HE HEART OF OLD HICKORY AND OTHER STORIES OF TENNESSEE ; . BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE WITH PREFACE BY B. O. FLOWER SECOND EDITION BOSTON DANA ESTES & CO. PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHTED, 1895, BY ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY. All Rights Reserved. CT0 fSg JFatfjtr Stofjn Easter PREFACE, ONE day in the summer of 1890 I received a manuscript entitled ' ' Fiddling His Way to Fame," accompanied by a brief note. Both were signed Will Allen Dromgoole. I read the sketch, and at once remarked to Mrs. Flower that, in my judgment, this was a case of the hand of Esau and the voice of Jacob, or, in other words, though the name signed was that of a man, the sketch was certainly the work of a woman or had been recast by a woman. There were certain fine strokes and delicate touches, in a word, a general atmosphere evincing a fine interior appreciation of the working of the^human heart which characterizes woman's thought at its best and which stamped this as the work of a woman. I know this view does not accord with the opinion held by many of my friends in regard to mental differentiation, but my experience thoroughly convinces me that there is a subtle quality and intuitional iii v power which is distinctly characteristic of woman, though there are men who possess this subtle something in a more or less marked degree. I immediately accepted the sketch, as it was something I wanted to lighten the pages of my review, and because it possessed a certain charm which is rare among modern writers, being humorous and pathetic by turns, wonderfully true to life, and yet free from the repulsive elements so often present in realistic sketches. Since that day the brilliant little Tennes- see authoress, who bears a man's name, but who is one of the most womanly of women, has contributed more fiction to the ARENA than any other writer. Her sketches have proved extremely popular, owing to her ar- tistic skill in bringing out the pathos and humor of the situations depicted, no less than the fidelity with which she draws her characters and her intense sympathy with humble life. She constantly reminds the reader of Charles Dickens, although her writings are free from the tendency to cari- cature and overdraw which always seems to me to be present in the works of the great English author. Miss Dromgoole is nothing if not a South- erner, and her love of the South is only surpassed by the affection she feels for the mountains and valleys of her dear old Ten- nessee. She is a woman of conviction and possesses the spirit of our era in a large de- gree. No one familiar with her work during the past four years can fail to note how steadily her views have broadened and how rapidly popular prejudice has given place to that broad and justice-loving spirit which is so needed in modern life, and which enables its possessor to rise above petty prejudice or unreasoning conventionalism when con- science speaks to the soul. Miss Dromgoole has had a hard life in more ways than one. It has been a constant struggle. It was not until after the death of her mother, who had ever encouraged and believed in her, that she began to write for the public. That was about nine years ago. With the death of her mother the home was broken up, and the loss of the dearest friend and counsellor to a nature so intense as hers, and the necessity of earning a living, led her to carry out her mother's oft-expressed wish and write for publication. Her first ambitious attempt won a prize v offered by the Youth's Companion, and that journal and other publications accepted many of her stories. " But," to quote from her own words, " it was not until ' Fiddling His Way to Fame ' appeared in the ARENA that I suddenly found myself famous, and since then I have had more orders for work than I have been able to fill." As the personality of a famous writer is always interesting, I propose to give a brief descriptive sketch of the little woman of whom the South has just reason to be proud before speaking of this book. She is small of stature, fragile in appearance, intense in her nature, and of a highly-strung nervous organism. I seldom care to dwell on the ancestry of an individual, as I think that sort of thing has been greatly overdone, and I believe with Bulwer that " not to the past but to the future looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity." And yet the ancestry of an individual may sometimes prove a helpful and interesting study. I have frequently noticed in the writings of authors who exhibit great versatility, no less than in the lives of individuals who seem to present strikingly contradictory phases of character, the explanation of these phenom- v ena in their ancestry-. In the case of Miss Dromgoole we find an interesting illustration of this nature. Her great-grandfather Edward Dromgoole emigrated from Sligo, Ireland ; as he had accepted the tenets of Protestantism and his people were strong Catholics, it was unpleasant for him to longer remain in his native land. He be- came a prominent pioneer Methodist minister in Virginia. One of his sons, a well-known orator, represented the Petersburg district in congress. Her maternal grandfather was of Danish extraction, while her great-grand- mother on her father's side was an English- woman, and her great-grandfather on the mother's side married a French lady. Here we have the mingling of Irish, Danish, Eng- lish, and French blood, with some striking characteristics of each of these peoples ap- pearing perceptibly in the person and works of Miss Dromgoole. Though she repudiates the English * in her blood, her sturdy loyalty to high principles and an ethical strength wedded to a certain seriousness, almost sad- * In a personal letter Miss Dromgoole says : " I do not know what I am. I claim the Irish and the French. I feel the Danish blood in my veins at times, but the cold blood of the English I repudiate." viii $ nfm. ness, strongly suggest the Anglo-Saxon at its best. She has the Irish keen sense of humor, which is seen in her writings and lectures, no less than in her conversation. The energy and determination together with the persistency of the Dane, and some of the bright and versatile characteristics of the French, are evident in her life and work, although there is a strong tendency to dwell too much on the gloomy side of life which even the Irish humor and the cheerful quali- ties of the French blood have not overcome. This is due I think largely to the blow occa- sioned by the death of her mother and the terrible struggle which has marked her life, and which has been waged against adversity with much the same sense of loyalty to right as marked the Roundheads in their conflicts with King Charles I. Her parents, John E. Dromgoole and Rebecca Mildred Blanch, after marriage, moved from Brunswick County, Virginia, to Tennessee. Miss Dromgoole was born in Murfreesboro, in the last-named state, and graduated from the Female Academy of Clarksville, Tennessee. For several years she was engrossing clerk for the senate of Tennessee. During recent years she has x spent much of her time in Boston and New York, where she has been warmly welcomed and has many sincere admirers among those who appreciate genius and sterling worth. The present volume illustrates the author's power and versatility in a forcible manner, and will prove a valuable addition to the literature of genuine merit from the pens of Southern writers. The first sketch, "The Heart of Old Hickory," is, in my judgment, one of the finest short stories of the present generation. It has proved unusually popu- lar, and displays the wonderful power of its gifted author in blending humor and pathos, while investing with irresistible fascination a sketch which, in the hands of any other than an artist, would appear tame and in- sipid. It is a masterpiece in its way, and like all her writings deals largely with the hopes, sorrows, aspirations, and tragedies of the common life in Tennessee. I think it also will convince all readers that the author might have made a great success as an ad- vocate before a jury had she chosen law instead of literature for her professsion. " Fiddling His Way to Fame" is a unique and most delightful sketch, in which ex- Governor Taylor again figures conspicu- ously. "A Wonderful Experience Meet- ing" and "Who Broke Up de Meetin'?" are true to the present-day negro dialect. Unlike many persons who essay this field of literature, Miss Dromgoole never overdoes the dialect, and those familiar with the ver- nacular as spoken in Tennessee and Ken- tucky will recognize the absolute fidelity to the requirements which characterizes these amusing and faithful sketches. They are in her happiest vein, and are extremely well written. "Bags" is a pathetic picture of the street-gamin life, showing the strength of our author when she paints in sombre hues. "The Heart of the Woods" is in many respects strikingly unlike the other stories. Through it flows a strain of supernormalism which is rarely found in the writings of our Southern authors. In many ways it is one of Miss Dromgoole's best productions, and illustrates anew the versatility of the author. Perchance the manes of some of her Norse ancestors may have been about her when she penned the sombre but fascinating crea- tion " The Heart of the Woods." In " Ole Logan's Courtship" we come out again into the sunshine, as here we find xi humor predominating. This sketch, like most of Miss Dromgoole's short stories, is taken from life. The bases of her best sketches have been actual occurrences, which, however, required the subtle power of the true artist to make others see and feel the life, with its sunshine and shadows, in the scenes depicted. The play of Hamlet, it will be remembered, existed before Shakespeare's time ; but it was the immortal bard of the Avon who breathed into it the breath of life, such as comes only from the imagina- tion of a genius, and lo ! the mannikin was imbued with life. In " Christmas Eve at the Corner Grocery " we are strongly reminded of the Dickens quality in the writings of our author, with- out the slightest suggestion of imitation. This sketch has proved unusually popular as a recitation at Christmas entertainments, and almost ranks with "The Heart of Old Hickory " in popularity with public readers. It is a charming story to be read at any time, but especially appropriate for the holi- days. I believe that this volume will take a high place among the meritorious works of mod- ern Southern authors. Tennessee has just xii reason to be proud of the little authoress who has depicted so many phases of humble life within her borders with such fidelity, such delicacy, and such rare pathos and humor. B. 0. FLOWER CONTENTS. PAGH Preface iii The Heart of Old Hickory 5 Fiddling His Way to Fame 39 A Wonderful Experience Meeting 73 Who Broke Up de Meet'n' ? 89 Rags 104 Ole Logan's Courtship 133 The Heart of the Woods 157 Christmas Eve at the Corner Grocery 183 THE HEART OF OLD HICKORY. NOISELESSLY, dreamily, with that sugges- tion of charity which always lingers about a snowstorm, fell the white flakes down, in the arms of the gray twilight. There was an air of desolation about the grim old State House, as, one by one, the great doors creaked the departure of the various occupants of the honorable old pile that over- looks the city and the sluggish sweep of the Cumberland beyond. The last loitering feet came down the damp corridors; the rustle of a woman's skirts sent a kind of ghostly rattle through the shadowy alcoves. The Governor heard the steps and the rustle of the stiff bombazine skirts, and wondered, in a vague way, why it was that 5 women would work beyond the time they bargained for. The librarian was always the last to leave, except the Governor himself. He had heard her pass that door at dusk, day in, day out, for two years, and always after the others were gone. He never felt quite alone in the empty State House until those steps had passed by. This evening, however, they stopped, and he looked up inquiringly as the knob was carefully turned, and the librarian entered the executive office. " I only stopped to say a word for the little hunchback's mother," she said. " She is not a bad woman, and her provocation was great. Moreover, she is a woman" He remembered the words long after the librarian had gone. " She is a woman." That was a strange plea to advance for a creature sentenced to the gallows. He sighed, and again took up the long roll of paper lying upon his desk. "Inasmuch as she was sorely wronged, $eart of (Did f kfconj. 7 beaten, tortured by seeing her afflicted child ill-treated, we, the undersigned, do beg of your excellency all charity and all leniency compatible with the laws of the State, and the loftier law of mercy." Oh, that was an old story j yet it read weh 1 , too, that old, old petition with that old, old plea charity. Five hundred names were signed to it; and yet, thrice five hundred tongues would lash him if he set his own name there. It was a hard thing, to hold life in his hand and refuse it. Those old threadbare stories, old as pain itself, had well-nigh wrought his ruin; his political ruin. At least the papers said as much ; they had sneeringly nicknamed him " Tender- heart," and compared him, with a sneer, too, to that old sterling hero the Governor's eyes sought the east window, where the statue of Andrew Jackson loomed like a bronze giant amid the snowflakes and the gathering twilight. They had compared at them, the old hero who lived in bronze, and the young human-heart who had no " back- bone," and was moved by a rogue's cry. Yet, he had loved that majestic old statue since the day he entered the executive office as chief ruler of the State, and had fancied for a moment the old hero was welcoming him into her trust and highest honor, as he sat astride his great steed with his cocked hat lifted from the head that had indeed worn " large honors." But he had been so many times thrust into his teeth, he could almost wish " Papers ! Papers ! wanter paper, mis- ter?" A thin little face peered in at the door, a face so old, so strangely unchildlike, he wondered for an instant what trick of pain's had fastened that knowing face of a man upon the misshapen body of a child. "Yes," said the Executive, "I want a Banner" The boy had bounded forward, as well as a dwarfed foot would allow, at the welcome "Yes," but 'stopped midway the apartment, and slowly shook his head at the remainder of the sentence, while an expression, part jubilance, part regret, and altogether disgust, crossed his little old-young face. " Don't sell that sort, mister," said he, " none o' our club don't. It's low-lived." The Governor smiled, despite his hard day with the critics and the petition folk. "What? You don't sell the Evening Banner, the only independent journal in the city?" The newsboy was a stranger to sar- casm. " That's about the size on't," he said as he edged himself, a veritable bundle of tatters, a trifle nearer the red coals glowing in the open grate. Suddenly, the Executive remembered that it was cold. There were ridges of snow on 10 $te *art at the bronze statue at the window. He no- ticed, too, the movement of the tatters to- ward the fire, and with his hand, a very white, gentle-seeming hand it was, motioned the little vagabond toward the grate. No sooner did he see the thin, numb fingers * o stretched toward the blaze than he re- membered the sneers of " the only independ- ent journal." It was not far from right, surely, when it called him " soft-hearted," was this boycotted Banner which the news- boys refused to handle. The Executive smiled ; the boycott, at all events, was comical. " And so," said he, " you refuse to sell the Banner. Why is that ? " " Shucks ! " was the reply. " 'Taint no good. None o' us likes it. Yer see, cully The Executive started j but a glance at the earnest, unconscious face convinced him the familiarity was not intentional dis- respect. " You see," the boy went on, " it tem* of u lidMtt}. 11 sez mean things, tells lies, yer know, about a friend o' mine." One foot, the shorter, withered member, was thrust dangerously near to the glowing coalbed ; the little gossip was making him- self thoroughly at home. The Executive observed it, and smiled. He also noted the weary droop of the shoulders, and impuls- ively pointed to a seat. He only meant something upon which to rest himself, and did not notice, until the tatters dropped wearily into the purple luxuriance, that he had invited the little Arab to a seat in a great, deep armchair of polished cherry, richly upholstered with royal purple plush, finished with a fringe of tawny gold. Instinctively, he glanced toward the east window. The bronze face wore a solemn, sturdy frown, but on the tip of the great general's cocked hat a tiny sparrow had perched, and stood coquettishly picking at 12 &te leart of (Did the white snowflakes that fell upon the bronze brim. " And so the Banner abuses your friend ? " The Executive turned again to the tatters, cosily ensconced in the soft depths of the State's purple. The old-young head nodded. " And what does it say of him ? " He wondered if it could abuse any one quite so soundly and so mercilessly as it had dealt with him. " Aw, sher ! " the tatters, in state, was growing contemptuous. "It called him a 6 mugwump* ' The Governor colored; it had said the same of him. " An'," the boy went on, " it said ez ther' wa'n't no backbone to him, an' ez he wuz only fitten to set the pris'ners loose, an' to play the fiddle. An' it said a lot about a feller named Ole Poplar - " "What!" The smile upon the Governor's lips gave f^att of Id prtwg. 13 place to a hearty laugh, as the odd little visitor ransacked the everglades of memory for the desired timber from which heroes are hewn. "Poplar ? Ben't it poplar ? Naw, cedar, ash, wonnut, hick'ry that's it ! Hick'ry. Ole Hick'ry. It said a lot about him ; an' it made the boys orf ul mad, an' they won't sell the nasty paper." The tatters began to quiver with the ex- citement of the recital. The little old-young face lost something of its patient, premature age while the owner rehearsed the misdoings of the city's independent afternoon journal. The Executive listened with a smile of amused perplexity. Evidently he was the " friend " referred to, else the journal had said the same of two parties. " Who is your friend ? " he asked vaguely wondering as to what further developments he might expect. " Aw," said the boy, " he ain't my friend 14 $te ^att of perzactly. He's Skinny's though, an' all the boys stan's up for Skinny." "And who is ' Skinny'?" A flash of contempt shot from the small, deep-set eyes. " Say, cully," his words were slow and emphatic, "wher' wuz you raised? Don't you know Skinny ? " The Executive shook his head. " Is he a newsboy ? " "He wuz " the tatters were still a moment, only a twitch of the lips and a slight, choking movement of the throat told the boy was struggling with his emotions. Then the rough, frayed sleeve was drawn across the bundle of papers strapped across his breast, where a tear glistened upon the front page of the Evening Herald. " He wuz a newsboy till yistiddy. We buried uv him yistiddy." The momentary silence was broken only by the soft click of the clock telling the irf CDW prftflft}. 15 run of time. It was the Governor who spoke then. " And this man whom the Banner abuses was Skinny's friend." l{ Yes. This here wuz Skinny's route. I took it yistiddy. Yer see Skinny didn't have no mammy an' no folks, an' no meat outer his bones, that's why we all named him Skinny. He wuz jest b-o-n-z-e-s. An' ther' wuz nobody ter keep keer uv him when he wuz sick, an' he jest up an' died." Without the window the snow fell softly, softly. The little brown bird hopped down from the great general's hat and sought shelter in the bronze bosom of his fluted vesture. Poor little snowbird ! the human waif which the newsboys had buried for him the bronze bosom of Charity had offered no shelter from the storm. The tatters in velvet had forgotten the cold, and the presence before him, as he gazed into the dreamful warmth of the fire. He did not see the motion of the Governor's hand across 16 h* fart of his eyes, nor did he know how the great man was rehearsing the Banner's criticisms. " He cannot hear a beggar's tale without growing chicken-hearted and opening the prison doors to every red-handed murderer confined there who can put up a pretty story." He was soft-hearted ; he knew it, and regretted it many tunes to the bronze general at the window. But this evening there was a kind of defiance about him ; he was determined to dare the old warrior- statesman, and the slanderous Banner and his own " chicken-heart," too. " Tell me," said he, " about this friend of Skinny's." "TheGov'ner?" " Was it the Governor? " " Say ! " Oh, the scorn of those young eyes ! " Is ther' anybody else can pardon out convicts ? In course 'twuz the Gov'ner. Skinny had a picture uv him, too. A great of m& $icfc0rij. 17 big un, an' golly ! but 'twuz pritty. Kep* it hangin' over his cot what Nickerson, the p'liceman ez ain't got no folks neither, like Skinny, let him set up in a corner o' his room down ter Black Bottom. Say, cully, does you know the Gov'ner?" " Yes ; but go on with your story. Tell me all about Skinny and his friend ! " The tatters settled back into the purple cushions. The firelight played upon the little old face, and the heat drew the damp- ness from the worn clothes, enveloping the thin figure in a vapor that might have been a poetic dream-mist but for the ragged reality slowly thawing in the good warmth. The bundle of papers had been lifted from the sunken chest and placed carefully by on the crimson and olive rug, while the human bundle settled itself to tell the story of Skinny. " Me an' him wuz on the pris'n route," said he, " till yistiddy. Least I wuz ther 18 me art of till yistiddy. Skinny tuk this route last year. He begged it fur me when he come ter quit, because I ben't ez strong ez Solermun, you know. Wa'n't he the strong un ? Solermun or Merthuslem, I git mixed in them bible fellers. But 'twuz when we wuz ter the pris'n route I larnt about Skinny's friend, the Gov'ner, you know. First ther' was ole Jack Nasby up an' got parelized, an' w'an't no 'count ter nobody, let 'lone ter the State. ' A dead expense,' the ward'n said. He suffered orful, too, an' so'd his wife. An' one day Skinny said he wuz goin' ter write a pertition an' git all the 'fishuls ter sign it, an' git the Gov'ner ter pard'n ole Nasby out. They all signed it one o' the convic's writ it, but they all told Skinny ez 'twuz no use, 'cause he wouldn't do it. An' one day, don't yer think when ole Nasby wuz layin' on the hospittul bunk with his dead side kivered over with a pris'n blankit, an' his wife a- i*a*t 0* m itrfwjj. 19 cryin' becase the ward'n war 'bleeged ter lock her out, the Gov'ner his se'f walked in. An' what yer reckin he done ? Cried ! What yer think o' that, cully ? Cried ; an' lowed ez how ' few folks wuz so bad et somebody didn't keer fur 'em,' an' then he called the man's wife back, an' p'inted ter the half dead ole convic', an' told her ter ( fetch him home.' Did ! An' the nex' day if the Banner didn't tan him ! Yer jest bet it did. " An' ther' wuz a feller ther' been in twenty year, an' had seventy-nine more ahead uv him. An' one night when ther' wa'n't nobody thinkin' uv it, he up an' got erligion. An' he ain't no more en got it, en he wants ter git away fum ther'. Prayed fur it constant : ' Lord, let me out ! ' ' Lord, let me out ! ' That's what he ud say ez he set on the spoke pile fittin' spokes fur the Tennessee wagins ; an' a-cryin' all the time. He couldn't take time ter cry an' pray 'thout 20 fo* fcart of cheat'n' o' the State, yer know, so he jest cried an* prayed while he worked. The other prisoners poked fun at him ; an' tol' him if he got out they ud try erligion in theirn. Yorter seen him ; he wuz a good un. Spec' yer have heerd about him. Did yer heear 'bout the big fire that bruk out in the pris'n las' November, did yer ? " The Governor nodded and the boy talked on. "Well, that ther' convic' worked orful hard at that fire. He fetched thirteen men out on his back. They wuz suf'cated, yer know. He fetched the warden out, too, in his arms. An' one uv his arms wuz burnt that bad it had ter be cut off. An' the pris'n doctor said he breathed fire inter his lungs or somethin'. An' the next day the Gov'ner pard'ned uv him out. I wuz ther' when the pard'n come. The warden's voice trim'led when he read it ter the feller layin' bundled up on his iron bunk. An' when he of m& irfe0*i. 21 heeard it he riz up in bed an' sez he, " My prayers is answered , tell the boys.' The warden bent over 'im ez he dropped back an' shet his eyes, an' tried ter shake him up. ' What must I tell the Gov'ner ? ' sez he. ' Tell him, God bless him.' An' that wuz the las' word he ever did say topside o' this earth. Whatcher think o' that, cully ? 'Bout ez big ez the Banner's growl, wa'n't it?" The Executive nodded again, while the little gossip of the slums talked on in his quaint, old way, of deeds the very angels must have wept to witness, so full were they of glorious humanity. " But the best uv all wuz about ole Bemis," said he, re-arranging his tatters so that the undried portion might be turned to the fire. " Did you ever heear about ole Bemis ? " Did he ? Would he ever cease to hear about him, he wondered. Was there, could 22 me lart of there be any excuse for him there? The evening Independent thought not. Yet he felt some curiosity to know how his " chicken- hearted foolishness " had been received in the slums, so he motioned the boy to go on. Verily the tattered gossip had never had so rapt a listener. " Yer see," said he, " Bemis wuz a banker ; a reg'lar rich un. He kilt a man, kilt him dead, too, an* yer see, cully, 'twas his own son-in-law. An' one cote went dead against him, an' they fetched it ter t'other, ' s'preme ' or ' sperm,' or somethin'. An' the Banner said ' he orter be hung, an' would be if the Guv'ner'd let him. But if he'd cry a little the Guv'ner'd set him on his feet again, when the cotes wuz done with him.' But that cote said he mus' hang, too, an' they put him in jail ; an' befo' they had the trial, the jailer looked fur a mob ter come an' take him out at night an' hang him. He set up late lookin' fur it. But stid uv a of l& *fc0ft. 23 mob, the jailer heerd a little pitapat on the steps, an' a little rattle uv the door, an' when he opened uv it ther' wuz a little lame cripple girl standin' ther' leanin' on her crutches a-cryin', an' a-beggin' ter see her pappy. Truth, cully ; cross my heart " (and two small fingers drew the sign of the cross upon the little gossip's breast). " Atter that, folks begin ter feel sorry fur the ole banker, when the jailer 'd tell about the little crutch ez sounded up'n down them jail halls all day. The pris'ners got ter know it, an' ter wait fur it, an' they named uv her ' crippled angul,' she wuz that white an' pritty, with her blue eyes, an' hair like tumbled-up sunshine all round her face. When the pris'ners heerd the restle uv her little silk dress breshin' the banisters ez she clomb upstairs, they ud say, ' Ther's the little angul's wings.' An' they said the jail got more darker after the wings went by. An' when they had that ther' las' trial uv ole 24 m* !*m* of Bemis, lots o' meanness leaked out ez had been done him, an' it showed ez the pris'ner wa'n't so mightily ter blame atter all. An' lots of folks wuz hopin' the ole man ud be plumb cleared. But the cote said he mus' hang, hang, hang. Did ; an' when it said so the angul fell over in her pappy's arms, an' her crutch rolled down an' lay aginst the judge's foot, an' he picked it up an' belt it in his ban' all the time he wuz saying o' the death sentence. " An' the Banner said ' that wuz enough fur chicken-heart/ an' said ever'body might look fur a pard'n nex' day. An' then whatcher reckin ? What do yer reckin, cully? The nex' day down come a little yaller-headed gal ter the jail a-kerryin uv a pard'n. Whatcher think o' that ? Wuz that chicken heart? Naw, cully, that wuz grit Skinny said so. An' Skinny said, he wuz allus hangin' roun' the cap'tul, an' he heerd the men talkin' 'bout it. An' they of (Mft Prttat. 25 said the little gal come up ter see the Gov'- ner, an' he wouldn't see her at first. But she got in at last, an' begged an' begged fur the ole man 'bout ter hang. " But the Gov'ner wouldn't lis'n, till aU't once she turned ter him an' sez she, ( Have you got a chile ? ' An' his eyes filt up in a minute, an' sez he, ' One, at Mount Olivet/ That's the graveyard, yer know. Then he called his sec't'ry man, an' whispered ter him. An' the man sez, * Is it wise ? ' An' then the Gov'ner stood up gran' like, an' sez he, ' Hit's right ; an' that's enough.' Wa'n't that bully, though ? Wa'n't it ? Say, cully, whatcher think o' that? An' whatcher lookin' at out the winder ? " The shadows held the tall warrior in a dusky mantle. Was it fancy, or did old Hickory indeed lift his cocked hat a trifle higher ? Old bronze hero, did he, too, hear that click of a child's crutch echoing down the dismal corridors of the grim old State House, 26 ^e fart ot \& as the little, misshapen feet sped upon their last hope ? And in his dreams did he too hear, the Executive wondered, the cry of a little child begging life of him who alone held it ? Did he hear the wind, those long December nights, moaning over Olivet with the sob of a dead babe in its breath ? Did he understand the human, as well as the heroic, old warrior-statesman whose immor- tality was writ in bronze ? " Say, cully," the tatters grew restless again, " does the firelight hurt yer eyes, makes 'em water ? They looks like the picture o' Skinny's man when the water's in 'em so. Oh, but hit's a good picture. It's a man, layin' in bed. Sick or somethin', I reckin.' An' his piller's all ruffled up, an' the kiverlid all white ez snow. An' his face has got a kind o' glory look, jest like yer see on the face o' the pris'n chaplin when he's a-prayin' with his head up, an' his eyes shet tight, an* a streak o' sunshine comes a-creepin' in of m& tiring. 27 through the gratin' uv the winders an' strikes acrost his face. That's the way Skinny 's picture man looks, only ther' ain't no bars, an' the light stays ther'. An' in one corner is a big, big patch o' light. 'Tain't sunshine, too soft. An' 'tain't moonlight, too bright. Hit's dest light. An' plumb square in the middle uv it is a angul : a gal angul, I reckin, becase its orful pretty, with goldish hair, an' eyes ez blue ez that cheer yer head's leaned on. An' she has a book, a gold un ; whatcher think o' that ? An she's writin' down names in it. An' the man in the bed is watchin' uv her, an' tellin' uv her what ter do ; for down ter the bottom ther's some gol'-writin'. Skinny figgered it out an' it said, ' Write me as one who loves his felloic-men.' Ain't that scrumptious ? Yer jest bet. " I asked Skinny once what it meant, and he said he didn't know fur plumb certain, but sez he, ( I calls it the Gov'ner, Skip : the 28 me *art of GU Gov'ner an' the crippled angul.' Atter that Skinny an' me an' the boys allus called it the Gov'ner. Say ! did you ever see the Gov'- ner?" The Executive nodded; and the tatters rising and sinking back again with vehemence in accord with surprise, threatened to leave more than a single mark upon the State's purple. " Oh, say now ! did yer though ? An* did he look this here way, an' set his chin so, an' keep his eyes kind o' shet 's if he wuz afeard someun ud see if he cried an' tell the Banner ez ther' wuz tears in his eyes ? Skinny said he did. Skinny didn't lie, he didn't. " An' did yer ever heear him make a speech ? Raily now, did yer ? " The spare body bent forward, as if the sharp eyes would catch the faintest hint of falsehood in the face before him. " Yorter heerd him. Skinny did once, when he wuz Eh* Icart of l& pcfeorg. 29 'norgrated, yer know. An' you bet he's gran', then, on them 'norgrat'n days. He jest up an' dares the ole Banner. An' his speeches goes this er way." The tatters half stood j the sole of one torn shoe pressed against the State's purple of the great easy-chair, one resting upon the velvet rug. One small hand lightly clasped the arm of the cherry chair, while the other was enthusiastically waved to and fro as the vagabond's deft tongue told off a fragment of one of the Executive's masterpieces of eloquence and oratory. " Out of the mouths of babes and suck- lings," indeed, poured the great particle of the great argument that had swept the old Volunteer State, at the moment of its finan- cial agony, from center to circumference : "'The so-called "State Bonds" are against the letter and spirit of the Constitu- tion of the United States, which declares, No State shall grant letters of marque and 30 WM art of reprisal, coin money, or emit bills of credit. State bonds ! State bonds ! I tell you, friends and fellow-citizens, that is the name of the enemy that is hammering upon that mighty platform upon which all social, poli- tical, and financial affairs of the country are founded ; the palladium of our liberties, the Constitution of the United States/ ' The ragged shoe slipped from its velvet pedestal, the now dry tatters dropped back into the luxuriant softness of the easy-chair. The glow of excitement faded from the little old face that seemed suddenly to grow older. The man watching with keen surprise, that was indeed almost wonder, saw the boy's thin lips twitch nervously. The great speech was forgotten in the mighty memories it had stirred. The tattered sleeve was drawn across the face that was tattered too, and it was full two minutes by the State's bronze clock, before the vagabond held control of his feel- ings. 0f U dwr. 31 " Say ! " he ventured again, " yorter knowed Skinny. He wuz the nicest boy yevver did see. He knowed ever'thing, he did. See the Gov'ner many a time. Heerd him say that very speech I'm tellin' you about. In this very house, too, upstairs, wher' the leguslater sets. I peeped in while ago ; nobody ther' but the sextent. Skinny heerd the Gov'ner speak ther' though an* when the ban' played, an' the folks all clap- ped their hands, Skinny flung his hat up, plumb inter the big chand'ler, an' hollered out : ( Hooray for the Gov'ner an' the Low Taxers ! ' an' a p'liceman fetched him out by the collar, an' when he got out the cop sez ter him, sez he, ' Now whatcher got ter say ? ' Skinny wuz a Low Taxer his own se'f, so when the cop axed him for his say, he flung his hat up todes the bare-headed Liberty woman out ther' at the front door, an' sez he, ( Hooray ! fur the Gov'ner an' the Low Tax party.* Did. He slep' in the lock-up 32 m $mt of that night fur it, you bet ; but he got his holler. He wuz a plumb good un. " Say, cully ! I wisht yer could see Skinny's picture anyhow. It's over ter hunchback Harry's house now, t'other side o' Hell's Half. Yer know Hell's Half acre? Awful place. Skinny give the picture ter Harry 'count o' his not bein' able ter git about much. He set a sight o' store by it, Skinny did, an' he didn't lot it leave him till the las' minit ; he just willed it, yer know, to hunchback Harry. When he wuz a-dyin' he turned ter me, an' sez he, ' Skip, hang the Gov'ner so's I can see him.' An' when I done it, he sez, sorter smilin', sez he, ' Skip ? ' Sez I, < Skinny ! ' Sez he, < The crippled angul has wiped all the tears out o' the Gov'- ner's eyes/ Then he fell back on his straw piller an' shet his eyes, so ; an' after while he opened uv um, an' sez he so soft yerjest could a-heerd it ; sez he, ' Write me ez one who loves his fellow-men.' An' that wuz of 0td Pcfconj. 33 the las' word he ever said on this earth. He had a nice f un'ril ; yer bet. Us newsboys made it ; an' the pris'n chaplin said the sument. We bought the flowers, us boys did, they cos' ten dollars. Ther' wuz a wreath made uv white roses, an' right in the middle, made out o' little teeny buds, wuz his name ( Skinny. 9 The flower-man said it wouldn't do, when we told him ter put it ther,' but we 'lowed 'twuz our money and our fun'ril and if we couldn't have it our way we wouldn't have it at all. An' he said it might hurt his folkses' feelin's ; but we tol' him Skinny didn't have no folks, an' no name neither, 'cept jest ' Skinny.' So he made up the wreath like we said, an' it's out ther' on his grave this blessed minit, if the snow ain't kivered it up. Say, cully ! Don't yer be a-cryin' fur Skinny. He's all right the chaplin sez so. The Gov'ner'd cry fur him though, I bet yer, if he knowed about the fun'ril yistiddy. Mebbe ole Pop- 34 THK eart of Hick'ry wouldn't, but I bet the Gov'ner would." The face of the Executive was turned to- ward the fire a tiny, blue blaze shot up- ward for an instant, and was reflected in a diamond setting that glittered upon his bosom. A match to the sparkling jewel rested a moment upon his cheek, then rolled down and lay upon his hand a bright, glistening tear. There was a sound of heavy footsteps coming down the gray stone cor- ridor a creak, a groan, and a bang. " What's that ? " asked the newsboy, start- ing up. " That," said the Executive, " is the porter, closing up for the night." The tatters stood as near upright as tatters may, and gathered themselves together. Not a paper sold ; he had gossipped away the afternoon with right royal recklessness. He remembered it too late. " Say ! yer wouldn't want a Herald f " 0f $14 tfefltt. 35 It was not easy to talk business where lately he had talked confidence. The Executive's hand sought his pocket. " Yes," said he, " a Herald will do. What is your name, boy ? " " Skippy ! 'cause I don't skip, yer know." There was a twinkle in the vagabond's eye, as the maimed foot was thrust forward. The next moment he glanced at the coin the Executive had handed him. " Say ! I can't change a dollar ; hain't seen that much money since the bridge wuz burnt." The Executive smiled. " Never mind the change," said he, "and be sure you bring me to-morrow's Herald" The tatters did stand upright at that, while a look of genuine wonder, not unmixed with admiration, came into the little old-young face. " Say ! who be you anyhow ? " he asked. And the lids did " drop," as the Banner 36 te fcatf of said, "to hide the tears," as the great man answered slowly : " I am the Governor of Tennessee, Skip." There was a low soft whistle, a hurried shambling toward the door, a half-whispered something about " Skinny " and " old Pop- Hickory," and the ponderous door closed behind him. When the fire had burned so low he could no longer see the print of the newsboy's foot upon the velvet cushion of the arm-chair, the Governor arose and began to put away his papers. " Inasmuch as she was sorely wronged " his eye fell upon a line of the woman- murderer's long petition. Was this a " case for clemency," as the petition declared? The crisp paper rattled strangely as he un- rolled it, and fixed his own name, together with the great seal of the State, to the few words he had written. It is a grand thing to hold life in the hand : a thing next to God himself. It is a grander thing to give Peart of (Old lirfcortj. 37 life, and nearer to God, too, for is not God the giver of all life ? The long petition lay in the Executive's private drawer ; his day's work was done; to-morrow the despised afternoon journal would sum it up so : " Pardoned another red-handed Cain." The angels perhaps might record it something after this wise : " Saved another soul from hell." He sighed, and thrust the few re- maining papers into the drawer, locked it, and made ready to go home. For the darkness had indeed fallen ; the bronze statue, as he sought it through the window, had become only a part of the bronze night. But the heart of old Hickory was there, in his own bosom, throbbing and alive with the burden of humanity. To-morrow the critics might lash ; but to-night he opened the door of the great gray corridor ; the wind swept with a sepulchral groan through the vault-like gloom ; he lifted his face to the leaden sky, starless and cold. " Write me," he said, 38 te teart at " as one who loves his fellow-men ; " and blushed, as any hero might, to find his heart as brave as its convictions. FIDDLING HIS WAY TO FAME. WE had fallen in with a party of Alabama boys, and all having the same end in view, a good time, we joined forces and pitched our tents on the bank of the Clinch, the prettiest stream in Tennessee, and set about enjoying ourselves after our own approved fashion. Even the important-looking gentleman, sitting over against a crag where he had dozed and smoked for a full hour, forgot, for the nonce, that he was other than wit and wag for the company; the jolly good fel- low he, the free man (once more), and the huntsman. Our division had followed the hounds since sun-up ; the remainder of the company 39 40 JUMIfog hte ma to Jam*. were still out upon the river with rod and line. The sun was about ready to drop be- hind Lone Mountain, that solitary peak, of nobody knows precisely what, that keeps a kind of solemn guard upon the wayward little current singing at its base. Suppei was ready; the odor of coffee, mingled with a no loss agreeable aroma of broiling bacon, and corn cake, was deliciously tantalizing to a set of weary hunters. But we were to wait for the boys, that was one of our rules, always observed. The sun set, and twilight came on with that subtle light that is half gloom, half glow, and mingled, or tried to, with the red glare of the camp-fire. While we sat there, dozing and waiting, there was a break in the brush below the bluff upon which we were camped. " A deer ! " One of the boys reached for his rifle, just as a tall, gaunt figure appeared above the bluff, catching as he came at the sassafras and hazel bushes, pulling himself his SWag to gme. 41 up until he stood among us a very Saul in height, and a Goliath, to all seeming, in strength. He took in the camp, the fire, and the group at a glance. But the figure over against the crag caught his best attention. There was a kind of telegraphic recognition of some description, for the giant smiled and nodded. " Howdye," he said ; and our jolly com- rade took his pipe from between his lips and returned the salutation in precisely the same tone in which it was given. " Howdye ; be you-uns a-travelin' ? " The giant nodded, and passed on, and our comrade dropped back against the crag, and returned to his pipe. But a smile played about his lips, as if some very tender recollection had been stirred by the passing of the gaunt stranger. It was one of the Alabama boys who broke the silence that had fallen upon us. 42 JiMtitt0 fete Wag to Jaw*. He had observed the sympathetic recognition that passed between the two men, and had noted the naturalness with which the " dia- lect " had been returned. "I'll wager my portion of the supper," he said, "that he is aTennessean, and from the hill country." He pointed in the direction taken by the stranger. He missed, however, the warning " Sh ! " from the Tennessee side. " A Tennessee mountaineer " he went on. "His speech bewrayeth him." Then one of our boys spoke right out. " Look out ! " said he, " the Governor is from the hill country too." The silence was embarrassing, until the man over against the crag took the pipe from between his lips, and struck the bowl upon his palm gently, the smile still linger- gering about his mouth. " Yes," he said, " I was born among the hills of Tennessee. ( The Barrens,' geolo- tag ^aij to me. 43 gists call it ; the poets name it ' Land of the Sky.' My heart can find for it no holier name than home." The Governor leaned back against the crag;. We knew the man, and wondered as O ' to the humor that was upon him. Politician, wit, comrade, gentleman ; as each we knew him. But as native, mountaineer, ah ! he was a stranger to us in that role. We had heard of the quaint ease with which he could drop into the speech of his native hills, no less than the grace with which he filled the gubernatorial chair. He had " stumped the state " twice as candidate, once as elector. His strange, half-humorous, half-pathetic oratory was familiar in every county from the mountains to the Mississippi. But the native ; we al- most held our breath while the transforma- tion took place, and the governor-orator for the moment became the mountaineer. " I war born," he said, " on the banks o* 44 the Wataugy, in the county uv Cartir, in a cabin whose winders opened ter the East, an' to'des the sunrise. That war my old mother's notion an' bekase it war her notion it war allus right ter me. Fur she was not one given ter wrong ideas. " I war her f averse chil' uv the seven God give. My cheer set nighest hers. The yaller yarn that slipped her shiny needles first slipped from hank ter ball acrost my sunburnt wrists. The mug uv goldish cream war allus at my plate; the cl'arest bit uv honey-comb, laid crost the biggis' plug uv pie, war allus set fur me. The bit o' extry sweetnin' never missed my ole blue chiny cup. " An' summer days when fiel' work war a- foot, a bottle full o' fraish new buttermilk war allus tucked away amongst the corn pones in my dinner pail. " An' when I tuk ter books, an' readin' uv the papers, an' the ole man riz up ag'inst *0 Jam*. 45 it, bekase I war more favored ter the book nor ter the plough, then my old mount'n mammy, ez allus stood 'twixt me an* wrath, she riz up too, an' bargained with the ole man fur two hours uv my time. This war the bargain struck. From twelve er'clock ontil the sun marked two upon the kitchen doorstep I war free. " Ever' day fur this much I war free. An' in my stid, whilst I lay under the hoss apple tree an' figgered out my book stuff, she followed that ole plough up an' down the en'less furrers acrost that hot ontrodd'n fiel' in my stid. " I've travelled some sence then, ploughed many a furrer in the fiel' o' this worl's troubles, an' I hev foun' ez ther' be few ez keers tur tek the plough whilst I lay by ter rest. " An' when the work war done, an' harvest in, Ituk ter runnin' down o' nights ter hear the boys discuss the questions o' the 46 JiMtittg fcte m t0 Jam*. day at Jube Turner's store over ter the set- tlemint. " 'Twar then the ole man sot his foot down. " ' It hev ter stop ! ' he said. ' The boy air comin' ter no good.' " Then my ole mammy riz agin, an* set down ez detarmint ez him ; an' sez she : " { He be a man, an' hev the hankerin's uv a man. The time hev come fur me ter speak. The boy must hev his I'arnin'-books his min' calls fur. He aims ter mix with men ; an* you an' me, ole man, must stand aside, an' fit him fur the wrastle ez be boun' ter come. Hit air bespoke fur him, an' ther' ben't no sense in henderin' sech ez be bespoke beforehan'.' " She kerried, an' I went ter school. The house air standin' now a cabin in the valley, nigh the banks o' the Wataugy. I tuk ter books, they said, like beans ter cornstalks. An' winter nights I'd pile the pine knots on Way to Jaw*. 47 the fire, to light me ter the secrets uv them blue an* yaller kivers. " An' she'd set by an' holp me with her presence, my ole mount'n mother would. She even helped to gether up the pine knots when the days war over short. She helped me ever way. Her heart retched down ter mine an' 1'arned its needs, an' holped ter satisfy them. She flung the rocks out uv my way, openin' up the path before the path her partial eye had sighted, every inch uv it. " She saved the butter an' sent it off ter the settlemint ter sell it, so's I could hev a daily paper, when she see ez I war hankerin' fur it. " An' when it kem, I'd set ther' on a kaig an' read it ter the mount'n boys, an' Jube ; they-uns flocked ter me like crows flockin' ter a corn-field ; an' me it war, a mount'n stripplin', ez dealt the word o' politics ter they-uns. 48 " But somethin' worrit me : a hitch war in my Tarnin'. Still, the ole man in the cabin begin ter grow more easy-like an' teok ter readin' an' war not ill-pleased ter git the news. An' he fretted sometimes ef I tarried ter the store, bekase he war a-waitin' fur the news. But I war troubled ; and that eye ez war allus open ter my ailments see that I war worrit. An* one day when I kem down the road, she met me, my ole mammy, an' she put her hand onter my arm, an' walked along o' me. An' sez she : " ' What air it, son, ez be a-troublin' uv ye, I be yer mammy, an' ez sech yer frien', an' I aims ter know yer ailments.' " An' I tuk that tremblin' hand close inter mine, an' I spoke my min', my feelin's, freely. " ' I be worrit,' sez I, ' becase I be enable ter make out ef I be right or no.' " ' In politics ? ' sez she. " ' Yaas/ sez I, ( in politics. I git but hfe mtj to Jam*. 49 one side o' the matter, an' I know ez ther' be two. An' I ben't satisfied with this side, an' still I be enable ter make out the other ! ' " She onriddled me at onc't. " t You-uns must hev the other paper, son,' sez she. 'Your granddad war a politician under Clay ; an' ther' war two sides then, an' ther' air boun' ter be two now, although the word uv it may not retch the Wataugy.' " I never will furgit the first day it kem, that Dimercratic paper. I went ter the settle- mint, I knowed the paper war a comin, an' I guessed what it would be ; a coal o' fire ter that Republican stronghold. " I tuk my fiddle down ; it war my mother's thought. " ' Play 'em Sally Gal,' sez she, ' afore the mail comes.' " I done it ; an' they-uns war toler'ble f rien'ly ; fur the mount'n boys allus hev a weakness fur a fiddle an' a mount'n fiddler. " But when the mail war opened Laud ! 50 JMAttttg hiss Wmj t0 Jaw*. how they swore an' tuk on. Some laffed ; a mighty few though, an' some winked ter one ernother. Some cussed outright an' all war thunderstruck. Ez fur me, I went out ter it, an' it kem in ter me. I war a Dimercrat from that good day. " I tuk it home ; the ole man list'ned, countin' it a mighty joke ter hear me an' brother Alf argerfyin' 'bout the two sides, an' sometimes he'd say which beat in argerfyin', but he mostly allus went with Alf. Bimeby Alf tuk the Republican paper, ez my time give out, an* we-uns went tergether ter the settlemint ; an' we'd mount a kaig, him on one, and me on t'other, and we'd give the news ter both sides, him an' me. Some few sided long o' me, but most war tuk to Alf. An' so it war onderstood ez I war Dimercrat, and Alf Republican. " It tickled the ole man mightily. He useter call in the Wataugy boys ter hear us argerfy o' nights, and they-uns sot in jedg- to Jaw*. 51 mint ez ter which uv we-uns war the best at sech. Alf allus got the vote, an' one night I riz up ; fur I war mad some, an' I give the word ez how a Dimercrat would never stan' no chance o' justice in sech a onfair destrict. They-uns laffed, but ther was one ez sot her face aginst sech. ' A house set against itself air boun' ter come ter bad luck,' my ole mother said. " One day ther' war a meetin' ter the settlemint, a political meetin', an' Jube war buckin' up the boys right peart, an' war about ter sweep off everthing. I moved about a bit among they-uns, an' after a little the word war giv ez ther' war a split. " Then kem a row, an' Jube he druv the Dimercrats out 'n o' his store, an' they held the'r meetin' in the blacksmith's shop. An* I war goin' out along o' they-uns, an* Jube see me ; an' he scz, sez he : " ( Come back here, Bob, an' vote your good ole daddy's principles.' Fur Jube war 52 JiMin0 lite Wat) to boss o' that ther' destrict. But I war mad, an' I sez, sez I : " { I aims ter vote my own principles/ sez I, ' an' they be Dimercratic.' " An' when that day war over, ole Si Ridley he rid over ter we-uns' cabin on the Wataugy an' give the word as I war nom- inated ter the Legislatur aginst big Judge Griggsby, the rankest Republican ter all that county. " Then the ole man riz up in real dead earnest. He named me fur a idiot an' a up- start, an' let on ez how he never 'lowed that playful argerfyin' o' Alf an' me would ever be tuk fur more'n a little playful talk. " He swore he'd thrash the heresy out o' me. Then my ole mammy, she riz up. " ' Nary lick, Josiah,' sez she. ' He hev the right ter choose, an' he hev done it.' " Then he give the word ez he'd vote aginst me same's he would any other Dimer- crat. He kept his word. On the day uv g fcte ^Itfajj to Jaw*. 53 election him an' the boys went over ter Jube's ter vote. " Folks showed considerable interest, al- lowing ez blood war more stronger nor politics, an' that the ole man would come over ter me in the eend. " But he didn't ; he jest voted clean an' open fur Griggsby, an' I 'lowed the boys would foller his lead. But when my oldest brother stepped up an' drapped in a vote fur me, I cl'ar furgot myself, an' I jest flung up my hat an' shouted, ' Count one fur the Dimercrat.' " The ole man war pow'ful mad. But when Alf an' Dave an' Hugh voted with him, it kinder eased him some. But when the next cast lots with me, I yelled again. " ( Hooray fur Dimocracy ! ' sez I. An' the ole man he jest lifted up his ridin' switch, an' sez he : " ' Stop, sir ! Take off your coat, sir. I'll thrash that Dimocracy out o' you.' 54 JiMlittfl hi0 Wag to " Ye could a heerd a pin drap. Then I ketched ole Jube Turner's eye. He allus 'lowed ther' war no backbone to a Dimercrat. An' when I see him I flung back my coat an' bowed my shoulders fur the ole man's lash. " The boys drapped back, disappointed, an' I heard a hiss ez the first blow fell. Forty licks. I tuk 'em without a tremble. An* when the last un fell, I riz up an' tore off my hat, an' tossed it up ter the rafters, an' sez I, ez loud ez I could, ( Hooray fur Dimocracy ! Forty lashes hev heat it ter red- hot heat.' " Then a yell went up, an' I knowed ez Carter County war gone Dimercratic fur onc't, afore ole Jube stepped out afore the boys, an' tuk off his hat an' sez, ' I be fur the feller ez can't be beat out o' his prin- ciples.' " Them war stormy times in the cabin on the Wataugy, I kin tell ye. The boys built a bonfire top o' Lynn Mount'n jest acrost fei* Sltfatj to