--_Vanderlyn's Songs of the Past._

It was curious how much interest Mr. Sanders began to take in the home life that the mere presence of Adelaide brought to old Jonas Whipple's house. He would walk in without knocking, sometimes just about tea-time, and the child would invariably ask him to stay. Then after tea, he would challenge old Jonas for a game of checkers, and Adelaide thought it was great fun to watch them, they were so eager to defeat each other. Mr.

Sanders had long been the champion checker-player in that part of the country, and he was very much astonished to find that old Jonas was himself an expert. Sometimes Adelaide would watch the game, and the two men invariably appealed to her to settle any question or doubt that arose, such as which of the two made the last move, or whether old Jonas had slipped a man from the board.

Most frequently, however, Adelaide was busy with her own affairs, and when this was the case, the two men sat quietly together, sometimes talking and sometimes listening.

"The Bishop is here," Adelaide would say to Cally-Lou. Then it seemed that Cally-Lou would make some reply that could only be heard through the ears of the imagination, to which Adelaide would respond most earnestly: "Why of course he isn't asleep, 'cause I saw him wink both eyes just now"--and the conversation would go on, sometimes good-humouredly, and sometimes charged with pretended indignation. If there had been any telephones, Mr. Sanders would inevitably have said: "You can't make me believe thar ain't some un at the other eend of the line."

I would say it was all like a play on the stage, only it wasn't as small as that. A play on the stage, as you well know, has its times and places. It must come to an end within a reasonable time. The curtain comes down, the audience files out, laughing and chatting, or wiping its eyes--as the case may be--the actors run to their cheerless rooms to strip off their tinsel finery, then the lights are put out, and everything is left to the chill of emptiness and gloom. But this was not the way with the play at old Jonas's home. It began early in the morning--for Adelaide was a very early riser--and lasted until bed-time; and, sometimes, longer, as Lucindy could have told you. Old Jonas had a way of covering his bald head with a flannel night-cap, and tucking the bed-covering about his face and ears, so that light and sound, no matter where they came from, would have as much as they could do to reach his eyes and ears; and, while he lay very still, as though he were sound asleep, he was sometimes awake for a very long time, thinking old thoughts and new ones, remembering people he had pinched in money matters, and thinking of those he intended to pinch.

After Adelaide came to live with him he had few thoughts of this kind, and less desire to sleep. Frequently he lay awake for hours at a time, wondering if the child was comfortable. Adelaide slept in a poster bed, one of the old-fashioned kind, and many a night, when everything was still and dark as the gloomy plague that fell over Egypt, old Jonas would slip from under his carefully tucked cover, steal into the room where the child slept, and listen by her bedside to convince himself that she was really breathing, so softly and shyly did she draw her breath. And sometimes he would put out his hand and feel--oh, ever so gently!--if she had kicked off the covering.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Old Jonas would listen by her bedside to convince himself that she was really breathing"]

Now, it frequently happened that Lucindy, the cook, had the same spells of uneasiness, and it chanced one night that they were both at the child's bed at the same time. Old Jonas was feeling, and Lucindy was feeling, and their hands met; the cold hand of old Jonas touched Lucindy's hand. This was enough! Lucindy said not a word--indeed, words were beyond her--she said afterward that she came within one of uttering a scream and dropping to the floor. But the fright that had weakened her, had also given her strength to escape. She stole back to her place on tip-toe, declaring in her mind that she would never again enter that room at night unless she had torch-bearers to escort her.

It was contrary to all her knowledge and experience that old Jonas should concern himself about the child at his time of life, and with his whimsical habits and methods. In trying to account for the incident, her mind never wandered in the direction of old Jonas at all. To imagine that he was at the bedside of the child, investigating her comfort, was far less plausible than any other explanation she could offer. And then and there, the legend of Cally-Lou became charged with reality, so far as Lucindy was concerned; and it had a larger growth in one night, from the impetus that Lucindy gave it, than an ordinary legend could hope to have in a century.

Lucindy lost no time in mentioning the matter to Adelaide the next day.

"La, honey! I had de idee dat you wuz des a-playin' when I hear you talkin' to Cally-Lou; I got de idee dat she wuz des one er de Whittle-Come-Whattles dat lives in folks' min', an' nowhar else. Dat 'uz kaze I ain't never seed 'er; my eyeb.a.l.l.s ain't got de right slant, I reckon. But las' night, I tuck a notion dat you had done kick de kivver off, an' in I went, gropin' an' creepin' 'roun' in de dark--not dish yer common dark what you have out'n doors, but de kin' dat your Nunky-Punky keeps in de house at night; an' de Lord knows ef I had ez much money ez what dey say he's got, I'd have me ten candles an' a lantern lit in eve'y blessed room. Well, I went in dar, des like I tell you, an' I put out my han'--des so--an' I teched somebody else's han', an' 'twant your'n, honey, kaze 'twuz ez col' ez a frog in de branch. I tell you now, I lit out fum dar--hosses couldn't 'a' helt me--an' I come in de back room dar whar I b'long'ded at, crope back in bed, an' shuck an'

shiver'd plum' tell sleep come down de chimberly an' sot on my eyeleds.

"n.o.body nee'n'ter tell me dey aint no Cally-Lou, kaze I done gone an'

felt un her. Folks say dat feelin's lots better'n seein'. What you see mayn't be dar, kaze yer eyeb.a.l.l.s may be wrong, but what you feels un, it's blidze ter be dar. Well, I done put my han' on Cally-Lou! Yes, honey, right on 'er!" Lucindy told her experience to many, including old Jonas, who glared at her with his ferret-like eyes, and moved his jaws as if he were chewing a very toothsome tidbit; and the oftener she told it, the larger it grew and the more completely she believed in Cally-Lou.

Many shook their heads, while others openly avowed their disbelief. On the other hand a large number of those who came in contact with Lucindy and heard her solemn account of the affair, were greatly impressed.

Adelaide showed not the slightest surprise when Lucindy recounted her astonishing adventure. She seemed to be glad that the cook had now discovered for herself about Cally-Lou, but she seemed very much distressed, and also irritated, that the Chill-Child-No-Child (as she sometimes called her) should be so thoughtless as to wander about in the darkness with nothing on her feet and little on her body. With both hands Adelaide pushed back her wonderful hair that was almost hiding her blue eyes.

"I don't know how often I have told Cally-Lou not to go gadding about the house at night, catching cold and making Nunky-Punky pay a dollar apiece for doctor's bills. No wonder she slept so late this morning!"

Adelaide not only talked like she was picking the words out of a big book, as Lucindy declared, but there were times, as now, when all the troubles and responsibilities of maternity looked out upon the world through her eyes. Old-fashioned, and apparently as much in earnest as a woman grown, it was no wonder that Lucindy gazed at her like one entranced!

Adelaide made no further remark, but turned and went from the kitchen into the house. All the doors were open, the weather being warm and pleasant, and Lucindy presently heard her asking Cally-Lou why she continued to disobey the only friend she had in the world. Cally-Lou must have made some excuse, or explanation, though Lucindy couldn't hear a word thereof, for Adelaide, speaking in a louder tone, gave the Chill-Child-No-Child a sound rebuke.

"I don't care if you do feel that way about it," said she; "Nunky-Punky can look after me, if he feels like it, and so can Aunt Lucindy, but I'm the one to look after you. Be ashamed of yourself! a great big girl like you going around in the dark, barefooted and bareheaded. Seat yourself in that chair, and don't move out of it till I tell you, or you'll be sorry."

Lucindy, listening with all her ears, lifted her arms in a gesture of admiration and astonishment, exclaiming to herself, "I des wish you'd listen! Dat sho do beat my time!"

Adelaide went off to play, and it might be supposed that she had forgotten Cally-Lou; but a little before the hour was up, she went into the house again, called Cally-Lou, and, after a little, came running out again, laughing as gayly as if she had heard one of Mr. Sanders's jokes.

"What de matter, honey? Whar Cally-Lou?" Lucindy inquired.

"Why, she went fast asleep in the chair," cried Adelaide, laughing as though it were the funniest thing imaginable, "and no wonder she fell asleep after wandering about the house, pretending she wanted to make sure that I was snivelling under that heavy cover. How can anybody get cold such weather as this?"

Lucindy shook her head. "De han' dat totch mine was col', honey--stone col'."

"Oh, Cally-Lou's hand! Well, she can sit by the fire and still be cold,"

responded Adelaide. "Cally-Lou is mighty funny," she went on, growing confidential; "she says she is lonesome; she wants to play with growner folks than me."

"Well, honey, I dunner whar she'll fin' um. Dar's Mr. Sanders; sholy he ain't too young fer 'er!"

As though the mention of his name had summoned Mr. Sanders from the dim and vague region where Cally-Lou had her place of residence, those in the kitchen now heard his voice in the house. He had entered, as usual, without taking the trouble to knock, and he came down the long hall, talking and saluting imaginary persons, hoping in that way to attract the attention of Adelaide. Nor was he unsuccessful.

"Well, I declare!" he exclaimed. "Here's Miss Sue Frierson!--an'

well-named too, bekaze ever'body knows that she'd fry a sun ef she had one. Howdy, Miss Sue! Miss Susan-Sue! Ef you are well, why I am too! So it's up an' hop to-day. Dr. Honeyman says she won't be well tell she's better. She had company last night, an' she tried for to nod whiles she was standin' up. It'd 'a' been all right ef her feet had n't 'a' gone to sleep. Thereupon, an' likewise whatsoever--as the Peskerwhalian Bishop says--she fell off'n her perch, an' had to be put to bed back'ards.

What? You don't know the Peskerwhalian Bishop? Well, his hardware name is William H. Sanders, of the county aforesaid, Ashbank Deestrick, G. M.

"Cally-Lou? Well, I hain't seed the child to-day, but she's up an'

about; you'll hear her whistlin' fer company presently. Can't stay?

Well, good bye, Miss Susan-Sue; mighty glad I met you when I did. So long, or longer!"

Bowing Miss Frierson out, though she was invisible to all eyes, Mr.

Sanders came back toward the kitchen talking to himself. "Well, well! I hadn't seed my Susan-Sue in thirteen year, an' she's jest the same as she was when she engaged herself to me--eyes like they had been jest washed, an' the eend of her nose lookin' like a ripe plum! But sech is life whar we live at. Howdy, Adelaide? Howdy, Lucindy? I hope both of you have taken your stand among my well-wishers."

"La, Mr. Sanders, how you does run on! I b'lieve you er lots wuss'n you used to be!"

"Well, Lucindy, it's mighty hard for to make a young hoss stand in one place. He's uther got to go back'ards or forrerds, or jump sideways.

I've jest begun to live good. I feel a heap better sence I was born in the country whar Miss Adelaide spends her time an' pleasure."

"Now, Bishop, tell me, please, if you were really talking to Miss----Miss----"

"Frierson--Miss Susan-Sue Frierson." Mr. Sanders supplied the name to Adelaide. He seemed to be filled with astonishment. "Did you hear me talking?" he asked in a confidential whisper. "Why, I--I didn't know you could hear me! Now, don't go and tell ever'body. She lives in our country, an' she come for to see Cally-Lou."

"Well, I'm sorry Cally-Lou didn't see her. I had to punish her to-day, and she's not feeling so well."

"Well, I reckon not!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders; "'specially ef you used a cowhide, or a barrel-stave. What have you got to do to-day, and whar are you gwine? I had a holiday comin' to me, an' so I thought I'd come down here an' take you to the Whish-Whish Woods an' hunt for the Boogerman."

At once Adelaide was in a quiver of excitement. "Shall we camp out? Must we take guns? How long shall we stay?"

"Guns! why, tooby sh.o.r.e," replied Mr. Sanders, with an expression of ferociousness new to his countenance; "as many as we can tote wi'out sp'ilin' our complexions; an' we'll stay ontel we git him or his hide.

Lucindy'd better fix up a lunch for two--a couple of biscuits an' a couple of b.u.t.termilks. Thar's no tellin' when we'll git back."

Now, old Jonas Whipple had the largest and the finest garden in town. It was such a fine garden, indeed, that the neighbours had a way of looking at it over the fence, and wondering how Providence could be so kind to a man so close and stingy, and so mean in money-matters. And as your neighbours can wonder about one thing as well as another, old Jonas's wondered where all the vegetables went to. It was out of the question that old Jonas should use them all himself; and yet, as regularly as the garden was planted every year, as certainly as the vegetables always grew successfully, let the season be wet or dry, just as regularly and just as certainly, the various crops disappeared as fast as they became eatable--and that, too, when nearly everybody in the community had gardens of their own. It was a very mild mystery, but in a village, such as Shady Dale was, even a mild mystery becomes highly important until it is solved, and then it is forgotten. Only Mr. Sanders had solved it thus far, and this was the main reason why he "neighboured" with old Jonas.

He had discovered that the vegetables went to the maintenance of a small colony of "tackies" that had settled near Shady Dale--"dirt-eaters" they were called. They were so poor and improvident that the men went in rags and the women in tatters; and only old Jonas's fine garden was free to them. In the early morning twilight they would slip in with their bags and their baskets, and were gone before anybody but themselves had shaken off the shackles of sleep.

Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-eight seemed to be very pale when Adelaide and I found it under the honeysuckle vine, but in old Jonas's garden it was particularly brilliant in its colours of green. Green is the admiration of summer, and it has more beautiful shades than the rainbow.

Observe the marked difference between the cabbage and the corn, between the squash and watermelon vines, between the asparagus and the cuc.u.mber, between the red pepper plants and the tomato vines! These variations are worth more than a day's study by any artist who is ambitious of training his eyes to colour.

In old Jonas's garden in the summer we are speaking of, there were three squares of corn, the finest that had ever been seen on upland. And it was very funny, too: for old Jonas had planted early, and the frost had come down and nipped the corn when it was about three inches high. The negro gardener was in despair; in all his experience, and he was gray-headed, he had never seen anything like this late frost, and he was anxious for the corn to be ploughed up, so that it could be replanted.

Old Jonas wouldn't hear to the proposition, and the gardener went about his business, wondering how a man could be so stingy about seed corn, when he had seven or eight bushels stored away in the dry cellar.

But, as time went on, the gardener discovered that old Jonas had wisdom on his side of the fence; the corn not only came up again after being cut down, but it grew twice as fast, and almost twice as high as anybody else's corn. In short, there had never before been seen, in that neighbourhood, a roasting-ear patch quite as vigorous. Some of the cornstalks were nearly fourteen feet high, and some of them had as many as four ear-sprouts showing. The patch was so rank and healthy that it attracted the attention of Mr. Sanders. He climbed the fence, and went into old Jonas's garden to give it a close examination. A good breeze was blowing at the time, and the sword-like leaves of the corn were stirred by it, so that they waved up and down and from side to side, whispering to one another, "Whish-whish!" That was enough for Mr.

Sanders. He thought instantly of Adelaide, and he named the roasting-ear patch the Whish-Whish Woods, and that was where he proposed to go hunting for the Boogerman, the awful, greedy creature that ate Nunky-Punky's vegetables raw!

Lucindy didn't need any training in the quick-lunch line, and in less than no time, if we may deal familiarly with the ticking of the clock, she had cut two biscuits open and inserted in each a juicy slice of ham; and while she was doing this, Adelaide ran to her armoury, where she kept her weapons, offensive and defensive, and came running back with two guns. They were cornstalk guns, but not the less dangerous on that account. They were very long and, as Mr. Sanders said, they had about them an appearance of violence calculated to make the Boogerman fall on his knees and surrender the moment he was discovered. An ordinary gun might miss fire--such things have been known before now--but a cornstalk gun, never! All you have to do when you have a cornstalk gun, is to point it at the destined victim, shut your eyes and say _Bang!_ in a loud voice, and the thing is done. And if people or things--whatever and whoever you shoot at--should be mean enough to remain unhurt, why, then, that is their fault, and much good may their meanness do them!