Old Caravan Days

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OLD CARAVAN DAYS

BY

MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD

CONTENTS.

I. THE START

II. THE LITTLE OLD MAN WITH A BAG ON HIS BACK

III. THE TAVERN

IV. THE SUSAN HOUSE

V. THE SUSAN HOUSE CELLAR

VI. MR. MATTHEWS

VII. ZENE'S MAN AND WOMAN

VIII. LITTLE ANT RED AND BIG ANT BLACK

IX. THE GREAT CAMP MEETING

X. THE CRY OF A CHILD IN THE NIGHT

XI. THE DARKENED WAGON

XII. JONATHAN AND THRUSTY ELLEN

XIII. FAIRY CARRIE AND THE PIG-HEADED MAN

XIV. SEARCHING

XV. THE SPROUTING

XVI. THE MINSTREL

XVII. THE HOUSE WITH LOG STEPS

XVIII. "COME TO MAMMA!"

XIX. FAIRY CARRIE DEPARTS

XX. SUNDAY ON THE ROAD

XXI. HER MOTHER ARRIVES

XXII. A COUNTRY SUNDAY-SCHOOL

XXIII. FORWARD

XXIV. THE TOLL-WOMAN

XXV. THE ROBBERS

XXVI. THE FAIR AND THE FIERCE BANDIT

XXVII. A NIGHT PICTURE OF HOME

OLD CARAVAN DAYS.

CHAPTER I.

THE START.

In the year eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, on the fifth day of
June, the Padgett carriage-horses faced the west, and their mistress
gathered the lines into her mitted hands.

The moving-wagon was ready in front of the carriage. It was to be
driven by Zene, the lame hired man. Zene was taking a last drink from
that well at the edge of the garden, which lay so deep that your face
looked like a star in it. Robert Day Padgett, Mrs. Padgett's
grandson, who sat on the back seat of the carriage, decided that he
must have one more drink, and his aunt Corinne who sat beside him,
was made thirsty by his decision. So the two children let down the
carriage steps and ran to the well.

It was like Sunday all over the farm, only the cattle were not
straying over the fields. The house was shut up, its new inhabitants
not having arrived. Some neighbor women had come to bid the family
good-bye again, though it was so early that the garden lay in heavy
dew. These good friends stood around the carriage; one of them held
the front-door key in trust for the new purchaser. They all called
the straight old lady who held the lines grandma Padgett. She was
grandma Padgett to the entire neighborhood, and they shook their
heads sorrowfully in remembering that her blue spectacles, her
ancient Leghorn bonnet, her Quaker shoulder cape and decided face
might be vanishing from them forever.

"You'll come back to Ohio," said one neighbor. "The wild Western
prairie country won't suit you at all."

"I'm not denying," returned grandma Padgett, "that I could end my
days in peace on the farm here; but son Tip can do very little here,
and he can do well out there. I've lost my entire family except son
Tip and the baby of all, you know. And it's not my wish to be
separated from son Tip in my declining years."

The neighbors murmured that they knew, and one of them inquired as
she had often inquired before, at what precise point grandma
Padgett's son was to meet the party; and she replied as if giving new
information, that it was at the Illinois State line.

"You'll have pretty weather," said another woman, squinting-in the
early sun.

"Grandma Padgett won't care for weather," observed the neighbor with
the key. "She moved out from Virginia in the dead o' winter."

"Yes; I was but a child," said grandma Padgett, "and this country
one unbroken wilderness. We came down the Ohio River by flatboat, and
moved into this section when the snow was so deep you could ride
across stake-and-rider fences on the drifts."

"Folks can get around easier now, though," said the squinting
neighbor, "since they got to going on these railroads."

"I shipped part of my goods on the railroad," remarked grandma
Padgett with--a laugh. "But I don't know; I ain't used to the things,
and I don't know whether I'd resk my bones for a long distance or
not. Son Tip went out on the cars."

"The railroads charge so high," murmured a woman near the back
wheels. "But they do say you can ride as far West as you're a goin'
on the cars."

"How long will you be gettin' through?" inquired another.

"Not more than two or three weeks," replied grandma Padgett
resolutely. "It's a little better than three hundred and fifty miles,
I believe."

"That's a long distance," sighed the neighbor at the wheels.

But aunt Corinne and her nephew, untroubled by the length of
pilgrimage before them, ran from the well into the garden.

"I wish the kerns were ripe," said aunt Corinne. "Look out, Bobaday!
You're drabblin' the bottoms of your good pants."

"'Twouldn't do any good if the kerns were ripe," said Bobaday,
turning his pepper-and-salt trousers up until the linings showed.
"This farm ain't ours now, and we couldn't pull them."

Aunt Corinne paused at the fennel bed: then she impulsively
stretched forth her hand and gathered it full.

"I set out these things," said aunt Corinne, "and I ain't countin'
them sold till the wagon starts." So she gathered sweetbrier, and a
leaf of sage and two or three pinks.

"O Bobaday," said aunt Corinne--this name being a childish
corruption of Robert Day: for aunt Corinne two years younger than her
nephew, and had talked baby talk when he prided himself on distinct
English--"you s'pose brother Tip's got a garden like this at the new
place? Oh, the pretty little primroses! Who'll watch them pop open
to-night? How you and me have sat on the primrose bed and watched the
t-e-e-nty buds swell and swell till finally--pop! they smack their lips
and burst wide open!"

"We'll have a primrose bed out West," said Bobaday. "We'll plant
sweet anise too, and have caraway seeds to put in the cakes. Aunt
Krin, did you know grandma's goin' to have green kern pie when we
stop for dinner to-day?"

"I knew there was kern pie made," said aunt Krin. "I guess we better
get into the carriage."

She held her short dress away from the bushes, and scampered with
Bobaday into the yard. Here they could not help stopping on the
warped floor of the porch to look into the empty house. It looked
lonesome already. A mouse had ventured out of the closet by the tall
sitting-room mantel; and a faint outline of the clock's shape
remained on the wall.

The house with its trees was soon fading into the past. The
neighbors were going home by the road or across fields. Zene's wagon,
drawn by the old white and gray, moved ahead at a good pace. It was
covered with white canvas drawn tight over hoops which were held by
iron clamps to the wagon-sides. At the front opening sat Zene,
resting his feet on the tongue. The rear opening was puckered to a
round O by a drawing string. Swinging to and fro from the hind axle,
hung the tar-bucket. A feed box was fitted across the hind end of the
wagon. Such stores as might be piled to the very canvas roof, were
concealed from sight by a black oilcloth apron hanging behind Zene.
This sheet of oilcloth was designed for an additional roof to keep
the goods dry when it rained.

Under the wagon, keeping well away from the tar-bucket, trotted
Boswell and Johnson. Bobaday named them; he had read something of
English literature in his grandfather's old books. Johnson was a fat
black and white dog, who was obliged to keep his tongue out of his
mouth to pant during the greater part of his days. He had fits of
meditation, when Boswell galloped all over him without provoking a
snap. Johnson was, indeed, a most amiable fellow, and had gained a
reputation as a good watch dog, because on light nights he barked the
shining hours away.

Boswell was a little short-legged dog, built like a clumsy weasel;
for his body was so long it seemed to plead for six legs instead of
four, to support it, and no one could blame his back for swaying a
little in the middle. Boswell was a brindled dog. He had yellow spots
like pumpkin seeds over his eyes. His affection for Johnson was
extreme. He looked up to Johnson. If he startled a bird at the
roadside, or scratched at the roots of a tree after his imagination,
he came back to Johnson for approval, wagging his tail until it made
his whole body undulate. Johnson sometimes condescended to rub a nose
against his silly head, and this threw him into such fire of delight
that he was obliged to get out of the wagon-track, and bark around
himself in a circle until the carriage left him behind. Then he came
up to Johnson again, and panted along beside him, with a smile as
open and constant as sunshine.

No such caravan as the Padgett family has been seen moving West
since those days when all the States were in a ferment: when New York
and the New England States poured into Ohio, and Pennsylvania and
Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee into Indiana, Illinois, and even--as a
desperate venture, Missouri. The Old National Turnpike was then a
lively thoroughfare. Sometimes a dozen white-covered wagons stretched
along in company. All classes of society were represented among the
movers. There were squalid lots to--be avoided as thieves: and there
were carriages full of families who would raise Senators, Presidents,
and large financiers in their new home. The forefathers of many a man
and woman, now abroad studying older civilization in Europe, came
West as movers by the wagon route.

Aunt Corinne and her nephew were glad when Zene drove upon the
'pike, and the carriage followed. The 'pike had a solid rumbling base
to offer wheels. You were comparatively in town while driving there,
for every little while you met somebody, and that body always
appeared to feel more important for driving on the 'pike. It was a
glittering white highway the ruts worn by wheels were literally worn
in stone. Yet never were roadsides as green as the sloping 'pike
sides. No trees encroached very close upon it, and it stretched in
endless glare. But how smoothly you bowled along! People living aside
in fields, could hear your progress; the bass roar of the 'pike was
as distinct, though of course not as loud, as the rumble of a train.

Going through Reynoldsburg however, was the great triumphal act of
leave-taking. The Padgetts went to church in Reynoldsburg. To-day it
is a decayed village, with many of its houses leaning wearily to one
side, or forward as if sinking to a nap. But then it was a lively
coach town, the first station out from the capital of the State.

[Illustration: THE STAGE SWEPT BY LIKE A FLASH.]

The Reynoldsburgers looked forth indifferently. They saw movers
every hour of the day. But with recognition growing in their faces,
many of them hastened to this particular carriage for parting words
with grandma Padgett and the children. Robert Day set up against the
high back, accepting his tribute of envious glances from the boys he
knew. He was going off to meet adventures. They--had to stay at home
and saw wood, and some of them would even be obliged to split it when
they had a tin box full of bait and their fish-poles all ready for
the afternoon's useful employment. There had been a time when Robert
thought he would not like to be called "movers." Some movers fell
entirely below his ideas. But now he saw how much finer it was to be
travelling in a carriage than on the swift-shooting cars. He felt
sorry for the Reynoldsburg boys. One of them hinted that he might be
expected out West himself some day, and told Robert to watch down the
road for him. He appeared to think the West was a large prairie full
of benches, where folks sat down and told their adventures in coming.

Bobaday considered his position in the carriage the only drawback to
the Reynoldsburg parade. He ought to be driving. In the course of the
journey he hoped grandma Padgett would give up the lines--which she
had never yet done.

They drove out of Reynoldsburg. The tin-covered steeple on the
church dazzled their eyes for perhaps the last time.

Then coming around a curve in the 'pike appeared that soul-stirring
sight, the morning stage from Columbus. Zene and grandma Padgett drew
off to the side of the road and gave it a wide passage, for the stage
had the same right of way that any regular train now has on its own
track. It was drawn by six of the proudest horses in the world, and
the grand-looking driver who guided them, gripped the complication of
lines in his left hand while he held a horn to his mouth with the
right, and through this he blew a mellow peal to let the
Reynoldsburgers know the stage was coming. The stage, billowing on
springs, was paneled with glittering pictures, gilded on every part,
and evidently lined with velvet. Travellers inside looked through the
open windows with what aunt Corinne considered an air of opulent
pride. She had always longed to explore the interior of a stage, and
envied any child who had been shut in by the mysterious click and
turn of the door-handle. The top was crowded with gentlemen looking
only less important than the luxurious passengers inside: and behind
on a vast rack was such a mountain of-baggage swaying with the stage,
but corded firmly to place, and topped with bandboxes, that aunt
Corinne believed their moving wagon would not have contained it all.
Yet the stage swept past like a flash. All its details had to be
gathered by a quick eye. The leaders flew over the smooth
thoroughfare, holding up their heads like horse princes; and Bobaday
knew what a bustle Reynoldsburg would be in during the few minutes
that the stage halted.

After viewing this sumptuous pageant the little caravan moved
briskly on toward Columbus. Zene kept some distance ahead, yet always
in sight. And in due time the city began to grow around them. The
'pike never lost its individuality among the streets of the capital.
They saw the great penitentiary surrounded by stone walls as thick as
the length of a short boy. They saw trains of cars trailing in and
out; manufactories, and vistas of fine streets full of stores. They
even saw the capitol building standing high up on its shaded grounds,
many steps and massive pillars giving entrance to the structure which
grandma Padgett said was one of the finest in the United States. It
was not very long before they reached the western side of the city
and were crossing the Scioto River in a long bridge and entering what
was then a shabby suburb called Frankfort. At this point aunt Corinne
and her nephew entered unbroken ground.

CHAPTER II.

THE LITTLE-OLD MAN WITH A BAG ON HIS BACK.

Grandma Padgett had prepared the noon lunch that very day, but
scarcely expected to make use of it. On the western borders of
Columbus lived a cousin Padgett in such a country place as had long
been the talk of the entire family connection. Cousin Padgett was a
mighty man in the city, and his wife and daughters had unheard-of
advantages. He had kept up a formal but very pleasant intercourse
with grandma's branch; and when he learned at the State Fair, the
year previous, her son Tip's design to cast their future lots in the
West, he said he should take it very ill if they did not spend the
first night of their journey with him. Grandma Padgett decided that
relationship must claim her for at least one meal.

Bobaday and Corinne saw Zene pause at the arched gates of this
modern castle, according to his morning's instructions. Corinne's.
heart thumped apprehensively. It was a formidable thing to be going
to cousin Padgett's. He lived in such overwhelming grandeur. She
knew, although she had never seen his grounds, that he kept two
gardeners on purpose to take care of them. His parlors were covered
with carpets in which immense bouquets of flowers were wrought, and
he had furniture not only of horsehair, but of flowered red velvet
also. I suppose in these days cousin Padgett's house would be
considered the extreme of expensive ugliness, and a violation of all
laws of beauty. But it was the best money could buy then, and that
was considered enough. Robert was not affected by the fluttering care
of his young aunt. He wanted to see this seat of grandeur. And when
Zene walked back down the avenue from making inquiries, and announced
that the entire family were away from home, Bobaday felt a shock of
disappointment.

Cousin Padgett did not know the exact date of the removal, and
people wrote few letters in those days. So he could not be blamed for
his absence when they came by. Zene limped up to his seat in front of
the wagon, and they moved forward along the 'pike.

"Good!" breathed aunt Corinne, settling back.

"'Tisn't good a bit!" said Bobaday.

And whom should they meet in a few miles but cousin Padgett himself,
riding horseback and leading a cream-colored horse which he had been
into the country to purchase. This was almost as trying as taking
dinner at his house. He insisted that the party should turn back. His
wife and daughters had only driven into the city that morning. Cousin
Padgett was a charming, hearty man, with a ring of black whiskers
extending under his face from ear to ear, and the more he talked the
less Corinne feared him. When he found that his kinspeople could not
be prevailed upon to return with him, he tied up his horses to the
wagon in the wood-shed where Zene unhitched, and took dinner with
grandma Padgett.

Aunt Corinne sat on a log beside him and ate currant pie. He went
himself to the nearest house and brought water. And when a start was
made, he told the children he still expected a visit from them, and
put as a parting gift a gold dollar as delicate as an old three-cent
piece, into the hand of each.

Bobaday felt his loss when the cream-colored horse could no longer
be discerned in the growing distance. Grandma Padgett smiled
pleasantly ahead through her blue glasses: she had received the
parting good wishes of a kinsman; family ties had very strong
significance when this country was newer. Aunt Corinne gazed on the
warm gold dollar in her palm, and wagged her head affectionately over
it for cousin Padgett's sake.

The afternoon sun sagged so low it stared into grandma's blue.
spectacles and made even Corinne shelter her eyes. Zene drove far
ahead with his load to secure lodgings for the night. Having left
behind the last acquaintance and entered upon the realities of the
journey, grandma considered it time to take off her Leghorn bonnet
and replace it with the brown barege one drawn over wire. So Bobaday
drew out a bandbox from under the back seat and helped grandma make
the change. The seat-curtain dropped over the Leghorn in its bandbox;
and this reminded him that there were other things beside millinery
stowed away in the carriage. Playthings could be felt by an
appreciative hand thrust under the seat; and a pocket in the side
curtain was also stuffed.

"I think I'll put my gold money in the bottom of that pocket," said
aunt Corinne, "just where I can find it easy every day."

She drew out all the package and dropped it in, and, having stuffed
the pocket again, at once emptied it to see that her piece had not
slipped through some ambushed hole. Aunt Corinne was considered a
flighty damsel by all her immediate relatives and acquaintances. She
had a piquant little face containing investigating hazel eyes. Her
brown hair was cut square off and held back from her brow by a round
comb. Her skin was of the most delicate pink color, flushing to rosy
bloom in her cheeks. She was a long, rather than a tall girl, with
slim fingers and slim feet, and any excitement tingled over her
visibly, so that aunt Corinne was frequently all of a quiver about
the most trivial circumstances. She had a deep dimple in her chin and
another at the right side of her mouth, and her nose tipped just
enough to give all the lines of her face a laughing look.

But this laughing look ran ludicrously into consternation when,
twisting away from the prospect ahead, she happened to look suddenly
backward under the looped-up curtain, and saw a head dodging down.
Somebody was hanging to the rear of the carriage.

Aunt Corinne kneeled on the cushion and stretched her neck and eyes
out over a queer little old man, who seemed to carry a bunch of some
kind on his back. He had been running noiselessly behind the
carriage, occasionally hanging by his arms, and he was taking one of
these swings when his dodging eyes met hers, and he let go, rolling
in the 'pike dust.

"You _better_ let go!" scolded aunt Corinne. "Bob'day, there's
a beggar been hangin' on! Ma Padgett, a little old man with a bag on
his back was goin' to climb into this carriage!"

[Illustration: A QUEER LITTLE OLD MAN.]

"Tisn't a bag," said Bobaday laughing, for the little old man looked
funny brushing the dust off his ragged knees.

"_'Tis_ a bag," said aunt Corinne, "and he ought to hurt himself
for scarin' us."

"There's no danger of his doing us harm," said grandma Padgett
mildly, after she had leaned out at the side and brought her blue
glasses to bear upon the lessening figure of the little old man.

Yet Corinne watched him when he sat down on a bank to rest; she
watched him grow a mere bunch and battered hat, and then fade to a
speck.

The 'pike was the home of such creatures as he appeared to be. The
advance guard of what afterwards became an army of tramps, was then
just beginning to move. But they were few, and, whether they asked
help or not, were always known by the disreputable name of "beggars."
A beggar-man or beggar-woman represented to the minds of aunt Corinne
and her nephew such possible enemies as chained lions or tigers. If
an "old beggar" got a chance at you there was no telling in what part
of the world he would make merchandise of you! They always suspected
the beggar boys and girls were kidnapped children. While it was
desirable to avoid these people, it was even more desirable that a
little girl should not offend them.

Aunt Corinne revolved in her mind the remark she had made to the
little old man with a bag on his back. She could take no more
pleasure in the views along the 'pike; for she almost expected to see
him start out of a culvert to give her cold shivers with his
revengeful grimaces. The culverts were solid arches of masonry which
carried the 'pike unbroken in even a line across the many runs and
brooks. The tunnel of the culvert was regarded by most children as
the befitting lair of beggars, who perhaps would not object to
standing knee-deep in water with their heads against a slimy arch.

"This is the very last culvert," sighed Corinne, relieved, as they
rumbled across one and entered the village where they were to stop
over night.

It was already dusk. The town dogs were beginning to bark, and the
candles to twinkle. Zene's wagon was unhitched in front of the
tavern, and this signified that the carriage-load might confidently
expect entertainment. The tavern was a sprawled-out house, with an
arch of glass panes over the entrance door. A fat post stood in front
of it, upholding a swinging sign.

The tavern-keeper came out of the door to meet them when they
stopped, and helped his guests alight, while a hostler stood ready to
lead the horses away.

Aunt Corinne sprung down the steps, glad of the change after the
day's ride, until, glancing down the 'pike over their late route, she
saw tramping toward the tavern that little old man with a bag on his
back.

CHAPTER III.

THE TAVERN.

But the little old man with a bag on his back was left out in the
dusk, and aunt Corinne and her party went into the tavern parlor. The
landlady brought a pair of candles in brass candlesticks, setting one
on each end of the mantel. Between them were snuffers on a snuffer-tray,
and a tall mass of paper roses under a glass case. The fireplace
was covered by a fireboard on which was pasted wallpaper like that
adorning the room. Grandma Padgett sat down in a rocking settee, and
Corinne and Bobaday on two of the chairs ranged in solemn rows along
the wall. They felt it would be presumption to pull those chairs an
inch out of line.

It was a very depressing room. Two funeral urns hung side by side,
done in India ink, and framed in chipped-off mahogany. Weeping
willows hung over the urns, and a weeping woman leaned on each. There
was also a picture of Napoleon in scarlet standing on the green rock
of St. Helena, holding a yellow three-cornered hat under his elbow.
The house had a fried-potato odor, to which aunt Corinne did not
object. She was hungry. But, besides this, the parlor enclosed a
dozen other scents; as if the essences of all the dinners served in
the house were sitting around invisible on the chairs. There was not
lacking even that stale cupboard smell which is the spirit of hunger
itself.

The landlady was very fat and red and also melancholy. She began
talking at once to Grandma Padgett about the loss of her children
whom the funeral urns commemorated, and Grandma Padgett sympathized
with her and tried to outdo her in sorrowful experiences. But this
was impossible; for the landlady had-lived through more ordeals than
anybody else in town, and her manner said plainly, that no passing
stranger should carry off her championship.

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