels in a cage.They kep' thinkin' o' the time they used t' scamper in the tree-tops an'make nests an' eat all the nuts they wanted an' play I spy in the thickleaves. An they grew poor an' looked kind o' ragged an' sickly an'downhearted. When he brought 'em outdoors they used t' look up in thetrees an' run in the wire wheel as if they thought they could get theresometime if they kep' goin'. As the boy grew older he see it was cruelto keep 'em shet in a cage, but he'd hed em a long time an' couldn'tbear t' give 'em up.

  'One day he was out in the woods a little back o' the clearin'. All t'once he heard a swift holler. 'Twas nearby an' echoed so he couldn'ttell which way it come from. He run fer home but the critter ketched 'imbefore he got out o' the woods an' took 'im into a cave, an' give 'im t'the little swifts t' play with. The boy cried terrible. The swifts theylaughed an' nudged each other.

  '"O ain't he cute!" says one. "He's a beauty!" says another. "Cur'us howhe can git along without any fur," says the mother swift, as she run ernose over 'is bare foot. He thought of 'is folks waitin' fer him an' hebegged em t' let 'im go. Then they come an' smelt 'im over.

  '"Yer sech a cunnin' critter," says the mother swift, "we couldn't spareye."

  '"Want to see my mother," says the boy sobbing.

  '"Couldn't afford t' let ye go--yer so cute," says the swift. "Bring thepoor critter a bone an' a bit o' snake meat."

  'The boy couldn't eat. They fixed a bed fer him, but 'twant clean. Thefeel uv it made his back ache an' the smell uv it made him sick to hisstomach.

  '"When the swifts hed comp'ny they 'd bring 'em overt' look at him there'n his dark corner." "S a boy," said the mother swift pokin' him with along stick "Wouldn't ye like t' see 'im run?" Then she punched him untilhe got up an' run 'round the cave fer his life. Happened one day et avery benevolent swift come int' the cave.

  '"'S a pity t' keep the boy here," said he; "he looks bad."

  '"But he makes fun fer the children," said the swift.

  '"Fun that makes misery is only fit fer a fool," said the visitor.

  'They let him go thet day. Soon as he got hum he thought o' thesquirrels an' was tickled t' find 'em alive. He tak 'em off to anisland, in the middle of a big lake, thet very day, an' set the cage onthe shore n' opened it He thought he would come back sometime an' seehow they was ginin' along. The cage was made of light wire an' hed atin bottom fastened to a big piece o' plank. At fust they was 'fraid t'leave it an' peeked out o' the door an' scratched their heads's if theythought it a resky business. After awhile one stepped out careful an'then the other followed. They tried t' climb a tree, but their nails waswore off an' they kep' fallin' back. Then they went off 'n the brush t'find some nuts. There was only pines an' poppies an' white birch an' afew berry bushes on the island. They went t' the water's edge on everyside, but there was nuthin there a squirrel ud give a flirt uv histail fer. 'Twas near dark when they come back t' the cage hungry as tewbears. They found a few crumbs o' bread in the cup an' divided 'em even.Then they went t' bed 'n their ol' nest.

  'It hed been rainin' a week in the mount'ins. Thet night the lake rosea foot er more an' 'fore mornin' the cage begun t' rock a teenty bit asthe water lifted the plank. They slep' all the better fer thet an' theydreamed they was up in a tree at the end uv a big bough. The cage begunt' sway sideways and then it let go o' the shore an' spun 'round once ertwice an' sailed out 'n the deep water. There was a light breeze blowin'offshore an' purty soon it was pitchin' like a ship in the sea. But thetwo squirrels was very tired an' never woke up 'til sunrise. They got aterrible scare when they see the water 'round 'em an' felt the motiono' the ship. Both on 'em ran into the wire wheel an' that bore down thestern o' the ship so the under wires touched the water. They made itspin like a buzz saw an' got their clothes all wet. The ship went fasterwhen they worked the wheel, an' bime bye they got tired an' come outon the main deck. The water washed over it a little so they clim up theroof thet was a kin' uv a hurricane deck. It made the ship sway an' rockfearful but they hung on 'midships, an' clung t' the handle that stuckup like a top mast. Their big tails was spread over their shoulders,an' the wind rose an' the ship went faster 'n faster. They could see themain shore where the big woods come down t' the water 'n' all the whileit kep' a comin' nearer 'n' nearer. But they was so hungry didn't seempossible they could live to git there.

  'Ye know squirrels are a savin' people. In the day o' plenty they thinko' the day o' poverty an' lay by fer it. All at once one uv 'em thoughtuv a few kernels o' corn, he hed pushed through a little crack in thetin floor one day a long time ago. It happened there was quite a holeunder the crack an' each uv 'em bad stored some kernels unbeknown t'the other. So they hed a good supper 'n' some left fer a bite 'n themornin'. 'Fore daylight the ship made her pott 'n' lay to, 'side liv alog in a little cove. The bullfrogs jumped on her main deck an' begunt' holler soon as she hove to: "all ashore! all ashore! all ashore!" Thetwo squirrels woke up but lay quiet 'til the sun rose. Then they comeout on the log 'et looked like a long dock an' run ashore 'n' foun' someo' their own folks in the bush. An' when they bed tol' their story theol' father o' the tribe got up 'n a tree an' hollered himself hoarsepreachin' 'bout how 't paid t' be savin'.

  '"An' we should learn t' save our wisdom es well es our nuts," said asassy brother; "fer each needs his own wisdom fer his own affairs."

  'An the little ship went back 'n' forth 'cross the cove as the win'blew. The squirrels hed many a fine ride in her an' the frogs were theferrymen. An' all 'long thet shore 'twas known es Frog Ferry 'mong thesquirrel folks.'

  It was very dark when he finished the tale an' as we lay gaping a fewminutes after my last query about those funny people of the lake marginI could hear nothing but the chirping of the crickets. I was feelinga bit sleepy when I heard the boards creak above our heads. Uncle Eliraised himself and lay braced upon his elbow listening. In a few momentswe heard a sound as of someone coming softly down the ladder at theother end of the room. It was so dark I could see nothing.

  'Who's there?' Uncle Eb demanded.

  'Don't p'int thet gun at me,' somebody whispered. 'This is my home and Iwarn ye t' leave it er I'll do ye harm.'