 Chapter 1 of Eben Holden by Irving Batchelor of all the people that ever went west, that expedition was the most remarkable. A small boy in a big basket on the back of a jolly old man, who carried a cane in one hand, a rifle in the other, a black dog serving a scout, skirmisher, and rearguard. That was the size of it. They were the survivors of a ruined home in the north of Vermont, and were traveling far into the valley of the St. Lawrence, but with no particular destination. Midsummer had passed them in their journey. Their clothes were covered with dust, their faces browning in the hot sun. It was a very small boy that sat inside the basket and clung to the rim, his toehead shaking as the old man walked. He saw wonderful things, day after day, looking down at the green fields, or peering into the gloomy reaches of the wood, and he talked about them. Uncle Ebb, is that where the Swifts are? he would ask often, and the old man would answer, No, they ain't real sassy this time of year. They lay round in the deep dingles every day. Then the small voice would sing idly, or prattle with an imaginary being that had a habit of peeking over the edge of the basket, or would shout a greeting to some bird or butterfly and ask finally, Tired, Uncle Ebb? Sometimes the old gentleman would say, Not very, and keep on, looking thoughtfully at the ground. Then again he would stop and mop his bald head with a big red handkerchief and say a little tremor of irritation in his voice. Tired? Who wouldn't be tired with a big elephant like you on his back all day? I'd be ashamed of myself to sit there and let an old man carry me from Dan to Bersheba. Get out now, and shake your legs! I was the small boy, and I remember it was always a great relief to get out of the basket, and having run ahead to lie in the grass among the wild flowers and jump up at him as he came along. Uncle Ebb had been working for my father five years before I was born. He was not a strong man, and had never been able to carry the wide swath of the other help in the fields. But we all loved him for his kindness and his knack of storytelling. He was a bachelor who came over the mountain from Pleasant Valley, a little bundle of clothes on his shoulder, and bringing a name that enriched the nomenclature of our neighborhood. It was Eben Holden. He had a cheerful temper and an imagination that was a very wilderness of oddities. Bears and panthers growled and were very terrible in that strange country. He had invented an animal more treacherous than any in the woods, and he called it a swift. Something like a panther! he described the look of it, a fearsome creature that lay in the edge of the woods at sundown, and made a noise like a woman crying to lure the unwary. It would light one's eyes with fear to hear Uncle Ebb lift his voice in the cry of the swift. Many a time in the twilight, when the bay of a hound, or some far cry came faintly through the wooded hills, I have seen him lift his hand and bit us hark. And when we had listened a moment, our eyes wide with wonder, he would turn and say in a low, half-whispered tone, so swift, I suppose, we need more the fear of God, but the young children of the pioneer needed also the fear of the woods, or they would have strayed to their death in them. A big base vile, taller than himself, had long been the solace of his Sundays. After he had shaved, a ceremony so solemn that it seemed a rite of his religion, that sacred vile was uncovered. He carried it sometimes to the back-piazza, and sometimes to the barn, where the horses shook and trembled at the roaring thunder of the strings. When he began playing, we children had to get well out of the way and keep our distance. I remember now the look of him then, his thin face, his soft black eyes, his long nose, the suit of broadcloth, the stock and standing collar, and, above all, the salinity in his manner when that big devil of a thing was leaning on his breast. As to his playing I have never heard a more fearful sound in any time of peace or one less creditable to a Christian. Weekdays he was addicted to the milder sin of the flute, and after chores, if there were no one to talk with him, he would sit long and pour his soul into that magic bar of boxwood. Uncle Ebb had another great accomplishment. He was what they call in the North Country a natural cooner. After nightfall, when the corn was ripening, he spoke in a whisper and had his ear cocked for coons. But he loved all kinds of good fun. So this man had a boy in his heart and a boy in his basket that evening we left the old house. My father and mother and older brother had been drowned in the lake where they had gone for a day of pleasure. I had then a small understanding of my loss that I have learned since that the farm was not worth the mortgage and that everything had to be sold. Uncle Ebb and I, a little lad, a very little lad of six, were all that was left of what had been in that home. Some were for sending me to the county house, but they decided finally to turn me over to a desolate uncle with some allowance for my keep. Therein Uncle Ebb was to be reckoned with. He had set his heart on keeping me, but he was a farmhand without any home or visible property, and not therefore in the mind of the authorities a proper guardian. He had me with him in the old house, and the very night he heard they were coming after me in the morning we started on our journey. I remember he was a long time tying packages of bread and butter and tea and boiled eggs to the rim of the basket so that they hung in the outside. Then he put a woolen shawl and an oil-cloth blanket on the bottom, pulled the straps over his shoulders and buckled them, standing before the looking-glass, and hang put on my cap and coat, stood me on the table, and stooped so that I could climb into the basket, a pack-basket that he had used in hunting, the top a little smaller than the bottom. Once in I could stand comfortably or sit facing sideways, my back and knees wedged from port to starboard. With me in my place he blew out the lantern and groped his way to the road, his cane in one hand, his rifle in the other. Fred, our old dog, a black shepherd with tawny points, came after us. Uncle Ebb scolded him and tried to send him back, but I pleaded for the poor creature and that settled it. He was one of our party. "'Don't know how we'll feed him,' said Uncle Ebb. "'Our own mouths are big enough to take all we can carry. But I ain't no heart to leave him all alone there.' I was old for my age, they tell me, and had a serious look and a wise way of talking, for a boy so young. But I had no notion of what lay before or behind us. "'Now, boy, take a good look at the old house,' I remember he whispered to me at the gate that night. "'Tain't likely you'll ever see it again. Keep quiet now,' he added, letting down the bars at the foot of the lane. "'We're going west, and we mustn't let the grass grow under us. "'Gotta be pretty spry, I can tell you.' It was quite dark, and he felt his way carefully down the cow-paths into the broad pasture. With every step I kept a sharp look out for swifts, and the moon shone after a while, making my work easier. I had to hold my head down presently when the tall brush began to whip the basket, and I heard the big boots of Uncle Ebb ripping the briars. Then we came into the blackness of the thick timber, and I could hear him feeling his way over the dead leaves with his cane. I got down shortly, and walked beside him, holding on to the rifle with one hand. We stumbled often, and were long in the trail before we could see the moonlight through the tree-columns. In the clearing I climbed to my seat again, and by and by we came to the road where my companion sat down resting his load on a boulder. "'Pretty hot, Uncle Ebb. Pretty hot,' he said to himself, fanning his brow with that old felt hat he wore everywhere. "'We've come three miles or more without a stop, and I guess we'd better rest a jiffy.' My legs ached, too, and I was getting very sleepy. I remember the jolt of the basket as he rose, and hearing him say, "'Well, Uncle Ebb, I guess we'd better get going.' The elbow that held my head, lying on the rim of the basket, was already numb, but the prickling could no longer rouse me, and, half dead with weariness, I fell asleep. Uncle Ebb has told me since that I tumbled out of the basket once, and that he had a time of it getting me in again, but I remember nothing more of that day's history. When I woke in the morning I could hear the crackling of fire and felt very warm and cozy wrapped in the big shawl. I got a cheery greeting from Uncle Ebb, who was feeding the fire with a big heap of sticks that he had piled together. Uncle Fred was licking my hands with his rough tongue, and I suppose that is what waked me. Tee was steeping in the little pot that hung over the fire, and our breakfast of boiled eggs and bread and butter lay on a paper beside it. I remember well the scene of our little camp that morning. We had come to a strange country, and there was no road in sight. A wooden hill lay back of us, and just before ran a noisy little brook winding between smooth banks through a long pasture into a dense wood. Behind a wall on the opposite shore a great field of rustling corn filled a broad valley and stood higher than a man's head. While I went to wash my face in the clear water, Uncle Ebb was husking some ears of corn that he took out of his pocket and had them roasting over the fire in a moment. We ate heartily, giving Fred two big slices of bread and butter, packing up with enough remaining for another day. Breakfast over we doused the fire and Uncle Ebb put on his basket. He made after a squirrel presently with old Fred and brought him down out of a tree by hurling stones at him, and then the faithful follower of our camp got a bit of meat for his breakfast. We climbed the wall, as he ate, and buried ourselves in the deep corn. The fragrant silky tassels brushed my face, and the corn hissed at our intrusion, crossing its green sabers in our path. Far in the field my companion heaped a little of the soft earth for a pillow, spread the oilcloth between rows, and as we lay down drew the big shawl over us. Uncle Ebb was tired after the toil of that night and went to sleep almost as soon as he was down. Before I dropped off, Fred came and licked my face and stepped over me, his tail wagging for leave, and curled upon the shawl at my feet. I could see no sky in that gloomy green aisle of corn. This going to bed in the morning seemed a foolish business to me that day, and I lay a long time looking up at the rustling canopy overhead. I remember listening to the waves that came whispering out of the further field, nearer and nearer, until they swept over us with a roaring swash of leaves, like that of water flooding among rocks as I have heard it often. A twinge of homesickness came to me, and the snoring of Uncle Ebb gave me no comfort. I remember covering my head and crying softly as I thought of those who had gone away, and whom I was to meet in a far country, called heaven, whither we were going. I forgot my sorrow finally in sleep. When I awoke it had grown dusk under the corn. I felt for Uncle Ebb, and he was gone. Then I called to him. Hush, boy, lie low! He whispered, bending over me, a sharp look in his eye. Freed thereafter us! He sat kneeling beside me, holding Fred by the collar and listening. I could hear voices, the rustle of the corn and the tramp of feet nearby. It was thundering in the distance, that heavy, shaking thunder that seems to take hold of the earth, and there were sounds in the corn, like the drawing of sabers and the rush of many feet. The noisy thunder-clouds came nearer, and the voices that had made us tremble were no longer heard. Uncle Ebb began to fasten the oil-blanket to the stocks of corn for a shelter. The rain came roaring over us. The sound of it was like that of a host of cavalry coming at a gallop. We lay bracing the stocks, the blanket tied above us, and were quite dry for a time. The rain rattled in the sounding sheaves, and then came flooding down the steep gutters. Above us, beam and rafter creaked, swaying and showing glimpses of the dark sky. The rain passed, we could hear the last battalion leaving the field, and then the tumult ended as suddenly as it began. The corn trembled a few moments and hushed to a faint whisper. Then we could hear only the drip of raindrops leaking through the green roof. It was dark under the corn. CHAPTER II We heard no more of the voices. Uncle Ebb had brought an armful of wood and some water in the teapot while I was sleeping. As soon as the rain had passed, he stood listening a while, and shortly opened his knife and made a little clearing in the corn by cutting a few hills. "'We've got to do it,' he said. "'Or we can't take any comfort, and the man told me I could have all the corn I wanted.' "'Did you see him, Uncle Ebb?' I remember asking. "'Yes,' he answered, whittling in the dark. "'I saw him when I went out for the water, and it was he who told me they were after us.' He took a look at the sky after a while, and remarking that he guessed they couldn't see his smoke now, began to kindle the fire. As it burned up he stuck two crotches and hung his teapot on a stick that lay in them, so it took the heat of the flame, as I had seen him do in the morning. Our grotto in the corn was shortly as cheerful as any room in a palace, and our fire set its light into the long aisles that opened opposite, and nobody could see the warm glow of it but ourselves. "'We'll have our supper,' said Uncle Ebb, as he opened a paper and spread out the eggs and bread and butter and crackers. "'We'll just have our supper, and by and by when everyone's a bed we'll make tracks in the dirt, I can tell you.' Our supper over, Uncle Ebb, let me look at his tobacco-box, a shiny thing of German silver that always seemed to snap out a quick farewell to me before it dove into his pocket. He was very cheerful and communicative, and joked a good deal as we lay there waiting in the fire-light. I got some further acquaintance with the swift, learning among other things that it had no appetite for the pure in heart. "'Why not?' I inquired. "'Well,' said Uncle Ebb, it's like this. The meaner the boy, the sweeter the meat.' He sang an old song as he sat by the fire, with a whistled interlude between lines, and the swing of it even now carries me back to that far day in the fields. I lay with my head in his lap while he was singing. Years after, when I could have carried him on my back, he wrote down for me the words of the old song. Here they are, about as he sang them, although there are evidences of repair in certain lines, to supply the loss of phrases that had dropped out of his memory. I was going to Salem one bright summer day. I met a young maiden, a-going my way. Oh, my fallow, faddling fallow, faddle away! And many a time I had seen her before, but I never dare tell her the love that I bore. Oh, my fallow, et cetera. "'Oh, where are you going, my pretty fair maid? Oh, sir, I am going to Salem,' she said. Oh, my fallow, et cetera. "'Oh, why are you going so far in a day? For warm is the weather, and long is the way. Oh, my fallow, et cetera. "'Oh, sir, I've forgotten. I have, I declare. But it's nothing to eat, and it's nothing to wear. Oh, my fallow, et cetera. "'Oh, then I have it, you pretty young miss. I'll bet it is only three words and a kiss. Oh, my fallow, et cetera. "'Young woman, young woman, oh, how will it do, if I go see your lover and bring him to you? Oh, my fallow, et cetera. "'It's a very long journey,' says she, I am told. And before you get back, they would surely be cold. Oh, my fallow, et cetera. "'I have him right with me. I vomit, I vow. And if you don't object, I'll deliver him now. Oh, my fallow, et cetera.' She laid her fair head all onto my breast, and you wouldn't know more if I told you the rest. Oh, my fallow, et cetera. I went to sleep after a while in spite of all, right in the middle of a story. The droning voice of Uncle Ebb and the feel of his hand upon my forehead called me back, blinking once or twice, but not for long. The fire was gone down to a few embers when Uncle Ebb woke me, and the grotto was lit only by a sprinkle of moonlight from above. "'Most twelve o'clock!' he whispered. "'Better be off!'' The basket was on his back, and he was all ready. I followed him through the long isle of corn, clinging to the tall of his coat. The golden lantern of the moon hung near the zenith, and when we came out in the open, we could see into the far fields. I climbed into my basket at the wall, and as Uncle Ebb carried me over the brook, stopping on a flat rock midway to take a drink, I could see the sky in the water, and it seemed as if a misstep would have tumbled me into the moon. "'Here the crickets holler,' said Uncle Ebb, as he followed the bank up into the open pasture. "'What makes them holler?' I asked. "'Oh, they're just filing their saws and thinking, maybe telling of what's happened to them. "'Been a hard day for them little folks. "'Terrible flood in their country. "'Every one of them had to get up a steeple quick. "'She could have be-drowned. "'They have their troubles, and they talk about them too. "'What do they file their saws for?' I inquired. "'Well, you know,' said he, "'where they live the timbers thick, "'and they have hard work clearin' to make a home. "'I was getting too sleepy for further talk. "'He made his way from field to field, "'stopping sometimes to look off at the distant mountains, "'then at the sky, or to whack the dry stalks of mullin with his cane. "'I remember he let down some bars after a long walk "'and stepped into a smooth roadway. "'He stood resting a little while, his basket on the top bar, "'and then the moon that I had been watching "'went down behind the broad brim of his hat, "'and I fell into utter forgetfulness. "'My eyes opened on a lovely scene at daylight. "'Uncle Eb had laid me on a mossy knoll in a bit of timber "'and, through an opening right in front of us, "'I could see a broad level of shining water. "'And the great green mountain on the further shore "'seem to be up to its belly in the sea.' "'Hello there,' said Uncle Eb. "'Here we are at Lake Champlain. "'I could hear the fire crackling "'and smell the odor of steeping tea.' "'You flopped round like a fish in that basket,' said Uncle Eb. "'Yes, you must have been dreaming of bears. "'Jumped so you scared me. "'Didn't know, but I had a wildcat on my shoulders.' "'Uncle Eb had taken a fish-line out of his pocket "'and was tying it to a rude pole that he had cut "'and trimmed with his jackknife. "'I've found some crawfish here,' he said, "'and I'm going to try for a bite on the point of rocks there. "'Gonna get some fish, Uncle Eb?' I inquired. "'Wouldn't say it I was, or wouldn't say it I wasn't,' he answered. "'Just gonna try.' Uncle Eb was always careful not to commit himself on a doubtful point. He had fixed his hook and sinker in a moment, and then we went out on a rocky point nearby and threw off into the deep water. Suddenly Uncle Eb gave a jerk that brought a groan out of him, and then let his hook go down again, his hands trembling, his face severe. "'By mighty Uncle Eb,' he muttered to himself, "'I thought we had him that time.' He jerked again presently, and then I could see a tug on the line that made me jump. A big fish came thrashing into the air in a minute. He tried to swing it ashore, but the pole bent, and the fish got a fresh hold of the water and took the end of the pole under. Uncle Eb gave it a lift then that brought it ashore and a good bit of water with it. I remember how the fish slapped me with its wet tail and sprinkled my face shaking itself between my boots. It was a big bass, and in a little while we had three of them. Uncle Eb dressed them and laid them over the fire on a gridiron of green birch, salting them as they cooked. I remember they went with a fine relish, and the last of our eggs and bread and butter went with them. Our breakfast over, Uncle Eb made me promise to stay with Fred in the basket, while he went away to find a man who could row us across. In about an hour I heard a boat coming, and the dog and I went out on the point of rocks where we saw Uncle Eb and another man heading for us, half over the cove. The bow bumped the rocks beneath us in a minute. Then the stranger dropped his oars and stood staring at me and the dog. Say, Mr., said he presently, can't go no further, there's a reward offered for you and that boy. Uncle Eb called him aside and was talking to him a long time. I never knew what was said, but they came at last and took us into the boat, and the stranger was very friendly. When we had come near the landing on the York State side, I remember he gave us our bearings. Keep to the woods, he said, till you're out of harm's way. Don't go near the stage road for a while. You'll find a store a little way up the mountain. Get your provisions there, and about eighty rod farther you'll strike the trail. It'll take you over the mountain north and to Paradise Road. Then take the white church on your right shoulder and go straight west. I would not have remembered it so well, but for the fact that Uncle Eb wrote it all down in his account book, and that has helped me over many a slippery place in my memory of those events. At the store we got some crackers and cheese, tea and coffee, dried beef and herring, a bit of honey and a loaf of bread that was sliced and buttered before it was done up. We were off in the woods by nine o'clock, according to Uncle Eb's diary, and I remember the trail led us into thick brush where I had to get out and walk a long way. It was smooth underfoot, however, and at noon we came to a slash in the timber, full of briars that were all aglow with big blackberries. We filled our hats with them, and Uncle Eb found a spring beside which we built a fire and had a memorable meal that made me glad of my hunger. Then we spread the oil cloth and lay down for another sleep. We could see the glow of the setting sun through the treetops when we woke and began our packing. We'll have to hurry, said Uncle Eb, or we'll never get out of the woods to-night. It's about six miles or more to Paradise Road as I make it. Come, you're slower on a toad than a tar-barrel. We hurried off on the trail, and I remember Fred looked very crestfallen with two big packages tied to his collar. He delayed a bit by trying to shake them off, but Uncle Eb gave them a sharp word or two, and then he walked along very thoughtfully. Uncle Eb was a little out of patience that evening, and I thought he bore down too harshly in his rebuke of the old dog. You shiftless cuss, he said to him. You just do nothing but chase squirrels and let me break my back to carry your dinner. It was glooming fast in the thick timber, and Uncle Eb almost ran with me while the way was plain. The last ringing note of the wood-thrush had died away, and in a little while it was so dark I could distinguish nothing but the looming mass of tree-trunks. He stopped suddenly and strained his eyes in the dark. Then he whistled a sharp, sliding note, and the sound of it gave me some hint of his trouble. Get down, Willie, said he, and take my hand. I'm afraid we're lost here in the big woods. We groped about for a minute, trying to find the trail. No use, he said presently. We'll have to stop right here. Odder had known better than to come through so near sundown. Guess it was more than anybody could do. He built a fire and began to lay out a supper for us then, while Fred sat down by me to be relieved of his bundles. Our supper was rather dry, for we had no water, but it was only two hours since we left the spring, so we were not suffering yet. Uncle Eb took out of the fire a burning brand of pine, and went away into the gloomy woods, holding it above his head, while Fred and I sat by the fire. It's lucky we didn't go no further, he said, as he came in after a few minutes. There's a big precipice over yonder. I don't know how deep it is. Guess we'd have found out pretty soon. He cut some boughs of hemlock growing near us, and spread them in a little hollow. That done we covered them with the oil cloth, and sat down comfortably by the fire. Uncle Eb had a serious look, and was not inclined to talk, or storytelling. Before turning in, he asked me to kneel and say my prayer, as I had done every evening at the feet of my mother. I remember clearly kneeling before my old companion, and hearing the echo of my small voice there in the dark and lonely woods. I remember, too, and even more clearly, how he bent his head and covered his eyes in that brief moment. I had a great dread of darkness, and imagined much evil of the forest, but somehow I had no fear if he were near me. When we had fixed the fire, and lain down for the night on the fragrant hemlock, and covered ourselves with the shawl, Uncle Eb lay on one side of me, and old Fred on the other, so I felt secure indeed. The night had many voices there in the deep wood. Away in the distance I could hear a strange, wild cry, and I asked what it was, and Uncle Eb whispered back, It's a loon! Down the side of the mountain a shrill bark rang in the timber, and that was a fox, according to my patient oracle. Anon we heard the crash and thunder of a falling tree, and a murmur that followed in the wake of the last echo. Big tree fallen, said Uncle Eb as he lay gaping. It asked to break away to the ground, and it must hurt. Did you notice how the woods tremble? If we was up above them we could see the hole that tree had made, just like an open grave till the others have filled it with their tops. My ears had gone deaf with drowsiness when a quick stir in the body of Uncle Eb brought me back to my senses. He was up on his elbow listening, and the firelight had sunk to a glimmer. Fred lay shivering and growling beside me. I could hear no other sound. Be still! said Uncle Eb as he boxed the dog's ears. Then he rose and began to stir the fire and lay on more wood. As the flame leaped and threw its light into the treetops a shrill cry, like the scream of a frightened woman, only louder and more terrible to hear, brought me to my feet, crying. I knew the source of it was near us and ran to Uncle Eb in a fearful panic. Hush, boy! said he as it died away and went echoing in the far forest. I'll take care of you. Don't be scared. He's more afraid of us than we are of him. He's making off now. We heard then a great crackling of dead brush on the mountain above us. It grew fainter as we listened. In a little while the woods were silent. It's the old man of the woods, said Uncle Eb. He's out taking a walk. Will he hurt, folks? I inquired. Toe! he answered, just as harmless as a kitten. End of Chapter 2 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 3 of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Eben Holden. A Tale of the North Country by Irving Batchelor Chapter 3 Naturally there were a good many things I wanted to know about the old man of the woods, but Uncle Eb would take no part in any further conversation. So I had to lie down beside him again and think out the problem as best I could. My mind was never more acutely conscious and it gathered many strange impressions, wandering in the kingdom of fear as I looked up at the treetops. Uncle Eb had built a furious fire and the warmth of it made me sleepy at last. Both he and old Fred had been snoring a long time when I ceased to hear them. Uncle Eb woke me at daylight in the morning and said we must be off to find the trail. He left me by the fire a little while and went looking on all sides and came back no wiser. We were both thirsty and started off on rough footing without stopping to eat. We climbed and crawled for hours, it seemed to me, and everywhere the fallen tree trunks were heaped in our way. Uncle Eb sat down on one of them a while to rest. Like the bones of the dead, said he, as he took a chew of tobacco and picked at the rotten skeleton of a fallen tree, we were both pretty well out of breath and of hope also, if I remember rightly, when we rested again under the low hanging boughs of a basswood for a bit of luncheon. Uncle Eb opened the little box of honey and spread some of it on our bread and butter. In a moment I noticed that half a dozen bees had lit in the open box. Lord Harry, here's honey bees, said he, as he covered the box so as to keep them in and tumbled everything else into the basket. Make haste now, Willie, and follow me with all your might, he added. In a minute he let out one of the bees and started running in the direction it flew. It went but a few feet and then rose into the treetop. He's going to get up into the open air, said Uncle Eb, but I've got his barons and I guess he knows the way all right. We took the direction indicated for a few minutes and then Uncle Eb let out another prisoner. The bee flew off a little way and then rose in a slanting course to the treetops. He showed us, however, that we were looking the right way. Them little fellers have got a good compass, said Uncle Eb as we followed the line of the bees. It points home every time and never makes a mistake. We went further this time before releasing another. He showed us that we had borne out of our course a little and as we turned to follow there were half a dozen bees flying around the box as if begging for admission. Here they are back again, said Uncle Eb, and they've told a lot of their cronies about the man and the boy with honey. At length one of them flew over our heads and back in the direction we had come from. Ah-ha! said Uncle Eb. It's a bee-tree and we've passed it but I'm going to keep letting them in and out. Never heard of a swarm of bees going far away and so we must be near the clearing. In a little while we let one go that took a road of its own. The others had gone back over our heads. This one bore off to the right in front of us and we followed. I was riding in the basket and was first to see the light of the open through the treetops. But I didn't know what it meant until I heard the hearty, Hurrah! of Uncle Eb. We had come to smooth footing in a grove of maples and the clean trunks of the trees stood up as straight as a granite column. Presently we came out upon wide fields of corn and clover and as we looked back upon the grove it had a rounded front and I think of it now as the vestibule of the great forest. It's a regular big tomb! said Uncle Eb, looking back over his shoulder into the gloomy cavern of the woods. We could see a log house in the clearing and we made for it as fast as our legs would carry us. We had a mighty thirst and when we came to a little brook in the meadow we laid down and drank and drank until we were fairly grunting with fullness. Then we filled our teapot and went on. Men were reaping with their cradles in a field of grain and as we neared the log house a woman came out in the door-yard and lifting a shell to her lips, blew a blast that rushed over the clearing and rang in the woods beyond it. A loud hello came back from the men. A small dog rushed out at Fred, barking, and I suppose, with some lack of respect, for the old dog laid hold of him in a violent temper and sent him away yelping. We must have presented an evil aspect, for our clothes were torn and we were both limping with fatigue. The woman had a kindly face and after looking at us a moment came and stooped before me and held my small face in her hands, turning it so she could look into my eyes. You poor little critter, said she, where you going? Uncle Eb told her something about my father and mother being dead and our going west. Then she hugged and kissed me and made me very miserable, I remember, wetting my face with her tears that were quite beyond my comprehension. Jethro, said she, as the men came into the yard, I want you to look at this boy. Did you ever see such a cunning little critter? Just look at them bright eyes. And then she held me to her breast and nearly smothered me and began to hum a bit of an old song. You're full of mother love, said her husband as he sat down in the grass a moment. Lost your only baby and the good lord has sent no other. I swan he has got putty eyes, just as blue as a Mayflower. Ain't you hungry? Come right in, both of you, and sit down to the table with us. They made room for us, and we sat down between the bare elbows of the hired men. I remember my eyes came only to the top of the table. So the good woman brought the family Bible, and sitting on that firm foundation, I eat my dinner of salt, pork, and potatoes, and milk gravy. A diet as grateful as it was familiar to my taste. Orphan, eh? said the man of the house, looking down at me. Orphan, Uncle Eb answered, nodding his head. God-fearing folks! Best in the world, said Uncle Eb. Want to bind him out? the man asked. Couldn't spare him, said Uncle Eb decisively. Where are you going? Uncle Eb hesitated, groping for an answer, I suppose, that would do no violence to our mutual understanding. Going to heaven, I ventured to say presently, an answer that gave rise to conflicting emotions at the table. That's right, said Uncle Eb, turning to me and patting my head. We're on the road to heaven, I hope, and you'll see it some day, certain sure, if you keep in the straight road and be a good boy. After dinner the good woman took off my clothes and put me in bed while she mended them. I went to sleep, then, and did not awake for a long time. When I got up at last she brought a big basin of water and washed me with such motherly tenderness in voice and manner that I have never forgotten it. Uncle Eb lay sleeping on the lounge, and when she had finished dressing me, Fred and I went out to play in the garden. It was supper time in a little while, and then again the woman winded the shell, and the men came up from the field. We sat down to eat with them, as we had done at noon, and Uncle Eb consented to spend the night after some urging. He helped them with the milking, and as I stood beside him shot a jet of the warm white flood into my mouth that tickled it, so I ran away laughing. The milking done I sat on Uncle Eb's knee in the door-yard with all the rest of that household, hearing many tales of the wilderness and of robbery and murder on Paradise Road. I got the impression that it was a country of unexampled wickedness and ferocity in men and animals. One man told about the ghost of Burnt Bridge, how the bridge had burnt one afternoon, and how a certain traveller in the dark of the night, driving down the hill above it, fell to his death at the brink of the culvert. And every night since then, said the man, very positively, you can hear him driving down that bill, just as plain as you can hear me talking, the rattle of the wheels and all. It stops sudden, and then you can hear him hit the rocks way down there at the bottom of the gully, and groan and groan. And folks say it's a curse on the town for leaving that hole open. What's a ghost, Uncle Eb? I whispered. Something like a swift, he answered, but not so powerful. We heard a panther last night, he added, turning to our host. Hullered like sin when he see the fire. Scared, said the man of the house, gaping. That's what ailed him. I've lived twenty years on Paradise Road, and it was all woods when I put up the cabin. Seen deer on the doorstep and bears in the garden, and panthers in the fields. But I tell you, there's no critter so terrible as a man. All the animals know him, how he roars and spits fire and smoke and lead so it goes through a body, or bites off a leg maybe. Guess they'd made friends with me, but them I didn't kill went away, smarting with holes in them. And I guess they told all their people about me, the terrible critter that walks on its hind legs, and lied a white face and drew up and spit his teeth into their vitals, cross a ten acre lot. And pretty soon they concluded they didn't want to have no truck with me. They thought then Clearon was the valley of death, and they got very careful. But the deer, they keep peeking in at me. Something funny about a deer? They're so curious. Seems though they love the look of me and the taste of the tame grass. Maybe God meant them to serve in the yoke some way and be the friend of man. They're the outcasts of the forest, the prey of the other animals, and men like them only when they're dead. And they're the prettiest critter alive, and the spriest, and the most graceful. Man are the most terrible of all critters, and the meanest, said Uncle Eb. They're the only critters that kill for fun. "'Bed time,' said our host, rising presently. Got to be up early in the morning. We climbed a ladder to the top floor of the cabin with the hired men, of whom there were two. The good lady of the house had made a bed for us on the floor, and I remember Fred came up the ladder too, and laid down beside us. Uncle Eb was up with the men in the morning, and at breakfast time my hostess came and woke me with kisses and helped me to dress. When we were about going, she brought a little wagon out of the cellar that had been a playing of her dead boy, and said I could have it. This wonderful wagon was just the thing for the journey we were making. When I held the little tongue in my hand, I was halfway to heaven already. It had four stout wheels and a beautiful red box. Her brother had sent it all the way from New York, and it had stood so long in the cellar it was now much in need of repair. Uncle Eb took it to the tool shop in the stable and put it in ship-shaped order and made a little pair of fills to go in place of the tongue. Then he made a big flat collar and a back-pad out of the leather and old bootlegs and rigged a pair of tugs out of two pieces of rope. Old Fred was quite cast down when he stood in harness between the shafts. He had waited patiently to have his collar fitted. He had grinned and panted and wagged his tail with no suspicion of the serious and humiliating career he was entering upon. Now he stood with a sober face and his aspect was full of meditation. You fighting hound, said Uncle Eb, I hope this will improve your character. Fred tried to sit down when Uncle Eb tied a leading rope to his collar. When he heard the wheels rattle and felt the pull of the wagon he looked back at it and growled a little and started to run. Uncle Eb shouted, whoa, and held him back and then the dog got down on his belly and trembled until we padded his head and gave him a kind word. He seemed to understand presently and came along with a steady stride. Our hostess met us at the gate and the look in her face when she bade us good-bye and tucked some cookies into my pocket has always lingered in my memory and put in me a mighty respect for all women. The sound of her voice, the tears, the waving of her handkerchief as we went away, are among the things that have made me what I am. We stowed our packages in the wagon-box and I walked a few miles and then got into the empty basket. Fred tipped his load over once or twice but got a steady gate in the way of industry after a while and a more cheerful look. We had our dinner by the roadside in the bank of a brook, an hour or so, after mid-day, and came to a little village about sundown. As we were nearing it there was some excitement among the dogs and one of them tackled Fred. He went into battle very promptly, the wagon jumping and rattling until it turned bottom up. Reinforced by Uncle Eb's cane he soon saw the heels of his aggressor and stood growling savagely. He was like the goal in a puzzle-maze all wound and tangled in his harness and it took some time to get his face before him and his feet free. At a small grocery where groups of men, just out of the fields, were sitting, their arms bare to the elbows, we bought more bread and butter. In paying for it Uncle Eb took a package out of his trouser pocket to get his change. It was tied in a red handkerchief and I remember it looked to be about the size of his fist. He was putting it back when it fell from his hand heavily and I could hear the chink of coin as it struck. One of the men who sat near picked it up and gave it back to him. As I remember well his kindness had an evil flavor for he winked at his companions who nudged each other as they smiled knowingly. Uncle Eb was a bit cross when I climbed into the basket and walked along in silence so rapidly it worried the dog to keep pace. The leading rope was tied to the stock of the rifle and Fred's walking-gate was too slow for the comfort of his neck. You shiftless cuss, I'll put a kink in your neck for you if you don't walk up," said Uncle Eb as he looked back at the dog in a temper wholly unworthy of him. We had crossed a deep valley and were climbing a long hill in the dusky twilight. Willie, said Uncle Eb, your eyes are better in mine. Look back and see if anyone's coming. Can't see anyone," I answered. Look way back in the road as far as you can see. I did so, but I could see no one. He slackened his pace a little after that and before we had passed the hill it was getting dark. The road ran into woods and a river cut through them a little way from the clearing. Supper time, Uncle Eb, I suggested as we came to the bridge. Supper time, Uncle Eb, he answered, turning down to the shore. I got out of the basket then and followed him in the brush. Fred found it hard traveling here and shortly we took off his harness and left the wagon, transferring its load to the basket, while we pushed on to find a camping place. Back in the thick timber a long way from the road we built a fire and had our supper. It was a dry nook in the pines, tight as a house, Uncle Eb said, and carpeted with the fragrant needles. When we lay on our backs in the firelight I remember the weary droning voice of Uncle Eb had an impressive accompaniment of whispers. While he told stories I had a glowing cinder on the end of a stick and was weaving fiery skeins in the gloom. He had been telling me of a panther he had met in the woods one day and how the creature ran away at the side of him. Why is a panther afraid of folks? I inquired. Well, you see, they used to be friendly years and years ago, folks and panthers, but they weren't exactly calculated to get along together some way. An old she-panther gave him one of her cubs a great while ago just to make friends. The cub he grew big and used to play and be very gentle. There was a boy he took to and both of them got on very friendly. The boy and the panther went off one day in the woods, guessed was more than a hundred years ago, and was lost. Walked all over and finally got to going round and round in a big circle till they was both of them tired out. Come night they laid down as hungry as two bears. The boy he was kind of afraid of the dark so he got up close to the panther and lay between his paws. The boy he thought the panther smelt funny and the panther he didn't just like the smell of the boy. And the boy he had the leg ache and kicked the panther in the belly so he kind of gagged and spit and they want neither on them real comfortable. The soft paws of the panther was just like pin cushions. He had great hooks in them sharper in the point of a needle and when he was going to sleep he had run him out just like an old cat kind of playful and purr and pull. All at once the boy felt something like a lot of needles pricking his back. Made him jump and holler like Sam Hill. The panther he spit sassy and rise up and smelt to the ground. Didn't neither of them know what was the matter. By and by they lay down again. Twint only a little while before the boy felt something pricking of him. He hollered and kicked again. The panther he growled and spit and dumb a tree and sawed on a limb and peaked over at the queer little critter. Couldn't neither of them understand it. The boy could see the eyes of the panther in the dark shown like two live coals exactly. The panther never sawed on a tree when he was hungry and see a boy below him. Something told him to jump. Tail went swish in the leaves like that. His whiskers quivered, his tongue come out. Could think of nothing but his big empty belly. The boy was scared. He up with his gun quick as a flash. Aimed at the eyes and let her flicker. Blew a lot of smoke and bird shot and paper wadding right up into his face. The panther he lost his whiskers and one eye and got his hide full of shot and fell off the tree like a ripe apple and run for his life. Thought he'd never see nothing could growl and spit's powerful as that boy? Never could bear the sight of a man after that. Always made him gag and spit to think of a man critter. Went off to his own folks and told to the boy and spit fire and smoke and growl so to almost tore his ears off. And now whenever they hear a gun go off they always think it's the man critter growling. And they gag and spit and look as if it made him sick to the stomach. And the man folks they didn't have no good opinion of the panthers after that. Ain't never been friends anymore. Fact is a man he can be any kind of a beast but a panther he can't be nothing but just a panther. Then too as we lay there in the firelight Uncle Eb told me the remarkable story of the gingerbread bear. He told it slowly as if his invention were severely taxed. Once there was a boy got lost. Was going cross lots to play with another boy and lied to go through a strip of wood. Went off the trail to chase a butterfly and got lost. Had his kite and crossgun and he wandered all over till he was tired and hungry. Then he lay down to cry on a bed of moss. Pretty quick there was a big black bear come along. What's the matter? said the bear. Hungry says the boy. Tell you what I'll do says the bear. If you'll scratch my back for me I'll let you cut a piece of my tail off to eat. Bear's tail you know has a lot of meat on it. Him tell it was grand good fare. So the boy he scratched the bear's back and the bear he grinned and made his paw go patty pat on the ground. It did feel so splendid. Then the boy took his jackknife and began to cut off the bear's tail. The bear he flew mad and growled and growled so the boy he stopped and didn't just cut no more. Hurts awful said the bear. Couldn't never stand it. Tell you what I'll do. You scratched my back and now I'll scratch urine. Gee whiz said I. Yes sir that's what the bear said. Uncle Ebb went on. The boy he up and run like a nailer. The bear he laughed hardy and scratched the ground like Sam Hill and flung the dirt higher in his head. Look here says he as the boy stopped. I just swallowed a piece of mutton. Run your hand into my throat and I'll let you have it. The bear he opened his mouth and showed his big teeth. Phew. I whistled. That's exactly what he done. Said Uncle Ebb. He showed him plain. The boy was scarter and a weasel. The bear he jumped up and down in his hind legs and laughed and hollered and shook himself. Only just fooling says he when he see the boy was going to run again. What you afraid of? Can't bear to stay here? says the boy, lest you'll keep your mouth shut. And the bear he shut his mouth and pointed to the big pocket in his fur coat and winked and motioned to the boy. The bear he really did have a pocket on the side of his big fur coat. The boy slid his hand in up to the elbow. What do you suppose he found? Don't know, said I. Something to eat, he continued. Boy liked it best of all things. I guessed everything I could think of from cookies to beef steak and gave up. Gingerbread, said he soberly at length. Thought you said bears couldn't talk, I objected. Well, the boy'd fell asleep and he'd only dreamed of the bear, said Uncle Eb. You see, bears can talk when boys are dreaming of them. Come daylight the boy got up and catched a crow, broke his wing with the cross-gun. Then he tied the kite-swing onto the crow's leg and the crow flopped along and the boy followed him and by and by they come out a cornfield where the crow-bin used to come in for his dinner. What come of the boy, said I. Went home, said he, gaping as he lay on his back and looked up at the treetops. And he always said a bear was good company if he'd only keep his mouth shut, just like some folks I've heard of. And what come of the crow? Went to the old crow-doctor and got his wing fixed, he said, drowsily, and in a moment I heard him snoring. We had been asleep a long time when the barking of Fred woke us. I could just see Uncle Eb in the dim light of the fire kneeling beside me, the rifle in his hand. I'll fill you full of lead if you come any nearer," he shouted. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 4 Of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Eben Holden A Tale of the North Country By Irving Batchelor Chapter 4 We listened a while then, but heard no sound in the thicket, although Fred was growling ominously his hair on end. As for myself, I never had a more fearful hour than that we suffered before the light of morning came. I made no outcry but clung to my old companion, trembling. He did not stir for a few minutes. And then we crept cautiously into the small hemlocks on one side of the opening. Keep still, he whispered. Don't move or speak. Presently we heard a move in the brush, and then, quick as a flash, Uncle Eb lifted his rifle and fired in the direction of it. Before the loud echo had gone off in the woods, we heard something break through the brush at a run. It's a man, said Uncle Eb as he listened. He ain't losing no time, neither. We sat listening as the sound grew fainter, and when it ceased entirely, Uncle Eb said he must have got to the road. After a little the light of the morning began sifting down through the treetops and was greeted with innumerable songs. He'd done noble, said Uncle Eb, patting the old dog as he rose to poke the fire. Pretty good chap, I call him. He can have half my dinner any time he wants it. Who do you suppose it was? I inquired. Roberts, I guess, he answered. And they'll be laying for us when we go out, maybe. But if they are, Fred'll find them, and I've got old trusty here, and I guess that'll take care of us. His rifle was always flattered with that name of old trusty when it had done him a good turn. Soon as the light had come clear, he went out in the near woods with dog and rifle, and beat around in the brush. He returned shortly, and said he had seen where they came and went. I'd have killed them dead in a door-nail, said he, laying down the old rifle, if they'd come any nearer. Then we brought water from the river and had our breakfast. Fred went on ahead of us, when we started for the road, scurrying through the brush on both sides of the trail, as if he knew what was expected of him. He flushed a number of partridges, and Uncle Eb killed one of them on our way to the road. We resumed our journey without any further adventure. It was so smooth and level underfoot that Uncle Eb let me get in the wagon after Fred was hitched to it. The old dog went along soberly and without much effort, save when we came to hillside. I'd been to hills or sandy places when I always got out and ran on behind. Uncle Eb showed me how to break the wheels with a long stick going downhill. I remember how it hit the dog's heels at the first downgrade, and how he ran to keep out of the way of it. We were going like mad in half a minute, Uncle Eb coming after us, calling to the dog. Fred only looked over his shoulder with a wild eye at the rattling wagon and ran the harder. He leaped aside at the bottom, and then we went all in a heap. Fortunately no harm was done. I declare, said Uncle Eb as he came up to us, puffing like a spent horse, and picked me up unhurt and began to untangle the harness of old Fred. I guess he must have thought the devil was after him. The dog growled a little for a moment and bit at the harness, but coaxing reassured him and he went along all right again on the level. At a small settlement the children came out and ran along beside my wagon, laughing and asking me questions. Some of them tried to pet the dog, but old Fred kept to his labor at the heels of Uncle Eb and looked neither to right nor left. We stopped under a tree by the side of a narrow brook for our dinner, and one incident of that meal I think of always when I think of Uncle Eb. It shows the manner of man he was, and with what understanding and sympathy he regarded every living thing. In rinsing his teapot he accidentally poured a bit of water on a big bumblebee. The poor creature struggled to lift hill, and then another down poor caught him, and still another, until his wings fell drenched. Then his breast began heaving violently, his legs stiffened behind him, and he sank, head downward in the grass. Uncle Eb saw the death-throws of the bee and knelt down and lifted the dead body by one of its wings. Just look at his velvet coat, he said, and his wings all wet and stiff. They'll never carry him another journey. It's too bad a man has to kill every step he takes. The bee's tail was moving faintly, and Uncle Eb laid him out in the warm sunlight, and fanned him a while with his hat, trying to bring back the breath of life. Guilty, he said, presently, coming back with a sober face. That's a dead bee. No telling how many was dependent on him, or what plans he had. Maybe again him a lot of pleasure to fly round in the sunlight, work in every fair day. It's all over now. He had a gloomy face for an hour after that, and many a time in the days that followed I heard him speak of the murdered bee. We lay resting a while after dinner and watching a big city of ants. Uncle Eb told me how they tilled the soil of the mound every year and sowed their own kind of grain, a small white seed like rice, and reaped their harvest in the late summer, storing the crop in their dry cellars underground. He told me also the story of the ant lion, a big beetle that lives in the jungles of the grain and the grass, of which I remember only an outline, more or less imperfect. Here it is in my own rewording of his tail. On a bright day one of the little black folks went off on a long road in a great field of barley. He was going to another city of his own people to bring helpers for the harvest. He came shortly to a sandy place where the barley was thin and the hot sunlight lay near to the ground. In a little valley close by the road of the ants he saw a deep pit in the sand, with steep sides sloping to a point in the middle and as big a round as a biscuit. Now the ants are a curious people and go looking for things that are new and wonderful as they walk abroad, so they have much to tell worth hearing after a journey. The little traveller was young and had no fear, so he left the road and went down to the pit and peeped over the side of it. What in the world is the meaning of this queer place? He asked himself as he ran around the rim. In a moment he had stepped over and the soft sand began to cave and slide beneath him. Quick as a flash the big lion beetle rose up in the center of the pit and began to reach for him. Then his legs flew in the caving sand and the young ant struck his blades in it to hold the little he could gain. Upward he struggled, leaping and floundering in the dust. He had got near the rim and had stopped, clinging to get his breath, when the lion began flinging the sand at him with his long feelers. It rose in a cloud and fell on the back of the ant and pulled at him as it swept down. He could feel the mighty cleavers of the lion striking near his hind legs and pulling the sand from under them. He must go down in a moment and he knew what that meant. He had heard the old men of the tribe tell often how they hold one helpless and slash him into a dozen pieces. He was letting go in despair when he felt a hand on his neck. Looking up he saw one of his own people reaching over the rim and in a jiffy they had shut their fangs together. He moved little by little as the other tugged at him and in a moment was out of the trap and could feel the honest earth under him. When they had got home and told their adventure some were for going to slay the beetle. There is never a pit in the path of duty, said the wise old chief of the little black folks. See that you keep in the straight road. If our brother had not left the straight road, said one who stood near, he that was in danger would have gone down into the pit. It matters much, he answered, whether it was kindness or curiosity that led him out of the road. But he that follows a fool hath much need of wisdom, for if he saved the fool, do you not see that he hath encouraged folly? Of course I had then no proper understanding of the chief's counsel, nor do I pretend even to remember it from that first telling, but the tale was told frequently in the course of my long acquaintance with Uncle Eb. The diary of my good old friend lies before me as I write, The leaves turned yellow and the entries dim. I remember how stern he grew of an evening when he took out this sacred little record of our wanderings and began to write in it with his stub of a pencil. He wrote slowly and read and reread each entry with great care as I held the torch for him. Be still, boy, be still, he would say, when some pressing interrogatory passed my lips, and then he would bend to his work while the point of his pencil bored further into my patience. Beginning here I shall quote a few entries from the diary as they cover, with sufficient detail, an uneventful period of our journey. August 20th. Killed a partridge today, biled it in the teapot for dinner. Went good. Fourteen mild. August 21st. Seen a deer this morning. Fred fit again. Come near spilling the wagon. Had to stop and fix the axe. Ten mild. August 22nd. Climb a tree this morning after wild grapes. Come near fallen. Give me a little crick in the back. Willie, he's got a stun bruise. Twelve mild. August 23rd. Went in swimming. Catched a few fish before breakfast. Got provisions and two case knives and one fork, also one tin pie plate. Used same to fry fish for dinner. Fourteen mild. August 24th. Got some spirits for Willie to rub on my back. Boots wearing out. Terrible, hot. Lay in the shade in the heat of the day. Gypsies come and camp by us tonight. Ten mild. I remember well the coming of those gypsies. We were fishing inside of the road, and our fire was crackling on the smooth cropped shore. The big wagons of the gypsies, there were four of them, as red and beautiful as those of a circus caravan, halted about sundown, while the men came over a moment to scan the field. Presently they went back and turned their wagons into the siding, and began to unhitch. Then a lot of barefooted children and women under gay shawls overran the field gathering wood and making ready for night. Meanwhile, swarthy drivers took the horses to water, and tethered them with long ropes so they could crop the grass of the roadside. One tall, bony man, with a face almost as black as that of an Indian, brought a big iron pot and set it up near the water. A big stew of beef bone, leeks and potatoes began to cook shortly, and I remember it had such a goodly smell I was minded to ask them for a taste of it. A little cry of strange people had surrounded us of a sudden. Uncle Ebb thought of going on, but the night was coming fast, and there would be no moon, and we were foot sore and hungry. Women and children came over to our fire after supper and made more of me than I liked. I remember taking refuge between the knees of Uncle Ebb, and Fred sat close in front of us growling fiercely when they came too near. They stood about, looking down at us, and whispered together, and one young miss of the tribe came up and tried to kiss me in spite of Fred's warnings. She had flashing black eyes and hair as dark as the night that fell in a curling mass upon her shoulders, but somehow I had a mighty fear of her and fought with desperation to keep my face from the touch of her red lips. Uncle Ebb laughed and held Fred by the collar, and I began to cry out in terror presently when to my great relief she let go and ran away to her own people. They all went away to their wagons, save one young man who was tall with light hair and a fair skin and who looked like none of the other gypsies. Take care of yourself, he whispered as soon as the rest had gone. These are bad people. You'd better be off. The young man left us, and Uncle Ebb began to pack up at once. There were going to bed in their wagons when we came away. I stood in the basket and Fred drew the wagon that had in it only a few bundles. A mile or more further on we came to a lonely deserted cabin close to the road. It had began to thunder in the distance and the wind was blowing damp. Guess nobody lives here, said Uncle Ebb as he turned in at the sagging gate and began to cross the little patch of weeds and hollyhocks behind it. Door's half down, but I guess it'll do better than no house. Gonna rain, sartan! I was nodding a little about then, I remember, but I was wide awake when he took me out of the basket. The old house stood on a high hill and we could see the stars of heaven through the ruined door and one of the back windows. Uncle Ebb lifted the leaning door a little and shoved it aside. We heard then a quick stir in the old house. A loud and ghostly rattle, it seems now, as I think of it, like that made by linen shaking on the line. Uncle Ebb took a step backwards as if it had startled him. Guess it's nothing to be afraid of, he said, feeling in the pet of his coat. He had struck a match in a moment. By its flickering light I could see only a bit of rubbish on the floor. Full of white owls, said he, stepping inside where the rustling was now continuous. They'll do us no harm. I could see them now, flying about under the low ceiling. Uncle Ebb gathered and gathered an armful of grass and clover in the near field and spread it in a corner, well away from the ruined door and windows. Covered with our blanket it made a fairly comfortable bed. Soon as we had lain down the rain began to rattle on the shaky roof and flashes of lightning lit every corner of the old room. I have had ever a curious love of storms, and from the time when memory began its record in my brain it has delighted me to hear at night the roar of thunder and see the swift play of the lightning. I lay between Uncle Ebb and the old dog, who both went asleep shortly. Less worried I presumed than either of them, for I had done none of the carrying, and had slept a long time that day in the shade of a tree, I was awake an hour or more after they were snoring. Every flash lit the old room like the full glare of the noonday sun. I remember it showed me an old cradle, piled full of rubbish, a rusty scythe hung in the rotting sash of a window, a few lengths of stovepipe and a plow in one corner, and three staring white owls that sat on a beam above the doorway. The rain roared on the old roof shortly and came dripping down through the bare boards above us. A big drop struck in my face and I moved a little. Then I saw what made me hold my breath a moment and cover my head with the shawl. A flash of lightning revealed a tall, ragged man looking in at the doorway. I lay close to Uncle Ebb, imagining much evil of that vision, but made no outcry. Snugged in between my two companions, I felt reasonably secure and soon fell asleep. The sun streaming in at the open door roused me in the morning. At the beginning of each day of our journey I woke up to find Uncle Ebb cooking at the fire. He was lying beside me this morning, his eyes open. "'Fraid I'm hard sick,' he said as I kissed him. "'What's the matter?' I inquired. He struggled to a sitting posture, groaning, so it went to my heart. "'Room it is,' he answered presently. He got to his feet little by little and every move he made gave him great pain. With one hand on his cane and the other on my shoulder he made his way slowly to the broken gate. Even now I can see clearly the fair prospect of that high place, a valley reaching to distant hills and a river winding through it, glimmering in the sunlight, a long wooded ledge breaking into naked grassy slopes on one side of the valley and on the other a deep forest rolling to the far horizon. Between them big patches of yellow grain and white buckwheat and green pastureland and greener meadows and the straight road, with white houses on either side of it, glorious in a double fringe of goldenrod and purple aster and yellow John's wart and the deep blue of the Jacob's Ladder. "'Looks a good deal like the promised land,' said Uncle Eb. "'Ain't got much further to go.' He sat on the rotting threshold while I pulled some of the weeds in front of the doorstep and brought kindlings out of the house and built a fire. While we were eating I told Uncle Eb of the man that I had seen in the night. "'Guess he was dreaming,' he said, and while I stood firm for the reality of that I had seen, it held our thought only for a brief moment. My companion was unable to walk that day, so we lay by in the shelter of the old house, eating as little of our scanty store as we could do with. I went to a spring nearby for water and picked a good mess of blackberries that I hid away until suppertime, so as to surprise Uncle Eb. A longer day than that we spent in the old house after our coming I have never known. I made the room a bit tidier and gathered more grass for bedding. Uncle Eb felt better as the day grew warm. I had a busy time of it that morning, bathing his back in the spirits, and rubbing until my small arms ached. I have heard him tell often how vigorously I worked that day and how I would say, "'I'll take care of you, Uncle Eb, won't I, Uncle Eb?' as my little hands flew with redoubled energy on his bare skin. That finished we lay down sleeping until the sun was low, when I made ready the supper that took the last of everything we had to eat. Uncle Eb was more like himself that evening, and sitting up in the corner, as the darkness came, told me the story of Squirrel Town and Frog Ferry, which came to be so great a standby in those days that, even now, I can recall much of the language in which he told it. "'Once,' he said, there was a boy that had two gray squirrels in a cage. They kept thinking of the time they used to scamper in the tree tops and make nests and eat all the nuts they wanted, and play I spy in the thick leaves. And they grew poor and looked kind of ragged and sickly and downhearted. When he brought them outdoors, they used to look up in the trees and run in the wire-wheel, as if they thought they could get there some time if they kept going. As the boy grew older, he see it was cruel to keep them shut in a cage, but he had had them a long time and couldn't bear to give them up. One day he was out in the woods, a little back of the clearing. All at once he heard a swift holler. It was nearby and echoed so he couldn't tell which way it come from. He run for home, but the critter catched him before he got out of the woods, and he couldn't tell which way he would go, and took him into a cave and gave him to the little swifts to play with. The boy cried, terrible. The swifts, they laughed and nudged each other. Oh, ain't he cute, says one. He's a beauty, says another. Curious how he can get along without any fur, says the mother's swift, as she run her nose over his bare foot. He thought of his folks waiting for him, and he begged him to let him go. Then they come and smelt him over. You're such a cunning critter, says the mother's swift. We couldn't spare you. Want to see my mother, says the boy sobbing. Couldn't afford to let you go, you're so cute, says the swift. Bring the poor critter a bone and a bit of snake meat. The boy couldn't eat. They fixed a bed for him, but weren't clean. The feel of it made his back ache, and the smell of it made him sick to his stomach. When the swifts had company, they'd bring him over to look at him there in his dark corner. It's a boy, said the mother's swift, poking him with a long stick. Wouldn't you like to see him run? Then she punched him until he got up and ran around the cave for his life. Happened one day that a very benevolent swift came into the cave. It's a pity to keep the boy here, said he. He looks bad. But he makes fun for the children, said the swift. Fun that makes misery is only fit for a fool, said the visitor. They let him go that day. Soon as he got home he thought of the squirrels and was tickled to find them alive. He'd take them off to an island in the middle of a big lake that very day, and set the cage on the shore and opened it. He thought he would come back some time and see how they was getting along. The cage was made of light wire and had a tin bottom fastened to a big piece of plank. At Fuss they was afraid to leave it and peeked out of the door and scratched their heads as if they thought it a risky business. After a while one stepped out careful and then the other followed. They tried to climb a tree, but their nails was wore off and they kept falling back. Then they went off in the brush to find some nuts. There was only pines and poppies and white birch and a few berry bushes on the island. They went to the water's edge on every side, but there was nothing there a squirrel had to give a flirt of his tail fur. It was near dark when they came back to the cage, hungry as two bears. They found a few crumbs of bread in the cup and divided them even. Then they went to bed in their old nest. It had been raining a week in the mountains. That night the lake rose a foot or more and for morning the cage began to rock a teeny bit as the water lifted the plank. They slept all the better for that and they dreamed they was up in a tree at the end of a big bow. The cage began to sway sideways and then it let go on the shore and spun round once or twice and sailed out in the deep water. There was a light breeze blowing offshore and pretty soon it was pitching like a ship in the sea. But the two squirrels was very tired and never woke up till sunrise. They got a terrible scare when they see the water round them and felt the motion of the ship. Both of them ran into the wire wheel and that bore down the stern of the ship so the underwires touched the water. They made it spin like a buzz saw and got their clothes all wet. The ship went faster when they worked the wheel and by and by they got tired and come out on the main deck. The water washed over it a little so they climb up the roof that was a kind of a hurricane deck. It made the ship sway and rock fearful but they hung on midships and clung to the handle that stuck up like a top mast. Their big tails was spread over their shoulders and the wind rose and the ship went faster and faster. They could see the main shore where the big woods come down to the water and all the while it kept a common nearer and nearer. But they were so hungry didn't seem possible they could live to get there. You know squirrels are a saving people. In the day of plenty they think of the day of poverty and lay by for it. All at once one of them thought of a few kernels of corn. He had pushed through a little crack in the tin floor one day a long time ago. It happened there was quite a hole under the crack and each of them had stored some kernels unbeknown to the other. So they had a good supper and some left for a bite in the morning. Four daylight the ship made her pot and lay to side live a log in a little cove. The bullfrogs jumped on her main deck and began to holler soon as she hoved to. All ashore, all ashore, all ashore. The two squirrels woke up but lay quiet till the sun rose. Then they come out on the log it looked like a long dock and run ashore and found some of their own folks in the bush. And when they bed-told their story the old father of the tribe got up in a tree and hollered himself hoarse preaching about how it paid to be savin'. And we should learn to save our wisdom as well as our nuts, said a sassy brother, for each needs his own wisdom for his own affairs. And the little ship went back and forth across the cove as the wind blew. The squirrels had many a fine ride in her and the frogs were the ferrymen. And all along that shore it was known as Frog Fairy among the squirrel, folks. It was very dark when he finished the tale and as we lay gaping a few minutes after my last query about those funny people of the lake margin I could hear nothing but the chirping of the crickets. I was feeling a bit sleepy when I heard the boards creak above our heads. Uncle Eb raised himself and lay braced upon his elbow listening. In a few moments we heard a sound as of someone coming softly down the ladder at the other end of the room. It was so dark I could see nothing. Who's there? Uncle Eb demanded. Don't point that gun at me, somebody whispered. This is my home and I warn you to leave it or I'll do you harm. End of Chapter 4 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 5 of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Eben Holden A Tale of the North Country by Irving Batchelor Chapter 5 Here I shall quote you again from the diary of Uncle Eb. It was so dark I couldn't see a hand before me. Don't point your gun at me, the man whispered. Thought it was funny he could see me when I couldn't see him. Said it was his home and we'd better leave. Told him I was sick, rumoured it is, and couldn't stir. Said he was sorry and came over near us. Told him I was an old man going west with a small boy. Stopped in the rain, got sick, out of provisions. Bow ready to die. Didn't know what to do. Started to strike a match and the man said don't make no light because I don't want to have you see my face. Never let nobody see my face. Said he never went out lest it was a dark night until folks was a bed. Said we look like good folks. Scared me a little because we couldn't see a thing. Also he said don't be afraid of me. Do what I can for you. I remember the man crossed the creaking floor and sat down near us after he had parlayed with Uncle Eb a while and whispers. Young as I was I keep a vivid impression of that night and aided by the diary of Uncle Eb. I have made a record of what was said that is in the main accurate. Do you know where you are? He inquired presently, whispering as he had done before. I have no idea, said Uncle Eb. Well, down the hill is Paradise Valley in the township a far away, he continued. It's the end of Paradise Road and a pretty country. Ben settled a long time and the farms are big and prosperous. Kind of a land to plenty. That big house at the foot of the hill is Dave Brower's. He's the richest man in the valley. How do you happen to be living here if you don't mind telling me? Uncle Eb asked. Crazy, said he. Freight of everybody and everybody's free to me. Lived a good long time in this way. Winters I go into the big woods. Got a camp in a big cave and when I'm there I see a little daylight. Here in the clearing I'm only up in the night time. That's how I've come to see so well in the dark. It gives me cat eyes. Don't you get lonesome? Uncle Eb asked. Awful, sometimes, he answered with a sad sigh. And it seems good to talk with somebody besides myself. I get enough to eat, generally. There are deer in the woods and cows in the fields, you know, and potatoes and corn and berries and apples, and all that kind of thing. Then I've got my traps in the woods where I catch partridges and squirrels and coons and all the meat I need. I've got a place in the thick timber to do my cooking. All I want to do in the middle of the night. Sometimes I come here and spend a day in the garret, if I'm caught in a storm, or if I happen to stay a little too late in the valley. Once in a great while I meet a man somewhere in the open, but he always gets away quick as he can. Guess they think I'm a ghost. Don't know what I think of them. Our host went on talking as if he were glad to tell the secrets of his heart to some creature of his own kind. I have often wondered at his frankness, but there was a fatherly tenderness, I remember, in the voice of Uncle Ebb, and I judge it tempted his confidence. Probably the love of companionship can never be so dead in a man, but that the voice of kindness may call it back to life again. I'll bring you a bite to eat before morning," he said, presently, as he rose to go. Let me feel your hand, Mr. Uncle Ebb gave him his hand and thanked him. Feels good! First I've had hold of in a long time, he whispered. What's the day of the month? The twenty-fifth. I must remember. Where did you come from? Uncle Ebb told him briefly the story of our going west. Guess you'd never do me no harm, would you? the man asked. Not a bit, Uncle Ebb answered. Then he bade us good-bye, crossed the creaking floor, and went away in the darkness. Singular character, Uncle Ebb muttered. I was getting drowsy, and that was the last I heard. In the morning we found a small pail of milk sitting near us, a roasted partridge, two fried fish, and some boiled potatoes. It was more than enough to carry us through the day with a fair allowance for Fred. Uncle Ebb was a bit better, but very lame at that, and kept to his bed the greater part of the day. The time went slow with me, I remember. Uncle Ebb was not cheerful and told me but one story, and that had no life in it. At dusk he'd let me go out in the road to play a while with Fred and the wagon, but came to the door and called us in shortly. I went to bed in a rather unhappy frame of mind. The dog roused me by barking in the middle of the night, and I heard again the familiar whisper of the stranger. Sh! be still, dog! he whispered. But I was up to my ears and sleep, and went under shortly, so I have no knowledge of what passed that night. Uncle Ebb tells in his diary that he had a talk with him lasting more than an hour, but goes no further and never seemed willing to talk much about that interview or others that followed it. I only know the man had brought more milk and fish and fowl for us. We stayed another day in the old house that went like the last, and the night man came again to see Uncle Ebb. The next morning my companion was able to walk more freely, but Fred and I had to stop and wait for him very often going down the big hill. I was mighty glad when we were leaving the musty old house for good, and had the dog hitched with all our traps in the wagon. It was a bright morning, and the sunlight glimmered on the dew in the broad valley. The men were just coming from breakfast when we turned in at David Browers. A barefooted little girl, a bit older than I, with red cheeks and blue eyes, and long curly hair that shone like gold in the sunlight, came running out to meet us and led me up to the doorstep, highly amused at the sight of Fred and the wagon. I regarded her with curiosity and suspicion at first, while Uncle Ebb was talking with the men. I shall never forget that moment when David Brower came and lifted me by the shoulders, high above his head, and shook me, as if to test my metal. He led me into the house, then, where his wife was working. What do you think of this small bit of a boy? he asked. She had already knelt on the floor and put her arms about my neck and kissed me. I am no home, said he. Come all the way from Vermont with an old man. There wore out both of them. Guess we had better take them in a while. Oh, yes, mother, please, mother, put in the little girl who was holding my hand. He can sleep with me, mother. Please let him stay. She knelt beside me and put her arms around my little shoulders and drew me to her breast and spoke to me very tenderly. Please let him stay, the girl pleaded again. David, said the woman, I couldn't turn the little thing away. Won't you hand me those cookies? And so our life began in Paradise Valley. Ten minutes later I was playing my first game of I spy with little Hope Brower, among the fragrant stalks of weed in the field back of the garden. End of Chapter 5 Recording by Roger Moline Chapter 6 of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Moline Eben Holden A Tale of the North Country by Irving Batchelor Chapter 6 The lone pine stood in Brower's pasture, just clear of the woods. When the sun rose one could see its taper shadows stretching away to the foot of woody ledge, and at sunset it lay like a fallen mast athwart the cow-pads, its long top arm a flying pennant on the side of Bowman's Hill. In summer this bar of shadow moved like a clock hand on the green dial of the pasture, and the help could tell the time by the slant of it. Lone Pine had a mighty girth at the bottom, and its bare body tapered into the sky as straight as an arrow. Uncle Ebb used to say that its one long naked branch that swung and creaked near the top of it, like a sign of hospitality on the highway of the birds, was two hundred feet above ground. There were a few stubs here in their upon-it shaft, the roost of crows and owls and hen-hawks. It must have passed for a low resort in the feathered kingdom, because it was only the robbers of the sky that halted on Lone Pine. This towering shaft of dead timber commemorated the ancient forest through which the northern Yankees cut their trails in the beginning of the century. They were a tall, big-fisted, brony lot of men who came across the Adirondacks from Vermont, and began to break the green canopy that for ages had covered the valley of the St. Lawrence. Generally they drove a cow with them, and such game as they could kill on the journey supplemented their diet of pudding and milk. Some settled where the wagon broke, or where they had buried a member of the family, and there they cleared the forests the once covered the smooth acres of today. Gradually the rough surface of the trail grew smoother until it became Paradise Road, the well-worn thoroughfare of the stagecoach with its ins and outs, as the drivers used to say, the ins where the menfolk sat at the firelight of the blazing logs after supper and told tales of adventure until bedtime, while the women sat with their knitting in the parlor and the young men wrestled in the stable-yard. The men of middle age had stooped and massive shoulders and deep-furrowed brows. Tell one of them he was growing old and he might answer you by holding his whip in front of him and leaping over it between his hands. There was a little clearing around that big pine tree when David Brower settled in the valley. Its shadows shifting in the light of sun and moon, like the arm of a compass, swept the spreading acres of his farm, and he built his house some forty rods from the foot of it on higher ground. David was the oldest of thirteen children. His father had died the year before he came to St. Lawrence County, leaving him nothing but heavy responsibilities. Fortunately his great strength and his kindly nature were equal to the burden. Mother and children were landed safely in their new home on Bowman's Hill, the day that David was eighteen. I have heard the old folks of that country tell what a splendid figure of a man he was those days. Six feet one in his stockings and broad at the shoulder. His eyes were gray and set under heavy brows. I have never forgotten the big man that laid hold of me and the broad, clean-shaven, serious face that looked into mine the day I came to Paradise Valley. As I write I can see plainly his dimpled chin, his large nose, his firm mouth that was the key to his character. Open or shut, I have heard the old folks say. It showed he was no fool. After two years David took a wife and settled in Paradise Valley. He prospered in a small way, considered handsome thereabouts. In a few years he had cleared the rich acres of his farm to the sugar-bush that was the north vestibule of the big forest. He had seen the clearing widen until he could discern the bare summits of the distant hills, and far as he could see were the neat white houses of the settlers. Children had come, three of them, the eldest, a son who had left home and died in a far country, long before we came to Paradise Valley, the youngest, a baby. I could not have enjoyed my new home more if I had been born in it. I had much need of a mother's tenderness, no doubt, for I remember with what a sense of peace and comfort I lay on the lap of Elizabeth Brower that first evening, and heard her singing as she rocked. The little daughter stood at her knees, looking down at me and patting my bare toes, or reaching over to feel my face. God sent him to us, didn't he, mother? said she. Maybe, Mrs. Brower answered, we'll be good to him anyway. Then that old query came into my mind. I asked them if it was heaven where we were. No, they answered. Taint anywhere near here, is it? I went on. Then she told me about the Gate of Death, and began sewing in me the seed of God's truth, as I know now the seed of many harvests. I slept with Uncle Ebb in the garret that night, and for long after we came to the Browers. He continued to get better, and was shortly able to give his hand to the work of the farm. There was room for all of us in that ample wilderness of his imagination, and the cry of the swift woke its echoes every evening for a time. Bears and Panthers prowled in the deep thickets, but the swift took a firmer grip on us, being bolder and more terrible. Uncle Ebb became a great favorite in the family, and David Brower came to know soon that he was a good man to work, and could be trusted to look after things. We had not been there long when I heard Elizabeth speak of Nehemiah, her lost son, and his name was often on the lips of others. He was a boy of sixteen when he went away, and I learned no more of him until long afterwards. A month or more after we came to far away, I remember we went cross lots in a big box wagon to the orchard on the hill, and gathered apples that fell in the shower when Uncle Ebb went up to shake them down. Then came the raw days of late October, when the crows went flying southward before the wind, a noisy pirate fleet that filled the sky at times, and when we all put on our mittens and went down the winding cow paths to the grove of butternuts in the pasture. The great roof of the wilderness had turned red and faded into yellow. Soon its rafters began to show through, and then, in a day or two, they were all bare but for some patches of evergreen. Great golden drifts of foliage lay higher than a man's head in the timberland about the clearing. We had our best fun, then, playing eye-spy in the groves. In that fragrant deep of leaves one might lie undiscovered a long time. He could hear roaring like that of water at every move of the finder, wallowing nearer and nearer possibly in his search. Old Fred came generally rooting his way to us in the deep drift with unearing accuracy. And shortly winter came out of the north, and of a night, after wrapping at the windows and howling in the chimney and roaring in the big woods, took possession of the earth. That was a time when hard cider flowed freely and recollection found a ready tongue among the older folk, and the young enjoyed many diversions, including measles and whooping cough. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Roger Moline