Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

  Chapter 19

  Tip Taylor was, in the main, a serious-minded man. A cross eye enhancedthe natural solemnity of his countenance. He was little given to talk orlaughter unless he were on a hunt, and then he only whispered his joy.He had seen a good bit of the world through the peek sight of his rifle,and there was something always in the feel of a gun that lifted him tohigher moods. And yet one could reach a tender spot in him without theaid of a gun. That winter vacation I set myself to study things fordeclamation--specimens of the eloquence of Daniel Webster and Henry Clayand James Otis and Patrick Henry. I practiced them in the barn, often,in sight and hearing of the assembled herd and some of those fierypassages were rather too loud and threatening for the peace and comfortof my audience. The oxen seemed always to be expecting the sting of thebull whip; they stared at me timidly, tilting their ears every moment,as if to empty them of a heavy load; while the horses snorted withapprehension. This haranguing of the herd had been going on a week ormore when Uncle Eb and I, returning from a distant part of the farm,heard a great uproar in the stable. Looking in at a window we saw TipTaylor, his back toward us, extemporising a speech. He was pressing hisargument with gestures and the tone of thunder. We listened a moment,while a worried look came over the face of Uncle Eb. Tip's words weremeaningless save for the secret aspiration they served to advertise. Myold companion thought Tip had gone crazy, and immediately swung the doorand stepped in. The orator fell suddenly from his lofty altitude andbecame a very sober looking hired man.

  'What's the matter?' Uncle Eb enquired.

  'Practicin',' said Tip soberly, as he turned slowly, his face damp andred with exertion.

  'Fer what?' Uncle Eb enquired.

  'Fer the 'sylum, I guess,' he answered, with a faint smile.

  'Ye don' need no more practice,' Uncle Eb answered. 'Looks t' me asthough ye was purty well prepared.'

  To me there was a touch of pathos in this show of the deeper things inTip's nature that had been kindled to eruption by my spouting. He wouldnot come in to dinner that day, probably from an unfounded fear that wewould make fun of his flight--a thing we should have been far from doingonce we understood him.

  It was a bitter day of one of the coldest winters we had ever known. Ashrieking wind came over the hills, driving a scud of snow before itThe stock in the stables, we all came in, soon after dinner, and satcomfortably by the fire with cider, checkers and old sledge. The dismalroar of the trees and the wind-wail in the chimney served only toincrease our pleasure. It was growing dusk when mother, peeringthrough the sheath of frost on a window pane, uttered an exclamation ofsurprise.

  'Why! who is this at the door?' said she. 'Why! It's a man in a cutter.'Father was near the door and he swung it open quickly. There stood ahorse and cutter, a man sitting in it, heavily muffled. The horse wasshivering and the man sat motionless.

  'Hello!' said David Brower in a loud voice.

  He got no answer and ran bareheaded to the sleigh.

  'Come, quick, Holden,' he called, 'it's Doctor Bigsby.'

  We all ran out then, while David lifted the still figure in his arms.

  'In here, quick!' said Elizabeth, opening the door to the parlour.'Musn't take 'im near the stove.'

  We carried him into the cold room and laid him down, and David and Itore his wraps open while the others ran quickly after snow.

  I rubbed it vigorously upon his face and ears, the others meantimeapplying it to his feet and arms, that had been quickly stripped. Thedoctor stared at us curiously and tried to speak.

  'Get ap, Dobbin!' he called presently, and ducked as if urging hishorse. 'Get ap, Dobbin! Man'll die 'fore ever we git there.'

  We all worked upon him with might and main. The white went slowly out ofhis face. We lifted him to a sitting posture. Mother and Hope and UncleEb were rubbing his hands and feet.

  'Where am I?' he enquired, his face now badly swollen.

  'At David Brower's,' said I.

  'Huh?' he asked, with that kindly and familiar grunt of interrogation.

  'At David Brower's,' I repeated.

  'Well, I'll have t' hurry,' said he, trying feebly to rise. 'Man's dyin'over--' he hesitated thoughtfully, 'on the Plains,' he added, lookingaround at us.

  Grandma Bisnette brought a lamp and held it so the light fell on hisface. He looked from one to another. He drew one of his hands away andstared at it.

  'Somebody froze?' he asked.

  'Yes,' said I.

  'Hm! Too bad. How'd it happen?' he asked. 'I don't know.'

  'How's the pulse?' he enquired, feeling for my wrist.

  I let him hold it in his hand.

  'Will you bring me some water in a glass?' he enquired, turning toMrs Brower, just as I had seen him do many a time in Gerald's illness.Before she came with the water his head fell forward upon his breast,while he muttered feebly. I thought then he was dead, but presently heroused himself with a mighty effort.

  'David Brower!' he called loudly, and trying hard to rise, 'bring thehorse! bring the horse! Mus' be goin', I tell ye. Man's dyin' over--onthe Plains.'

  He went limp as a rag then. I could feel his heart leap and strugglefeebly.

  'There's a man dyin' here,' said David Brower, in a low tone. 'Yeneedn't rub no more.

  'He's dead,' Elizabeth whispered, holding his hand tenderly, and lookinginto his half-closed eyes. Then for a moment she covered her own withher handkerchief, while David, in a low, calm tone, that showed thedepth of his feeling, told us what to do.

  Uncle Eb and I watched that night, while Tip Taylor drove away totown. The body lay in the parlour and we sat by the stove in the roomadjoining. In a half-whisper we talked of the sad event of the day.

  'Never oughter gone out a day like this,' said Uncle Eb. 'Don' take mucht' freeze an ol' man.'

  'Got to thinking of what happened yesterday and forgot the cold,' Isaid.

  'Bad day t' be absent-minded,' whispered Uncle Eb, as he rose andtiptoed to the window and peered through the frosty panes. 'May o' gotfaint er sumthin'. Ol' hoss brought 'im right here--been here s' oftenwith 'in'.'

  He took the lantern and went out a moment. The door creaked upon itsfrosty hinges when he opened it.

  'Thirty below zero,' he whispered as he came in. 'Win's gone down aleetle bit, mebbe.'

  Uncanny noises broke in upon the stillness of the old house. Itstimbers, racked in the mighty grip of the cold, creaked and settled.Sometimes there came a sharp, breaking sound, like the crack of bones.

  'If any man oughter go t' Heaven, he had,' said Uncle Eb, as he drew onhis boots.

  'Think he's in Heaven?' I asked.

  'Hain't a doubt uv it,' said he, as he chewed a moment, preparing forexpectoration.

  'What kind of a place do you think it is?' I asked.

  'Fer one thing,' he said, deliberately, 'nobody'll die there, 'lesshe'd ought to; don't believe there's goin' t' be any need o' swearin'er quarrellin'. To my way o' thinkin' it'll be a good deal like DaveBrower's farm--nice, smooth land and no stun on it, an' hills an'valleys an' white clover aplenty, an' wheat an' corn higher'n a man'shead. No bull thistles, no hard winters, no narrer contracted fools;no long faces, an' plenty o' work. Folks sayin' "How d'y do" 'stid o'"goodbye", all the while--comin' 'stid o' gain'. There's goin' t' besome kind o' fun there. I ain' no idee what 'tis. Folks like it an' Ikind o' believe 'at when God's gin a thing t' everybody he thinks purtymiddlin' well uv it.'

  'Anyhow, it seems a hard thing to die,' I remarked.

  'Seems so,' he said thoughtfully. 'Jes' like ever'thing else--them 'atknows much about it don' have a great deal t' say. Looks t' me likethis: I cal'ate a man hes on the everidge ten things his heart is soton--what is the word I want--?'

  'Treasures?' I suggested.

  'Thet's it,' said he. 'Ev'ry one hes about ten treasures. Some hevmore--some less. Say one's his strength, one's his plan, the rest isthem he loves, an' the more he loves the better 'tis fer him. Wall, theybegin t' go one by one. Some die, some turn agin' him. Fin
's it hard t'keep his allowance. When he's only nine he's lost eggzac'ly one-tenth uvhis dread o' dyin'. Bime bye he counts up--one-two-three-four-five-an'thet's all ther is left. He figgers it up careful. His strength is gone,his plan's a fillure, mebbe, an' this one's dead an' thet one's dead,an' t'other one better be. Then 's 'bout half-ways with him. If helives till the ten treasures is all gone, God gives him one more--thet'sdeath. An' he can swop thet off an' git back all he's lost. Then hebegins t' think it's a purty dum good thing, after all. Purty goodthing, after all,' he repeated, gaping as he spoke.

  He began nodding shortly, and soon he went asleep in his chair.