Chapter I

He was passing my cabin late at night, and unexpectedly found me sitting on the moonlit doorstep. I was not longing for conversation, but Sam’s voice, as mere sound, was no more interruptive than purling water or a cajoling minor wind. It mellowed its way over uncouth words in a manner that seemed to be its owner’s gentle amends for using anything in your presence so angular and knotty as the language of man.

“I thought,” he said, “maybe I could ketch that coon what uses over in Grape Vine Cove; but my dog Buck got onter a fox-trail, an’ coon wasn’t nothin’ to him after that. I knowed that fox ’ud take him to Katter Knob, so I let him go on by hissef an’ I shammucked along toward home.”

There was no hint in his easy air that he had broken my rule against hunting in springtime. Any Merlin would violate any rule occasionally, as a matter of self-respect; and of all the Merlins, Sam was the least capable of inferior misgiving. His whole mental interior was as bare of obeisance as an iceberg of things that grow.

“I could ’a’ chivvied that fox out if I had gone after him; but if a man don’t sleep he’s weak at the plough-handles. Yore work first, Mis’ Dolly.”

But a falling moon was marking 1 A. M.

“That fox-hide would ’a’ brought me four dollars, an’ Krettie keeps pesterin’ me fer a pair o’ shoes. My head might as well be under the forestick. But she’ll jest have to make out.”

This was clearly an impeachment, but I made no defense, and he passed to a topic with, presumably, no implications.

“Yer company comin’ to-morr’, I reckon?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“So ye’re enjoyin’ yersef to-night.”

I opposed another silence to his deduction.

“That makes me think now--’f I have to meet the train an’ haul ’em up, I kain’t plough to-morr’.”

“But, Sam, you don’t have to go till four o’clock.”

“Ay, but they’s a little work to do on my wagon ’fore I go down. I kain’t take any resk with friends o’ yorn.”

I could always get interested in the way that Sam made use of _yer_, _yore_, _yorn_, _you_, and _ye_. _Yorn_, with an inflection that enlarged the _n_, was an avowal of separateness as severing as the water that washed Pilate’s hands.

Having arranged for his morning sleep, he merged away, pausing on an edge of moonlight to say: “Ain’t the whipper-wills awhirlin’ to-night? Looks like they ain’t goin’ to sleep at all.”

“Whirling, Sam?”

“Ay, you know ever’ time they say whipper-will they whirl round on the limb. Whirl thersevs right round.”

“What a foolish habit!”

“Well, the whipper-will ain’t a much smart bird.”

He flowed into the shadows and left me to ponder my newly acquired bird-lore. It was the kind of information which Sam frequently distributed, and with no remonstrance from me. He was too sure and final; and withal too quieting to the intellect. One doesn’t demur to the south wind, or try to put it right.

“I reckon I ain’t a much smart bird,” I said, thinking many times I had stepped aside for the unstemmed passage of Sam’s incredibly liquid voice.

The next day brought my friend, Lucie Harvey, and her husband, whom I knew only through her raptures. They were happy additions to my tiny camp, and at the end of their three days’ visit romantically voted to make a bed in the barn and release my room, thus making an indefinite stay possible. We were verbally completing the plan when Sam appeared.

“I knocked off ploughin’.” he said, “to take yer trunks down.”

“Oh, we’re not going,” said Lucie.

“When I brought ye up, ye ’lowed ye’d be ready to go back this evenin’ an’ I’ve come fer ye.”

“Why, we’ll let you know when we want to go.”

“I’ve come out o’ the plough to take ye.”

“Sorry, my man,” said the bridegroom, “but it’s your mistake. We’ll let you know when we’re ready for you.”

“You goin’ to live in the barn?”

“There!” said Lucie, “he knew all about it!”

They turned away for the walk which Sam had momentarily delayed. I heard Lucie say, “How did he know?” and I might have followed to tell her that Sam always knew; but at that moment I was struck motionless by hearing Ned Harvey drop the word “Imbecile!”

Sam, very likely, did not know its meaning, but the tone as it floated back was unmistakable.

“I’m sorry you knocked off ploughing, Sam,” I said, my eyes slinking.

“Oh, I left Ben at it. Len said he could spare him.”

“That means Len is doing double work, so Ben can help you out.”

“He’p me out? They’s yore friends, not mine. I like Mis’ Harvey though. She’s mighty nice.”

“Mr. Harvey, too.”

He looked toward Harvey, who was wearing a hunting-jacket very handsomely.

“Well, as to that, he wears a fine huntin’-jacket, but I’ve seen folks wearin’ good clo’s that had to hunt up the nest-eggs to fry if company dropped by to dinner.”

A pensive shade came into his eyes as they continued to follow the vanishing figure of Harvey. “I always thought I’d like a huntin’-jacket,” he said; and as he walked away, something in his bearing told me that he was imaginarily clothed as his heart desired. There had been no resentment in his voice. Perhaps he had taken no notice of that terrible word. And gradually I forgot that it had been uttered.