A Son of the Hills. Harriet T. Comstock

harmless folk, but when whiskey overpowered them the men became dully brutal, the women wretchedly slavish, and the children what one might expect such sad little creatures to become! Lacking in intellect, misshapen and timid, they rustled among the underbrush like frightened animals; peered forth like uncanny gnomes, and ate and slept how and as they could.

      After the Civil War these people became "poor whites" and were ground between the nether millstone of their more prosperous neighbours and that of the blacks, until they sank to the lowest level. Their voices were hushed and forgotten; their former estate blotted out in their present degradation, and just then Sandy Morley and Cynthia Walden were born and some high and just God seemed to strengthen their childish voices; vouchsafe to them a vision and give their Inheritance charge over them.

      Marriage form was not largely in vogue among the Lost Hollow people; it was too expensive and unnecessary. The rector of the small church at The Forge looked upon the hill people as altogether beyond and below the need of any attention of his, and was genuinely surprised and annoyed when one of them called upon him for service. He had not come to The Forge from an ardour to save souls; he had been placed there because he had not been wanted elsewhere, and he was rebellious and bitter. Occasionally he was summoned to the mountain fastnesses for a burial or wedding, but he showed his disapproval of such interferences with his dignified rights, and was not imposed upon often. But Martin Morley, Sandy's father, had married Sandy's mother. She was a Forge girl who believed in Martin and loved him, so he took her boldly to the parsonage, paid for the service the rector performed, and went his way.

      There was one happy year following in the Morley cabin under Lost Mountain. Martin worked as he never had before; the hut was mended without and made homelike within. The little wife sang at her tasks and inspired Martin to a degree of fervour that brought him to the conclusion that he must get away! Get away from the poverty and squalor of The Hollow; get away farther than The Forge—far, far away!

      "After the baby comes!" the little wife whispered, "we'll take it to a better, sunnier place and—give it a chance!"

      The baby came on a bad, stormy night. Sandford Morley they called him. The Forge doctor, travelling up The Way, stopped at the Morley cabin for a bite of supper and found how things were. Sally Taber was in command, and Martin, frightened and awed, crouched by the chimney corner in the living-room, while his girl-wife (she was much younger than he) made her desperate fight.

      "There's only a broken head or two up at Teale's Blind Tiger," the doctor said grimly; "they can wait, I reckon, while I steer this youngster into port." The doctor had come from the coast on account of his lungs and his speech still held the flavour of the sea.

      Sandy Morley made a difficult mooring with more vigour and determination than one would have expected, but the cost was great. All night the battle waged. The doctor, with coat off and haggard face, fought with the little mother inch by inch, but at sunrise, just two hours after Sandy lustily announced his arrival, she let go the hand of her husband who knelt by her hard, narrow bed, and whispered in the dialect of her hills, "Youcum!"—which meant that Morley must come to her some where, some how, some time, for she no longer could bide with him.

      After that Martin stayed on in the cabin with the baby. One woman after another lent her aid in an hour of need, but on the whole Sandy and his father made it out together as best they could. The little, clinging fingers held Martin back for a time—the boy had his mother's fine, clear eyes and when he looked at Martin something commanded the man to stand firm. In those days Martin found comfort in religion and became a power at the camp meetings; his prayers were renowned far and near, but the evil clutched him in an unguarded hour and one bleak, dreary springtime he met the Woman Mary and—let go! That was when Sandy was seven. He brought Mary to the cabin and almost shamefacedly explained, to the wondering boy, his act.

      "Son, she's come to take care of us—mind your ways, lad."

      Sandy gave Mary's handsome smiling face one quick look, then fled down the hill, across the bottom pasture and Branch, up on the farther side to the woods—his sanctury and haven, and there, lifting his eyes and little clenched fists, he moaned over and over:

      "Curse her! curse her! I hate her!"

      He had never hated before; never cursed, but at that moment he cursed that which he hated.

      It was early spring then, and under the tall, dark trees the dogwood bushes were in full bloom. Sandy was touched, always, by beauty, and in his excited state he thought in that desperate hour that the dogwood blossoms were like stars under a stormy cloud. Heaven seemed reaching down to him, and closing him in—his thoughts were tinged by Martin's religious outbursts and the native superstition of the hills. It was then and there that the child first knew he must go away! The call was distinct and compelling—he must go away! And from that hour he made preparation. At first the effort was small and pitiful. He began to gather whatever Nature provided freely, and turn it into money. With shrewd perception he realized he must overcome his deadly shyness and carry his wares farther than The Hollow if he wished to achieve that upon which he was bent. The Hollow people were poor; The Forge people would give food and clothing for berries and sassafras roots; but Sandy demanded money or that which could be exchanged for money, and so he travelled far with his basket of fragrant berries or shining nuts and in time he found himself at the Waldens' back door facing a tall black woman, in turban and kerchief, with the child Cynthia beside her.

      "Do you-all want to buy eight quarts of wild strawberries?" he asked in that low fine voice of his.

      "Buy?" demanded Lily Ivy scornfully. "Miss Cyn, honey, go fotch Miss Ann and tell her one ob dem Morleys is here axing us-all to buy his berries, and him in shreds and tatters!"

      Presently Cynthia returned with her aunt. Miss Walden was then sixty, but she looked seventy-five at least; she was a stern, detached woman who dealt with things individually and as she could—she never sought to comprehend that which was not writ large and clear. She was not a dull nor an ignorant woman, but she had been carried on the sluggish current of life with small effort or resistance. She did her task and made no demands.

      "So you're Morley's boy?" she asked curiously; she had still the interest of the great lady for her dependents. The Morleys had become long since "poor whites," but Ann Walden knew their traditions. The family had slunk into hiding ever since Martin had taken the Woman Mary into his cabin, and Miss Walden was surprised and aroused to find one of them coming to the surface at her back door with so unusual a request as Cynthia had repeated.

      "Yes, ma'am;" Sandy replied, his strange eyes fixed upon the calm old face.

      "And what do you want?"

      "I want to sell eight quarts of strawberries, ma'am. They are five cents a quart; that's what they are giving down to The Forge."

      "Then why don't you take them to The Forge?"

      "The heat, ma'am, will wilt them. They are right fresh now—I thought I'd give you-all the first chance."

      "And you want money for the berries—and you in rags and starved, I warrant?"

      "Yes, ma'am."

      Ann Walden grew more interested.

      "Would you—take eggs for them?" she asked; "eggs are bringing twenty cents a dozen now."

      "Yes, ma'am."

      "How do I know you are honest? How do I know the basket isn't stuffed with leaves in the bottom? What's your name?"

      "Sandy, ma'am. And please, ma'am, you can measure the berries."

      "Ivy, bring the quart measure, and the earthen bowl."

      When the implements were brought, Miss Walden took things in her own hands, while Ivy, with the disdain of the old family black servant for the poor white, stood by like an avenging Fate. The child Cynthia was all a-tremble. She was young, lovely, and vital. Youth took up arms for youth, and watched the outcome with jealous and anxious eyes.

      "One, two, three——" the rich, fragrant fruit fell into the bowl with luscious, soft thuds; the red juice oozed out like fresh