LITMIR.BIZ

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      Babylon, Volume 1

      CHAPTER I. RURAL AMERICA

      Whar’s Hiram, Het?’ Deacon Zephaniah Winthrop asked of his wife, tartly. ‘Pears to me that boy’s allus off somewhar, whenever he’s wanted to do anything. Can’t git along without him, any way, when we’ve got to weed the spring peppermint. Whar’s he off, I say, Mehitabel?’

      Mrs. Winthrop drew herself together from the peas she was languidly shelling, and answered in the dry withered tone of a middle-aged northern New Yorker, ‘Wal, I s’pose, Zeph, he’s gone down to the blackberry lot, most likely.’

      ‘Blackberry lot,’ Mr. Winthrop replied with a fine air of irony. ‘Blackberry lot, indeed. What does he want blackberryin’, I should like to know? I’ll blackberry him, I kin tell you, whenever I ketch him. Jest you go an’ holler for him, Het, an’ ef he don’t come ruther sooner’n lightnin’, he’ll ketch it, an’ no mistake, sure as preachin’. I’ve got an orful itchin’, Mis’ Winthrop, to give that thar boy a durned good cow-hidin’ this very minnit.’

      Mrs. Winthrop rose from the basket of peas and proceeded across the front yard with as much alacrity as she could summon up, to call for Hiram. She was a tall, weazened, sallow woman, prematurely aged, with a pair of high cheekbones, and a hard, hungry-looking, unlovable mouth; but she was averse to the extreme and unnecessary measure of cowhiding her firstborn. ‘Hiram,’ she called out, in her loudest and shrillest voice: ‘Hiram!

      Drat the boy, whar is he? Hiram! Hi-ram!’ It was a dreary and a monotonous outlook altogether, that view from the gate of Zephaniah Winthrop’s freehold farm in Geauga County. The homestead itself, an unpainted frame house, consisted of planed planks set carelessly one above the other on upright beams, stood in a weedy yard, surrounded by a raw-looking paling, and unbeautified by a single tree, creeper, shrub, bush, or scented flower. A square house, planted naked in the exact centre of a square yard, desolate and lonely, as though such an idea as that of beauty had never entered into the human heart. In front the long straight township road ran indefinitely as far as the eye could reach in either direction, beginning at the horizon on the north, and ending at the horizon on the south, but leading nowhere in particular, that anyone ever heard of, meanwhile, unless it were to Muddy Creek Dépôt (pronounced deepo) on the Rome, Watertown, and Ogdens-burg Railroad. At considerable intervals along its course, a new but congenitally shabby gate opened here and there into another bare square yard, and gave access to another bare square frame house of unpainted pine planks. In the blanks between these oases of unvarnished ugliness the road, instead of being bordered by green trees and smiling hedgerows, pursued its gaunt way, unrejoicing, between open fields or long and hideous snake fences. If you have ever seen a snake fence, you know what that means; if you haven’t seen one, sit down in your own easy chair gratefully and comfortably, and thank an indulgent heaven with all your heart for your happy ignorance.

      Beyond and behind the snake fences lay fields of wheat and meadows and pasture land; not, as in England, green and lush with grass or clover, but all alike bare, brown, weedy, and illimitable. There were no trees to be seen anywhere (though there were plenty of stumps), for this was ‘a very fully settled section,’ as Mr. Winthrop used to murmur to himself complacently: ‘the country thar real beautiful: you might look about you, some parts, for a mile or two right away togither and never see a single tree a-standin’ anywhar.’ Indeed, it was difficult to imagine where on earth a boy could manage to hide himself in all that long, level, leafless district. But Mrs. Winthrop knew better: she knew Hiram was loafing away somewhere down in the blackberry lot beside the river.

      ‘Lot’ is a cheap and nasty equivalent in the great American language for field, meadow, croft, copse, paddock, and all the other beautiful and expressive old-world names which denote in the tongue of the old country our own time-honoured English inclosures. And the blackberry lot, at the bottom of the farm, was the one joy and delight of young Hiram Winthrop’s boyish existence. Though you could hardly guess it, as seen from the farm, there was a river running in the hollow down yonder-Muddy Creek, in fact, which gave its own euphonious name to the naked little Dépôt; not here muddy, indeed, as in its lower reaches, but clear and limpid from the virgin springs of the Gilboa hillsides. Beside the creek, there stretched a waste lot, too rough and stony to be worth the curse of cultivation; and on that lot the blackberry bushes grew in wild profusion, and the morning-glories opened their great pink bells blushingly to the early sun, and the bobolinks chattered in the garish noontide, and the grey squirrels hid by day among the stunted trees, and the chipmunks showed their painted sides for a moment as they darted swiftly in and out from hole to hole amid the tangled brushwood. What a charmed spot it seemed to the boy’s mind, that one solitary patch of undesecrated nature, in the midst of so many blackened stumps, and so much first-rate fall wheat, and such endless, hopeless, dreary hillocks of straight rowed, dry leaved, tillering Indian corn!

      ‘Hiram! Hiram! Hi-ram!’ cried Mrs. Winthrop, growing every moment shriller and shriller.

      Hiram heard, and leaped from the brink at once, though a kingfisher was at that very moment eyeing him with head on one side from the half-concealing foliage of the basswood tree opposite. ‘Yes, marm,’ he answered submissively, showing himself as fast as he was able in the pasture above the blackberry lot. ‘Wal! What is it?’

      ‘Hiram,’ his mother said, as soon as he was within convenient speaking distance, ‘you come right along in here, sonny. Where was you, say? Here’s father swearin he’ll thrash you for goin’ loafin’. He wants you jest to come in at once and help weed the peppermint. I guess you’ve bin down in the blackberry lot, fishin’, or suthin’.’

      ‘I ain’t bin fishin’,’ Hiram answered, with a certain dogged, placid resignation. ‘I’ve bin lookin’ around, and that’s so, mother. On’y lookin’ around at the chipmunks an’ bobolinks, ’cause I was dreadful tired.’

      ‘Tired of what?’ asked his mother, not uncompassionately.

      ‘Planin’,’ Hiram answered, with a nod. ‘Planks. Father give me forty planks to plane, an’ I’ve done’em.’

      ‘Wal, mind he don’t thrash you, Hiram,’ the sallow-faced woman said, warningly, with as much tenderness in her voice as lay within the compass of her nature. ‘He’s orful mad with you now, ‘cause you didn’t answer immejately when he hollered.’

      ‘Then why don’t he holler loud enough?’ asked Hiram, in an injured tone – he was an ill-clad boy of about twelve – ‘I can’t never hear him down lot yonder.’

      ‘What’s that you got in your pocket, sir?’ Mr. Winthrop puts in, coming up unexpectedly to the pair on the long, straight, blinking high-road. ‘What’s that, naow, eh, sonny?’

      Hiram pulls the evidence of guilt slowly out of his rough tunic. ‘Injuns,’ he answers, shortly, in the true western laconic fashion.

      Mr. Winthrop examines the object carelessly. It is a bit of blackish stone, rudely chipped into shape, and ground at one end to an artificial edge with some nicety of execution.

      ‘Injuns!’ he echoes contemptuously, dashing it on the path: ‘Injuns! Oh yes, this is Injuns! An’ what’s Injuns? Heathens, outlandish heathens; and a drunken, p’isonous crowd at that, too. The noble red man is a fraud; Injuns must go. It allus licks my poor finite understandin’ altogether why the Lord should ever have run this great continent so long with nothin’ better’n Injuns. It’s one o’ them mysteries o’ Providence that ‘taint given us poor wums to comprehend daown here, noways. Wal, they’re all cleared out of this section naow, anyway, and why a lad that’s brought up a Chrischun and Hopkinsite should want to go grubbin’ up their knives and things in this cent’ry is a caution to me, that’s what it is, a reg’lar caution.’

      ‘This ain’t a knife,’ Hiram answered, still doggedly. ‘This is a tommyhawk. Injun knives ain’t made like this ‘ere. I’ve had knives, and they’re quite a different kinder pattern.’

      Mr. Winthrop shook his head solemnly.

      ‘Seems to me,’ he said with a loud snort, ‘’taint right of any believin’ boy goin’ lookin’ up these heathenish things, mother. He’s allus bringin’ ‘em home – arrowheads, he calls ‘em, and tommyhawks, and Lord knows what rubbish – when he ought to be weedin’ in the peppermint lot, an’ earnin’ his livin’. Why wasn’t you here, eh, sonny? Why wasn’t you?

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