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<p><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> CHAPTER XVII.</p>
<p>IN about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head
out, and says:</p>
<p>"Be done, boys! Who's there?"</p>
<p>I says:</p>
<p>"It's me."</p>
<p>"Who's me?"</p>
<p>"George Jackson, sir."</p>
<p>"What do you want?"</p>
<p>"I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs
won't let me."</p>
<p>"What are you prowling around here this time of night for—hey?"</p>
<p>"I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat."</p>
<p>"Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. What
did you say your name was?"</p>
<p>"George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy."</p>
<p>"Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid—nobody'll
hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand right where you are. Rouse
out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George Jackson, is
there anybody with you?"</p>
<p>"No, sir, nobody."</p>
<p>I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. The
man sung out:</p>
<p>"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool—ain't you got any
sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and
Tom are ready, take your places."</p>
<p>"All ready."</p>
<p>"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?"</p>
<p>"No, sir; I never heard of them."</p>
<p>"Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all ready. Step
forward, George Jackson. And mind, don't you hurry—come mighty
slow. If there's anybody with you, let him keep back—if he
shows himself he'll be shot. Come along now. Come slow; push the
door open yourself—just enough to squeeze in, d' you hear?"</p>
<p>I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. I took one slow step
at a time and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart.
The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little
behind me. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking
and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed it
a little and a little more till somebody said, "There, that's enough—put
your head in." I done it, but I judged they would take it off.</p>
<p>The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me
at them, for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men with guns
pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and about
sixty, the other two thirty or more—all of them fine and handsome—and
the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women which I
couldn't see right well. The old gentleman says:</p>
<p>"There; I reckon it's all right. Come in."</p>
<p>As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and
bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and they all
went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got
together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows—there
warn't none on the side. They held the candle, and took a good look
at me, and all said, "Why, <i>he</i> ain't a Shepherdson—no, there ain't
any Shepherdson about him." Then the old man said he hoped I
wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by
it—it was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into my pockets,
but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. He
told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but
the old lady says:</p>
<p>"Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't you
reckon it may be he's hungry?"</p>
<p>"True for you, Rachel—I forgot."</p>
<p>So the old lady says:</p>
<p>"Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him something
to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake
up Buck and tell him—oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this
little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in
some of yours that's dry."</p>
<p>Buck looked about as old as me—thirteen or fourteen or along there,
though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything but a
shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging
one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other
one. He says:</p>
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<p>"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"</p>
<p>They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.</p>
<p>"Well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, I reckon I'd a got one."</p>
<p>They all laughed, and Bob says:</p>
<p>"Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in
coming."</p>
<p>"Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right I'm always kept down; I
don't get no show."</p>
<p>"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough,
all in good time, don't you fret about that. Go 'long with you now,
and do as your mother told you."</p>
<p>When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a
roundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it he
asked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started to tell
me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day
before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when the candle went
out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it before, no way.</p>
<p>"Well, guess," he says.</p>
<p>"How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never heard tell of it before?"</p>
<p>"But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy."</p>
<p>"<i>Which</i> candle?" I says.</p>
<p>"Why, any candle," he says.</p>
<p>"I don't know where he was," says I; "where was he?"</p>
<p>"Why, he was in the <i>dark</i>! That's where he was!"</p>
<p>"Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?"</p>
<p>"Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say, how long are you
going to stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have
booming times—they don't have no school now. Do you own a dog?
I've got a dog—and he'll go in the river and bring out chips
that you throw in. Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind
of foolishness? You bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound
these ole britches! I reckon I'd better put 'em on, but I'd ruther
not, it's so warm. Are you all ready? All right. Come along,
old hoss."</p>
<p>Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk—that is what
they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever I've
come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes,
except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women. They
all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. The young women had
quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. They all asked
me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all the family was living
on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my sister Mary Ann
run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and Bill went to
hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then
there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down
to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died I took what there
was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river,
deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how I come to be here.
So they said I could have a home there as long as I wanted it.
Then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and I went to
bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had
forgot what my name was. So I laid there about an hour trying to think,
and when Buck waked up I says:</p>
<p>"Can you spell, Buck?"</p>
<p>"Yes," he says.</p>
<p>"I bet you can't spell my name," says I.</p>
<p>"I bet you what you dare I can," says he.</p>
<p>"All right," says I, "go ahead."</p>
<p>"G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n—there now," he says.</p>
<p>"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could. It ain't
no slouch of a name to spell—right off without studying."</p>
<p>I set it down, private, because somebody might want <i>me</i> to spell it next,
and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was used to
it.</p>
<p>It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn't
seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much
style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden
one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses
in town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps
of parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a big fireplace that
was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by
pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes
they wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown,
same as they do in town. They had big brass dog-irons that could
hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece,
with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front,
and a round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the
pendulum swinging behind it. It was beautiful to hear that clock
tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured
her up and got her in good shape, she would start in and strike a hundred
and fifty before she got tuckered out. They wouldn't took any money
for her.</p>
<p>Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made
out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By one of the
parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and
when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open their mouths
nor look different nor interested. They squeaked through underneath.
There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind
those things. On the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a
lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and peaches and grapes
piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real
ones is, but they warn't real because you could see where pieces had got
chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath.</p>
<p>This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue
spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. It come
all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books, too,
piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. One was a big
family Bible full of pictures. One was Pilgrim's Progress, about a
man that left his family, it didn't say why. I read considerable in
it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough. Another
was Friendship's Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but I
didn't read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and
another was Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about what to
do if a body was sick or dead. There was a hymn book, and a lot of
other books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly
sound, too—not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old
basket.</p>
<p>They had pictures hung on the walls—mainly Washingtons and
Lafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called "Signing the
Declaration." There was some that they called crayons, which one of the
daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years
old. They was different from any pictures I ever see before—blacker,
mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a slim black dress,
belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle
of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil,
and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black
slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her
right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her
side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the
picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee More Alas." Another one was
a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head,
and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying
into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other
hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall Never
Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one where a young lady
was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks;
and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing wax showing on
one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against
her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou
Art Gone Alas." These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn't
somehow seem to take to them, because if ever I was down a little they
always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died, because
she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body could see
by what she had done what they had lost. But I reckoned that with
her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard. She
was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick,
and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till
she got it done, but she never got the chance. It was a picture of a
young woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all
ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the
moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded
across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more
reaching up towards the moon—and the idea was to see which pair
would look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was
saying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this
picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday
come they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with a little
curtain. The young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet
face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to
me.</p>
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<p>This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste
obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the
Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. It
was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy by the name of
Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was drownded:</p>
<p>ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D</p>
<div class="poem">
<p style="text-indent:0%;">
And did young Stephen sicken,<br/> And did young Stephen
die?<br/> And did the sad hearts thicken,<br/> And did the
mourners cry?<br/> <br/> No; such was not the fate of<br/> Young
Stephen Dowling Bots;<br/> Though sad hearts round him thickened,<br/>
'Twas not from sickness' shots.<br/> <br/> No
whooping-cough did rack his frame,<br/> Nor measles drear
with spots;<br/> Not these impaired the sacred name<br/> Of
Stephen Dowling Bots.<br/> <br/> Despised love struck not with woe<br/>
That head of curly knots,<br/> Nor stomach troubles laid
him low,<br/> Young Stephen Dowling Bots.<br/> <br/> O no.
Then list with tearful eye,<br/> Whilst I his fate do tell.<br/>
His soul did from this cold world fly<br/> By falling down
a well.<br/> <br/> They got him out and emptied him;<br/> Alas
it was too late;<br/> His spirit was gone for to sport aloft<br/>
In the realms of the good and great.<br/></p>
</div>
<p>If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was
fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by and by. Buck
said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever have
to stop to think. He said she would slap down a line, and if she
couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap
down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write
about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was
sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would
be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. She called them
tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then
the undertaker—the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but
once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which
was Whistler. She warn't ever the same after that; she never
complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long. Poor
thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the little room that used to
be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her
pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her a little. I
liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything
come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people
when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to
make some about her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or
two myself, but I couldn't seem to make it go somehow. They kept
Emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way
she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there.
The old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty
of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there
mostly.</p>
<p>Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on
the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with
vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was
a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing
was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "The Last Link is
Broken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. The walls of all the
rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the whole
house was whitewashed on the outside.</p>
<p>It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed and
floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of the day,
and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't be better.
And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too!</p>
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