The Call of the Cumberlands

The stranger was marveling. He was seeing in the crude lad at his side

warring elements that might build into a unique and strangely

interesting edifice of character, and his own speech as he talked there

by the palings of the fence in the moonlight was swiftly establishing

the foundations of a comradeship between the two.

"Thar's something mighty quare about ye, stranger," said the boy at

last, half-shyly. "I been wonderin' why I've talked ter ye like this. I

hain't never talked that-away with no other man. Ye jest seemed ter

kind of compel me ter do hit. When I says things like thet ter Sally,

she gits skeered of me like ef I was plumb crazy, an', ef I talked that-

away to the menfolks 'round hyar they'd be sartain I was an idjit."

"That," said Lescott, gravely, "is because they don't understand. I do."

"I kin lay awake nights," said Samson, "an' see them hills and mists

an' colors the same es ef they was thar in front of my eyes--an' I kin

seem ter hear 'em as well as see 'em."

The painter nodded, and his voice fell into low quotation:

"'The scarlet of the maple can shake me like the cry

"Of bugles going by.'"

The boy's eyes deepened. To Lescott, the thought of bugles conjured up

a dozen pictures of marching soldiery under a dozen flags. To Samson

South, it suggested only one: militia guarding a battered courthouse,

but to both the simile brought a stirring of pulses.

Even in June, the night mists bring a touch of chill to the mountains,

and the clansmen shortly carried their chairs indoors. The old woman

fetched a pan of red coals from the kitchen, and kindled the logs on

the deep hearth. There was no other light, and, until the flames

climbed to roaring volume, spreading their zone of yellow brightness,

only the circle about the fireplace emerged from the sooty shadows. In

the four dark corners of the room were four large beds, vaguely seen,

and from one of them still came the haunting monotony of the banjo.

Suddenly, out of the silence, rose Samson's voice, keyed to a stubborn

note, as though anticipating and challenging contradiction.

"Times is changin' mighty fast. A feller thet grows up plumb ign'rant

ain't a-goin' ter have much show."

Old Spicer South drew a contemplative puff at his pipe.

"Ye went ter school twell ye was ten year old, Samson. Thet's a heap

more schoolin' then I ever had, an' I've done got along all right."