Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

The following week one of the freight wagons hauling goods from the railroad to Hyden stopped at the house and unloaded four heavy packing cases. They contained nearly five hundred books; which had been shipped, still in the sections of the mahogany sectional book cases; and just as John had arranged them. She had two of her school boys unpack and set up the cases in her room.

These, with the books she had accumulated, and those which her father's grandfather had brought overland from Virginia, gave to her simple bed room much the appearance of a library.

On Sunday the 18th of August, Jeannette's grandmother, the last of her blood kin, died, and was buried on the mountain side, where were the white, picketed graves of her father, mother and grandfather and the unpicketed, almost unmarked, sunken-in graves of those of the Litmans she did not know, who had gone before her day.

The day after the funeral she rented the place to Simeon Blair but as his family was small, they had only a child, a girl of seven, there was room for Jeannette; so she kept her room and paid four dollars a week board. The Blairs bought her cows and chickens, but refused the mule as a gift; so she paid Simeon five dollars a month for looking after old Silas.

On the fifth of September she left Big Creek for Lexington, Kentucky; and upon her arrival on the seventh, went directly to the room she had reserved at the University dormitory; and on the tenth matriculated as a junior.

The eighth, she spent in most careful shopping. Sunday, the ninth, she attended services at the First Presbyterian Church and heard her first pipe organ. As she walked back to the dormitory she drew comparisons between her new clothes and those of the girls she passed. While satisfied with her modest blue suit and her shoes and stockings, she concluded her hat had too great variety and quantity of coloring and on Monday, as soon as they were dismissed, exchanged it; having first informed the milliner that she had worn it to church. The milliner replied: "That's nothing, many of my customers have hats sent on approval and wear them to church, returning them on Monday."

After exchanging her hat she called upon Mrs. Allen. The Allen home, an old red brick house with massive colonial pillars, a slate roof, thick walls and large rooms with high ceilings, was more than sixty years old; and Judge Allen, who was fifty-five, had been born in it. Several of the rooms had open fire places. It had first been heated in that way; then with grates and a large anthracite stove; then a furnace had been installed. Recently it had been remodeled and fitted with steam heating and the most modern electrical appliances. These things were now demanded by the servants, who refused service in houses not having them.

The Judge would not permit the open fire place of the library to be removed. They used this as a sitting and informal reception room and an open fire was kept burning from October to May. One of his clients who had an extensive woodland on Elkhorn, furnished the oak and hickory logs. It was in this room that Mrs. Allen received Jeannette.

Mrs. Allen was about fifty years of age, with beautiful, wavy, white hair. She and Jeannette were of the same weight, one hundred and thirty pounds, though Jeannette was more than an inch taller. Both had the general appearance of women who trace their lineage from English ancestry, through the cavalier stock of Colonial Virginia; brunettes, of clear cut feature and slender, graceful bodies; eyes either gray or brown--Mrs. Allen's were brown, Jeannette's were gray.

When shown into the library, she took a seat in a great chair in an alcove which commanded a view of the street, and while waiting sat thinking how many times John might have sat in that place and perhaps in that very chair. Mrs. Allen came to the door, where she stood looking at Jeannette a moment or two, until she turned her head and saw her; then she stepped forward and took Jeannette's hands and stood looking her in the face.

"You are just as John said you looked; a serene and beautiful face; eyes that make even an old mule trust you." Then she put her arms about her and kissed her; and led her back to the chair in which she had been sitting.

"Mrs. Allen, I believe I would have known you anywhere. John had your nose and eyes and the same general expression. I am glad I look as John said I did. If you had shown surprise at my appearance I would have been disappointed."

"I do not understand how John could have described you so accurately. I could have picked you out among the hundreds of girls in the University. There are many things we will never be able to understand."

Mrs. Allen did most of the talking; telling Jeannette all about John from the first hour she held him in her arms, until he died with her arms about him. They shed no tears, feeling that he was with them and wished they should be happy when together.

When Jeannette rose to go Mrs. Allen said: "No! You must remain for dinner. My husband will be home soon and he is anxious to see you. Only the other night he said: 'I am sorry John did not marry Jeannette before he died. She would be here as our daughter and we would have something to live for. It would be nice to have the young people coming to our home again; and we could find a good husband for her; such as our boy would have made. When she comes do not let her go until I see her'."

Jeannette sat down again.

A little later they heard a step in the hall; the door was opened and a man stood in the doorway. Just such a looking person as John would have been at his age, only slightly larger.

"Mary you need not introduce us. It is Jeannette. We are glad to have you in our home; would be glad to have you make it your own." He came forward as she arose and took her hand; and as he held it looking into her face his eyes slowly filled with tears.

From then until after dinner, which was almost immediately announced, the conversation was general. When they returned to the library Jeannette had to relate her past life in detail and disclose all her plans for the future. When they finally let her go it was late, and though she told them she did not mind walking home alone, they accompanied her to the dormitory.

Upon their insistent invitation she gave up her room at the dormitory and came to live with them at the beginning of the mid-winter term; remaining a welcome guest until the close of the school year in June, 1919, when she returned to Big Creek.

Mrs. Allen wrote repeatedly, addressing her as daughter; and in each letter insisted that she must return to Lexington and live with them as such. She also received a letter from Judge Allen in which he stated: "Mary and I desire formally to adopt you as our daughter." She answered: "You and Mrs. Allen have taken from life much of its loneliness and filled it with more happiness and love that I expected to be mine. When I return, if you still wish it, I will live at your home as a daughter during my remaining school year; and though I must leave you then, will always give you a daughter's love. I cannot consent to a formal adoption, which necessitates a change of name. I owe it to my parents to bear the name they gave me until I am married. Had your son lived, I have indulged the dream-like joy, that at his suggestion it would have been changed to your own."

She telegraphed when she took the train for Lexington. They drove to Winchester where they met her and taking her into their car brought her home with them. She was given John's room which was large and cheerful and was delighted with it.

Mrs. Allen made the young people of her set welcome at her home; and it was not long before all the time that Jeannette could spare from her studies was given to entertaining her friends and being entertained by them. Late in November she gave Jeannette a formal party; and it was reported in the Lexington and Louisville papers as a brilliant affair. From then on, the old home, which had been closed to social gayety so long witnessed many entertainments; the first being a Christmas house-party of Jeannette's school friends.

She graduated with class honors the following June. Judge Allen, in order to keep her with them, used his influence to secure a position for her as a substitute teacher in the university; and it was tendered, though she was not yet nineteen. She declined, saying: "I am too young and inexperienced for so responsible a position. They can easily find some one better fitted for the work; I must return to Big Creek to my own people; they need me."

She took leave of Judge and Mrs. Allen, who were as a father and mother; gave up a luxurious home, agreeable society, the association with educated people; refused a position of some honor, with a salary of fifteen hundred dollars a year; and returned to Big Creek; where the only human ties were the hill-side graves; where she had no personal friends, only the old mule, the birds, her mountain, the creek, Big Rock and her books.

At a salary of fifty dollars a month she resumed teaching the Big Creek school. There were thirty-three, boys and girls of all sizes; she had to mother some, to whip others, to use diplomacy with those too big to whip; she had to teach them manners and religion; the girls to sew and read and write; the boys to respect their mothers and their sisters; to leave moonshine alone; to quit swearing and "chawing" tobacco; to inject ambition into them--make them understand that the "big man" was not he who could drink the most moonshine and spit the furthest. It required no study on her part to teach them; that is the book part, as they were intelligent. The mental strain was to manage them, to improve their manners and morals, in the face of adverse home influence in many instances--this required much patience; and once when very severely tried, she murmured: "What would Job have done today?"

The Blairs still occupied her house; and she boarded with them, walking two miles to the school house, except when the creek was up when she rode the old mule. Her world had suddenly narrowed to the two miles of creek valley; her companions were the Blairs, the children and her books; life had grown lonely and serious. She still heard voices, but they were sad; what they told she wrote into story and verse. These stories and verses she mailed to the editors of the magazines she read. They were all returned with printed declarations: "The editor regrets that the enclosed manuscript is not available for publication, etc., etc."

She would then read the verse and stories published by the periodicals which had rejected her productions; and being satisfied that hers were equal in thought and literary merit, despite the rejections, persevered in her attempts, accumulating quite a collection of rejected manuscripts.

Last week's mail had brought back two poems, which scanned perfectly and which she thought quite satisfactory. She had called them--"A Questionnaire," and "Other Little Boats." At the foot of the printed rejection slip the reader had scribbled in an almost illegible hand: "Why not select a more cheerful subject and adopt a jazzier style--we of today would reject Milton's Paradise Lost. M. A." Bearing this criticism in mind, she wrote and forwarded "A Genealogy" and it was accepted.

These three poems are reproduced in order that the reader may himself judge of their merit; and because to a certain extent they convey an idea of Jeannette's mental state at the time.

A Questionnaire.

I.

Why was not room made for thy mother in the inn?
Why wert thou manger-cradled, Lord? Could not heirship
From Israel's greatest king procure for her
Who bore thee, more than a pallet of straw in a stall;
And for thee a cradle of fine linen and soft down?
Why did not an angel whisper: "Blest inn-keeper,
Give thy best, this is Christ, Son of the Living Lord?
Is the world to know only its own? Thankless man,
Never to practice thy teaching; or see thy star?
Is he waiting for signs and wonders; believing
Battalions of angels will compel him to worship?
Thy birth-night, did not the heavens declare thy glory?
Did not an angel choir sing thy cradle hymn?
Yet to man thou remainest the carpenter's son;
Though the wise of earth waited--and prophets foretold;
Lauding Bethlehem of Judah as thy birthplace.
"And thou Bethlehem, Land of Judah,
Art in no wise least among the princes of Judah,
For out of thee shall come forth a ruler,
Who shall be shepherd of thy people Israel."

II.

Are only common people, pawns of life, shepherds,
Who abide in the fields and keep watch day and night,
To see thy angel herald and hear his evangel:
"Behold I bring to you good tiding of great joy,
For unto you is born a saviour--Jesus the Lord?"
Do only dreamy shepherds like the Maid of France,
See and hear thy choir as it sings: "Glory to God,
Exalted One--on earth peace, good will towards men?"
Do only the old and feeble, living in the past,
Or waiting for the consolation of Israel,
Like Simeon; cling to life until they see the Lord?
Do only the lonely Annas, eighty years widowed,
Know thy face because of their fasting and prayers?
When will we who delve for gold, lift our eyes skyward;
And seeing the star, worshipfully come and give;
Remembering thou didst come and give--as prophets sang:
"And thou Bethlehem, Land of Judah,
Art in no wise least among the princes of Judah,
For out of thee shall come forth a ruler,
Who shall be shepherd of thy people Israel."

III.

Is thy epiphany known only to wise men,
Living near the morning sun?--Those who saw thy star
And followed as it led, came to worship, saying:
"Israel, where is the One born king of the Jews?"
Are only those who are led by an angel or a star,
To know and worship thee? While we, though thou art here,
In our own town, to be our guest and bear our sins;
Refuse to take thee in; saying: "There is no room."
Will but the few, the wise and great, coming a long way,
Find thee--having found, worship--having worshipped,
Give treasured gold, frankincense and myrrh; while we,
When thou knockest at the door of our dwelling,
Tenanted by false gods, say: There is no room here;
We entertain more appropriate guests, old friends;
Go to the public khan; there you will find shelter,
A stall, a manger and a little straw--Yet the prophets sang:
"And thou Bethlehem, Land of Judah,
Art in no wise least among the princes of Judah,
For out of thee shall come forth a ruler,
Who shall be shepherd of thy people Israel."

IV.

As Herod the King, not loving thy appearing,
Shall we, when Magi tell us thou hast come, decree
A massacre of babes; and in blind and willful
Destruction, mark our mad way with the red blossoms
Of martyrdom; until Rama is a land of tears
And Rachel unconsoled weeps for her children?
Since it was not God's will that the babe should perish,
The foster-father a dreamer, was angel-warned;
"Hearken! Arise! take the young child and his mother;
Flee to Egypt and remain until I bring word;
At Herod's death return." Thus the child escaped.
Not so the man, whose mission was death in my place.
Though he went about doing good, teaching and healing;
I followed to betray; and after his arrest,
Cried: "Give us Barabbas! Crucify him! Crucify!"
He died for his sheep, deserted, though prophets sang:
"And thou Bethlehem, Land of Judah,
Art in no wise least among the princes of Judah,
For out of thee shall come forth a ruler,
Who shall be shepherd of thy people Israel."

Other Little Boats.

I.

For His chosen of the land of Canaan, God made six seas;
But low-lying Galilee, skirted by oleander trees,
Resting in the bosom--reflecting the emerald hills
Of Gennesareth, Valley of Abundance, was God's gift
To His son; the place to begin his ministry to men.

II.

Capernaum, on the western shore, where loved to rest
Desert-dried camel drivers, traveling to Damascus;
Was to the Messiah, nearest home, the place loved best.
These homeless wanderers, by sweet visions were elated,
Charmed by music of the sea, God had consecrated.

III.

The fisher boats of Bethsaida, manned by forceful men,
Pinnaces of Herod, patrols of the Roman nation,
Glided over the limpid sea, or rode at their station;
While near the vine-clad villas, moored to wave-kissed wall,
Cushioned craft rocked sleepily, waiting twilight's call.

IV.

To Capernaum, one day, came a man whose face was sad;
They should have cried Hosanna! but her people were not glad.
A few thrilled with gladness and asked: Who might be he?
Wise blind, among them, answered: "Why, a carpenter, he;"
And their evil spirits trembled, while gladness lit the sea.

V.

With eyes of gladness, He beheld shepherds guarding the flocks;
Husbandmen hedging tender vines about with walls of rocks;
And workmen toiling mightily to harvest the ripe grain.
With eyes of sadness, He saw man, whom God had made master,
Unprotected; straying, shepherdless, courting disaster.

VI.

The father whispered: "The hour is here, shepherd my sheep;
The wage for atonement." So He gave the call: "Do not weep;
I come to offer the bread of life to the hungry soul;
To open the eyes of the blind; to make the broken whole."
Did his own receive Him? They crowded Him into a boat.

VII.

From this floating altar, He spoke to them of the sower:
"Behold, there went out a sower to sow; it came to pass;"
And other parables; until twilight, dispersed the mass.
Then His message delivered and the day's work done at last,
Said to His disciples: "Let us pass to the other side."

VIII.

Following after, "there were with Him other little boats;"
Bearing those minded to receive him, having heard His call.
The Master slept, cradled on the bosom of His own sea.
His deep serenity was not troubled. Why should it be?
He had spent the day healing; and tendering life to all.

IX.

Mid-way a storm arose and whipped the sea to anger.
His disciples watching the wild, wind-lashed waves pile high,
Were frightened. Thinking the boat sinking, began to cry:
"Master, carest thou not that we perish? The boat will fill!"
And he arose, rebuked the wind, saying: "Peace be still."

X.

They wondered at the calm. The wind knew the voice of God.
They had not said: "O Master! save the other little boats!
The men following us are in distress! We are with Thee.
There is no one with them who can still tempest and sea!"
And the Master wept, knowing His own received Him not.

A Genealogy.

Fancy, fairest of the fairies,
Wedded Light, first of creation.
Unto them was born a daughter,
Hope, most graceful of earth's creatures.
Vision, traveling from earth to heaven,
Saw her flitting in high places;
Charmed by her face and figure,
Boldly made her his prisoner.
When he found all dreams were of her,
And his thoughts clung close about her,
Fearful now that he might lose her,
To increase the ties that bound her,
Gave her Love and thus he held her.
Thus was born earth's fairest daughter;
Eldest child, and the most tender;
Who brought with her of God's treasure,
Service in unending measure.
This was given unto Adam,
As he slept in peaceful Eden.
To them came a second daughter,
Of mystic, immobile figure,
Who never strayed from her way,
Nor wavered in her purpose.
'Twas Faith, invisible virgin;
Pure priestess of Immortality.
The incense from her altar fires,
Bears man's prayers to infinity.
Next unto them was born Reason,
Skeptical chemist, who would test.
All pearls in mind's muddy acid;
And if found unsoluble bury them,
Wrapped in the shroud of denial.
Reason wandering in the dark,
Met Caution, a sombre maiden;
To them was given a son, Doubt;
Dark visaged and night loving;
Shadow to himself and others;
Blind leader of the nearly blind.
Hope saddened by a first shadow,
Sought relief in fair Tomorrow,
Land of Sunshine, Realm of Gladness;
And there found Truth, dwelling sublime,
In isolation, on a mountain.
"Come unto man's world, brightest jewel;
Cure earth's sadness, dispel darkness;
Bring light to Vision, end Doubt's mission,
Demonstrate Reason, cure sick Faith."
Truth, unarrayed, unafraid, came;
First beseeching from Infinity
A kindly monitor for man.
"Give to man's soul to know the right."
"Thou goest, and thou art the right."
"But Darkness, Doubt and Reason,
Hedge him about. What shall be done,
To keep his soul from strangulation?"
"I have given Vision, Hope and Faith;
And Truth when found will make him free."
"He needs more; Darkness and the Devil,
Have entered thy fair garden."
"Take then, and bear to him, O Truth,
The flame-like, still, small voice, Conscience."

The first month Jeannette resumed teaching was the stormiest; the children tried her out; she came through victorious, her supremacy established. By the end of the third month all the children loved her; and then things ran along so smoothly that she described her life to Mrs. Allen as: "so contemplative and uneventful as to make the social dissipations you promise an inducement; a year's shopping, of clothing, stationery, a typewriter and books, makes the visit almost necessary; and then I shall see you and Judge Allen, that makes it most attractive."

During the year her school had slowly grown until it ranked as the best country school in the county. The children had been transformed in appearance and disposition, until the neighborhood noticed the change, and people would say, "there goes one of Jeannette's children."

In the spring of 1922 one of the young men who had graduated in Jeannette's class came to Hyden. He made inquiry and found out that she was earning fifty dollars a month teaching a small school on Big Creek. He then called upon the county superintendent and the county judge and informed them that a year or so before she had refused a position in the State University that paid more than three times the salary she was receiving; giving as the reason, that her duty was to her own people.

This information, with the trimmings that gossip added, made Jeannette a heroine locally. It was suggested that they should elect her county school superintendent; but the man who wanted the office called their attention to the fact that the statute declared the incumbent must be twenty-four years of age. Then she was suggested as a candidate for several other county offices by the local newspaper, "The Thousand Sticks;" but when interviewed, declined with thanks.

Then at a meeting of the school board she was elected principal of the Hyden public school. When the place was tendered she asked until August first, to answer; and the board agreed to keep the place open for her.

Jeannette's school in 1922 closed on the twenty-third of June. She was in the habit of visiting the Allens each year at the beginning of her vacation, but Mrs. Allen's health being poor they had gone to the sea shore for a couple of months and did not expect to return until the last of July. They had written asking her to join them, but this she declined to do, saying: "I will defer my visit until you return, probably coming to Lexington the middle of August, unless I can be of real service by helping you."

About the first of July, Simeon Blair informed her that his cousin Sandy Blair was coming to spend a few days with him. There was plenty of room as she had built a wing of two rooms, which she occupied as a study and bed room.

Although she had never liked Sandy, she could not object. She looked upon his visit as of little importance; though she was sufficiently interested to inquire as to what he had been doing since he had joined the army in 1917. Simeon replied: "Sandy was in Germany three years. He came back last January and was sent to Mexico. I asked him but he did not say what he was doing, except that he had quit the army. I guess he has been dancing and frolicing around with them Mexican senorinas. You know how he loves to dance and fiddle. He's a big fellow. He hasn't been working much. There are no corns on his hands; they are almost as soft as yours, Miss Jeannette. I saw him yesterday at the mouth of Big Creek. He don't gab as much as he used to."

When Mrs. Blair blew the horn for supper, Jeannette came in from the Big Rock, where she had been reading. The others were already at the table; and as she entered the room, a tall, broad shouldered, red headed man, dressed in blue overalls, a hickory shirt and laced army boots rose up and came forward to meet her. She saw it was Sandy and was surprised that he rose to greet her and did not resume his seat until she was first seated. He also called her Miss Litman, instead of Jeannette, as he had always done.

She watched him during the meal. He had little to say; did not eat with his knife or drink his coffee from the saucer as he used to do. All his clothing except his boots appeared to be new. After watching a while, she thought: "the same old Sandy; nothing worries him; he has a pleasant, intelligent face and he certainly is good looking; but his hands are too white and soft for a working man's. I guess he will marry some poor woman who will work herself to death supporting his family, while he fiddles and dances through life."

After supper, Simeon asked him to play. She noticed that his violin was of German make and evidently a fine instrument. He played "Turkey in the Straw," "The Arkansaw Traveler" and such other local dance music as had been played when her granny was a girl. He did it so well that she was satisfied with training he would make an accomplished musician.

She got out her own violin, an inferior instrument, with the idea of giving him a lesson; first showing him how to hold the bow properly. For some cause he could not get his fingers just right until she placed them. Then they played together. He made many mistakes; but her teaching had made her very patient. They sat up until eleven o'clock, which was a late hour for that household, because they arose at daylight, about four o'clock at that season; when Jeannette said: "I must go to bed; you have had enough instruction for one lesson."

"But, Miss Litman, play just one piece for me as it should be played."

She got out her most difficult music and by lamplight played it for him. He seemed enchanted.

"Please just show me how that last part goes."

She did so, saying: "Now you try."

He played well, though he made many mistakes. As she rose to leave, the clock having struck twelve, he played a few short connected bars, the part she had found difficult, so divinely, that she said: "Do that again. You seem gifted of the gods; they have let you stumble into the perfect way."

He tried; but the way was as strangely closed as it had been opened.

"Oh! it is half past twelve! Good night, Sandy."

She went to bed; and dreamed of choirs invisible. Sandy walked up the creek until he was beyond hearing at the house; then he played "Angel Voices" as it should have been played. He came to the house, slept and dreamed; not of angel choirs, but of graceful wood nymphs; and their queen's name was Jeannette.

The following evening, Sandy got out his fiddle, saying: "This hayr fiddle is shore a fine box;" and he played Turkey in the Straw, improvising variations that put life into their feet and made them think dancing was close akin to worship.

"Miss Litman, will you give me another lesson?"

She declined; thinking it might lead to a misunderstanding. He might think that she desired his company; and she only liked educated men.

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Sandy Blair, on December 15, 1917, left Red Bird for Louisville and on the 18th enlisted in the regular army. He was sent to Camp Taylor; and when fitted out by the supply sergeant, insisted that he must have a fit. He pursued the policy of the importunate widow so persistently that when he came forth his well developed chest, broad shoulders and lean muscular legs were so fittingly encased as to make him the most conspicuous of the four hundred and sixty "rookies" who that day had been received and outfitted.

He represented that he had been sergeant in a company of the state guards for more than two years and in order to substantiate the declaration paid his corporal to induct him to the manual of arms and follow up the introduction by several strenuous drills; in the meanwhile finding an excuse for evading the first drill or two to which his raw company was subjected; though he stood to one side watching and listening carefully.

He paid the corporal two dollars to drill him all Sunday afternoon; and when he suggested that he would be too stiff and sore to drill the following morning, answered: "Not on your tin type. I may have a rookie head but my legs are veterans. Don't think these few pranks will worry these hayr arms and legs; I have put in the last five winters swinging big fat gals. And I've got a back like a pack mule, made to tote things on; but it's never been broke to a pack saddle and never will be."

On Monday he took his place with his company and went through the drill with the snap and precision of a veteran. As intended, he caught the eye of the captain; and when he was told to step forward, saluted him like a general; and stood at attention.

"Well, my man, what experience have you had?"

"Two years as drill sergeant, Company C, -------- Regiment of the Kentucky State Guards."

"What is your name?"

"William L. Blair, though most people call me Sergeant Sandy Blair."

"Return to the ranks." (This order came near getting him--but as the captain turned away, he resumed his place in line.)

The captain looked his way and wrote something in a note book.

A few days later the company was reorganized and he was made a junior drill sergeant, the superior of the corporal who had drilled him.

The corporal considered the story too good to keep. It reached the ears of the captain and he told it to the Colonel, threatening to send Blair to the guard house. But the Colonel said: "No, send him to me."

Blair presented himself; and after a most deferential salutation, stood at attention. The Colonel leisurely looked him over. While Blair guessed the cause of the summons, he never shifted his eyes from a spot about an inch above the Colonel's head. He stood as a marble statue, and without the least change of expression; though he heard the Colonel laugh and a moment later snappily say:

"Sergeant Blair, where are you from?"

"Red Bird, Clay County, Kentucky."

"So you are an accomplished drill sergeant?"

"Have me shot as a liar, if my legs are not veterans."

"Are you a good marksman?"

"The best in America."

"Go at once to the rifle range. I'll be over shortly. We will see if you are as good a marksman as drill sergeant."

At the rifle range he found about twenty-five other soldiers who had been selected for a test of marksmanship. As the colonel and his captain had not yet arrived, he stepped up and from a dozen rifles chose one and examining it carefully appeared satisfied and laid it to one side. When the officers came up the men were informed that each was to fire five rounds at the three hundred yard target.

The Colonel turning to Blair, said: "Blair, you begin the test, as your nerve might be shattered by the strain of delay."

From the time Blair could hold a rifle out and reach the trigger he had scarcely laid one aside, except to attend a dance, eat and sleep. His first shot missed the bull's eye about an inch, the second was on the edge and all the others went square into it. He made a better score than any of his competitors. The next day he was promoted to sergeant major and made instructor on the rifle range.

On the sixth of March, 1918, his company sailed for France. In May they were doing service in the front line trenches.

After the armistice was signed, Lieutenant Blair was sent to Coblenz, Germany, where he remained until January, 1922, when he was ordered home, returning on the transport Crook. He came back as Captain Blair, of -------- Infantry. During the more than three years he was in Germany, he gave all of his leisure time to study and music; and when he left, spoke German and French fluently and played the violin like an inspired professional.

Upon arrival in New York he retired from the army; and with the recommendations given him by his general, his former colonel and the captain who wanted to send him to the guard house, who was now a major, asked and was given a position in the general offices of the Standard Oil Company. When it was discovered that he spoke German and French fluently, had considerable executive ability, particularly in handling red-blooded men; he was sent as an agent to Tampico, Mexico, to see what he could do towards straightening out the rows between the Mexican and American employees. In June he was ordered to return to New York to make a detailed report and for instructions. The officers were so well satisfied with his report and what he had accomplished that he was tendered a responsible position in Mexico at a salary of $300.00 per month, American money. He accepted; and before returning, asked and was granted a month's leave, to visit his old home on Red Bird; where he had not been since December, 1917.

----

It was late afternoon. Up the valley where the shadow of the mountain rested, the night creatures were waking up and had begun their chorus, which would grow in volume as the shadow deepened. Jeannette, who had been reading under the shade of a great vine, which formed a natural bower in which she had placed a rude table and chair, came out upon Big Rock, where the light was stronger. She did not reopen her book, but sat meditating--how the memory of John Allen, which had clung to and filled her mind and life for so long, seemed slowly becoming a memory. She had never loved the real John Allen, but a spiritual personality; a creation of her own fancy, which she had placed in the body of John Allen as she had remembered him, and made this creation a living soul; and the combination a standard by which she gauged all men.

She recalled, how five years before she had rejected Sandy Blair, feeling his wooing an insult. Had done it because--he was ignorant--was shiftless--no, but because she measured him by the Allen standard; and since, looking for her Allen, had discouraged every man who had attempted to make love to her.

And Sandy Blair--he had again come into her life. Strange, that now whenever she thought of John, she should think of Sandy. "My books, the creatures of this quiet nook, the trees, the creek, the mountains, God's altar for my prayers, these are my companions. John is my thought love, with whom I enjoy a mystic union that will last through life--as long as I am faithful. These are my interests, my life, other than teaching, and form and fill it and keep it free from what might otherwise have made it a weary materialism. These have transformed my very common, every-day life, raised me above a dark loneliness to contentment and at rare intervals into the company of the stars. Yet now the change threatens, I do not understand, I seem to feel a slow suffocation of the soul threatening me. Can it mean that--must I find some one to love? Must I quit weaving the web of my life with that of a mystical love?"

She was just beginning to realize that while her mind spun with this fantastic thread of life, another part of her being, the flesh, demanded other company, and held another distaff and spun quite another thread. She had yet to learn that a perfect love gives not only the mind but the body. That without the giving of both, love ends in darkness; and that to find happiness the two threads must be entwined and followed into the light.

She did not comprehend why now, when she saw John's face, which had always been so distinct, it seemed gradually to fade and merge into Sandy's. Sandy as he looked, when several nights before he had sat and played to her. She was vexed with herself--but even more with Sandy.

Young lady; you are about to have that experience which has come to every woman since Eve. God's plan is breaking from its chrysalis before you. The slowly fading spirit of John is entering the lists in conflict with Sandy's materialism; it is the conflict of the intangible with the tangible, the memories of yesterday with the hopes of tomorrow. You will act as second for one or the other. Faithful in the start you may follow behind the spirit; but if you follow the way of your sisters, and they go the right way, you will end by wishing you were second to the man who seeks to drive the wraith away. Mayhap you may shift your allegiance early in the conflict--who knows? You do not, nor do I. Take care! Beware! Your long dream of John may end by kissing Sandy.

"Nonsense."

At this inopportune moment Sandy climbed upon the rock, saying:

"This shore is a nice place, may I set down."

"You are welcome to the seat Mr. Blair, but you must excuse me, I was just going to the house."

He sat down; his face as red as his hair; provoked at Jeannette's abrupt departure. But when he recalled that she had called him Mr. Blair for the first time in his life, he was consoled, believing that it evidenced progress in his suit. He realized that he had made an impression of some kind; and his experiences, which were not limited, suggested that even an awakened animosity was better than the indifference of the past years.

Jeannette felt ashamed for having run away. "Running from Sandy Blair--sakes alive! Why did I do it? Have I grown timid? Am I afraid of Sandy Blair? I suppose he's laughing at me. Well, tonight I'll give him another lesson on the violin, just to show him, light-footed, empty-headed young men of his class mean nothing to me."

Sandy rose from the supper table and after a yawn remarked: "It's too quiet around here for me; I think I'll go up to Hiram Lewis'." He took his fiddle from its case and tucking it under his arm, put on his hat and stood for a moment in the doorway. Hiram Lewis was their nearest neighbor and had two daughters of marriageable age.

Jeannette who had read all the afternoon and really desired to hear him play their mountain music, which he did so capably, was disappointed. Without understanding the cause, she felt embarrassed at the thought of asking him to remain; and would not do so directly.

"If you are going you better put your violin in its case. It's going to rain."

"My what?"

"O, your fiddle then; if it gets wet it will affect its tone."

"O! the sound it makes. If I stay will you teach me to play that hard piece of yours?"

"That was my intention; but do not let me detain you."

"My intention--is that the name of the piece?"

"No, sit down Sandy, I'll get my fiddle."

Jeannette went to her room for the violin and music. While there the thought occurred they had better use her reading lamp instead of Mrs. Blair's smoky, smelly, tin one, which gave but a feeble flame; removing the green shade, she substituted one of pink silk which was much prettier and which transformed the light into a more becoming tint. Carrying it into the other room she placed it on the small table near the door, and sat down beside it, her face tinted by the shade. The Blair family were on the porch, just beyond the doorway; and Sandy sat on the door-step, almost at her feet; his bright red hair and smiling, healthy face in the full glare of the light.

As he played she noted his mobile features, which betrayed their owner's feelings by sudden changes of expression. She had always thought his face an agreeable one; now first she noted its expressiveness and evidences of character and determination; attributes, which she had said he lacked.

Her musing was interrupted by the Blair family coming in the door. They were in the habit of retiring with the chickens; and their cousin's playing was no reason for a violation of the rule. After they were gone Sandy seemed to play with even more perfect expression. She marveled at the ease and certainty with which he played his homely pieces. "He is quick and with a few lessons would soon learn to play better than I can--perhaps with training he might make one of the world's great musicians. I will teach him the notes, and how to hold the bow. His habits are good; he neither chews nor drinks, as most of our boys. I believe he would make a good hus--; but he is uneducated."

Just here Sandy looked up: "Listen! I worked this out yesterday and call it 'Voices Jeannette Hears.'" He played something not much louder than a whisper, a chorus of all the still small voices she had heard about her home--the wind, the birds, the brooks, the crickets, the spirits of the hills and dells; little prayers of praise, little prattlings of joy and happiness--yes, and of love. She felt so happy; and yet so very, very lonely, for someone or something to love. A tear found its way down each cheek and two others nestled on her lashes, loath to leave the fountains of their birth. When he finished neither spoke. He did not look towards her, but out into the darkness of the peaceful, starry night.

While thus they sat it seemed to Jeannette that something with a touch light as a feather and lips soft as the petals of a rose brushed her ear and a joyous little spirit with a dulcet young voice, such as she had never heard before, whispered: "Is he not handsome? Do you not see how quick he is to learn? Teacher, teach him! you can in a few months. How delightful to educate him; mould his fresh, open, plastic mind; make of him not alone a husband but a soul companion; which you could not do were his soul awake to its full strength and vision. Jeannette, it is springtime for you; be not a virgin of steel; let your soul bud and flower, the blossom of life is love, let it bear fruit. Would you die a spinster with a drying heart, knowing only a spirit love, little better than a dream? Cast off this sombre veil that you have wound about your heart; open your eyes; do you not love him? I have brought Sandy to you."

She rose from her seat and in a voice not much louder than the one she had been listening to, managed to say: "Good night, Sandy," and left the room.

He did not move, though he answered: "Good night," and as her door closed added: "O Life! O Life! I have found the place of thy dwelling."

He laid his violin upon the table and went out into the night. The night was not dark, though there was no moon. The stars were bright, they seemed to be holding a carnival. The night was not cold; a midsummer breeze stirred the trees; the leaves whispered of love and threw kisses to the stars.

Jeannette slept with a red rose on her pillow; and before she slept looked out the window at the stars and thought of many things.

----

"Jeannette, have you any letters to mail, I am going to the Big Creek postoffice?"

She gave him one addressed to the editors of ----, which contained the manuscript of some verses--"The Heart of Things"--the first of her published poems. She offered the loan of the old mule, saying: "It's more than twelve miles; will you be back tonight?"

"Yes, I'm traveling light; twenty-four miles is a mere stroll; and I shall return, much as I imagine the old mule would, at a brisker gait, because I'm coming home."

She said nothing more; being surprised by Sandy's speech, which had suddenly dropped the mountain idiom.

When night came she sat on the porch until after nine o'clock, then she went to her room, fearful that if Sandy should come and find her there he might misunderstand; might think she had been waiting--but the idea, that's impossible. She tried to read, she had not read much lately, she was not in the mood; blew out the lamp--and just afterward the gate opened; and she heard him enter the house and go to his room.

She spent most of the following day until late afternoon in her bower under the great vine; then went for a walk along the path which skirted the left bank of the creek, the way of the foot-traveler, to avoid repeated fordings, necessary if one followed the road.

Along the path were scattered scraps of letter paper and a little further on she saw an empty envelope from the War Department, addressed to Captain William L. Blair. When she returned, she asked Simeon: "Who is Captain William L. Blair?"

"I don't know no Captain Blair. Sandy's name is William Lees Blair, but everybody calls him Sandy. O! I saw that name the other day on a letter he brought back from Big Creek--'Captain William L. Blair, U. S. A.'--the letter had been sent him from Coblenz, Germany. Do you reckon Sandy was a captain?"

Jeannette began to suspect that Sandy might be amusing himself at their expense. At supper she was formally courteous; she first thought of calling him Captain Blair, but changed her mind and addressed him as Mr. Blair.

When the supper dishes had been put away and the chores done, all of them sat upon the porch until Simeon announced it was his bedtime; when he and his family retired.

"Jeannette, will you give me a lesson on the fiddle?"

"All right, Sandy. Would you like to know how to read music? In music there are signs standing for sounds, as the letters of the alphabet in combination form words, by which we express our thoughts. Do you catch what I mean?"

"Yes, I guess. But that's funny. I thought you just learned the tune."

"Put your chair near mine; I will show you some of the signs and symbols. What's a symbol, Sandy?"

"Down in Mexico they tell me the gals play on them; banging them on their elbows and knees; that is the big ones and the little ones they click in their fingers."

"Well, Sandy, this is another kind. Now this is a symbol in music, telling--" and so she went on for some time, Sandy listening attentively, with his head very near hers and their chairs as close together as he thought the occasion would justify.

When she finished he said: "Miss Jeannette, please play that fine piece of yourn?"

She played it through, then arranging his fingers on his bow, showed him just how he should stand; and playing a few notes at a time, instructed him to replay them.

That part of the music which was difficult and she felt satisfied she had not played correctly, it struck her Sandy played with greater ease and expression than she could do; but he made horribly ludicrous mistakes in the easy portions. Intentionally, she had misplayed a portion and when he reached this part he played it correctly. Then she knew that for some reason he was fooling them.

"Now Sandy, play it alone. Do your best, I shall go out on the porch and listen."

He started off in a halting amateurish way, making many blunders; as he played his mistakes became fewer, his touch fuller; gradually he forgot his purpose to deceive, the music was a favorite; towards the end he played as she had never dreamed the piece could be played.

He came out on the porch and sat down beside her. Neither spoke. He knew she was no longer fooled.

"Jeannette, I can read and write."

"Write something so I can see; you may be fooling me."

He felt in his pockets for a scrap of paper but found nothing. Then he opened a card case and taking out his card, wrote on the back a few words.

She went into the light and read: "_Chi si marita alla svelta si pente adagio_. William L. Blair."

She turned the card over and read "William Lees Blair." She called out the door, "Good night, Captain William Lees Blair;" and went to her room.

He did not see her again until the next afternoon. He heard her singing on Big Rock, and walking down to the creek, followed up the bank until he came to the foot of the rock. It was very steep on that side, almost unscalable. She heard him climbing up. His hat fell off; a moment later his bare red head peeped above the surface, then his smiling, ruddy face rose slowly over the edge, much as she had seen the full red moon rise over the edge of the cliff that capped her mountain.

"Jeannette, really, I can read."

"Let me see."

And he wrote on another card:

"_Ah vie! Ah vie! Jai trouve la place ou tu demeures._"

She took it saying: "Now since you have had your second lesson in penmanship, you may go home. I am busy embroidering a Christmas present for a friend and as this is the twenty-third of July, am too busy upon it to be disturbed."

That evening Simeon and his wife sat out upon the porch; Jeannette and Sandy upon the door-step. He had his fiddle and was playing "Turkey in the Straw," keeping time with his foot, his face lit by a happy smile. Jeannette's slipper tapped the floor in minor accompaniment. She looked into his face; saw the brightness of it in the darkness, and whispered: "Your music is most suggestive: I never felt so much like dancing as I do tonight."

Sandy thought his cousins had forgotten their rule of retiring with the chickens. The old rooster crowed. "Listen at Old Speck, he thinks it's almost day." Simeon gave an enormous yawn; they thought he would never close his mouth. It went shut with a snap, followed by the remark: "It's time all honest folks were in bed." It was nearly nine o'clock; and he and his wife went in.

How glorious the night; how peaceful and starry; a time for visions, not words, therefore no one spoke. The bold, bad captain, taking advantage of the darkness, made Jeannette's hand a prisoner. It fluttered as a frightened bird; then it lay still, either having lost hope of escape or resigned to a captive fate. Suddenly it escaped.

"Captain, I'm surprised! Get pencil and paper; you must have your third lesson in penmanship. Look on the mantel and bring me a couple of matches."

He took a card from his case and wrote: "_Jeannette, Mein Liebchen: Willst Du mich Heiraten?_"

He handed her the card; she read it; the match went out. There was a little scuffle, a smothered exclamation. A great owl, whose downy wings made no noise, lit in the elm by the gate and observing them through his night optics, exclaimed: "Who! Who!" Surprised, the captain released his prisoner; she darted into the doorway, calling: "Goodnight, Captain, hope to see you tomorrow."