The Way to Next Wednesday

I

THE mules stopped before a long whitewashed log house, and the constable’s four children jumped down from the jolt wagon. We lifted Sisyphus out, and the children proudly pushed the cart up the clean-swept path through the blossoming larkspur and zinnia.

A wiry red-haired woman in a starched blue calico dress advanced to meet us.

‘Howdy,’she said quietly. ‘Pappy ’lowed as how you-all’d kim erlong frum meetin’. I didn’t go. I’m a Apostolic.'

The constable’s wife wore that curious air of serenity which surrounds all Holy Rollers as an almost palpable aura; and her words carried good news. For never had we found an Apostolic in the mountains whose house was not scrupulously clean, or whose table was not bountifully and neatly set. Tidiness and cleanliness are articles of their faith, though they pride themselves on having neither creed nor church organization.

On the long sunny gallery where the trumpet vine clambered and the honeysuckle bloomed there was set ‘the visitin’ stand table,’with its bucket of ‘ drinkin’ water/ a gourd hanging above the gleaming tin washbasin, and a white towel on its nail. This usually meant that the girl of the house expected a beau. Peter utterly disapproved of this custom; for the fact that a ‘visitin’ stand table’ was not on the gallery would proclaim to a Sabbath world that a girl was not popular. But I explained to him that a girl in such a case would hang out the snowiest towel and the shiniest basin. I know I should.

On a cushioned bench in the shadiest spot sat an old man evidently just descended from a frieze of the Biblical prophets. This was Grandpap, the constable’s father. Like his son, Joe Ross, he was unusually tall, but built more on lines of grace, and his long white hands did not appear toil-worn. He unfolded himself and stood before me, his childlike blue eyes gazing straight into mine. ‘Howdy,’he said, and his eyes roved over Sisyphus. I thought I caught a gleam of amusement — a rare sight. For while a mountain man appreciates his own brand of wit, and may guffaw at a practical joke, the stony melancholy of his face is seldom brightened by a smile.

John immediately recognized Grandpap as belonging to his own world. Some have called our dog an impudent pup, because of his debonair manner and his airs and graces ill befitting, perhaps, his sex or his species. He is an untrained hunter, for we limited his education that he might not prove too attractive to Alabama negroes. But because of his alert air mountain men often tried to trade a good ‘houn’ dawg’ for him. Now he pushed Grandpap gently with his paw, and asked him politely to move over. It was months since John had seen a cushion! Grandpap knew dogs. He moved over, but did not offer to pat a strange dog. Instead, he said in a tone not too humbly ingratiating, ‘Wal, I hyars ye air a murch-traveled purp. Whut ye good fur? Kin ye hunt?’

He spoke quietly, as to an equal, and John answered with a wide, appreciative smile.

I went into ‘the room’ and put my wilted hat on the towering snowy bed. The table was set in the cool ‘dogtrot,’ and, though there were no screens, there was not a single Apostolic fly!

‘Grandpap!’ called Mrs. Ross from the open door across the dogtrot. The old man left the gallery and joined her.

‘Why n’t ye putt on yer good clo’es fur the baptizin’, Grandpap? Hit ain’t too late yit. Now ye git behint ther baidstid an’ putt ’em on,’ she added coaxingly.

‘I didn’t reckon, Arreny, as a baptizin’ called fur a man’s best. I ’low ther deesciples wore whut they happened ter hev on. I’m plumb clean — yis’dy wuz Sat’dy. Cou’se, mebby not as clean as a Apostolic man; but purty clean fur a Prisbyterian. An’ I shore aimed ter keep thim clo’es fur a dawg fight, er ter be laid erway in, an’ make ye perroud o’ me oncet, Arreny.’

’Grandpap! Hit air plumb weeked ter timpt ther Lord ’ith idle words. Now, jist ter pleasure me, ye git behint ther baidstid an’ putt ’em on.’

‘All right, all right, Arreny. Though hit goes agin’ my conscience ter pomper yer pride lak thet. An’ ye a-aimin’ at the Second Blessin’. It’s pow’ful hot ter crouch behint a baidstid jist at dinner time. But I’ll do hit!’

Presently Grandpap joined me on the gallery, looking a trifle uncomfortable but every inch the prophet, with a twinkle lurking in the awful innocence of his eyes.

We dined sumptuously in the dogtrot, and conversed in a most unmountainlike manner. Eating in the mountains is no occasion for levity, and often we have smiled inwardly when our hostess’s voice has dropped to lower G and asked solemnly, ‘Will you-all keer fur some o’ thim pickeled beets?’

‘This air a gret day fur ther county,’ said the constable. ‘Some o’ the Harts an’ some o’ the Cowdens baptized right tergither. Ther same river a-bearin’ ther sins erway. An’ thim ornery boys frum Wildcat thet allers fit us — a-turnin’ frum thar evil ways right hyar at Chicken Bristle. We’re shore clearin’ ther county o’ liquor an’ sin.’

‘ I ’lows, Joe,’ said Grandpap gently, ’thet effen ye got iny holt over Brother Martin ye best hev him putt thim Harts an’ Cowdens under ther water fust thing, an’ not wait. I hyar thet sinners in yo’-all’s church hain’t shed o’ ther sins twell they kims up outern the water. I dunno myself. But I’m thinkin’ whilst they is still in the bonds o’ sin an’ ineequity they might take a crack at one another. My pappy war jist a lad whin thim Harts an’ Cowdens fust broke out on one another over by Laurel-hell Holler. I ’low Wanderin’ River hit’ll be plumb choked up ’ith ther sins. Iverbody knowed hit war Steve Hart thet crippled Jack Cowden, an’ hit war Jack as shot Sam Hart.’

‘Grandpap,’ said the constable apologetically, ‘’lows er man’s sins kin be jist sprinkled erway. Mebby hisn could. He air lived a pow’ful lengthy good life.’

II

After dinner we set out at once through the ‘dead’nin’ lot’ the short way to the baptizing. Above a furious little waterfall slept a blue transparent pool reflecting the willows and washing the white stones in its cool depths. Though we were cleanin’ up the county I was not prepared to see the entire county gathered here for purification. Such a throng! Mothers in Israel with glistening white sunbonnets, solemn men in workday clothes, youths in Sunday finery, girls and children in pink and gold and lavender like summer flowers on the river’s bank, and babies in arms or asleep on the grass in the shade.

The preacher from Springdale stood, an impressive figure, at the head of a long line of candidates for baptism. We were cleanin’ up the county in the only way — saving ourselves one at a time.

Suddenly we began to sing, softly and reverently, ‘Just As I Am.’ And the song, stealing on the silence of the summer air, was such a natural thing! The sound seemed to ooze from the landscape. As if the drooping willows, the placid water, the brooding hills, chanted their age-long song of peace and resignation. And we, the heavyladen, fever-burnt with sense of sin, striving desperately for the spirit of the quiet hills — the peace that passeth understanding.

A gaunt man, with a white, set face, walked down into the pool. The preacher lifted high a sovereign hand. So still it was that we could hear the chuckling of the little waterfall below, and the swish of the reeds by the river. As the man came out of the water and climbed the green bank, I caught a look of rapture on his rugged face. It fell upon his stony countenance like a sudden sun in winter woods.

‘Bud Hart,’ whispered Grandpap. ‘An’ this’n a-comin’ now air Charlie Cowden.’

One after another. Grim-faced men bitten by a late remorse for wild deeds of lawdessness and revenge; adolescents, weighted with youth’s sudden, piteous, intolerable sense of sin; weary, toilworn women anticipating Heaven as rest from incessant labor.

Always at the lifting of the steady commanding hand we fell silent; and the wallows whispered and the little waterfall laughed. And the river, in the old, old rite of initiation and purification, stole away with its burden of regret, remorse, and despair. To these simple people an unquestioned command, blindly obeyed. But, I thought, beside this simple and beautiful ceremony, how clumsy and inadequate our confessions, complexes, and transferences to rid the soul of fear and of a sense of sin, when two thousand years ago a spiritual genius went straight to the heart of truth as a homing bird.

John, who had watched all this with interest as a curious game, had been standing quietly by my side. But when, at last, a little girl wrent under the water, he jerked his chain from my hand and dashed to the rescue. For John was raised on Mobile Bay and knows how far a youngster should go. Grandpap jumped for the chain, missed it, and gallantly put one foot in the water. But I clutched him firmly, and Peter plunged to an unexpected baptism and dragged John to shore.

‘I don’t ’low as I blame John murch,’ said Grandpap. ‘Hit air a big price ter pay fur her leetle sins — a-mixin’ ’em all up ’ith thim Hart an’ Cowden sins! Hit war more’n her sins kim ter.’

Peter flapped past in his wet clothes as Grandpap and I climbed the path through the dead’nin’. ‘I hope,’ said Peter, ‘ that John and I did not queer the show. It was impressive — that baptizing. I wonder how much of it was vanity — inflated ego?’

‘Why, Peter!’ I cried. ‘Of course vanity, egoism, hunger, sex, and human nature remained. But how good to think that fear, regret, remorse, and despair all drifted away on Wanderin’ River to a sea of forgetfulness!’

‘I ’lows thim things ye mintion, Peter,’ said Grandpap slowly, ‘is swep’ erway in whut Arreny ’lows is ther Second Blessin’. Iver’ Apostolic hes got hit, er aims ter git hit. I reckon it’s a low-down streak in my natur’, but I’m hopin’ Arreny won’t git hit twell I’m dwellin’ in my heavenly home. Whin human natur’s all washed erway, hit’d kinder seem Iak a drink o’ warm branch water in August. Kim over thisaway an’ see ’em feed ther houn’s.’

Lee, the eldest child, a boy of twelve, had hurried home to feed the hounds their evening ‘dawg cawn braid.’ Oblivious of our approach, he was endeavoring to control the hungry hounds and threatening them in extremely unapostolic language. The constable and his wife arrived from the baptizing, and the boy’s mother said sadly, ‘Hit air hard ter raise up our chillun amongst the ongodly as goes ter ther school.’ The constable cried, ‘Ye heish usin’ language, Lee, er I’ll whoop hit outen yer! Hyar, Tod! I ben offered more’n seventy-five dollars fur thishyar holin’. Th’ow me a chunk o’ cawn braid fur him, Lee. Arreny makes the best dawg cawn braid in ther county!’

‘Yeah,’ said Grandpap. ‘Iver’ man in ther county says ther same ’bout his womern, I ’low. We got ter hearten the womern up, er they ’d slay iver’ houn’ in ther kintry.’

I murmured polite admiration for Tod, but my words were as hollow as Tod’s voice. Of course one must love all dogs, as one must love all men. But hounds are hard to love — lop-eared somnambulists, awakening only to the sound of a horn into maniacal, pursuing demons of chase. But Peter atoned for my hypocrisy with unfeigned admiration for Tod.

III

After supper we all gathered on the gallery in the moonlight, the air heavy with the scent of ‘mawk orange’ and honeysuckle. Katydids shrilled, and a whippoorwill, seeking his supper in the air, called plaintively, each unfinished cadence ending on the seventh, until I wished that he would shout just one exultant, satisfying tonic over some especially satisfying morsel. The children flitted about on the grass catching fireflies and imprisoning them in bottles. At last the constable called softly, ‘Come on in, chillun. Turn thim lightnin’ bugs loose, now, an’ come in ter baidtime prayer.’

We knelt in the moonlight, our faces in the split-bottom chairs, and the constable abandoned his velvet voice for the long-drawn whine on the fifth of his scale — the tone reserved for addressing the Deity in the mountains. But it was a good prayer, tried and true. We had heard it that morning at church. After an appropriate introduction, the constable continued with a series of ‘eenables.’ ‘Eenable us to so live.’ At the third ‘eenable’ there came the blare of a hunting horn down by the river. The hounds came tumbling around the house, and some of the more venturesome leaped on the constable’s kneeling figure, frantic for the chase. But the constable continued earnest in prayer. With each ‘eenable’ he would reach back a long leg and kick a hound off the gallery, punctuating his slow sentences — a light kick for a comma, a mighty kick for a period. Lee, kneeling beside me, I could see was uneasy. And when a fortuitous kick was followed by a piercing yelp he turned and cried reproachfully, ‘Pappy! Ye damned nigh kilt Tod!’

The constable closed hastily on an ‘ecnable’ and rose from his knees in exasperation. ‘Dad bum thim boys across ther river! Ther hain’t nothin’ ter hunt now! I’ve a good mint ter go over ’n’ arrest ’em. I ’lows they’s d rinkin’.’

‘I reckon, Joe,’ said Grandpap gently, ‘ye hain’t cleaned up yit, entire.’

The constable changed the subject. ‘Now you-all jist wait twell arter dinner ter-morrer, an’ I’ll take ye ter Springdale so’s ye need n’t git inter harness ’ith the leetle wagon.’ We knew the futility of trying to make a mountaineer understand that we loved our double harness, and the unfrequented ways, and so agreed to wait.

‘Goin’ in fur thet horrer ye sint fur in the mail-order Wush Book, Joe? Don’t forgit my terbaccer.’

‘Yeah, I aims ter stay the night ’ith Arreny’s brother thar. He’s got er garage, an’ he’ll show you-all the new co’t house an’ ther fire deepartmint.’

After breakfast Peter went with the constable to see his Holsteins; but I grudged an hour away from Grandpap, and followed him to the back yard to admire the new washing machine he had presented to Arreny for a ‘Chrismus gif’.’

‘Though aimin’ fur the best, I air sometime wushful I’d a got Arreny somep’n else. I allers hes ter grind hit,’ he said.

The back yard was clean and grassy, and shaded by gnarled apple trees which appeared to have been pruned with an axe.

‘What a pity to mutilate those good old trees like that!’ I cried.

‘Whut’s the matter ’ith ’em?’ asked Grandpap. ‘I mutulated thim myself. But effen ye knows a better way, arter I quit grindin’ I’ll git ther hatchet an’ mutulate lak ye say.’

Arreny built a fire under a great iron kettle, and filled the machine with the best linen. ‘What a good housekeeper your daughter is!’ I said to Grandpap.

‘Yeah, Arreny’s a good womern — a leetle more savin’ ’n I’m ust ter. Now Arreny jist won’t putt enough soap in ther machine ter wash clo’es quick. Whin her back’s turned I allers slips in er piece I carries in my pocket, en she niver knows hit.’ He produced half a bar of yellow soap, but at that moment Arreny looked into the machine. To cover his embarrassment Grandpap bit a chew from his plug of tobacco and slipped it. with the soap into his pocket. ‘I niver did think ter see the day I’d chaw store terbaccer, but,’ he sighed, ‘they don’t raise hit no more hyarabouts.’

Arreny replenished the fire under the kettle, and Grandpap hurriedly slipped something from his pocket into the machine, and cranked rapidly. I sat on a bench and listened to the murmur of the bees in the ‘yarb gyarden,’ and watched the vanishing mists above the encircling hills. Arreny came and looked into the machine. ‘Kingdom come! Whativer’s the matter ’ith thim clo’es! They is as yallcr as pumpkins! They is plumb ruint!’

Grandpap peered in anxiously. ‘I ’low,’ he said, ‘thar must a ben some chemikile in thet store soap ye use, Arreny. I reckon hit spiled ’ith ther heat.’

‘Wal, I kain’t bile ’em lak thet. I ’low I’ll hev ter tote ’em ter the river an’ wash ’em. Ther well air most give out.’ And Arreny sighed wearily.

‘Let Grandpap and me take them to the river,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen foreign women wash in the river. It seemed great, fun.’

Grandpap and I carried the heavy basket of wet linen — a stick through the handle — to Wanderin’ River; and Grandpap shook his head sadly. ’I’m gittin’ ole an’ childish. I hain’t ter be trusted no more a-tall. I reckon I th’owed in ther wrong piece. Now I hain’t got no terbaccer, an’ my Sunday shirt’s as yaller as gold! I ort ter not putt hit on yis’dy!’

We sat happily on the grassy bank and let the busy little waterfall wash the linen on the clean stones.

‘Fish?’ said Grandpap, in reply to a question of mine. ‘No’m, whin we wants fish ter eat we seines ’em. Oh, ye wants ter ketch ’em! Wal, ye git Joe ter drap you-all out whar the road goes up ter Nixt Widnesday’s. Hit air jist three whoops an’ a holler round ther mounting. Hit’ll not misputt Nixt Widnesday to hev you-all stop by an’ fish in thet-thar lake in Wanderin’ River whar he don’t ’low nobody ter seine.’

‘Next Wednesday! Is that his name?’

‘No’m, his name is rightly Robert Cole, but iverbody calls him Nixt Widnesday. Ye see, he air a friendly man, but he air plumb set agin’ tradin’ an’ business. But he raises mighty fine stock, an’ whin inybody kirns ter buy a cow-brute offen him he allers says, “Kim over nixt Widnesday. I kain’t be pestered ’ith no-’count things ter-day.” An’ hit air ther truth thet he won’t pay nobody fur nothin’ only on a Widnesday. He ’lows he kain’t spar’ the time frum fishin’ ’n’ readin’, an’ hev his time broke inter thataway. He a widder man, an’ his onliest. chile’s a gal.

‘Nixt ter Dottie Crawford, Burnis wuz ther purtiest gal in ther sittlemint, an’ er long ways the peartest. She teached Chicken Bristle one term. One day Link Martin he wint over ’n’ tole Nixt Widnesday he war goin’ ter marry Burnis. Hit lak ter kilt Nixt Widnesday. Ye see, he’d rared up Burnis kinder lak a boy an’ made kinder a friend outen her. He jist booted Link outen the house. Some claims he pursooed him ’ith a shotgun. But thet, I ’low, is er lie. He air a plumb peaceable man. But I hed hit frum Link’s own mouth thet arter he booted him outen ther house he set out arter him an’ ketches him at ther ford. Link claims he war a-cryin’, an’ he says: “Link, I hain’t no manner o’ right ter stand in Burnis’s way. An’ effen she’s choosed sich a damned, dumb hillbilly as you, she got a right ter her choosin’. But I don’t aim ter set round waitin’ an’ grievin’, countin’ the days twell she gone. Ye kin hev her effen ye’ll take her by nixt Widnesday.” Shore ’naff, they wuz married at Springdale nixt Widnesday. I wusht I could read lak Nixt Widnesday. Though I don’t wush ter be witched by readin’ lak him.’

‘It might be a pastime for you, Grandpap.’

Grandpap, in that intent way of the very old, fixed his eyes on a green frog proudly swelling on the bank. ‘No’m, I don’t ’low as I needs er pastime. Ye see, whin ye is ole lak me, iver’ leetle thing is cur’ous-lak. The fust long shudder o’ the mounting on the grass in ther evenin’ is wuth watchin’ now, an’ er frog er a hop-toad is a cur’ous animile lak me — hyar ter-day, an’ gone lak me ter-morrer. No’m, I wants ter be enabled ter read ter ’spute ’ith Arreny. She reads ther Bible ter me a heap, an’ dawggone effen I don’t b’lieve she makes up some o’ hit ter prove her Apostolic, p’ints! . . . Dinged effen I don’ b’lieve thet shirt’s comin’ clean!’

IV

We set out at once after dinner for the new ‘horrer,’ all three of us sitting in the wide spring seat of the jolt wagon, Sisyphus in the back, weighted with jars of honey and muscadine jelly for ourselves and for Next Wednesday. John, frantic with delight to be on the road again, chased elusive rabbits through the bordering cotton fields.

‘Cotton,’ said Peter, ‘seems to be the only crop which really interests you farmers here.’

‘Yeah, I do ’low thet cotton hes kinder witched iverbody.’

‘No wonder!’ I cried. ‘From its first pale, lovely blossom, through its squaring, down to its snowy, venerable head, it is fascinating!’

The constable leaned down and spat over the wheel with the wind.

‘I hain’t aimin’ ter ’spute whut yer say, ma’m, but I ’lows thet cotton hain’t no fascinatering plant ter me. Whut ’ith the army worm, an’ the boll weevil, an’ ther low price o’ cotton, an’ no way o’ storin’ hit, an’ hevin’ ter sell it right off ter pay fertilizer bills, not ter mintion doctor bills, a man don’t scurcely git back his seed. An’ hit works a turble weight on a rinter. Ye see, a rinter hes got ter putt in cotton er he kain’t git no place. No’m, I’m ’bout turned agin’ cotton. I’m a-turnin’ ter Bermudy grass an’ cowbrutes.’

The constable slumped down in the seat, slackened the lines up the long steep hill, and shifted his quid of tobacco to his off cheek. Peter felt for a cigarette, and I settled the camp pillow at my back.

‘Hit war a creepin’ cold day last fall, an’ I war a-ridin’ right erlong hyar. I rickolec’ hit wuz jist afore I kim ter Chicken Bristle schoolhouse. I’se a-settin’ in this hyar wagon, ’ith the lines atween my knees, joggin’ erlong tryin’ ter play er tune on a French harp I’d bought fur Lee frum sellin’ my cotton fur ’bout half whut it orter a brung. The mules shied, an’ thar war Hinry Embry standin’ in ther road. He’s a rinter frum over on Push Mounting. Hit war chillin’ cold, an’ his ole coat war tore an’ flappin’ in ther wind, an’ Hinry air a widder man, an’ he looked pow’ful puny. I stopped the mules, an’ Hinry got in. He lowed he’d walked in ter Springdale ’cause one o’ his mules war crippled. He hed ter git medicine fur his leetlest boy. Hinry claimed Jimmy war pow’ful sick, an’ he ’lowed he wuz n’t goin’ ter live. He said he war n’t sleepin’ none hisself, an’ the neighbors wuz plumb wore out ’ith settin’ up. I tole him hit would n’t misputt me none ter ride on home ’ith him an’ set up. We’d stop by an’ tell Arreny. Thin, lak a dad-bummed fool, ter kinder git his mind offen hit, I says: —

“‘You take the lines, Hinry, an’ I’ll make a stob at thet tune I hyard on the phoneygraph at Nash’s drug store ter-day. I’m takin’ the French harp ter Lee. He’s ben wantin’ one so bad he kin taste hit! Nash ’lowed a feller named Susie made the tune up. Quare name. Hit’s titled ‘King Cotton,’ an’ hit goes somep’n lak this.” An’ I says cheerful-lak, “Hurrah fur King Cotton!” an’ I lets out a blow. Hinry he th’owed down the lines, an’ stud up in ther wagon, an’ shuck his fist at ther sky, an’ he snarls lak a trapped varmint: “Ye-e-ah! Blow yer damn ole harp fur King Cotton! See thet ole tore-down schoolhouse by ther crick! Three months school, an’ our chillun a-growin’ up ignerant hillbillies lak us afore ’em! Ye knows hit’s so! They’ll allers be too pore an’ too ignerant to be nothin’ else. They’s a-hoein’ an’ a-choppin’ an’ a-pickin’ fur King Cotton! Hurrah fur King Cotton! Hurrah fur King Cotton!”

‘He kep’ a-yellin’ hit lak a screech owl twell ther mules tried ter run. And he wint on a-standin’ up an’ wavin’ his arms, an’ pintin’ at ther cotton fiel’s: “Nary man kin rint er acre o’ land lessen he promises ter putt in cotton. Cotton! A-plantin’no cawn, no grain fur ter feed his stock ner his fambly — not even time fur a gyarden. Hurrah fur King Cotton! My womern!” he screeched. “Dead ’ith her babe! Drug thim heavy sacks in pickin’ season twell her time — fur King Cotton! An’ now Jimmy, peartest of ’em all — jist six — his mammy aimed ter make a preacher outen him — a-pickin’ cotton ’ith his sore leetle fingers twell he whimper in his sleep lak a dreamin’ houn’! Dyin’ now. Hurrah fur King Cotton!” An’ he sets down suddent an’ starts ter cry. Thar peared ter be nothin’ I could rightly say, so I says hit.

‘Arreny she pack up some vittles an’ some healin’ yarbs, an’ we gits ter Hinry’s by chore time. But, shucks! Ther minute I seen Jimmy I knowed thar wuz n’t nothin’ ter do but wait fur ther Angel o’ Death. He wuz plumb burnt up ’ith the fever, an’ he did n’t know nobody, an’ his leetle hands wuz pickin’ cover a’ready. We et a snack, an’ the neighbor womern wint home an’ tuck the other chillun. Hinry wuz plumb wore out, an’ wint ter sleep in ther room on a pallet. Hit war creepin’ cold, an’ ther wind riz, an’ hit blowed th’ough ther cracks an’ called as mou’nful as hants down ther chimbly. I wint out an’ found some logs an’ piled ’em in ther fireplace, an’ sittled down ter read some in Hinry’s Bible on ther stand table. I knowed thar war no use o’ pesterin’ Jimmy ’ith medicine. He could n’t swaller no more.

‘ ’Bout midnight, all o’ a suddent Jimmy sets up an’ calls loud: “Pappy! Pappy! I picked forty pounds terday!” An’ he died ’ith ther perroudist smile on his face I iver seen on ther face o’ ther dead.

‘Hinry he wakes up, an’ he grabbed me an’ shuck me lak a rat! He yelled: “Jimmy wanted me! I heerd him! He called fur me! An’ I war n’t thar! An’ he’s gone foriver! Dern ye! Why n’t ye wake me!” Thin all of a suddent he says, pow’ful pitiful: “Whut’d he say, Joe? Whut’d Jimmy say ter me? ”

‘I choked up, but I tells him: “Hinry, ye heerd him. He says, ‘Pappy! Pappy! I hyar ther angels a-callin’ me!'”

‘Yeas, sir, I lied jist lak thet! ’Ith my hand on Hinry’s Bible, an’ right in ther room ’ith ther dead! But I ’low as I done hit fur Hinry — er fur thetair King Cotton — niver could deetermine rightly whicht. But 1 niver tole Arreny! Hit’d most kill Arreny ter know I lied in thim sarcumstances. No’m, I ’low I’m plumb th’ough ’ith cotton, lessen somethin’ changes.

‘Hyar’s you-all’s road up ter Nixt Widnesday’s. You shore you-all don’t wanter go on ter Springdale ? To my mind he air got ther lonesomest place in ther mountings, an’ it ’pears lak jist three whoops an’ er holler up thar, but you-all’ll scurcely make hit by sundown. All right, thin. I reckon we-all won’t meet no more in this work. Far’ ye well, an’ the Lord’s blessin’ on ye both!’

We gave one last shuddering look at the green fields of cotton, and pushed Sisyphus along the white sand between thickets of laurel, under the arching trees.

But after a while the feel of the good earth under our feet, the whisper of the leaves above us, the laughter of the little stream where John lapped gratefully, all stole upon us again. The old merciless, generous, capricious, changeless mother of us all knows best how to lull her own children to forgetfulness. And we pushed on, comforted, up the steep way to Next Wednesday.