The Call of the Cumberlands

The second year of a new order brings fewer radical changes than the

first. Samson's work began to forge out of the ranks of the ordinary,

and to show symptoms of a quality which would some day give it

distinction. Heretofore, his instructors had held him rigidly to the

limitations of black and white, but now they took off the bonds, and

permitted him the colorful delight of attempting to express himself

from the palette. It was like permitting a natural poet to leave prose,

and play with prosody.

Sometimes, when his thoughts went back to the life he had left, it

seemed immensely far away, as though it were really the life of another

incarnation, and old ideas that had seemed axiomatic to his boyhood

stood before him in the guise of strangers: strangers tattered and

vagabond. He wondered if, after all, the new gods were sapping his

loyalty.

At such times, he would for days keep morosely to himself,

picturing the death-bed of his father, and seeming to hear a small

boy's voice making a promise. Sometimes, that promise seemed monstrous,

in the light of his later experience. But it was a promise--and no man

can rise in his own esteem by treading on his vows. In these somber

moods, there would appear at the edges of his drawing-paper terrible,

vividly graphic little heads, not drawn from any present model. They

were sketched in a few ferociously powerful strokes, and always showed

the same malevolent visage--a face black with murder and hate-endowed,

the countenance of Jim Asberry. Sometimes would come a wild, heart-

tearing longing for the old places. He wanted to hear the frogs boom,

and to see the moon spill a shower of silver over the ragged shoulder

of the mountain. He wanted to cross a certain stile, and set out for a

certain cabin where a certain girl would be. He told himself that he

was still loyal, that above all else he loved his people. When he saw

these women, whose youth and beauty lasted long into life, whose

manners and clothes spoke of ease and wealth and refinement, he saw

Sally again as he had left her, hugging his "rifle-gun" to her breast,

and he felt that the only thing he wanted utterly was to take her in

his arms.

Yes, he would return to Sally, and to his people--some day.

The some day he did not fix. He told himself that the hills were only

thirty hours away, and therefore he could go any time--which is the

other name for no time. He had promised Lescott to remain here for

eighteen months, and, when that interval ended, he seemed just on the

verge of grasping his work properly. He assured himself often and

solemnly that his creed was unchanged; his loyalty untainted; and the

fact that it was necessary to tell himself proved that he was being

weaned from his traditions. And so, though he often longed for home, he

did not return. And then reason would rise up and confound him. Could

he paint pictures in the mountains? If he did, what would he do with

them? If he went back to that hermit life, would he not vindicate his

uncle's prophecy that he had merely unplaced himself? And, if he went

back and discharged his promise, and then returned again to the new

fascination, could he bring Sally with him into this life--Sally, whom

he had scornfully told that a "gal didn't need no l'arnin'?" And the

answer to all these questions was only that there was no answer.