Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History BookOpen Original Text d yit, onder one o' de guns, wid de fleg still in
he han', an' a bullet right th'oo he body, lay Marse Chan. I tu'n him
over an' call him, 'Marse Chan!' but 'twan' no use, he wuz done gone
home, sho' 'nuff. I pick 'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he
han's, an' toted' im back jes' like I did dat day when he wus a baby,
an' ole marster gin 'im to me in my arms, an' sez he could trus' me,
an' tell me to tek keer on 'im long ez he lived.
"I kyar'd 'im 'way off de battle-fiel' out de way o' de balls, an' I
laid 'im down onder a big tree till I could git somebody to ketch the
sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a while, an' I hed some money, so
I got some pine plank an' made a coffin dat evenin', an' wrapt Marse
Chan's body up in de fleg, and put 'im in de coffin; but I didn' nail
de top on strong, 'cause I knowed ole missis wan' see 'im; an' I got
a' ambulance, an' set out for home dat night. We reached dyar de nex'
evenin', arfter travellin' all dat night an' all nex' day."
FOOTNOTE:
[46] By permission of author, and publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons,
N. Y.
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE.
"CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK."
MISS MURFREE was born at "Grantlands," near Murfreesboro, Tennessee,
the family home inherited from her great-grandfather, Colonel Hardy
Murfree, for whom the town was named. Her youth was spent here and in
Nashville, the summers being passed in the Tennessee Mountains:
shortly after the Civil War, her father removed to St. Louis, and it
was there that she began to write.
Her stories are laid mainly in the mountains of Tennessee and describe
vividly and truly the people, life, and exquisite scenery of that
region.
WORKS.
In the Tennessee Mountains, [short stories].
Down the Ravine.
In the Clouds.
Despot of Broomsedge Cove.
Phantoms of the Foot-Bridge.
Where the Battle Was Fought.
Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.
Story of Keedon Bluffs.
In the "Stranger People's" Country.
THE "HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE.
(_From In the Tennessee Mountains._[47])
[Illustration: ~A Summer and Winter View of the University of
Tennessee, Knoxville, Tenn.~]
June had crossed the borders of Tennessee. Even on the summit of
Chilhowee Mountain the apples in Peter Giles' orchard were beginning
to redden, and his Indian corn, planted on so steep a declivity that
the stalks seemed to have much ado to keep their footing, was crested
with tassels and plumed with silk. Among the dense forests, seen by no
man's eye, the elder was flying its creamy banners in honor of June's
coming, and, heard by no man's ear, the pink and white bells of the
azalea rang out melodies of welcome. . . . . . . .
Then the two men tilted their chairs against the little porch in front
of Peter Giles' log cabin, and puffed their pipes in silence. The
panorama spread out before them showed misty and dreamy among the
delicate spiral wreaths of smoke. But was that gossamer-like illusion,
lying upon the far horizon, the magic of nicotian, or the vague
presence of distant heights? As ridge after ridge came down from the
sky in ever-graduating shades of intenser blue, Peter Giles might have
told you that this parallel system of enchantment was only "the
mountings"; that here was Foxy, and there was Big Injun, and still
beyond was another, which he had "hearn tell ran spang up into
Virginny." The sky that bent to clasp this kindred blue was of varying
moods. Floods of sunshine submerged Chilhowee in liquid gold, and
revealed that dainty outline limned upon the northern horizon; but
over the Great Smoky mountains, clouds had gathered and a gigantic
rainbow bridged the valley. . . . . . . . . Simon Burney did not speak
for a moment. . . . "That's a likely gal o' yourn," he drawled, with
an odd constraint in his voice,--"a likely gal, that Clarsie." . . .
"Yes," Peter Giles at length replied, "Clarsie air a likely enough
gal. But she air mightily sot ter havin' her own way. An' ef 't ain't
give to her peaceable-like, she jes' takes it, whether or no."
This statement, made by one presumably informed on the subject, might
have damped the ardor of many a suitor,--for the monstrous truth was
dawning on Peter Giles's mind that suitor was the position to which
this slow elderly widower aspired. But Simon Burney, with that odd,
all-pervading constraint still prominently apparent, mildly observed,
"Waal, ez much ez I hev seen of her goin's-on, it 'pears ter me az her
way air a mighty good way. An' it ain't comical that she likes
it." . . . . . . . The song grew momentarily more distinct: among the
leaves there were fugitive glimpses of blue and white, and at last
Clarsie appeared, walking lightly along the log, clad in her checked
homespun dress, and with a pail upon her head.
She was a tall lithe girl, with that delicately transparent complexion
often seen among the women of these mountains. Her lustreless black
hair lay along her forehead without a ripple or a wave; there was
something in the expression of her large eyes that suggested those of
a deer,--something free, untamable, and yet gentle. "'Tain't no wonder
ter me ez Clarsie is all tuk up with the wild things, an' critters
ginerally," her mother was wont to say; "she sorter looks like 'em,
I'm a-thinkin'."
As she came in sight there was a renewal of that odd constraint in
Simon Burney's face and manner, and he rose abruptly. "Waal," he said,
hastily, going to his horse, a raw-boned sorrel, hitched to the fence,
"it's about time I war a-startin' home, I reckons."
He nodded to his host, who silently nodded in return, and the old
horse jogged off with him down the road, as Clarsie entered the house
and placed the pail upon a shelf.
. . . . . . . . .
The breeze freshened, after the sun went down, . . . there were stars
in the night besides those known to astronomers; the stellular
fire-flies gemmed the black shadows with a fluctuating brilliancy;
they circled in and out of the porch, and touched the leaves above
Clarsie's head with quivering points of light. A steadier and an
intenser gleam was advancing along the road, and the sound of languid
footsteps came with it; the aroma of tobacco graced the atmosphere,
and a tall figure walked up to the gate.
"Come in, come in," said Peter Giles, rising, and tendering the guest
a chair. "Ye air Tom Pratt, ez well ez I kin make out by this light.
Waal, Tom, we hain't furgot ye sence ye done been hyar."
. . . . . . . .
The young man took leave presently, in great depression of
spirits. . . . Clarsie ascended the ladder to a nook in the roof which
she called her room.
For the first time in her life her slumber was fitful and restless,
long intervals of wakefulness alternating with snatches of fantastic
dreams. . . . And then her mind reverted to Tom Pratt, to old Simon
Burney, and to her mother's emphatic and oracular declaration that
widowers are in league with Satan, and that the girls upon whom they
cast the eye of supernatural fascination have no choice in the matter.
"I wish I knowed ef that thar say Previous Next |