James Baldwin

Old Aunt Sary

T HERE has never been a time when I was absolutely sure whether David was born before Jonathan, or Jonathan before David; but for the practical purposes of history or autobiography this is not at all essential. So, with reference to the incidents to be related in the present chapter; I am not quite certain whether they happened before or after some of the events which I have already narrated; but for the purposes of these memoirs, it makes no difference. I was never good at remembering dates, and for that reason I have refrained in this narrative, from so much as even thinking about them.

One spring day, after the corn planting had been finished, we were surprised by the arrival of an unexpected, although not unwelcome visitor. Her advent at our house was so sudden, so entirely unheralded, that for a brief time the household arrangements were somewhat thrown into confusion. I remember this the more distinctly because our guest insisted that she could sleep nowhere except in my trundle-bed, and therefore I was obliged to take my chances with David and Jonathan among the cobwebs and the mice in the cabin loft. I rather enjoyed the change, however, for it seemed like a promotion from the state of childhood—a step upward toward the state of manhood; but oh! how I missed the sweet comfort of mother's nightly visits to tuck the bedclothes snugly round me!

The memory of my introduction to our uninvited guest still lingers as one of the pleasant way-marks in life's morning journey. It was late in the afternoon and I had just brought the cows up from the bottom pasture. Having driven them into the barn lot for the milking, I was sauntering toward the house when some unusual appearances about the cabin door caused me to halt and reconnoiter. Through the window I could see mother and Cousin Mandy Jane bustling around among the dishes and the cooking things in a way that was not common on plain working-days.

"Something's going on," whispered Inviz, who had been hanging on my arm for the last hour or two.

"Yes! I wonder what it is."

"Let's wait and see."

So we crouched down behind the laylock bushes and watched for developments.

Presently Cousin Mandy Jane came lightly tripping from the doorway. Her hair was plastered smoothly over her forehead, and she wore the stiffly-starched calico apron which she always kept in prim order for use when company was expected.

"Somebody's going to come," I said.

"Somebody has already come," whispered Inviz. "I saw her through the window."

I observed that Cousin Mandy Jane was carrying the best milk pitcher and also the biggest butter plate in her hands, and I knew that she was going down to the spring-house to fill them in preparation for supper. So I darted out of my hiding-place and ran ahead of her. She overtook me, as I intended, at the spring-house door; and before I could speak she said, very confidentially but excitedly:

"Robert, thee cain't guess who's come."

"I don't want to guess," I answered. "Who is it?"

"Why, it's Aunt Sary Evans, and she's jist come from Carliny in a wagon along with some movers that's goin' to settle over by the Wabash. They was a whole month on the road. The movers is some kin to Joel Sparker's folks, and they've driv over to his house to rest a few days."

"I didn't know we had any Aunt Sary Evans," I said.

"Yes, but we have, though. Hain't thee oftentimes heerd mother tell about Aunt Sary, way back at New Garden?"

"I didn't know her name was Evans," I answered. "I thought it was the same that mother's used to be."

"Thee's right, Robbie," she agreed, "but Evans is her middle name, and so she wants everybody to call her Aunt Sary Evans—and she don't keer whether they put t'other one to it or not. Her great great great great grandfather was a Evans, and she'll tell thee all about him."

"What is she going to do at our house?" I asked.

"Not much of anything, 'cept to smoke. And ain't it funny?—she says she's goin' to live with us a spell; and we never knowed anything about it till she popped right in on us."

"What does she look like?" I asked.

"Oh, thee'll see when thee comes in," she answered, with a funny twinkle in her eye. "But I'll tell thee, she ain't thy raal aunt nor mine, nother; she's thy mother's great-aunt and my grandmother's own aunt. Ain't that funny?"

"Well, I s'pose I'll have to call her my aunt, anyhow, seeing that I have so few of 'em," I returned, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or displeased.

"Yes, thee must call her Aunt Sary Evans and be mighty good to her," said Cousin Mandy Jane. "And if I was thee I would wash my face in the branch and slick up my hair, and then go in and tell her howdy."

Ten minutes later, with a feeling of great trepidation, I crept softly up to the cabin door and peeped in. Then, my curiosity conquering my timidity, I slipped quietly inside.

Our guest was sitting in the place of honor in the chimney corner, while poor Aunt Rachel, in patient resignation, had retired to the opposite corner among the pots and pans. Shyly, and forgetful of good manners, I stood and gazed at her. She looked so exceedingly small in mother's big armchair that I wondered how she could ever have become the great-aunt of anybody. Her diminutive head was surmounted by a white muslin cap with frills that encircled her face and gave the impression of a halo. A brown gingham kerchief was neatly pinned over her shoulders and bosom. An apron of figured calico, and a plain linsey-woolsey dress, some inches too short, completed her costume.

In my brief life, I had seen many old people—in fact, almost every person that I knew seemed very old; but never had I beheld such an impersonation of age as that which was now before me. Aunt Rachel was aged, but this Aunt Sary was truly a relic of antiquity. My first glance at her persuaded me that she must have been living at least a thousand years; but when she looked up, and I saw her sharp gray eyes, still bright with youth and vigor, I modified my opinion and began to doubt whether she were not, after all, some young woman dressed up in an old woman's body.

Very quietly I endeavored to glide across the room to a safe haven behind the table without attracting anybody's attention. But, no! those bright eyes allowed nothing to escape them. The slender withered figure in the big armchair turned slightly toward me, and a cracked but not unpleasant voice said:

"Come here, little boy, and shake hands with thy pore old aunty."

With great reluctance I shambled forward and allowed the thin, shaky little fingers of the ancient dame to grasp my limp and nerveless hand.

"Is this Debby's little boy?" she asked.

"Yes, it's our Robert," answered Aunt Rachel. And then, to my confusion, she added, "He is the baby of the house—mighty bashful and shy, but a great hand for books."

"That was just the way with my little boy." Then looking straight into my eyes, our visitor added, "And thee puts me in mind of him. Thee has the same eyes and the same chin; but he warn't never as puny-lookin' as thee seems to me." She held my hand for a moment, and then released it suddenly as though to indicate that the interview was ended.

I turned sheepishly away, glad that the ordeal was past, and retired to my favorite seat beneath the bookshelves. Aunt Sary sank back into her chair and had recourse to her pipe, which had entirely burned out and was cold and empty.

"Thee knowed my little boy, didn't thee?" she asked, addressing any one that might hear her.

"Does thee mean Morris?" asked mother.

"Yes, Morris. That's what most people call him; but I call him my Little Morry. They do say as how he is a great man now; but he's my Morry—he's my little boy jist the same. Now there was my great grandfather, Evan Evans, his wife was Elizabeth Ann Thomas, and their datter Elizabeth married Thomas Clayton—"

"Yes, I know," said mother, kindly interrupting her; "but come now and set up to the table and eat a bite of supper. We hain't got much variety for company, but it's what our folks eat every day."

If I had before wondered at the smallness and the withered appearance of our relative, my astonishment grew as she rose and made her way to the table. She was as crooked as the figure 5, and to support herself she carried a hickory staff that was taller by a span than she herself. Her short dress revealed the fact that she wore no stockings, and on her feet she had only low-cut moccasins of untanned sheepskin. Nevertheless, her clothing was very neat and clean, and there was a briskness and snappiness in her movements which not even Cousin Mandy Jane could surpass. But oh, how frail she looked! I thought of an autumn leaf, shriveled and dry and at the mercy of the slightest breath of air, clinging pitifully to its native branch after all its fellows had deserted it.

Thus, this quaintest and queerest of all my female relatives came, uninvited but welcome, to make her home indefinitely with us.

"I've come to live with you a spell," she said. "Maybe I'll live with you till I die, and maybe I won't."

She seldom left her chair in the chimney corner; and, as with our other aunt, her pipe was her constant solace during her waking hours. She was not talkative, and unless her favorite topic was suggested or broached, she would frequently sit silent all day long, not uttering a word except when spoken to.

But once let her get started on genealogy, and she would entertain you as long as you cared to listen. She would narrate the history and describe the blood relationship of all the Evans family since the world began; and, in particular, she would never fail to tell you about her great grandfather, Evan Evans, who had left his native Wales for conscience' sake and had emigrated with a numerous progeny to the new colony of Carolina; and if you were a good listener, she would sometimes entertain you with many personal reminiscences. She remembered the Revolutionary War, and she had seen both General Greene and Lord Cornwallis! and her wonderful gray eyes snapped and sparkled and her little face became strangely animated whenever any allusion was made to the battle of Guilford Court House. For, being at that time a young snip of a girl, living with her mother at New Guilford, she had distinctly heard the guns at the beginning of that memorable fight, and later in the day she had had the fortune to give a cup of water and a bite of food to a fleeing patriot soldier.

All these interesting stories she related not consecutively, but by piecemeal; for no matter what she might be talking about, she could never pursue the subject far, but would break suddenly off and begin with her genealogy: "My great grandfather, Evan Evans, his wife was Elizabeth Ann Thomas, and their datter Elizabeth married Thomas Clayton"—and in this strain she would wander until her eyes closed, her pipe fell from her mouth and sleep would overcome her.

She had been with us perhaps three months when, one morning, I noticed a great improvement in her appearance. She had exchanged her muslin cap for one of fine lace, with narrow pink ribbons intertwined among the frills and tied in a bow knot at the throat; a snow-white kerchief of the softest material was pinned over her bosom; and most wonderful of all, she had put on a handsome blue petticoat with silk stockings to match, and the prettiest little shiny-leather shoes I had ever seen. How her little face glowed in spite of the wrinkles! And how those wonderful eyes sparkled with the fire of undying youth!

"What's the matter with Aunt Sary?" I asked Cousin Mandy Jane. "She must think this is First-day morning.

"Why, don't thee know?" she answered. "She's lookin' for Uncle Marse. He's comin' to-day to see her."

"Uncle Marse! Who's Uncle Marse?"

"Why, hain't thee been told about Uncle Marse? He's Aunt Sary's little boy—anyhow, that's what she calls him. But I reckon he ain't very little, nor he ain't much of a boy, nother, by this time. He's forty or fifty years old, I guess, and folks do say he's the greatest doctor anywhere in the whole Wabash Country. It beats all, how Aunt Sary goes on about him—and him no kin to her nother."

I lost no time in going down to the branch to wash my face and slick my hair in anticipation of Uncle Morris's visit. It was not until some time after noon, however, that he arrived, riding up the lane astride a splendid horse, with his pill bags on the saddle-bow before him. I was securely hidden behind the laylock bushes, but I had a good view of him as father met him and conducted him into the house. What a splendid-looking man he was—so strong and well-built and handsome! And what elegant clothes he wore—all of black store cloth that must have cost a heap of money!

"Well, this is Doctor Morris, is it?" I heard father say. "I am right glad to see thee, Morris. Walk in."

They disappeared into the cabin, and I sought the seclusion of the wood-pile, longing to make myself known to the doctor, and yet shrinking into nothingness because of the unreasoning fear that was in my heart.

An hour elapsed, and then father and the doctor came out and seated themselves, for some private conversation, on the door-step of the big-house. I was about to retreat from the wood-pile to a safer place of observation, when Uncle Morris caught sight of me.

"Hello there, my little man!" he exclaimed; "come here, and give an account of yourself."

He held out his hand with a gesture which seemed a command, and I had no choice but to obey. With downcast eyes and hesitating feet I approached him, and he, reaching out, took me by the arm and placed me gently between his knees. Oh, how proud I felt, and yet how very humble, thus to be brought face to face with so great a man!

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Robert Dudley."

"Well, that's a good name. How old are you?"

I told him, naming the date of my next birthday.

"Indeed! indeed! You're just about the age of my littlest boy, only his birthday comes quite a little earlier."

By this time I had begun to feel somewhat braver, and thinking it my duty to contribute something to the conversation, I stammered, "Has thee got a little boy at home?"

"Three of 'em," answered the doctor.

"Three?"

"Yes, there's Elisha, he's a big fellow, 'most as tall as his father; and he thinks he's a man already. Then the one next to him is Thomas Elwood—ain't that a name, though? His mother would call him that—after a very famous English Friend—and she hopes he'll take after his namesake and turn out to be a fine preacher when he grows up—but I'm afraid it's doubtful. Then the littlest one, his name is John Woolman—after the man that settled Pennsylvania, you know. He is right smart chunkier than you are, and he's the whitest boy you ever saw."

All this was very interesting to me, but for a little while I could not think of anything to say in reply. The doctor stroked my hair softly, and made some remark about its towy appearance, which I failed clearly to understand; and presently he released me gently, as though intimating that his business with me was ended. Then, with a last desperate effort, I contrived to stammer the hope that he would let John Woolman come over and play with me some day.

"Yes, yes! He is coming quite soon," he answered. "His mother is coming over to the next quarterly meeting, and I think she will bring all the boys with her."

And so the interview was ended. Feeling very happy and self-important, I went out to the potato patch where David and Jonathan were working, and told them that I had just had a long conversation with Uncle Morris and that he had invited me to go to his house and play with his five little boys.

Jonathan laughed and winked at David; and David threw a gourdful of water at me, barely missing my head.

"That's what I'll give thee for bein' sich a tarnal story teller," he said. "Uncle Marse hain't got no five boys; an' even if he had, he wouldn't ax thee to go 'way over to the Sweet Crick Settlement to play with 'em."

"Maybe not," I answered, crestfallen and hurt; "but, anyhow, he has three boys, and they think of coming to quart'ly meetin' with their mother."

When I returned to the house I found the doctor in the act of taking his departure. Aunt Sary was in tears, and she held his arm with a grip that was hard for him to escape. I heard him gently soothing her.

"I will come and see thee often, mother," he said; "and as soon as we are well settled in our new home, we will find a place for thee—"

"Thee's my only little boy; thee's my only little boy," murmured the old woman. "Thee's always been good to me, Morry, and thee must do whatever thee thinks is best."

What a picture that was!—the doctor in the prime of manhood, active and strong, looking down with kindly eyes at the bent and shriveled form of her whom he called mother; and the old, old woman—her soul pent up in a decaying prison house—clinging lovingly, beseechingly, to the arm of her "only little boy." I saw them thus but for a single moment; then the strong man turned, pulled his hat down over his brows and strode hastily from the house.

At father's command, I ran ahead of him to open the gate. As he was about to mount his horse, he paused to tell me good-by.

"Do you love your Aunt Sary?" he asked.

"I—I think I do," I stammered.

"Well, the next time I come I will bring you a nice present. What would you like to have?"

I hung my head and looked foolish, not having the courage to answer.

"Your father says that you are a great fellow for books," he continued, "so if you are a good boy and will be very kind to Aunt Sary, I'll bring you a brand-new McGuffey's Third Reader, with green backs and the picture of an eagle on it—same as John Woolman reads in at school."

The next moment he was on his horse and cantering rapidly down the lane.

When I went back to the cabin, Aunt Sary was sitting in her chair and smoking with all the energy that was left in her frail little body.

"Robert, did thee see my Little Morry?" she asked, as I passed into the field of her vision.

I nodded my head in the affirmative.

"Come here, and I'll tell thee about him," she said. I hesitated, curious to hear, and yet doubtful of the propriety of listening.

"Come here, Bobby," she repeated, "I'll tell thee all about how I come to find my Little Morry."

I went and stood by her chair, and she began her story:

"Maybe thee won't believe me, Bobby, but I was a young girl once, a long time ago. Some folks said I was good-lookin', too; and I reckon I must 'a' been, for I had a lot of beaux, off and on. But I was giddy and foolish, as girls is apt to be, and I didn't keer much for none of 'em; and none of 'em keered enough for me to want me to marry 'em. By'm by, father died and then mother, she died too, and I was left to take keer of myself; and I lived all alone in our little house that grandfather built at New Guilford when he was a young man. For there was my great grandfather, Evan Evans, his wife was Elizabeth Ann Thomas, and their datter Elizabeth married Thomas Clayton, and—"

Ah, me! She had wandered off into her genealogical strain again—and not a word had she said about Little Morry. I looked around, and seeing the coast clear, slipped noiselessly from the room while she continued mumbling the family history of all the Evanses and their kin.

Half an hour later, I returned with some wood to replenish the fire. She was in her right mind again, but she had evidently been weeping bitterly; and her gaunt little hand trembled violently as she motioned to me to come to her chair again.

"I was tellin' thee how I come by Little Morry, wasn't I?" she began. "Don't thee want to hear the rest of it? That was a mighty pretty little house that I lived in at New Guilford—rosebushes and hollyhocks in the front yard, and a right smart garden at the back where I raised all sorts of green truck for my own eatin'. But it was lonesome without nobody to talk to but the cat; and I thought how comfortin' it would be if there was only a little child a-toddlin' round and makin' a noise. It was mighty foolish in me a-thinkin' that way, and me not married nor no likelihood of it; but then I jist couldn't help it. For my—"

And here she put her handkerchief to her eyes and began to sob, and I was sure that she was going back to her great grandfather, Evan Evans, again. But she rallied bravely and soon resumed her story.

"One mornin' as I was layin' in bed and not wantin' to git up, I heerd a queer noise at the door. It sounded a good deal like a cat, and I didn't take much count of it at first. But when it kept on, a-gittin' worse and worse, I thought, 'For the lands' sake! What's the matter with that critter anyway?' And I got out of bed and took the cat switch with me that I always kept handy, and crept to the door, a-thinkin' I'd give old Tom a s'prise. I opened the door suddenlike and sprung out—and, sure enough, somebody was s'prised, but it warn't the tomcat. For there was my great grandfather, Evan Evans; his wife was Elizabeth Ann Thomas, and their datter—"

Oh, how annoying that she should break down again just at the most interesting point of her story! I waited while she enumerated the various branches of the family tree with all their affiliations and ramifications both in Wales and in Carolina. Her head dropped lower and lower until her pink cap strings were hidden beneath her chin; and when she ceased speaking she was asleep. There would be nothing more said about Little Morry at this time.

The next morning I made it a point to be very attentive to Aunt Sary. I found her spectacles, which she was in the constant habit of mislaying; I helped her light her pipe; I brought her a cup of cold water fresh from the spring.

"Thee's almost as handy as my Little Morry used to be," she remarked finally.

"Tell me who it was that was surprised when thee opened the door that morning," I said.

"What morning?"

"The morning when thee heard the tomcat a-yowling."

"Oh, was I a-tellin' thee about that? Well, it was me that was s'prised. I was so s'prised that I fell right back ag'in' the door-jamb, and for a minute I couldn't budge. For, what does thee think I seen? I seen a basket right there on the step, and in the basket was a teeny baby boy not more'n a month old, and he was a-kickin' and a-squallin' as hard as ever he could. I took him out of the basket, and I hugged him up to my buzzum, and I carried him right into the house; and I reckon there never was a gladder gal than I was then. I kep' a-sayin' to myself, 'Now I've got a little one in the house, to make a noise and keep me from gittin' lonesome.' And that's the way I come to git my Little Morry."

She paused, and began to fumble tremblingly with her pipe, which being turned wrong-side-up in her mouth, was empty and cold. I found a fresh hot coal for her to drop into it, being all the time fearful lest her mind would revert again to her great grandfather and his descendants. Presently, when the fragrant smoke began to issue in puffs from between her thin lips, she resumed her story:

"Thee wouldn't believe how fast Little Morry growed, and he was a mighty noisy feller, too. Nobody could git lonesome in my little house when he was round. Thee seen him yisterday, didn't thee? Ain't he a fine-lookin' boy, though? Well, he was always jist that way. I was glad when he wanted to go to school and study and be a doctor. And then he tuck up with little Juliana, and they was married, and after that, New Guilford wa'n't big enough for him any more, and he was bound to come to the Wabash Country, 'cause, he said, his boys would have a better chance. For there was my great grandfather, Evan Evans, his wife was Elizabeth Ann Thomas, and their datter Elizabeth married Thomas Clayton, who was my grandfather—"

And so the story ended, and although she afterward repeated portions of it, she never carried its recital further.

The time for the quart'ly meetin' approached, and the usual preparations for that event were nearing completion. Our expectation of a visit from Uncle Morris's family had aroused many pleasurable anticipations, and these were greatly increased when we received word one morning that our prospective visitors were on the road and would surely arrive before the close of the day. Aunt Sary proceeded at once to array herself in her finery, not forgetting to display a brand-new silk kerchief which her "only little boy" had presented to her on the occasion of his late brief visit.

"I reckon my Little Morry will come along with his folks," she murmured. "He shorely won't stay away from his mammy if he can help it."

As the afternoon wore on, expectation was on tiptoe, and there was scarcely a moment that some one was not on the lookout. And at length, Cousin Mandy Jane's shrill voice was heard announcing, "There they come, now!"

All eyes were directed toward the lane and the big front gate. Even Aunt Sary toddled out into the yard, and shading her eyes with her hand, stood gazing and waiting. A three-seated spring wagon was briskly approaching the gate, and soon we could plainly see that it contained five persons, and that one of these was a woman.

"It's Juliany, I'm sure," said mother, "but I'm not quite so certain that Morris is with them."

"Ain't that him on the middle bench with Juliany?" queried Aunt Sary.

"No, no," said Aunt Rachel, whose eyesight was remarkably good. "That ain't Uncle Morris. It's Juliany's brother Cyrus, that I used to know in Carliny. Thee can see that he looks jist like her, spite of him bein' a man, and her a woman."

The wagon was now much nearer the gate; all its occupants were plainly visible.

"Ain't my Morry there?" repeated Aunt Sary, querulously, anxiously.

"No," answered mother; "it's only Juliany and her three boys and Uncle Cyrus. Morris didn't come."

"Humph!" grunted the aged woman, striking the end of her staff forcibly upon the ground. "If Morry ain't there the rest of 'em can jist mozy back, for all I keer."

Having thus given emphatic expression to her disappointment, she turned herself about and hobbled into the cabin; and seeking the darker recesses of the room, she hastily exchanged her holiday attire for the plain gear of every day. " 'Tain't no use to dress up for sich as them," she muttered to herself, but quite loudly enough to be heard through the open door.

In the meanwhile, two of the boys had leaped from the wagon and were holding the horses' heads, while Uncle Cyrus assisted their mother to alight. Father was at his usual place to welcome them.

"How's thee, Cyrus? How's thee, Juliana? I'm right glad to see you both. Walk in."

"And this is Uncle Morris's wife!" cried Cousin Mandy Jane, bounding forward and grasping her hand. "Come right in and take off thy things."

And mother, more quietly but none the less sincerely, greeted her old acquaintance (for they had grown up together in Carliny) with a hearty handshake and, "How's thee, Julie? Come right into the house."

As the good woman was going toward the door, she caught sight of me, shrinking behind the laylocks, and with a sunny smile she offered me her hand. How soft and delicate it was, and how very pleasant was that friendly face encircled by the rim of her pretty, dove-colored, plain bonnet! Presently, when Uncle Cyrus came along with father, I looked at his friendly face also and was struck with its remarkable likeness to that of his sister; and Inviz whispered:

"Maybe God used only one pattern for both faces when He made them; leastwise, I think they must be twins."

I was so unused to companions of my own age, and besides, was by nature so cowardly in the absence of danger, that I did not get acquainted with Uncle Morris's boys very quickly. Elisha, the eldest, was a strapping young fellow who thought himself a young man, and was not far from right. He was somewhat reserved and dignified, scornful of little boys, and yet of too callow an age to be ranked with such overgrown specimens as David and Jonathan. During his entire visit at our house, he never spoke to me except in a most perfunctory and condescending manner.

Thomas Elwood, a wide-awake young fellow of perhaps fourteen years of age, was of a different build. It required but a short time to discover that, of the three brothers, he was much the strongest. He was fond of lording it over them; and even his mother paid a sort of deference to his opinions and wishes, as though she regarded him as some sort of superior genius. It would have required, however, a greater prophet than Benjamin Seafoam to foretell that this strong-minded lad would early win his way to a foremost place in the councils of the nation, and that for more than a decade he would wield a power scarcely inferior to that of the Geckwar of Baroda himself. I remember with pleasure that during our short acquaintance, Thomas Elwood was patronizingly kind to me and on one occasion condescended to look at my library and talk about books. But he occupied a pedestal so much higher than my own that familiarity was out of the question.

It was to John Woolman that my heart warmed the most—no doubt, because he was nearer my own age and was inclined to be very friendly. As his father had already told me, he was the whitest boy I ever saw. His hair was not towy, like mine, but was as silvery as that of a very old man. His skin was exceedingly fair and delicate. His eyes were very light—in fact inclining to be pinkish—and incapable of seeing things at a distance; and to assist his vision, he wore a pair of spectacles, the lenses of which were truly wonderful in thickness.

Like myself, John Woolman was his mother's baby, and this fact no doubt hastened our acquaintance and helped to cement our friendship. He was no taller than I, but much "chunkier," as his father had said, and far less robust. He was short of breath, and weak of limb, and the rambles which I led him through the woods and deadenings invariably sent him to bed with the headache as soon as we returned to the house. During the five or six days which measured the extent of their visit, John Woolman and I were constant companions, and no doubt each of us learned from the other a good deal about certain things of which we had before been blissfully ignorant.

One day as we were rambling together through the new deadenin', he suddenly exclaimed:

"Hold on a minute, Bob! I'm going to make me a see-gar."

"What's a see-gar?" I asked.

"Something good to smoke," he answered.

I stopped and watched him with eager interest.

Directly in front of us a dead grapevine was hanging from a girdled tree. It was a small vine, not larger than one's thumb in diameter, but of indefinite length; and it had been dead so long and exposed to sun and wind, that it was very dry and the sap pores were empty and free from obstruction. J.W. cut off a section of the vine some eight inches in length, and going to a burning log heap near by, set fire to one end of it. It burned slowly without flame, and he began immediately to suck at the other end, as I have since seen certain gentlemen suck at cigars.

"Is that a see-gar?" I asked.

"Yes; Thomas Elwood showed me how to make 'em."

"Is it good?"

"It's bully! Make one, and try it for yourself. Here's my knife; go and cut one."

I obeyed his direction, and soon we were both puffing manfully away as though we really enjoyed it. In the New Settlement smoking was a very common habit with all classes of men and also with the older women; but pipes were invariably used, and the refinement of sucking a cigar had not yet been added to the list of influences that were lifting us out of the middle ages. Hence, these impromptu "see-gars" of wild grapevine had to me all the charm of a newly discovered novelty. I didn't like the taste of the thing, and the smoke getting into my throat set me to coughing and made me feel dizzy—but the experience was glorious; I began to feel like a man.

"We mustn't let mother see 'em," said J.W. as we approached the house. "She says such things will get us into bad habits; and she don't allow us to smoke even a straw."

So we threw the half-consumed pieces of grapevine into a mudhole and made sure of their concealment by casting a flat stone on top of them.

"Mother's mighty strict about such things, and she licks me like blazes every time she catches me smoking one of 'em," said John Woolman.

With three such boys to bring up and start on the road to rectitude and fame, Friend Juliana had no ordinary task to perform; but she impressed me as being a woman of rare sweetness of temper and of great good judgment, and therefore eminently capable of doing whatever lay within the province of her duty. It was a peculiar pleasure to see her sitting by the side of Aunt Sary in the chimney corner and discussing sweet reminiscences of the old home in Carliny; and she seemed never to grow tired of listening to the older woman's frequent recital of the Evans genealogy. She was a beautiful talker and, although not recognized as a leading minister, she was frequently moved to "speak in meetin' "; and her speaking, far from being of the Margot Duberry kind, had the ring of genuineness and went straight to the heart.

On the last day of their visit, Doctor Morris, to the great joy of everybody and especially Aunt Sary, came to accompany them home. My own chief interest in seeing him was based upon the hope that he had brought the book which he had promised—the Third Reader with the green backs and the eagle on it. But although I insinuated myself into his presence, and even tried to give some very broad hints concerning it, he never alluded to the matter, nor did he appear to retain any interest in me whatever. Perhaps all this was because he had so many weightier affairs upon his mind. I could only hang around and wonder at his changed attitude.

Early on Fifth-day morning, all our visitors departed for their home in the Sweet Creek Settlement, and for a while a real sense of loneliness was felt, I think, by every member of our household.

"My dear Morry! My only little boy!" moaned Aunt Sary from the depths of her great chair. "I shall never see him again—never again, never again;" and from that day she seemed to grow weaker and crookeder, and the light in her eyes began to fade.

Not very long afterward we heard sad news, heart-rending news. Uncle Morris was drowned. There had been heavy rains in the Wabash Country, and all the streams were floods of rushing water. Uncle Morris was riding at night, as we heard, attending to professional calls; and it was supposed that, in the semi-darkness, he attempted to ford one of these streams, not knowing how the rains had augmented its depth and the force of its current. He was overwhelmed in the dreadful onrush. His horse succeeded in reaching the shore and ran wildly home, but the body of the good physician was carried far down the stream.

How this terrible news was broached to old Aunt Sary—or whether, indeed, she was informed of it at all—I never knew; and my memory of those days of sorrow is sadly confused and bedimmed. But it was scarcely a fortnight later when a somber little procession of wagons and horseback riders made its way—oh, so slowly!—down our lane and along the familiar big road to the Dry Forks graveyard; and in the foremost wagon there was a long box of black walnut which father himself had joined together while his eyes were swimming in tears.

The next morning, Aunt Rachel resumed her old accustomed seat in the left-hand corner of the chimney.