HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Huron Expositor, 1923-04-20, Page 7e
-Peeev'elee'leee
The Light
IN THE
Clearing
LBWING HACHELLEII
(Cantinued ikeni last intek)
Suddenly I heard the hoof -beats of
a horse behind me. I stopped, and
looking over my shoulder saw a rider
approaching me in the costume of an
Ipdian chief. A red mask covered
his face. A crest of eagle feather
circled the edge of his cap. Without
a word he rode ,on at my side. I
knew not then that is was the man
Josiah Curtis—nor could I at any
time have sworn that it was he.
A crowd had assembled around the
house ahead. I could see a string of
horsemen coming toward it from the
other side. I wondered what was go-
ing to happen to me. What a shout-
ing and jeering in the crowded door -
yard! I could see the smoke of a
fire We reached the gate. Men in
Indian mask and costumes gathered
around US.
Order! Sh-ah-sh," was the loud
command of the man beside me in
whom I recognized—or thought that
did—tbe voice of Josiah Curtis.
"What has happened?"
"One o' them tried to serve a writ
anwe have tarred an' feathered
him."
Just then I heard the voice of
Purvis shouting back in the crowd
this impassioned plea:
"Bart, for God's sake, come here."
I turned to Curtis and said:
'If the gentleman tried to serve
the writ he acted without. orders and
deservers what he has got. The other
fellow is simply a hired man who
came along to take care of the hors-
es. He couldn't tell the difference be-
tween a writ and a hole in the
ground."
"Men, you have gone tfur enough,"
said Curtis. "This man is all right.
Bring the ether men here and put 'em
on their horses an' ru. escort 'em ou,t
.' the town."
They brought Latour on a rail a -
Midst roars of laughter. What a
bear -like, poultrified, be-poodled ob-
ject be was!—burred and sheathed in
rumpled gray feathers from his hair
to his heels. The sight and smell of
him scared the horses. There were
tufts of feathers over his ears and
on his chin. They had found great
joy in spoiling that aristocratic liv-
ery in which he had arrived.
Then came poor Purvis. They had
just begun to apply the tar and fear
thers to him when Curtis had stopped
the process. He had only a shaldng
ruff of long feathers around his neck.
They lifted the runaway into their
saddles. Purvis started off ata gal-
lop, shouting "Come on, Bart," but
they Stopped him.
'Don't be in a hurry, yoUng
said one of the Indians, and then
there was another roar on laughter.
WHAT MADE
ME HAPPY
„cep;rnhg • • se awe .1
You *'td. chew with me and let our
'feathered Mende follow ua."
So we started up the road on o
way back to CoblesIdll. Soon Leto
began to complain that he Wee
am! the feathers pricked him.
'You come alongside me here
raise up a little an' I11 pick the
' side 6' yer legs an' pull out yer ta
feathers," said Curtis. "If you g
'em stuck into yer 'skin you'd be
reg'litx chicken an' no mistake."
I helped in the process and got my
lingers -badly tarred.
"This is a dangerous man to touch
—his sold is tarred," said Curtis.
"Keep away from him."
1, "What a lookin' spunk you be!" he
laughed as he went on with the pickg
ing.
We resumed our Jodi -may Our guide
• left us at the town line some three
miles beyond.
"Thank God the danger is over
said Purvis. "The tar on my nee
has melted an' run down an' my shi
sticks like the bark on a tree. I'
sick o' the smell o' myself.
could find, a skunk I'd enjoy holdi
him in inS, lap e while. I'm got
back to St. Lawrence County abou
as straight as -I can go. I never di
tike this country anyway."
He had picked the feathers out o
his neck and Latour was now bus
picking his arms and shoulders. Pres
ently he took off his feathered coat
and threw it away, saying:
"They'll have to pay for this. Every
one o' those jackrabbits will have to
settle with me."
"You brought it on yourself," I
said. "You ran away from me and
gut us all into trouble by being too
smart. You tried to be a fool and
succeeded beyond your expectation.
My testimony wouldn't help you any.'
"You're always against the capi-
talist," he answered.
It was dark when I left my com-
panions in Cobleskill. I changed my
clothes and had my supper and found
Judge Westbrook in his home and re-
ported the talk of Curtis and our ad-
venture and my view of the situation
back in the hills. I observed that he
gave the latter a cold welcome.
"I shall send the sheriff and a
posse," he said with a troubled look.
"Pardon me, but. I think it will
mcke a bad matter worse," I answer-
ed.
"We must not forget that the
patroons aro our clients," he remark-
ed.
I yielded and went en with my
work. In the next week or so I sat-
istleti myself of the rectitude of my
opinions. Then came the most criti-
cal point in my history—a conflict
with Thrift and Fear on one side and
Conscience on the other.
The judge raised my salary. I
wanted the money, .but every day I
would have to lend my help, directly
or indirectly, to the prosecution of
claims which I could not believe to
be just. My heart went out of my
work. I began to fear myself. For
weeks 1 had not the courage to take
issue with the learned judge.
One evening I went to his home
determined to put an end to my un-
happiness. After a little talk I told
him frankly that I thought the pa-
troons should seek a friendly settle-
ment with their tenants.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because their position is unjust,
un-American and untenable," was my
, answer.
1 He rose and gave me his hand and
a smile of forbearance in considera-
tion of iny youth, as I took it.
left much irritated and spent a
sleepless night in the course of which
I decided to cling to the ideals of
David Hoffman and Silas Wright.
In the morning I resigned my place
and asked to be relieved as soon as
the convenience of the judge would
allow it. He tried to keep me with
gentle persuasion and higher pay, but
was firm. Then I wrote a long let-
ter to my friend the Senator.
Again I had chosen my way and
with due regard to the compass.
ur
Or
hot itsontuR
an' sanbolEYES itimpiminh
in-
ot ing-chair was not easier to ridp. He
a took me wilily across the wide flat
and over the hills and seemed to re-
sent my effort to slow him. •
I passed through Middlebury and
rode into the group& of the college,
where the Senator had been educated
and on out to Weybridge to see where
he had. lived as a boy. I found the
Wright homestead—a comfortable
white house at the head of a beauti-
ful valley with wooded hills behind it
—and rode up to the door. A white
haired old lady in a black lace cap
" was sitting its porch looking out
'k at the sunlit fields.
rt "Is this where Senator Wright !to-
m ed when he was a boy?" I asked.
I "Yes, elk," the old lady answered.
n' "I am from Canton."
n' She rose from her chair.
t "You from Canton!" she exclaimed.
d "Why. of all things! That's • where
my boy's home is. I'm glad to see
f you. Go an' put your horse in the
y barn."
I dismounted and she came near to
Inc.
"Silas Wright is my boy," she said.
"What is your name?"
"Barton Baynes," I answered as I
hitched my horse.
Barton Baynes! Why, Silas has
told me all about you in his lettere.
He writes to me every week. Come
and sit down."
We sat down together on.the porch.
"Silas wrote in his last letter that
you were going to leave your place
in Cobleskill," she continued to my
surprise. "He said that he was glad
you had decided not to stay,"
It was joyful news to me, for the
Senator's silence had worried me and
I had begun to think with alarm of
my future.
'1 wish that he would take you to
Washington to help him. The poor
mar. has too much to do."
"I should think it a great privilege
to go," I answered.
"My boy like you," she went on.
"You have been brought up just as
he was. I used to read to him every
evening when the candles were lit.
How hard he worked to make a man
of himself! I have known the mo-
ther's joy. I can truly say, 'Now let
thy servant depart in peace.'"
'For mine eyes have seen thy
salvation,'" I quoted.
"You see I knew much about you
and much about your aunt and uncle,"
said Mrs. Wright.
She left me for a moment and
soon the whole household was gather-
ed about Inc on the pm -ch, the men
having come up from the fields. The
Senator had told them on his last
visit of my proficiency as a sound -
hand writer and 1 amused 'Weal by
explaining the art of it. 'They put
my horse in the barn and pressed me
to stay for dinner, which I did. It
was a plain boiled dinner at which
the Senator's cousin and his hired
man sat down in their shirt -sleeves
and during which I. heard many stor-
ies of the boyhood of the great man,
As I was going the gentle old lady
gave me a pair of mittens which her
distinguished son had worn during
his last winter in college. I remem-
ber, well how tenderly she. handled
them!
"I hope that Silas will get you to
help him"—those were the last words
she said to me when 1 bade her good -
by
The visit had set me up a good deal.
The knowledge that I had been so
much in the Senator's thoughts, and
that he approved my decision to leave
the learned judge, gave me new heart.
I had never cherished the thought
that he would take me to Washing-
ton although, now and then, a faint
star of hope had shone above the
capitol in my dreams. As I rode a-
long I imagined myself in that great
arena and sitting where I could see
thc flash of its swords and hear the
thunder,of Homeric voices. That is
the way I thought of it. Well, those
were no weak, piping times of peace,
my brothers. They were times of
battle and as I rode through the
peaceful summer afternoon I mapped
eny way to the fighting line. I knew
that I should enjoy the practise of
the law but I had begun to feel that
eventually my client would be the
people whose rights were subject to
constant aggression as open as that
of the patroons or as insidious as
that of the canal ring.
The shadows were long when I got
to Canterbury. At the head 'of its
main street I looked down upon a
village green and some fine old elms.
It was a singularly quiet place. I
stopped in front of a big white meet-
ing house. An old man was mowing
in its graveyard near the highway.
Slowly he swung his scythe,
"It's a fine day," I said.
"No, it ain't, nuther—too much
hard work in it," said he.
"Do you know where Kate Fuller-
ton lives ?"I asked.
"Well, it's party likely that I do,"
he answered as he stood resting on
his snath. "I've lived .seventy-two
years on this hill come the fourtecanth
day o' June, an' if I didn't know whore
she lived I'd he 'shamed of it."
He looked at me thoughtfully for a
moment and added:
"I know everybody that lives here
an' everybody that dies here, an' some.
that orto be livin' but ain't an' some
that orto be dead which ye couldn't
kill 'em with an ax—don't see so—
f declare it don't. Do ye see th t big
house down there in the trees?"
I could see the place at which he
pointed far back from the village
street in the valley below us, the
house nearly hidden by tall ever-
greens. -
"Yes," I answered.
"No ye can't, nuther—leastwviets if
ye can ye've got better eyes'n mos'
"/ was congratulating , myself
that I had passed the winter
without catching a cold, when I
gpt one at the beginning of last
May. It was because I was run
down. Being run down I had
some trouble in getting rid of -
this cold. I was a nervous wreck.
1 would wake up regularly morn- '
ings feeling that some terrible
calamity would take place.
Although we were comfortably
off, I felt sure my husband was
going to lose everything. The
children worried me. If they made
the least noise. I would get into
a terrible temper. I would scold
them so that I am sure they hated
me. I would be mad with myself
after it was over and snake up my
- mind never to let it happen again.
I would go to bed at night and
hegin to think and picture dread-
ful things which might happen to
rile and my family. I would lay
awake for hours, sometimes until
daylight, until I was so weak that
I could scarcely raise my head.
I wouki waken next day just as
tired as when I laid down. After
a While I got so that I didn't care
*what happened. The children
annoyed Inc and 1 wouldn't have
cared if they had left me for
good. I felt that it was only a
matter of time before I would lose
eny mind. I knew that my symp-
toms were due to a run down
condition and that if T could only
.get something to build Inc up, I
might be all right. I knew that
there must be some good tonics
but most of them made such
foolish claims that I was afraid
of them. Happening one day to
run across a leaflet about Camel,
I was impressed with the mode-
rate way this preparation was de-
acribed, so I made up my mind I
would try it. I did and today a
am the happiest and healthiest
woman living. I haven't a care
in the world. Instead of running
a*ay from me, my children aro
now with me all the time. My
husband tells me that my disposi-
tion is as near an angel's as any
human being's can be, but of
course he is prejudiced. I dont
believe I have a nerve in my body
now."
Carnal is sold by your druggist,
and if you can conscientiously say,
after you have tried it, that it
hasn't done you any good, return
the empty bottle to him and he
wtfl refuM your money. 8-622
Sold by E. Umbach, Phm. B.
set
CHAPTER XVII
The Man With the Scythe.
It was late in June before I was
able to disengage myself frcim the
work of the judge's office. Mean-
while there had been blood shed back
in the hills. One of the sheriff's
posse had been severely wounded by
a bullet and had failed to serve the
writs. The judge had appealed to the
governor. People were talking of
"the rent war."
Purvis had returned to St, Lawr-
ence County and hired to my uncle
for the haying. He had sent me a
letter which contained the welcome
information ,that the day he left the
stege at Canton, he had seen Miss
Dunkelberg on the street.
"She was lookin' top-notch—stop't
and spoke to ine," he went on. "You
cood a nocked me down with a fether
I was that scairt. She ast me how
you was an' I lookt her plum in the
eye an' I says: all grissul from his
head to his heels, mart, an' able to
lick Lew Latour, which 1 Se° him do
in quick time an' tolable severe. Bel
can fight like n hob -tailed cat when
he gits, a-goin', I says."
What a recommendation to the
sweet, unsullied spirit of Sally! With- ,
out knowledge. of my provocation
what would she think of -me? He
had endowed me with all the fright-
fulness of his own cherished ideal, .
and what was I to do about it? Well,
I was going home and would try to
see her.
What a joy entered my heart when
/ was aboard the steamboat, at last,
and on my way to all most dear to
me! As I entered Lake Champlain
I consulted the map and decided to
leave the boat at Chimney Point, to
find late Fullerton, who had written
to the schoolmaster from Canterbury.
My aunt had said in a letter that old
Kate was living there and that a
great change had come over ber. So
I went ashore and hired a horse of
the ferryman—one of those "Green
Mountain ponies" of which my uncle
lied told me: "They'll take any gait
that suits ye, except a slow ones an'
keep it to the end o' the toad."
I think that I never had a horse so
bent on reaching that traditional "end
of the road." He was what they call-
ed a "nicker" those days, and a rock-
. . .. . . .. -
""Doe .,,
44*14 4 •-r• Vt44
ther*,--heiiii: g A fer t.140 MO
er Alsre, ' go ali ..: It's Wondertul
how hard ' ter ate4le folks to qui
breathin'. SO; be you any o' his
famly?"
,
034/: too
, icheitnat tga ,
znY arine, 4Y n 010
t me like Sam Hill,
five of her own, T , er I 'a
goin' to take it bach in 4�sv ertwD
but After it had been in tile* house
three days ye' couldn't 'c' pulled it
! away from her with a windlase.'
d ' "We brought hies. Up an' he was
• alwuss a good WY. We allied Wm
, Enoch—Enoch Rone—did ye ever
t hear the name?"
, "'No.' •
a "I didn't think 'twas likely but I'm
a
alwuss
'Early that fall Kate got better an'
left the poorhouse afoot. Went away
soniewheres—tiobodY kn#w wheys.
Some said she'd crossed the lake ein'
gone away over into York State,
some said she'd drbwned herself.
By'ra by we heard that she'd one
way over into '$t. Lawrence CountY
where Silas -Wright lives en' where
young Grimshaw had settled down
after he got married.
"Wel, 'bout five year ago the squire
buried his second wife—there 'tis over
in there back o' Kate's with the little
speckled angel on it. Nobody had
seen the squire outside o' his house
for years until the funeral—he was
crippled so with rheumatiz. After
that he lived all 'lone in the big house
with p1' Tom Linney an' his wife,
who've worked there fer 'bout forty
year, I guess.
'Wal, sir, fust we knew Kate wp.s
there in the house livin' with her fa-
ther. We wouldn't 'a' knowed it, then
if it hadn'S been that Tom Linney
come over one day an' said he guessed
the ol' squire wanted to Bee me—no,
sir, we wouldn't—fer the squire ain't
sociable an' the neighbors never dark-
en -his door. She must 'a' come in the
night, jest as she went—nobody see
her go an' nobody see her come, an'
that's a fact. Wal, one day las' fall
after the leaves was off an' they
"MO
"Nor no friend 0'. his."
"No!" •
"Course not. He never had a frien
in his life—tem mean! He's too =a
to die, mister—too mean fer hell an
I wouldn't weeider...,lionest, I wouldn'
—mebbe that's why , God is keepin
him here—jest to molter, him • up
little. Say, mister, 'be you in
hurry?"
"No."
"Yis ye be. Everybody's in a bur
ry—seems to nte—eiice we got steam
power in the country. Say, hitch yer
hoes an' come in here. I want to
show ye suthia'."
He seemed to enjoy contradicting
,me.
"Nobody seems in a hurry in this
town," I said.
"Don't, hey? Wal, ye ought to 'a'
seen Deacon Norton run when some
punkin on his side bill bu'st their
vines an come rolhn down an' chas-
ed him half a mile into the valley."
I dismounted and bitched my horse
to the fence and followed him into the
old churchyard, between weather -
stained mossy headstones and graves
overgrown with wild roses. Near
the far end of these thick-eown acres
he stopped.
"Here's where the buryin' begun,"
said my guide. "The first hole in
the hill was dug for a Fullerton."
There were many small monuments
and slabs of marble—some spotted
with lichens and all -in commemora-
tion of departed Fullertons.
look a' that," said my guide
as he pulled aside the stem of a
leafy brier red with roses. "Jest
read that, mister."
My keen eyes slowly spelled out the
time -worn words ou a slut) of stained
marble:
Sacred to the memory of •
Katherine Fullerton
1787-1808
"Proclaim' his Word in every place
That they are dead who fall from
grace."
A dark shadow fell upon the hone
of my soul and I heard a loud rapping
at its door which confused me until,
looking out, I saw the strange truth
of the matter. Rose leaves and blos-
soms seemed to be trying to hide it
with their beauty, but in vain.
"I understand," I said.
'No ye - don't Leastways I don't
believe ye do—not correct. Squire
Fullerton dug a grave here an' had
an empty coffin pfit into it away back
in 1806. It means that he wanted
everybody to understan' that his girl
was jest the same as dead to him an'
to God. Say, he knew about God's
wishes—that man. Gosh! He has
sent more folks to hell than there
are in it, I guess. Say, mister, do
ye know why he sent her there?"
"Yis ye do too. It's the same oI'
thing that's been sendin' women to
hell ever since the world begun. Ye
know hell must 'a' been the invention
of a man—that's sartin—an' it was
mostly fer women an' children—that's
sartiner—an fer all the man that
didn't agree with him. Set down
here an' I'll tell ye the hull story.
My day's work is done."
We sat down together and.he went
on as follows:
"Did ye ever see Kate Fullerton?"
"Yes."
"No ye didn't, anther. Yer too
young. Mebbe ye seen her when she
was old an' broke down but that wa'nt
Kate—no more'n I'm Hip Tweedy,
which I ain't. Kate was a handsome
as a golden robin. Hairyeller as his
breast an' feet as spry as his wings
an' a voice as sweet as his song, an'
eyes as bright as his'n—yia, sir—ye
couldn't beat her fer looks. That
was years and years ago. Her mother
died when Kate was ten year old—
there's her grave in there with the
sickle an' the sheaf an' the portry on
it That was unfort'nit an' no mis-
take. Course the squire married a-
gain but the new wife wa'n't no kind
of a mother to the girl an' you know,
mister, there was a young scoundrel
here by the name o' Grimshaw. His
father was a rich man—owned the
cooper shop an' the saw -mill an' the
tannery an' a lot o' cleared land down
in the valley. He kep' cornp'nY with
her fer two or three year. Then all
of a sudden folks began to talk—the
women in partic'lar. Ye know men
invented hell an' women keep up the
fire. Kate didn't look right to 'era.
Fust we knew, young Grimshaw had
dropped her an' was koepin' company
with another gal—yis, sir. Do ye
know why?"
Before I could answer he went on:
"No ye don't—leastways I don't be-
lieve ye dee It was 'cause her father
was richer'n the squire an' had prom-
ised his gal ten thousan' dollars the
day she was married. All of a sud-
den Kate disappeared. We didn't
know what had happened fer a long
time."
"Ono day the al' squire got me to
dig this' grave an' put up the head. -
stun an' then he tor me the story.
He'd turned the poor gal out o' doors,.
God o' Israel! It wa, in the night—
ye, sir—it was in the night that he
sent her away. Goldarn him! He
didn't have no more heart than a
grasshopper—no sir—not a bit, I
could 'a' brained him with my shovel,
but I didn't.
"1 found out where the gal had
gone an' I followed her—yie I did—
found her in the poorhouse way over
on Pussley Hill—uh hdhl She jes'
put her arms 'round my neck an' cried
an' cried. I guess 'twee 'cause I
looked kind o' friendly -0h huh! I
tot' her she should come light over to
our house an' stay jest as long as she
wanted to as soon as she got well—
yis, sir, I did.
"She was sick all summer long—
kind o' out o' her head, ye know, an'
used to go over hossback an' take
hinge fer her to eat. An' one day
when I,was over there they was won -
ern' what they was goin' to do with
her little baby. I took it in my arms
an! IT be gold dummed if it didn't
grab hold o' nty nose an' hang on like
a puppy to a root. When they tried
o take it away it grabbed its fingers
people, ye can7t see only a patch 0,
the roof an' one chimney—them pine
trees bein' thicker'n the hair on a dog.
It's the gloomiest ol' house in all cre-
ation, I guess. Wal, that's the Squire t
Fullerton place—he's Kate's father."
5e •
,
124.i.gitivlaugehlalrague' Agem.ge.ggi
1* 1iii
*saga ,
japan*
could see a corner o' my home through sinner
the bushes, Tom was welkin' the or
man 'round the room. All to once he
stopped an' pointed at my house
through the winder an' kep'
Tom come over an' said he ca'llated
the squire wanted to see me. So I
went there. Kate met me at the door.
Gosh! How old an' kind o' _broke down
she looked! But I knew her the min-
ute I set ray eyes on her—uh--huh—
an' she knew me—yis, sir—she smiled
an' tears come to her eyes an' she
patted my hand like she wanted to
tell me that she hadn't forgot, but she
stover said a word—not a word. The
ol' squire had the palsy, so't he could-
n't use his hands an' his throat was
paralyzed --couldn't speak nor nothin'.
Where do ye suppose he was when I
found him?"
"In bed?" I asked.
"No, sir—no, siree! Be was in hell
that's where he was--reglar old fash-
ioned, down -east hell, b in' with fire
an' brimstun, that he'd -d the agency
for an' had recommended to every
• ;
Rettig' in bis ropn,'
You orter seen them
with his hands an' the 'we
to speak when went in,
al; I could bear was jest
an' a kind of a rattle in hieg
Heavens an' airth! how, dea
tried to spit out the Mils
gnawin' his vitals. Ag'in au' ,a
he'd try to tell me. Lord God!
he did work!
"All to once it core& acroat
what he wanted—quick as Ye_filtpl.
say scat. He wanted to have iset
headstun took down ap' mg aesa3K-4.
that's what he wanted. That
was kind o' layin' on his atusni
an' painin' of him day an' night.
couldn't san' it. He knew •that Jar
was goin' to die party 1130012,812' that
Kate would come here an' see it me'
that everybody would see her atendhe
here by her own grave, an' it worried
hint. It was kind o' likea fire in hie
belly.
(Continued next week.) ,
RIER
7dereep
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