Chapter 9
Grandma Bisnette came from Canada to work for the Browers. She wasa big, cheerful woman, with a dialect, an amiable disposition and aswarthy, wrinkled face. She had a loose front tooth that occupied allthe leisure of her tongue. When she sat at her knitting this big toothclicked incessantly. On every stitch her tongue went in and out acrossit' and I, standing often by her knees, regarded the process with greatcuriosity.
The reader may gather much from these frank and informing words ofGrandma Bisnette. 'When I los' my man, Mon Dieu! I have two son. An'when I come across I bring him with me. Abe he rough; but den he no badman.'
Abe was the butcher of the neighbourhood--that red-handed,stony-hearted, necessary man whom the Yankee farmer in that northcountry hires to do the cruel things that have to be done. He woreragged, dirty clothes and had a voice like a steam whistle. His rough,black hair fell low and mingled with his scanty beard. His hands werestained too often with the blood of some creature we loved. I alwayscrept under the bed in Mrs Brower's room when Abe came--he was such aterror to me with his bloody work and noisy oaths. Such men were thecurse of the cleanly homes in that country. There was much to shockthe ears and eyes of children in the life of the farm. It was a fashionamong the help to decorate their speech with profanity for the meresound of it' and the foul mouthings of low-minded men spread like apestilence in the fields.
Abe came always with an old bay horse and a rickety buckboard. His onefoot on the dash, as he rode, gave the picture a dare-devil finish.The lash of his bull-whip sang around him, and his great voice sent itsblasts of noise ahead. When we heard a fearful yell and rumble in thedistance, we knew Abe was coming.
'Abe he come,' said Grandma Bisnette. 'Mon Dieu! he make de leetle rockfly.'
It was like the coming of a locomotive with roar of wheel and whistle.In my childhood, as soon as I saw the cloud of dust, I put for the bedand from its friendly cover would peek out' often, but never venture faruntil the man of blood had gone.
To us children he was a marvel of wickedness. There were those who toldhow he had stood in the storm one night and dared the Almighty to sendthe lightning upon him.
The dog Fred had grown so old and infirm that one day they sent for Abeto come and put an end to his misery. Every man on the farm loved theold dog and not one of them would raise a hand to kill him. Hope andI heard what Abe was coming to do, and when the men had gone to thefields, that summer morning, we lifted Fred into the little wagon inwhich he had once drawn me and starting back of the barn stole awaywith him through the deep grass of the meadow until we came out upon thehighroad far below. We had planned to take him to school and make him anest in the woodshed where he could share our luncheon and be out of theway of peril. After a good deal of difficulty and heavy pulling wegot to the road at last. The old dog, now blind and helpless, satcontentedly in the wagon while its wheels creaked and groaned beneathhim. We had gone but a short way in the road when we heard the redbridge roar under rushing wheels and the familiar yell of Abe.
'We'd better run,' said Hope, ''er we'll git swore at.'
I looked about me in a panic for some place to hide the party, but Abewas coming fast and there was only time to pick up clubs and stand ourground.
'Here!' the man shouted as he pulled up along side of us, 'where yegoin' with that dog?'
'Go 'way,' I answered, between anger and tears, lifting my club in athreatening manner.
He laughed then--a loud guffaw that rang in the near woods.
'What'll ye give me,' he asked leaning forward, his elbows on his knees,'What'll ye give me if I don't kill him?'
I thought a moment. Then I put my hand in my pocket and presently tookout my jack-knife--that treasure Uncle Eb had bought for me--and lookedat it fondly.
Then I offered it to him.
Again he laughed loudly.
'Anything else?' he demanded while Hope sat hugging the old dog that waslicking her hands.
'Got forty cents that I saved for the fair,' said I promptly.
Abe backed his horse and turned in the road.
'Wall boy,' he said, 'Tell 'em I've gone home.'
Then his great voice shouted, 'g'lang' the lash of his whip sang in theair and off he went.
We were first to arrive at the schoolhouse, that morning, and whenthe other children came we had Fred on a comfortable bed of grass in acorner of the woodshed. What with all the worry of that day I said mylessons poorly and went home with a load on my heart. Tomorrow would beSaturday; how were we to get food and water to the dog? They asked athome if we had seen old Fred and we both declared we had not--the firstlie that ever laid its burden on my conscience. We both saved all ourbread and butter and doughnuts next day, but we had so many chores todo it was impossible to go to the schoolhouse with them. So we agreedto steal away that night when all were asleep and take the food from itshiding place.
In the excitement of the day neither of us had eaten much. They thoughtwe were ill and sent us to bed early. When Hope came into my room abovestairs late in the evening we were both desperately hungry. We looked atour store of doughnuts and bread and butter under my bed. We counted itover.
'Won't you try one o' the doughnuts,' I whispered hoping that she wouldsay yes so that I could try one also; for they did smell mighty good.
''Twouldn't be right,' said she regretfully. 'There ain't any more 'nhe'll want now.
''Twouldn't be right,' I repeated with a sigh as I looked longingly atone of the big doughnuts. 'Couldn't bear t' do it--could you?'
'Don't seem as if I could,' she whispered, thoughtfully, her chin uponher hand.
Then she rose and went to the window.
'O my! how dark it is!' she whispered, looking out into the night.
'Purty dark!' I said, 'but you needn't be 'fraid. I'll take care o' you.If we should meet a bear I'll growl right back at him--that's what UncleEb tol' me t' do. I'm awful stout--most a man now! Can't nuthin' scareme.'
We could hear them talking below stairs and we went back to bed,intending to go forth later when the house was still. But' unfortunatelyfor our adventure I fell asleep.
It was morning when I opened my eyes again. We children lookedaccusingly at each other while eating breakfast. Then we had to bewashed and dressed in our best clothes to go to meeting. When the wagonwas at the door and we were ready to start I had doughnuts and breadand butter in every pocket of my coat and trousers. I got in quickly andpulled the blanket over me so as to conceal the fullness of my pockets.We arrived so late I had no chance to go to the dog before we went intomeeting. I was wearing boots that were too small for me, and when Ientered with the others and sat down upon one of those straight backedseats of plain, unpainted pine my feet felt as if I had been caught ina bear trap. There was always such a silence in the room after the elderhad sat down and adjusted his spectacles that I could hear the tickingof the watch he carried in the pocket of his broadcloth waistcoat. Formy own part I know I looked with too much longing for the good of mysoul on the great gold chain that spanned the broad convexity of hisstomach. Presently I observed that a couple of young women were lookingat me and whispering. Then suddenly I became aware that there weresundry protuberances on my person caused by bread and butter anddoughnuts, and I felt very miserable indeed. Now and then as the elderspoke the loud, accusing neigh of some horse, tethered to the fence inthe schoolyard, mingled with his thunder. After the good elder had beenpreaching an hour his big, fat body seemed to swim in my tears. When hehad finished the choir sang. Their singing was a thing that appealed tothe eye as well as the ear. Uncle Eb used to say it was a great comfortto see Elkenah Samson sing bass. His great mouth opened widely in thisform of praise and his eyes had a wild stare in them when he aimed atthe low notes.
Ransom Walker, a man of great dignity, with a bristling moustache, whohad once been a schoolmaster, led the choir and carried the tenor part.It was no small privilege after the elder had announced the hymn, to seehim rise and tap the desk with his tuning fork
and hold it to his earsolemnly. Then he would seem to press his chin full hard upon his throatwhile he warbled a scale. Immediately, soprano, alto, bass and tenorlaunched forth upon the sea of song. The parts were like the treacherousand conflicting currents of a tide that tossed them roughly andsometimes overturned their craft. And Ransom Walker showed always aproper sense of danger and responsibility. Generally they got to portsafely on these brief excursions, though exhausted. He had a way ofbeating time with his head while singing and I have no doubt it was agreat help to him.
The elder came over to me after meeting, having taken my tears for asign of conviction.
'May the Lord bless and comfort you, my boy!' said he.
I got away shortly and made for the door. Uncle Eb stopped me.
'My stars, Willie!' said he putting his hand on my upper coat pocket''what ye got in there?'
'Doughnuts,' I answered.
'An' what's this?' he asked touching one of my side pockets.
'Doughnuts,' I repeated.
'An' this,' touching another.
'That's doughnuts too,' I said.
'An' this,' he continued going down to my trousers pocket.
'Bread an' butter,' I answered, shamefacedly, and on the verge of tears.
'Jerusalem!' he exclaimed, 'must a 'spected a purty long sermon.
'Brought 'em fer ol' Fred,' I replied.
'Ol' Fred!' he whispered, 'where's he?'
I told my secret then and we both went out with Hope to where we hadleft him. He lay with his head between his paws on the bed of grass justas I had seen him lie many a time when his legs were weary with travelon Paradise Road, and when his days were yet full of pleasure. We calledto him and Uncle Eb knelt and touched his head. Then he lifted the dog'snose, looked a moment into the sightless eyes and let it fall again.
'Fred's gone,' said he in a low tone as he turned away. 'Got there aheaduv us, Willy.'
Hope and I sat down by the old dog and wept bitterly.