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VOICES BIRTH-MARKS THE MAN AND THE ELEPHANT
MATT J. HOLT
_Author of Chit-Chat, Nirvana_
LOUISVILLE THE STANDARD PRINTING CO., Inc. 1922
Copyrighted 1922 by The Author
INDEX
- VOICES ......................................................... 7
- BIRTH-MARKS .................................................... 71
- THE MAN AND THE ELEPHANT ....................................... 341
VOICES
Knowest thou only the language of man? Hast never heard the plaintive flute of Pan, Or those gladsome carols that greet the light? Or the wild, strange voices of darkest night? Each of earth's creatures when at work or play, Each of nature's force in some strange way, Has a manner of attaining to God's ear, And a voice which those attuned may hear. Voices of spring are love songs of the birds, Fragrant poems of lilacs, lacking words; Summer voices are of riper, mellower strain; Autumn's, sing of harvest and life not vain; Winter tells the story of what has been, Season of reflection, of the voice within, Promise of tomorrow, freedom from sin.
Big Creek bisects the narrow valley and the road to Hyden follows thebank, crossing from side to side as the sheerness of the mountain sidemakes necessary. Here and there the valley broadens until there isalmost enough level land for a farm; and always where there is a littlewidth of valley you find a mountain home. The mountain tops and sidesare great wildernesses, though sometimes in a cove or on the plateau ahermit or outcast family makes its home.
At old man Litman's place the valley is quite narrow, except below the"Rock House," where there is an old field cleared by his grandfather,who came from Virginia in 1795. A sprawling rail fence, hedged about bythrifty bush growth, encircles the old field; pawpaw bushes growing inthe fence corners encroach to the ruts of the road; and each year newgrowth of sumac and persimmon appropriate yet more of the old field;which having been cultivated for near a century and grown unproductive,is given over to a volunteer crop of broom sedge, which furnishes meagerpasturage for an old mule and two cows.
On the edge of the road at the fence corner nearest the cabin, Litman'sgranddaughter has a doll house; if mere tracings of pebbles and shellsgathered from the creek shallows can be called partitions and the bushesand vines, walls and a roof. The white room is traced in white pebblesthe red room in red pebbles and the kitchen in the commoner blue ones.The furnishings are bits of broken crockery, glass and shell. The dollsare small bleached bones or bits of peeled pawpaw sticks, dressed inblouses made from a worn out sleeve of grandpa's red undershirt andskirts from scraps of worn and faded calico. She has never seen a dollhouse, never a real doll, only pictures. This, her creation, wassuggested by instinctive motherhood and love for home.
A passing traveler would have thought several children were playing atthe fence corner. The little make-believe mother was talking to herbabies and answering for them in even thinner and more subdued voicethan her own; though she had the low voice of a child accustomed to playalone.
"Now Jeanne, let's make grandpa some nice pone bread; the meal is freshand sweet. When it is ready you run to the spring and bring him a cup ofcold milk."
"Granny, while you are mixing the bread maybe I can find an egg in theloft. I heard Old Speck cackling."
"There is grandpa calling, I will go and see what he wants."
"He says, would you mind moving him a wee bit? His bones shore do ache."
Here the dialogue ended, the girl's attention having been caught by thevoice of an old friend; except for which the valley had the quietude notalone of a warm mid-afternoon but of a great solitude, so profound thatyou might even fancy hearing the smoke curling up from the chimney ofthe cabin, a hundred yards away. Yet, if you listen you may hear thechirping of the grass creatures and the rippling water washing along thepebbly bed of the creek.
A lone tree, long dead, and bleached to bony whiteness, stands in thecenter of the old field and from its topmost snag a lark gives voice toa series of pensive, dreamy, flute-like notes. The girl, after listeningfor some time, resumes the dialogue.
"Children, we will climb on the fence and hear what Yellow Vest has tosay. I think he is whistling to his wife, who hunts crickets in thebroom sedge."
"Maw, tell us what he says?"
"'Love, thou art safe! art safe! I watch for thee! for thee! andbabies.' It is not so much what he says as the way in which he says it."
The feeble voice of the old grandmother calls: "Jeanne, come help yourgranny;" and placing her dolls in their little beds of sticks, moss andbird feathers, and the little baby in its cradle, the half of a musselshell, she goes to the house.
----
John Morgan Allen lived in Lexington, Kentucky. His father was a lawyerof considerable prominence; his mother, a Morgan, granddaughter of adistinguished soldier; his grandmother was the daughter of John CalvinCampbell, an eloquent pioneer preacher; her husband, a lawyer when shemarried him, afterwards became a professional gambler and, an exceptionto the rule, accumulated a considerable fortune.
It was young Allen's mother's desire that he should be a soldier; hisfather's that he should be a lawyer, and his grandmother's that heshould be a preacher. When he finished high school, his motherinsisting, he was sent to Culver Military Institute, where he remained ayear. Then his grandmother, having promised to give him $25,000.00 theday he should graduate at the Louisville Presbyterian TheologicalSeminary; he was sent to that institution. In the beginning of hissenior year she died intestate, leaving an estate of only $60,000.00 tobe divided between three living children and the heirs of three deadchildren. As there was no chance of the fulfillment of her promise whenhe should graduate at the seminary; and his conduct had been such thathis professors had suggested a reformation in conformity with hisprospective calling, he wrote asking his father's consent to leave theseminary and take the law course at the University of Virginia; and hecheerfully consented. In spite of the fact that he gave much of his timeto a local military company and enjoyed the reputation of being the bestpoker player at the university, he graduated with class honors in 1912.
Several weeks after his return home, on his twenty-second birthday, hisfather took him to the office and with great gladness in his heart,pointed to the name, Allen & Allen, which had been painted on the officedoor the day before; showed him the new embossed stationery on which hisname appeared as a member of the firm; and his own room, newly painted,carpeted and furnished, with the name John Morgan Allen (Private) on thedoor. Though John's face wore a smile of appreciation, it was merelyreflective of his father's love and enjoyment; disposition andtemperament suggested rebellion, but were overcome by a sense ofgratitude and duty.
In the early summer of 1913 the firm were employed by the Lockard heirsto clear the title to a large boundary of land in Leslie county; and itbecame necessary for John and the executor to go to Hyden for thatpurpose.
Just at sundown as they were riding by Litman's old field, John's horseshied and backed through the pawpaw bushes into Jeanne's doll house. Hedismounted and patched the partition walls into shape; then parting thebu
shes, showed it to Mr. Lockard.
To John, the little bone and stick dolls, dressed in rags and resting intheir beds of moss and feathers were pathetic. He picked several up, andwas examining them when a slender girl of twelve, in an outgrown, wornand faded dress, which did not reach to her knees, ran up crying: "Donot hurt my babies." John rose hastily, somewhat disconcerted by theaccusation, and lifting his hat and gravely bowing, assured her he hadno such intention; whereupon without uttering another word, she turnedand ran into the Litman cabin.
The cabin, built in the days when the family was relatively prosperous,had a spare room for visitors. As it was now sundown the men asked andwere given shelter for the night.
Jeanne showed them where their horses were to be stabled; and then wentinto the house to help with supper. Her grandmother noted that she wasvery exact in setting the table; getting out the only white cloth theyhad and doing her best with their meager stock of china to make itattractive. This special attention was due to the lifted hat and formalbow with which John had greeted the child. It was the first time a manhad ever tipped his hat to her.
After supper John and Mr. Lockard seated themselves for a smoke on agreat rock that jutted into the creek and enjoyed not only the profoundrepose but the mystic beauty of the scene, which was accentuated by thelight of a full moon and the deep shadows made by the trees andmountain.
John, a person of moods and imagination--possibly due to his complexancestry--gave expression to his thoughts: "How soothing, howdelightfully peaceful, how homelike, is this humble home. There is noplace here for sorrow and tears, no room for envy, no cause forcovetousness or discontent. Some people, and I believe I am one, mightbe happy here, happier than in a city, just getting his part of thesunlight, just breathing his part of this untainted air."
While he was talking in this strain, Jeanne, coming up, stood listening;and when he had finished said:
"We have our troubles. You have not seen grandpa. He's sick in bed. Hecan't move except his hands and head and they shake all the time. Hesays he is a corpse with a chill and lies in his bed with nothing to dobut wait. When I ask 'Wait for what?' He answers, 'Tomorrow.' To metomorrow is like today. The cows will go to pasture, the creek will runover the same pebbles, the mail man will come at noon and stop fordinner, the lark will sing the same song; but if I stump my toe it willbe well tomorrow. Go in and talk to grandpa. He likes to hear things. Helies on his bed until his bones ache. He looks out at the same trees androcks and the same reach of the creek. I hope when he sleeps there is achange and he has dreams like mine and hears voices sweeter than thoseof the day; though I love the voice of the lark and the red bird and thewren; the murmur of the water on the rocks and most of all the littlecreatures we do not see and will not hear, unless we are very still.They are hidden in the grass and in the rocks. Alone not one of them canbe heard, but together they make soft music, a chorus of glad hearts.One little blackbird makes a noise, but when a thousand speak at once itmakes a song. So it seems to me, if I should live here always, with justgrandpa and granny, what I said would be as the chirp of one little bugor the call of a lost blackbird; but if I chirp or call out with athousand, my voice is the thousandth part of a song."
"Jeanne, we will go in and talk with your grandpa. Can he read, or doyou read to him?"
"He used to read before he broke his specks. I am trying hard to learnto read good, so I can read to him. The teacher sometimes boards withus; she says I will soon know how. It will be nice then. I try to readhis Bible to him but the words are too big. Teacher says I need a bookto tell me the meaning of big words. I know just the part of the Biblehe loves and I am learning it by heart. I stand and say it to him,looking in the book and he thinks I read it."
"What do you say to him, Jeanne?"
"'And God shall wipe all tears from their eyes; and there shall be nomore death; neither sorrow nor dying; neither shall there be any morepain.' And I know all of the fourteenth chapter of John, which tells usnot to let our troubles worry us, because in the Father's house there isa home of many rooms and one is for me. And when I say, 'Peace I leavewith you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I untoyou;' he makes me read it again. * *"
They went in and spent an hour with the old man. Seeing them was a breakin his bedridden monotony, shifting scene and introducing newcharacters.
His had been a calm, relatively happy life until he was seventy years ofage; then misfortune overwhelmed him. He lost his savings; his son,Sylvester, Jeanne's father, died; a few weeks later he had a stroke ofapoplexy and now a shivering palsy possessed his limbs. For more thanfive years he had lain in his bed, nursed by wife and granddaughter.
His wife by most rigid economy had managed to feed the family of three;though they were poorly clad and were frequently denied many thingsdeemed essential to life.
----
Simeon Blair for ten years had been carrying the mail from the mouth ofBig Creek to Hyden, going up one day and returning the next. He usuallyate his noon-day meal at Litman's, which he called the "Half-way House."
About ten days after Mr. Allen and his client had spent the night at theLitman cabin, Blair rode up on his old gray mare and seeing Jeannecoming from the spring, took from a gunny sack a parcel post packageabout a foot square; and holding it above his head called out: "Guesswhose this is?"
"Grandpa's."
He shook his head, saying: "Guess again."
"Granny's."
"Wrong, guess again."
"Is it for us?"
"Yes."
"Then it must be for me; but I have never had anything before. It is notChristmas. O! who could have sent it?"
She took it with timid joy and examined it carefully, reading aloud in ahalting way--"Miss Jeanne--no it's not Jeanne; what is it Simeon?"
"Jeannette."
"Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek, Leslie County, Ky."
And in the upper left-hand corner--
"From John M. Allen, Lexington, Ky."
"Open it, let's see what's inside."
"Not till grandpa wakes up."
She went to his door, he was awake; so she called her grandmother andSimeon.
"Look, grandpa, see what's come by mail. Listen: 'Miss Jeannette Litman,Big Creek, Leslie County, Kentucky. From John M. Allen, Lexington, Ky.'What can it be?"
"Open it and find out."
"Simeon, you untie the string."
"Cut it, it's dinner time."
(Granny) "No, it's a piece of good whip-cord, undo the knot."
"Well, Miss Jeannette Litman, there it is."
"Can you see, grandpa?"
"Yes, dear."
"Watch close--O! this is for you, grandpa. See your name? Shall I openit?--Some silver specks, in a bright new case. Now I know why he askedme for the broken ones."
"Look! Look! this has granny's name on it, what can it be?"
"You open it, dear."
"No, granny, you must open your own bundle."
"Just what I wanted. I remember saying that when I went to Hyden I wouldhave to buy a pair of shears and a black shawl with the money we got forthe goose feathers. Now we can get a sack of flour and goods forJeanne's dress."
"It is my turn now, 'For Jeannette Litman,' such purty shoes; how did heknow my size? O! he had me step in the dusty road and then he measuredthe track, saying a fairy had passed this way; and here is a little bluesilk handkerchief and two books. What does this spell, Simeon?_University Dictionary_? What is a dictionary?"
"A book that tells what big words mean."
"Here is the other book, 'The Little Colonel at Boarding School;' andhere's more, two boxes--dolls! real dolls! all dressed and asleep intheir best clothes, shoes and real hair. O, you beautiful things! Yousweet darlings! Look granny! the top dress is just like spider web withdew on it. We will name this one after you, granny. I bet you was aspurty when you were a little girl. This is Jane Wilson and the other Iwill call Ruth, Ruth Dixon, after mother.
"
Jeanne insisted on writing the letter thanking Mr. Allen for the gifts;and it was a momentous undertaking. Simeon brought a stamp, envelope andtwo sheets of paper in a thread box from the general store at the mouthof Big Creek. There was a pen and ink in the house, though it wasnecessary to dilute the ink before using it.
At a loss as to how to address the envelope and commence her letter, sheconsulted her grandmother; but would hear no other suggestions. At theend of the second day's series of efforts on her slate she wassufficiently satisfied to transcribe what she had printed to paper. Inher many attempts to find out how to spell certain words she discoveredthat the new dictionary was marvelously arranged in alphabetical order,and in possession of this key, finally mastered it.
In searching through the dictionary by chance she came upon the wordcorrespondence and learned its meaning. The word had caught her eye,because among their few books, all of which had belonged to her greatgrandfather, there was a set in old sheep binding of "Jefferson'sCorrespondence." She took down Volume IV; and opening it at letterCXXVIII, was better pleased with the style of address, in writing aperson of Mr. Allen's greatness; and concerning such matters ofimportance, than the one her grandmother had given her and adopted it.
So she began tediously to print:
"To John Allen.
"Dear Sir:
"The simultaneous movements in our correspondence have been remarkableon several occasions. It would seem as if the state of the air, or thestate of the times, or some other unknown cause, produced a sympatheticeffect in our mutual recollections. i has to say grandpas specks was thefirst thing we found in the box. you know i could a got along with thembone dolls dressed in his old red shirt but times would a been hardouten them specks he lays on the bed with a chair under his head andreads his bible now when onct he had to wait tell i had time he says nowthe windows are open. how did you come to send granny a black shawl youhad not seen her shake with the cold like I has done. my feet is tuf icould a done outen the shoes but she jest had ter have the shawl and theshears. i know now why you had me step in the dust. granny says men aresly and gals must be shy but why dident you jest say Jeannette let mesee your feet i keeps them purty clean.
"o the dolls the purty dolls they is too fine for the fence corner so iputs them in bed with me and holds them when i says my prayers and seesthem in my dreams. they left the words tuf and purty and outen outen thedictionary you tell the man what made it i am shore he will hate it hesays ter means three ter with us means same as to. i knows now whatcorrespondence, dictionary and Colonel mean. i spect when i read thebook ter find out why they calls a gal a little Colonel but i cant saynow. give me time. granny says i is set in my ways like grandpa and i isset ter learn
"correspondence is nice but hard work but let us correspondence. lastyear when Christmas come i had roast chestnuts and to red apples. grannytold me a tale about santaclaws i think you is it. the paper is allgone. i must stop
"I salute you with all affection. T. J. whats the T. J. fer. i found itat the end of a letter in Jefferson's Correspondence truly Jeannette isay that is my name sense you writ it
T. J."
When Mr. Allen received the letter he was as proud of it as if it hadbeen written him by the recently inaugurated Democratic president. Heshowed it to several of his girl friends, including Miss Bradley, whoinsisted upon keeping it, saying she wished to send some little presentsthe following Christmas.
At that time he felt the world would have been a barren waste except forthat young lady. The letter passed into her possession; was kept forseveral weeks and then forgotten and misplaced. Memory of the littlemountain girl passed from her mind long before Christmas. Johnremembered her, merely as one might a visit from a dream fairy.
An hour before John awoke on Christmas morning his mother came to hisroom and placing a chair near his bed, piled upon it his Christmaspresents. There was a check from his father, handkerchiefs, neckties,gloves, a smoking jacket and even a stocking full of nuts and candiesfrom his mother--he was her only child; still her little boy. There wereseveral small remembrances from relatives and friends, a box of cigarsfrom Miss Bradley; and beneath all a parcel in brown wrapping paper andunadorned by either Christmas seal, holly or ribbon.
The breakfast gong sounded; it scarcely disturbed his dreams. Then thehouse boy came to his room and shook him saying: "Mars John, it's nearnine er'clock, your maw says git up. Christmas gift!"
"Christmas morning and a fine day, cool, clear, a white Christmas!Sammy, you caught me, didn't you? I will give you my last winter'sovercoat; it's as good as new, or three one dollar bills; which shall itbe?"
"Boss, that's a mighty fine overcoat, but I's got ter git that yallergal Melinda something, I guess I better take them three dollars."
"Well, here it is, Sammy."
Sammy went down the stairs muttering: "This hayr nigger ain't no fool,not yit! Unless I gits drunk and loses this place, I'll git thatovercoat for a New Year's gift."
John, slipping on the new smoking jacket, sat on the edge of the bed andwith the pleased curiosity of a boy of twelve inspected his presents.
"Well Pip (meaning his father) must be feeling good this Christmas; hischeck will come in handy. What nice things mother buys; she's alwaysthinking of my comfort. Perfectos from Sally Bradley and strong blackones; she should know by now I don't like that brand. That's the cigarthat Jelly Bean Stoll smokes. He's been there quite a bit lately. I betshe sent the brand I like to him; got things mixed up. Oh! what abeautiful cigar case, and from Fannie Scott! She's the hot stuff! Thatgirl has some taste! She gets better looking every day. I'll go to seeher tomorrow night; but I really should go to Sally's. Hello! here's abeefsteak or ten pounds of nails; it looks like it just came from thebutcher shop or the hardware store. No, it's from Big Creek! Where's BigCreek? Oh, I remember that little girl, all legs and arms. She lookedlike a mosquito and talked like a preacher. Well! Well! Well! mittensand yarn socks; the first I have seen in ten years, and a letter.
----
"Big Creek, Kentucky. "December 18th, 1914.
"John M. Allen, Esq.
"Dear Friend:
"It is seven months today since you were here and I have grown a lot. Mybirthday was last month, November 7th. I am now thirteen. Miss Smith,the teacher, says: 'Jeannette at last you know how to write a letter. Nowonder, you have spent half your time trying.' The dictionary is nearlyworn out. I look up every word.
"Last summer I hunted 'Sang' on the mountain for three days and whengranny went to Hyden to sell the feathers, the eggs and a basket ofchickens, she sold it and the store man gave her 1 dollar and 60 cents,all mine.
"Hi Lewis lives up the creek. He has some sheep and I bought 2 pounds ofwool from him with part of my money. I washed the wool until it was aswhite as the whiskers of Santa Clans then I spun it into yarn ongranny's spinning wheel and gave Sim Blair the mail man two bit to buyme some red and blue dyes and some I made red and some blue. With theblue I made granny some mits and grandpa some socks but I kept the redfor your Christmas gift and last night I finished it.
"I hope you will like your red mittens and red and black socks. They arejust as purty as the red bird that roosts in the cedar trees near thebarn. Granny said most of the men in the blue grass wore black socks butI said they is not nice enough for you, so to please everybody I madethem red with black toes and tops. Maybe my gay little soldier of thecedar trees was the cause I made them red and black. He has so much towhistle about even when it is cold and the snow is deep. Just now he liton the window sill, knocking off the snow. I had a good look into hisbright black face. How purty and red his coat was against the snow. Ifit was not for him and my dolls and the books you gave me I would belonesome. Granny says I am too old to play with dolls; but she does notknow what they whisper to me.
"How still it is in the winter time. By day we hear the red bird and thecrows; at night if it storms, the wind; if it is still and snowing, themurm
ur of the flakes; if the moon is full a great owl calls; if I wakein the night and it is dark and still I hear the whispers of either theangels or of my dolls who sleep with me. One of the dolls is granny andthe other is my mother, and they tell me what they used to do when theywere girls like me. Sometimes grandpa calls and when I go to him heasks: 'Did you hear that?' 'What, grandpa?' 'Someone calling, it soundedlike your pa.' Grandma says he is going to die soon. I believe up herewe hear voices you cannot hear where there is so much noise.
"I know Santa Claus will bring you nice things because you are so good.
"Yours truly, "Jeanette."
"Well, it is nice to be remembered, even though the remembrance isimpossible. I will put them and the letter away with other treasured andimpractical things that have been sent me by girl friends. I feel sorryfor that lonesome little half-starved thing. She will grow up into ascrawny, tired-looking woman; marry some man who will work her to death.No telling what she might do with advantages and in anotherenvironment."
After breakfast, he telephoned a book store asking that a dictionary andsome appropriate books be sent to Miss Jeannette Litman, Big Creek,Kentucky. The clerk who took the order, having recently read MarkTwain's Joan of Arc, mailed a copy of that book with the dictionary.
A week later Mr. Allen received a letter from Jeannette thanking him forthe books.
----
Verona, Italy. ------ Hospital, Ward 11. December 2, 1917.
Dear Little Jeannette:
To children like you nothing is unexpected. You believe witches areabroad on dark nights, while fairies dance in the moonlight; and thatangels protect you from evil spirits.
When you grow older experience plucks these pinions of fancy; you can nolonger soar but become an earth stained materialist, surprised if yourplans of the morrow miscarry and you find yourself in New York when youexpected to be in Washington.
A year ago today I was defending a suit against the Lexington RailwayCompany; had become reconciled to law and expected to continue in thatcomparatively thrill-less profession. I might have thought by now Iwould be married--but I certainly did not think that I would occupy abed in Ward 11 of an army hospital at Verona; so far away that it isimpossible to send you even a book for Christmas.
Looking backward, it is easy enough to explain why I am here. Notunderstanding what war was; not appreciating what a governmentundertakes that declares war, I grew impatient at our country's apparentcriminal slowness in getting into the war; and in February, 1917, wentto Montreal and enlisted. In March 1,500 of us were loaded aboard theBurmah and that transport steamed a thousand miles down the St. Lawrenceto the ocean and at the end of a two weeks' voyage by the northernpassage, over a gray fog-burdened ocean by day, a phosphorescent billowyone by night, we landed at Liverpool.
At a cantonment, a few miles from London, we were subjected to fourmonths' strenuous training; and presumedly because I had attended amilitary school for a year, I was commissioned a lieutenant in theBritish army. At the end of the four months our regiment was loadedaboard a transport and many of us did not learn our destination until wewere landed at ----, Italy. (We are not allowed to name the port.)
We reported to General, the Earl of Cavan, commanding the British forcesin Italy; and after several weeks' training were ordered to the Piavefront.
On the 24th of October at the battle of Caporetto, I experienced thesame sensation as though I had been struck in the chest by a brick, whenit was but a small calibre, soft nosed bullet; and remember having beenloaded into, and it seemed riding for days in, an overfilled ambulance,just enough alive to have a dull sense of pain and to feel theconcussion of the great guns, though the reports seemed muffled and faraway.
I lost consciousness; was no longer near the battlefield, but at yourhome in the mountains of Kentucky. I heard no sounds save the murmur ofrunning water and the song of a wood thrush. All about was theimplacable serenity of the blue sky and the everlasting hills. The faceof nature was unscarred; there were no shell holes, no splintered trees,no pools of blood, no dead and dying.
Strange that I should think of you and your mountain home in the midstof battle, violence and death. Strange that when I went on my journeyinto the valley of the shadow, falling, falling, falling, into adarkness that seemed to freeze my soul, you, a little girl, were theonly one near. Strange that when I came back to consciousness, it was byway of the creek valley and your home and you were leading me by thehand. Returning to consciousness I discovered it was not you but asoft-voiced, patient, white-robed Italian nurse; and I was here. Whatbrought you so vividly to mind? Can you tell? It must have been thecontrast between your home as I saw it that moonlit night and the battlefield, with its barbarities, vengeances, and human abominations.
There is a sharp pain when I breathe or cough. I am ill, homesick, amongstrangers, I feel deserted. To you, a little girl, the acquaintance of aday, some influence impels me to write, though I have heard nothingsince you sent the red socks and mittens, and wrote thanking me for thebooks. Since I have been wounded I have learned there are many things Imay not know.
Tell me of your own life and picture it in your own way; and also ofyour part of Kentucky. Even now I see your face and hear your voice; itseems nearer than my mother's--and she is a wonderful, much-loved woman.
I do not recover my strength as I should and will be here for sometime--if you care to write.
Your friend, John M. Allen.
----
Lieutenant John M. Allen, ------ Hospital, Ward 11, Verona, Italy.
Dear Mr. Allen:
For several years I have been waiting, not daring to hope, but longingfor a letter--and it came on Christmas Eve. I am answering the afternoonof Christmas Day.
The earth is mantled in white, and crystals of crisp snow give backmyriad rays of dazzling light stolen from the sun. The cedar trees bendlow with their fluffy white burdens; and the creek is frozen, except theriffle just above Big Rock. I was just going to say that all life hadtaken to itself the silence of the mountain----which is a speakingsilence to its own people--when I saw a hungry little nut-hatch bobbingup and down the elm; and my red birds, thinking it time I served theirdinner, flew from the cedar trees and are now whistling for me from thelilac bush.
Granny is quite feeble; so she takes a nap each afternoon in the greatrocking chair, with its padded sheepskin back and bottom; and from thenoise she is making seems to be enjoying it. I also hear an intimatevoice, though I rarely see my friend. He is the cricket of our hearth;and now since the days are short, begins his chirping when it is timefor me to feed the chickens, milk the cow and look after Silas, the oldmule. We have no earthly use for that mule, but I cannot let him go. Hewas in the prime of his days of usefulness when I first saw the light;and now when I go out to feed him, there is a look in his oldgray-lashed eyes that speaks to my heart with the voice of an old andtrusting friend.
When people live as we do, the fowls of the barnyard and the creaturesof the manger become their friends. They speak with a look; they cometowards you with a caress; they bind themselves to your heart with anuntimid trust. That old mule's look approaches worship; and his trustshall not be vain.
Grandad is not here. I stand at the door and see his grave on a knoll alittle way up the mountain side. It is hedged about by a white picketfence, which I repaint each spring.
Last evening as I was wreathing it with holly and mistletoe I thoughthow, when I was a little girl, he carried me over the rough places andwhen he went to the store on Red Bird or to town, brought back somethinghe knew would delight a little girl. Then, how the last year or twobefore he died, I partly paid the debt by ministering unto him. As Istood beside his grave it seemed his spirit spoke to me of unutterablethings. * *
I have finished with the chickens, the cow and the old mule. We have hadsupper. The cricket is chirping away quite comfortably in his cozycorner under the warm hearth
stones and I hear the click of Granny'sknitting needles.
My thoughts have been mainly of you since your letter came. Joys are thescarlet buds and tears are the white flowers of life. Your letter hasmade this a Christmas of white flowers; yet it brought a gift filigreedwith happiness, as tears are wont to be, except those of despair. Itseems sadness lives next door neighbor to a very pure happiness. I canpray and weep and the tears are a holy joy. I think if God would speakto me I would shed tears of joy; and if he comes tonight and tells me hewill make you well and bring you back to Kentucky, I shall shed tears ofgreat joy. That you return in health is one of the hopes my life liveson.
You will understand, when I say I have always looked upon you, much as Iimagine the old mule feels towards me. For a long time there was littlein my life, but that little was all joy. Then you came our way andintroduced me to real dolls and to books. While I have outgrown thedolls, I have many cold but safe friends in my books; friends you leaveat your convenience and return to at your pleasure.
Do not think that I am unhappy or lonely; nor must you think that whileyou have been moving along in years, I have remained the same littlegirl whose doll house you disturbed. I was seventeen last month; and agirl of my age in the mountains is supposed to be grown. I am more--abusiness woman; the bread winner of the Litman family; and havingoutgrown "sang digging," for nearly a year have had the Big Creekschool.
Last June I obtained my teacher's certificate; and in doing sosurrendered my great ambition, which was to be an actress. You can judgewhat a creature of fancy I am, when I tell you. I have never been insidea theatre. I dreamed of a stage career and--landed in a school room. Thevery first day of teaching I realized that it was the next best thing. Ihad a wonderful audience and a stage setting unique and clever. Teachingnow seems a high-class of play acting--just lots, anyway--and childrenare such fun.
I should like for you to see my school room and know the boys and girls.I would like for you to be associated with certain other experiences ofmine. I'd like--but what's the use? I feel as though, if or when I needyou, you will be my friend. In other words, I trust you.
The glorious fun of being poor is that the little things that come yourway are greatly appreciated. Now Big Creek is my Brook Cherith; and theschool children are the ravens during the stress of high prices incidentto the war. They not only bring bread and meat but a few modest dressesand a few books and magazines. Should the brook fail and the ravensreceive other commands, Granny and I can depend upon the unfailing jarof meal and the cruse of oil for our daily bread; and should you like toplay the part of Elijah to the widow and the orphan, you are welcome toyour share. We will give you a cup of water and make you a little cake.
I have even had a beau and a proposal of marriage by a red-headed manfrom Red Bird. I answered: "I have no idea of considering such aproposition for several years as I expect first to graduate at theUniversity of Kentucky. When my Prince Charming comes wooing, he maycome with empty pockets but he must be able to read and write." The nextday Sandy came to my school, but I refused to take him in. He has sincespread the information that "Jeannette does not want 'a feller' butexpects to remain a 'school marm'"--and so I shall until a real mancomes along. Sandy Blair is as near the "sweet evening breeze" kind aswe have up here. I call him my knight of the pink shirt and green storeclothes. He never misses a dance; and Solomon in all his glory was neverarrayed as he then is.
When the evening is warm and the moon full I often spend an hour or twoon Big Rock; and musing by night, with the water and moon for company, Ifeel happy and queer and both. Remembrance frequently retenders thatnight of long ago; and I hear you speaking in a voice no bigger than theheart of a whisper. The reason it is your voice is because you gave memy first doll and what is a little girl's life without a doll?
The night of October twenty-fourth, the night of the day you werewounded, I was out on the rock a long while; and never before had Iheard your voice nor seen you as distinctly as then. On that night youand I held quite a conversation; and this may be the mysticalexplanation why I was the one with you as you passed through the valleyof the shadow. Life on Big Creek has taught me, that not alone to theElijahs, to the shepherds of the hills and to the Jean d'Arcs comevoices and visitation. All who will may hear.
I knew then that you were snared in the net of tragedy and distressspread over most of the world by this horrible war; which the honest menof every land condemn and regret, as utterly useless and wish at an end.They ask to live in peace and on good terms with everybody. But honestmen have nothing to do with making war or dictating terms of peace. Theyare cannon fodder; mere pawns in the game of nations, moved about by onewho sits in the sun and serves the devil.
Before the millennium, there must be a world wide charity, to take theplace of what we call patriotism; which is either national selfishnessor a make-shift provincialism. There must be a development of thenational soul until man knows no nation; and in a national sense loveshis neighbor as himself. The first step towards it is to understand thatthose calamities that are destroying an enemy country do not halt at theyellow map boundary that marks our own land.
When you escape from beneath the sombre shadow of war, come to ourmountains. Here we look at the peaceful face of nature and enjoy thepoetry of silence. We are never very much alone, Granny and I. The soulin the radiance of its love creates friends and though we are isolatedfrom the world we are rich in love and happiness.
Bear your sufferings and loneliness as best you may, until your shipcomes home. Know that to suffer is the dowry of God's elect and when allelse is lost you still have Him. I know He cares for the birds; and "areye not much better than they?" You know why and when the birdssing?--because they are building or have a nest. May you soon recover,find peace and love; and some day your nook-nest lined with soft down,awaiting treasures God will send.
I have tried to put a few thoughts into words. There is enough of theseed of thought in my mind and it germinates--but alas, it dies before Ican put it into words. My treasures come forth, half smothered by theburden of the flesh. I hope you may understand what I have tried to tellyou.
I am, and ever shall be, your friend,
Jeannette.
----
Jeannette counted upon receiving an answer to her letter about the firstof March. She waited patiently until the seventh, then there was a greatrain and the creek was so swollen they had no mail until the tenth; andeven then, among the letters and papers that came, there was no letterfrom Italy.
She reasoned: he is well and fighting again; he has not gotten myletter; the censor held it because of my comments upon the war.
----
Lieutenant Allen was in the hospital at Verona until the twentieth ofApril, 1918, when he was discharged as an incurable, his lungs havingbeen horribly lacerated by a soft-nosed bullet.
When discharged from the hospital he was taken to Genoa and there placedaboard ship and sent to Liverpool; and on a returning transport whichhad brought over fifteen hundred Canadians, he and forty-seven otherhelpless, war-wrecked men, were returned to Montreal, Canada, the citywhere they had enlisted.
On Sunday, the twenty-sixth of May, he arrived in Lexington and to keepfrom frightening his mother, by a mighty effort managed to walk from ataxicab to his father's door and into the house; when he had a severecoughing spell which prostrated him. His father and the servants carriedhim to his own room; while his mother lay unconscious on a lounge wherethey had placed her.
A little space was given to his return, his war record and presentprecarious condition in the Lexington and Louisville papers. A few ofhis old friends called and not being able to see him, left cards andsent flowers. Some of the men he had known were on their way to Europe,some already in France and one of his friends, Lieutenant Gardner, hadbeen killed. The attention of the public was on those over there orleaving--not upon the wounded and disabled who were being returned.
For several weeks he seemed to improve, as the weather was pleasant andhe had the most careful nursing. But one night he had a severehemorrhage and after it was checked his doctor informed his parents thatthere was no chance for his recovery. He did not suffer greatly, butgrew slowly weaker until he knew the end was near.
The postman, several days before his death, brought Jeannette's letter.It was marked with many addresses; and by the censor "To be held." Thenlater stamped, "Passed by base censor No. ----. Verificato per censura."
The letter, which he read several times, first brought a few big tears;then he seemed to gather resignation; then happiness from it.
----
Early in June, the month of brides and roses, Jeannette received aletter from Mrs. Allen:
"Dear Jeannette:
"John, my boy, died last Sunday, with your letter in his hand and it wasburied with him. He requested that his books be sent to you, and theywill be forwarded tomorrow.
"As soon as you can get away from your school and leave yourgrandmother, if she will not come too, come and see me. I must have someone to talk with about John; some one whom he knew and loved. When I tryit with his father, he rushes from the room. John was an only child--nowI am childless.
"He claimed to have seen you before he died, saying: 'Mother, I havejust seen Jeannette; she is very beautiful.' Then he described you. Ibelieve he really saw; and if his description fits, you can help me now.You were sitting on the Big Rock by the creek. It was the night of thefourth of June. I can write no more.
"John's mother, "Mary R. Allen."
Jeannette had always felt that her life, which she knew was a silent,empty and colorless one without, was gloriously full and lit up withinby a mystical treasure, which in some way she had stumbled upon andappropriated. She had soul companions who spoke to her with voices shealone could hear; that told of things in her own and other people'slives, that she and they might know, if they would but listen. She hadlived a soul life; and it had a far-flung horizon.
When she received Mrs. Allen's letter telling of the death of her son,who had been her one friend around whom her childlike super-idealism andinnocence had built a gorgeous bower, her heart was rent by its firstgreat shock. She felt that her God of providence and love had cast herfrom heaven into a place of utter darkness where she had been caught bythe net of fate and was now being dragged through all the sorrows andtragedies of life. Her voices were gone; she hated the silence abouther; the mountain seemed dark and dangerous; the sun seemed harsh andcold; the grass but to cover graves; and the trees but mourners for thedeparted. He is gone! God has deserted me! She had yet to learn that thevoices would return; that other friends would come; that life is neithertragic nor sad, though it has its hours of sadness and tragedy; and thatsorrows make for themselves deep beds in our hearts wherein they sleepuntil life draws near its end and more than half of all our soul loveshas passed to the other side.
All of Thursday night she sat in Granny's great rocking chair, and whenday came, while her joys seemed gone forever, her grief had been dulled.She found a dulling consolation in working about the house and inlooking after the creatures of the barnyard. In the afternoon her headached so, she laid down; and sleep came and comforted her.
Friday night after her grandmother was in bed and asleep, she went outupon Big Rock and in the quiet of the night listened for her voices, butthey would not come. For more than an hour she cried, her frame shakingwith sobs and low, gasping moans. Then she was still a longtime--thinking of what life had been, what it now was, and hereafterwould be to her broken soul. Gradually she drew out from under theshadow of her sorrow, until instead of being overwhelmed by it, it was asorrow which her soul possessed. She began to think that the wound mightsome day close but she knew her heart would always bear the scar and herdays never again be quite so bright. She found that although she wasstill unhappy she was consoled, and thanked God that she had this man'sfriendship, perhaps his love; and began to look upon death as a verysimple affair; the soul shedding the shackles of flesh.
She slept. In her dreams the voices came back; and her sorrows were castoff as one does a cloak, serviceable in a shower, but when the sun comesout an uncomfortable burden. Past midnight she awoke, stiff and sorefrom her hard bed, and went to the house.
Sunday afternoon, she wrote Mrs. Allen:
"About four years ago, your son on his way to Hyden, asked for and foundshelter for the night at our home. Ten days later he sent us a fewlittle things; among them my first real dolls. I have never seen himsince except as fancy pictured nor heard his voice as a materialist mayhear, though many times it seemed he spoke to me in a way I cannotexplain. I have four letters; they are the four treasures of my life.
"His death is my greatest loss; and through life I shall carry a scarfrom the wound. But what I suffer is not worth mentioning when comparedwith the grief his mother must feel. She who gave him life; who felt hislittle chubby, helpless hands moving about over her breasts seeking hisfood; who taught him to stand alone; to walk; to lisp his first words;who tried to teach him first to say father, but nature and his own heartput the name of mother in his mind and in his mouth. Then you taught himto say his prayers; and those prayers have been answered. He prayed:'Thy kingdom come,'--and it has come for him; while you and I weep,refusing to be comforted; until we learn that those we love must pass tothe other side, in order that His kingdom may come for us, and we escapedeath for ourselves and lose the fear of death for our dear ones.
"It is thus we find happiness in our anguish; and love for God while wesuffer from the raw realities of life; knowing he has found us worthy ofboth love and unhappiness.
"How I shall love his books when they come. I hope he has marked thepassages which pleased him and noted some of his own thoughts upon theirmargins.
"I shall come to you. Just now it is impossible. My school is not outuntil July; and teaching to me is more than bread; it is an implacableduty. Granny is very feeble; her condition may also delay my coming. Ihave been planning for a year to take a teacher's course at the StateUniversity. If this hope is realized, Lexington will be my home for sometime; and if you wish it, I will come many times to talk with you aboutyour son.
"With love and sympathy, "Jeannette."
The following week one of the freight wagons hauling goods from therailroad to Hyden stopped at the house and unloaded four heavy packingcases. They contained nearly five hundred books; which had been shipped,still in the sections of the mahogany sectional book cases; and just asJohn had arranged them. She had two of her school boys unpack and set upthe cases in her room.
These, with the books she had accumulated, and those which her father'sgrandfather had brought overland from Virginia, gave to her simple bedroom much the appearance of a library.
On Sunday the 18th of August, Jeannette's grandmother, the last of herblood kin, died, and was buried on the mountain side, where were thewhite, picketed graves of her father, mother and grandfather and theunpicketed, almost unmarked, sunken-in graves of those of the Litmansshe did not know, who had gone before her day.
The day after the funeral she rented the place to Simeon Blair but ashis family was small, they had only a child, a girl of seven, there wasroom for Jeannette; so she kept her room and paid four dollars a weekboard. The Blairs bought her cows and chickens, but refused the mule asa gift; so she paid Simeon five dollars a month for looking after oldSilas.
On the fifth of September she left Big Creek for Lexington, Kentucky;and upon her arrival on the seventh, went directly to the room she hadreserved at the University dormitory; and on the tenth matriculated as ajunior.
The eighth, she spent in most careful shopping. Sunday, the ninth, sheattended services at the First Presbyterian Church and heard her firstpipe organ. As she walked back to the dormitory she drew comparisonsbetween her new clothes and those of the girls she passed. Whilesatisfied with her modest blue suit and her shoes and stockings, sheconcluded
her hat had too great variety and quantity of coloring and onMonday, as soon as they were dismissed, exchanged it; having firstinformed the milliner that she had worn it to church. The millinerreplied: "That's nothing, many of my customers have hats sent onapproval and wear them to church, returning them on Monday."
After exchanging her hat she called upon Mrs. Allen. The Allen home, anold red brick house with massive colonial pillars, a slate roof, thickwalls and large rooms with high ceilings, was more than sixty years old;and Judge Allen, who was fifty-five, had been born in it. Several of therooms had open fire places. It had first been heated in that way; thenwith grates and a large anthracite stove; then a furnace had beeninstalled. Recently it had been remodeled and fitted with steam heatingand the most modern electrical appliances. These things were nowdemanded by the servants, who refused service in houses not having them.
The Judge would not permit the open fire place of the library to beremoved. They used this as a sitting and informal reception room and anopen fire was kept burning from October to May. One of his clients whohad an extensive woodland on Elkhorn, furnished the oak and hickorylogs. It was in this room that Mrs. Allen received Jeannette.
Mrs. Allen was about fifty years of age, with beautiful, wavy, whitehair. She and Jeannette were of the same weight, one hundred and thirtypounds, though Jeannette was more than an inch taller. Both had thegeneral appearance of women who trace their lineage from Englishancestry, through the cavalier stock of Colonial Virginia; brunettes, ofclear cut feature and slender, graceful bodies; eyes either gray orbrown--Mrs. Allen's were brown, Jeannette's were gray.
When shown into the library, she took a seat in a great chair in analcove which commanded a view of the street, and while waiting satthinking how many times John might have sat in that place and perhaps inthat very chair. Mrs. Allen came to the door, where she stood looking atJeannette a moment or two, until she turned her head and saw her; thenshe stepped forward and took Jeannette's hands and stood looking her inthe face.
"You are just as John said you looked; a serene and beautiful face; eyesthat make even an old mule trust you." Then she put her arms about herand kissed her; and led her back to the chair in which she had beensitting.
"Mrs. Allen, I believe I would have known you anywhere. John had yournose and eyes and the same general expression. I am glad I look as Johnsaid I did. If you had shown surprise at my appearance I would have beendisappointed."
"I do not understand how John could have described you so accurately. Icould have picked you out among the hundreds of girls in the University.There are many things we will never be able to understand."
Mrs. Allen did most of the talking; telling Jeannette all about Johnfrom the first hour she held him in her arms, until he died with herarms about him. They shed no tears, feeling that he was with them andwished they should be happy when together.
When Jeannette rose to go Mrs. Allen said: "No! You must remain fordinner. My husband will be home soon and he is anxious to see you. Onlythe other night he said: 'I am sorry John did not marry Jeannette beforehe died. She would be here as our daughter and we would have somethingto live for. It would be nice to have the young people coming to ourhome again; and we could find a good husband for her; such as our boywould have made. When she comes do not let her go until I see her'."
Jeannette sat down again.
A little later they heard a step in the hall; the door was opened and aman stood in the doorway. Just such a looking person as John would havebeen at his age, only slightly larger.
"Mary you need not introduce us. It is Jeannette. We are glad to haveyou in our home; would be glad to have you make it your own." He cameforward as she arose and took her hand; and as he held it looking intoher face his eyes slowly filled with tears.
From then until after dinner, which was almost immediately announced,the conversation was general. When they returned to the libraryJeannette had to relate her past life in detail and disclose all herplans for the future. When they finally let her go it was late, andthough she told them she did not mind walking home alone, theyaccompanied her to the dormitory.
Upon their insistent invitation she gave up her room at the dormitoryand came to live with them at the beginning of the mid-winter term;remaining a welcome guest until the close of the school year in June,1919, when she returned to Big Creek.
Mrs. Allen wrote repeatedly, addressing her as daughter; and in eachletter insisted that she must return to Lexington and live with them assuch. She also received a letter from Judge Allen in which he stated:"Mary and I desire formally to adopt you as our daughter." She answered:"You and Mrs. Allen have taken from life much of its loneliness andfilled it with more happiness and love that I expected to be mine. WhenI return, if you still wish it, I will live at your home as a daughterduring my remaining school year; and though I must leave you then, willalways give you a daughter's love. I cannot consent to a formaladoption, which necessitates a change of name. I owe it to my parents tobear the name they gave me until I am married. Had your son lived, Ihave indulged the dream-like joy, that at his suggestion it would havebeen changed to your own."
She telegraphed when she took the train for Lexington. They drove toWinchester where they met her and taking her into their car brought herhome with them. She was given John's room which was large and cheerfuland was delighted with it.
Mrs. Allen made the young people of her set welcome at her home; and itwas not long before all the time that Jeannette could spare from herstudies was given to entertaining her friends and being entertained bythem. Late in November she gave Jeannette a formal party; and it wasreported in the Lexington and Louisville papers as a brilliant affair.From then on, the old home, which had been closed to social gayety solong witnessed many entertainments; the first being a Christmashouse-party of Jeannette's school friends.
She graduated with class honors the following June. Judge Allen, inorder to keep her with them, used his influence to secure a position forher as a substitute teacher in the university; and it was tendered,though she was not yet nineteen. She declined, saying: "I am too youngand inexperienced for so responsible a position. They can easily findsome one better fitted for the work; I must return to Big Creek to myown people; they need me."
She took leave of Judge and Mrs. Allen, who were as a father and mother;gave up a luxurious home, agreeable society, the association witheducated people; refused a position of some honor, with a salary offifteen hundred dollars a year; and returned to Big Creek; where theonly human ties were the hill-side graves; where she had no personalfriends, only the old mule, the birds, her mountain, the creek, Big Rockand her books.
At a salary of fifty dollars a month she resumed teaching the Big Creekschool. There were thirty-three, boys and girls of all sizes; she had tomother some, to whip others, to use diplomacy with those too big towhip; she had to teach them manners and religion; the girls to sew andread and write; the boys to respect their mothers and their sisters; toleave moonshine alone; to quit swearing and "chawing" tobacco; to injectambition into them--make them understand that the "big man" was not hewho could drink the most moonshine and spit the furthest. It required nostudy on her part to teach them; that is the book part, as they wereintelligent. The mental strain was to manage them, to improve theirmanners and morals, in the face of adverse home influence in manyinstances--this required much patience; and once when very severelytried, she murmured: "What would Job have done today?"
The Blairs still occupied her house; and she boarded with them, walkingtwo miles to the school house, except when the creek was up when sherode the old mule. Her world had suddenly narrowed to the two miles ofcreek valley; her companions were the Blairs, the children and herbooks; life had grown lonely and serious. She still heard voices, butthey were sad; what they told she wrote into story and verse. Thesestories and verses she mailed to the editors of the magazines she read.They were all returned with printed declarations: "The editor regretsthat the enclosed manuscript is not available for public
ation, etc.,etc."
She would then read the verse and stories published by the periodicalswhich had rejected her productions; and being satisfied that hers wereequal in thought and literary merit, despite the rejections, perseveredin her attempts, accumulating quite a collection of rejectedmanuscripts.
Last week's mail had brought back two poems, which scanned perfectly andwhich she thought quite satisfactory. She had called them--"AQuestionnaire," and "Other Little Boats." At the foot of the printedrejection slip the reader had scribbled in an almost illegible hand:"Why not select a more cheerful subject and adopt a jazzier style--we oftoday would reject Milton's Paradise Lost. M. A." Bearing this criticismin mind, she wrote and forwarded "A Genealogy" and it was accepted.
These three poems are reproduced in order that the reader may himselfjudge of their merit; and because to a certain extent they convey anidea of Jeannette's mental state at the time.