“’Come right along to Missouri!
Don’t wait and worry about a good price
but sell out for whatever you can get, and come along,
or you might be too late. Throw away your
traps, if necessary, and come empty-handed.
You’ll never regret it. It’s the
grandest country —the loveliest land—the
purest atmosphere—I can’t describe
it; no pen can do it justice. And it’s
filling up, every day—people coming
from everywhere. I’ve got the biggest scheme
on earth—and I’ll take you in;
I’ll take in every friend I’ve got that’s
ever stood by me, for there’s enough for
all, and to spare. Mum’s the word—don’t
whisper—keep yourself to yourself.
You’ll see! Come! —rush!—hurry!—don’t
wait for anything!’
“It’s the same old boy, Nancy, jest the
same old boy—ain’t he?”
“Yes, I think there’s a little of the
old sound about his voice yet. I suppose you—you’ll
still go, Si?”
“Go! Well, I should think so, Nancy.
It’s all a chance, of course, and, chances
haven’t been kind to us, I’ll admit—but
whatever comes, old wife, they’re provided for.
Thank God for that!”
“Amen,” came low and earnestly.
And with an activity and a suddenness that bewildered
Obedstown and almost took its breath away, the Hawkinses
hurried through with their arrangements in four short
months and flitted out into the great mysterious blank
that lay beyond the Knobs of Tennessee.
Toward the close of the third day’s journey
the wayfarers were just beginning to think of camping,
when they came upon a log cabin in the woods.
Hawkins drew rein and entered the yard. A boy
about ten years old was sitting in the cabin door
with his face bowed in his hands. Hawkins approached,
expecting his footfall to attract attention, but it
did not. He halted a moment, and then said:
“Come, come, little chap, you mustn’t
be going to sleep before sundown”
With a tired expression the small face came up out
of the hands,—a face down which tears were
flowing.
“Ah, I’m sorry I spoke so, my boy.
Tell me—is anything the matter?”
The boy signified with a scarcely perceptible gesture
that the trouble was in the, house, and made room
for Hawkins to pass. Then he put his face in
his hands again and rocked himself about as one suffering
a grief that is too deep to find help in moan or groan
or outcry. Hawkins stepped within. It
was a poverty stricken place. Six or eight middle-aged
country people of both sexes were grouped about an
object in the middle of the room; they were noiselessly
busy and they talked in whispers when they spoke.
Hawkins uncovered and approached. A coffin
stood upon two backless chairs. These neighbors
had just finished disposing the body of a woman in
it—a woman with a careworn, gentle face
that had more the look of sleep about it than of death.
An old lady motioned, toward the door and said to
Hawkins in a whisper:
