Gabriel Tolliver. Joel Chandler Harris

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ of Contents

      The serene repose of Shady Dale no doubt stood for dulness and lack of progress in that day and time. In all ages of the world, and in all places, there are men of restless but superficial minds, who mistake repose and serenity for stagnation. No doubt then, as now, the most awful sentence to be passed on a community was to say that it was not progressive. But when you examine into the matter, what is called progress is nothing more nor less than the multiplication of the resources of those who, by means of dicker and barter, are trying all the time to overreach the public and their fellows, in one way and another. This sort of thing now has a double name; it is called civilisation, as well as progress, and those who take things as they find them in their morning newspaper, without going to the trouble to reflect for themselves, are no doubt duly impressed by terms that are large enough to fill both the ear and mouth at one and the same time.

      Well, whatever serene repose stands for, Shady Dale possessed it in an eminent degree, and the people there had their full share of the sorrows and troubles of this world, as Madame Awtry, or Miss Puella Gillum, or Neighbour Tomlin, or even that cheerful philosopher, Mr. Billy Sanders, could have told you; but of these Nan and Gabriel and Cephas knew nothing except in a vague, indefinite way. They heard hints of rumours, and sometimes they saw their elders shaking their heads as they gossiped together, but the youngsters lived in a world of their own, a world apart, and the vague rumours were no more interesting to them than the reports of canals on Mars are to the average person to-day. He reads in his newspaper that the markings in Mars are supposed to be canals; whereat he smiles and reflects that these canals can do him no harm. Nan and Gabriel and Cephas were as far from contemporary troubles as we are from Mars. The most serious trouble they had was not greater than that which they discovered one day on the Bermuda hill. As they were sitting on the warm grass, wondering how long before peaches would be ripe, they saw a field mouse cutting up some queer capers. Nan was not very friendly with mice, and she instinctively gathered up her skirts; but she did not run; her curiosity was ever greater than her fear. Presently we found that the troubles of Mother Mouse were very real. A tremendous black beetle had invaded her nest, and had seized one of her children, a little bit of a thing, naked and red and about the size of a half-ripe mulberry. We tried hard to rescue the mouse from the beetle, but soon found that it was quite dead. Cephas crushed the beetle, which was as venomous-looking a bug as they had ever seen. Was the beetle preparing to eat the mouse? Tasma Tid said yes, but Gabriel thought not. His idea was that the Mother Mouse had attacked the beetle, which was blindly crawling about, and had fallen in the nest accidentally. The beetle, striving to defend itself, had seized the mouse between its pinchers, and held it there until it was quite dead.

      But the Bermuda fields were not the only resource of the children. There were seasons when Uncle Plato, who was Meriwether Clopton's carriage-driver, came to town with the big waggon to haul home the supplies necessary for the plantation; loads of bagging and rope; cases of brogan shoes, and hats for the negroes; and bales on bales of osnaburgs and blankets. The appearance of the Clopton waggon on the public square was hailed by these youngsters with delight. They always made a rush for it, and, in riding back and forth with Uncle Plato, they spent some of the most delightful moments of their lives.

      And then in the fall season, there was the big gin running at the Clopton place, with old Beck, the blind mule, going round and round, turning the cogged and pivoted post that set the machinery in motion. But the youngsters rarely grew tired of riding back and forth with Uncle Plato. He was the one person in the world who catered most completely to their whims, who was most responsive to their budding and eager fancies, and who entered most enthusiastically into the regions created and peopled by Nan's skittish and fantastic imagination.

      These children had their critics, as may well be supposed, especially Nan, who did not always conform to the rules and theories which have been set up for the guidance of girls; but Uncle Plato, along with Gabriel and Cephas, accepted her as she was, with all her faults, and took as much delight in her tricksy and capricious behaviour, as if he were responsible for it all. She and her companions furnished Uncle Plato with what all story-tellers have most desired since hairy man began to shave himself with pumice-stone, and squat around a common hearth—a faithful and believing audience. Uncle Æsop, it may be, cared less for his audience than for the opportunity of lugging in a dismal and perfunctory moral. Uncle Plato, like Uncle Remus, concealed his behind text and adventure, conveying it none the less completely on that account. Not one of his vagaries was too wild for the acceptance of his small audience, and the elusiveness of his methods was a perpetual delight to Nan, as hers was to Uncle Plato, though he sometimes shook his head, and pretended to sigh over her innocent evasions.

      Once when we were all riding back and forth from the Clopton Place to Shady Dale, Nan asked Uncle Plato if he could spell.

      "Tooby sho I kin, honey. What you reckon I been doin' all deze long-come-shorts ef I dunner how ter spell? How you speck I kin git 'long, haulin' an' maulin', ef I dunner how ter spell? Why, I could spell long 'fo' I know'd my own name."

      "Long-come-shorts, what are they?" asked Nan.

      "Rainy days an' windy nights," responded Uncle Plato, throwing his head back, and closing his eyes.

      "Let's hear you spell, then," said Nan.

      "Dee-o-egg, dog," was the prompt response. Nan looked at Uncle Plato to see if he was joking, but he was solemnity itself. "E-double-egg, egg!" he continued.

      "Now spell John A. Murrell," said Nan. Murrell, the land pirate, was one of her favourite heroes at this time.

      Uncle Plato pretended to be very much shocked. "Why, honey, dat man wuz rank pizen. En spozen he wa'nt, how you speck me ter spell sump'n er somebody which I ain't never laid eyes on? How I gwineter spell Johnny Murrell, an' him done dead dis many a long year ago?"

      "Well, spell goose, then," said Nan, seeing a flock of geese marching stiffly in single file across a field near the road.

      Uncle Plato looked at them carefully enough to take their measure, and then shook his head solemnly. "Deyer so many un um, honey, dey'd be monstus hard fer ter spell."

      "Well, just spell one of them then," Nan suggested.

      "Which un, honey?"

      "Any one you choose."

      Uncle Plato studied over the matter a moment, and again shook his head. "Uh-uh, honey; dat ain't nigh gwine ter do. Ef you speck me fer ter spell goose, you got ter pick out de one you want me ter spell."

      "Well, spell the one behind all the rest."

      Again Uncle Plato shook his head. "Dat ar goose got half-grown goslin's, an' I ain't never larnt how ter spell goose wid half-grown goslin's. You ax too much, honey."

      "Then spell the one next to head." Nan was inexorable.

      "Dat ar ain't no goose," replied Uncle Plato, with an air of triumph; "she's a gander."

      "I don't believe you know how to spell goose," said Nan, with something like scorn.

      "Don't you fool yo'se'f, honey," remarked Uncle Plato in a tone of confidence. "You git me a great big fat un, not too ol', an' not too young, an' fill 'er full er stuffin', an' bake 'er brown in de big oven, an' save all de drippin's, an' put 'er on de table not fur fum whar I mought be settin' at, an' gi' me a pone er corn bread, an' don't have no talkin' an' laughin' in de game—an' ef I don't spell dat goose, I'll come mighty nigh it, I sholy will. Ef I don't spell 'er, dey won't be nuff lef' fer de nex' man ter spell. You kin 'pen' on dat, honey."

      Nan suddenly called Uncle Plato's attention СКАЧАТЬ