# Ainslee's Magazine/The Byroad to Nazareth

Extracted from Ainslee's magazine, 1912 Nov, pp. 79—84. Title illustration may be omitted.
THE BYROAD TO NAZARETH
By NINA WILCOX PUTNAM
THE Worst Boy in the Town sat at the fork in the road and whittled a birch rod. As he whittled he sang—half a tone aslant the key—and when he had stripped the rod bare, he cut the air with it savagely, his freckled face puckering into a vengeful frown. Swish! swish! went the rod, whistling a tuneless song like the boy’s own, and overly familiar to his ears. A sardonic smile spread his mouth, disclosing a gap in the very front of his even row of teeth. He gripped the rod firmly in both hands, and then, breaking it in four over his knee, cast the pieces from him with a laugh.
“You won't never lick me!” he cried. “No, nor none of your relations, nuther! I'll go be a gypsy afore I'll go home an’ take my thrashin’.”
It was a lonely spot in which the boy sat. At his back arose a tall, white-washed signpost, bearing three arms, two of which pointed in practically the same direction, and bore practically the same legend.
NAZARETH, 4 M.,
said one, which pointed down the hard, white, State-built road; and,
NAZARETH, 7$^1$⁄$_2$ M.,
said the other, which pointed down a shady, deeply rutted track, worn by travel of a decade past. Upon the third arm, pointing down the handle of the fork, the direction read:
RAND VILLAGE, 3 M.
No house was in sight, nor any sign of human activity; only the zigzag fences, which ineffectively attempted to hold back the riotous hedgerows of the fields, and the dark woods that loomed behind the guidepost, sheltering the two roads to Nazareth till they were lost in cool dimness after a hundred yards or so. Mid-spring had robed New England with tender, voluptuous green, and in this secluded valley the warm air scarcely stirred. An early locust boomed shrilling upon the warm, hazy quiet.
“Naw!” said the Worst Boy Town aloud. “I ain’t a-goin’ ter go ter school days like this, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ ter learn that piece out o' the Noo Testamint fer punishment, nor be licked fer not learnin’ it, nuther. I'm sick o’ thet Holy Family, anyways; they belong ter Christmas, not ter spring. An’ as fer you,” he continued, addressing the broken bits of birch rod, “when I’m a man, I’m a-goin’ ter hack down the whole forest o’ birch birch trees—every birch tree in the world. So’s the boys won't be licked no more.”
He dug his bare toes into the dust and glared fiercely at the broken rod. Again the locust boomed; and with the sound came a longing for the swimming pool beyond, Surely it was warm enough.
There came the sound of horses and a wagon, heralding the approach of a “team.” Very quickly it hove in sight, and coming up over the back of the hill, along the white, sun-dusty road from Rand Village; and, at sight of it, the Worst Boy’s heart almost stopped beating.
Gypsies! It was a gypsy wagon—though once it had been a grocer’s; and the sides were painted gorgeously. Through the roof projected a chimney from which a faint blue veil of smoke was floating; and in the front part, behind the driver’s seat, was a little window with lace curtains. Two fine horses drew the conveyance, and their harness was gay with scarlet wool and burnished brass. Withal it had a festive appearance; and the boy's imagination painted it still gayer, with a thousand hues of adventure, piratical and school-free. Behind it followed a led horse, and on a driver's seat crouched a woman, who held the reins with a frantic clutch. She was young, and her face would have been very beautiful had it been less drawn with pain. She half sat, half lay upon the bench, and her eyes were wild. She appeared to be all alone, and to be suffering greatly.
Something choking, he knew not what, clutched at the boy’s heart as he looked into that lovely, agonized face; and he felt as he remembered feeling one day while he had stood watching the soldiers go off to the war in Cuba. At sight of his ragged little figure, the woman brought her horses to a halt, and addressed him, her voice coming sharp and sobbingly. And yet smiled a little, too, at his homely, startled face.
“On which road are the woods most thick and deep?” she asked, with a foreign accent. “Quick! Which is the most lonely road?”
“This,” said the Worst Loy, pointing to the narrow, old road. “No one hardly ever goes this way. It’s longest.”
Without speaking, but sending him another struggling little smile, she lifted her hand, let something fall, and, heading her horses down the lesser road, rapidly disappeared from sight.
Slowly the boy wheeled about to gaze after the retreating gleam of the gayly colored van; and not until the last echo of its passing had died away did he return to thoughts of swimming.
“Gee! That woman looked awful!” said the Worst Boy. “Awful, but kinder grand!”
Then he crossed the main road in the general direction of the brook, and went to bathe.
After an hour or so of luxurious idling in the pool, wrapped in the delicious consciousness of doing something which was forbidden to his mates, who were shut up in school, suffering the punishment of the righteous, he returned to the crossroads. What should he do next? To go home was impossible, as it was not yet high noon, and his premature appearance would be a confession of truancy.
He seated himself upon the grass, his back against the guidepost, reached out a grimy hand, picked up the maple spray, which still lay near, and began tracing a design in the dust with it. The heat and silence were heavier now as the world came to its midday pause. All about was that sense of breath suspended preparatory to a deep sigh of contentment which pervades the noon of a June day. The boy caught a shining beetle, pinched it to death gently, and put it in his pocket. Then he discovered that the flat of the maple leaves would draw up the dust by suction; and, while he was deeply absorbed in experimenting with this, suddenly he became conscious, without any warning sound, that some one was approaching stealthily.
Like a wild woodland thing, he raised his head sharply, his sense of hearing intensely alert. Then, motionless as a surprised deer, he watched a man emerge from the alder thicket which fringed the road in the direction of Rand.
He was a strange-looking man, was this newcomer, with little gold rings in his ears. His coat was missing, and his shirt was soiled and torn. His hair, which grew thick and curling, was disordered, and bits of leaves and bark were caught in it, and his clothing was stained with mud and scarred by briers. A very giant in strength and stature, he towered like a young Hercules; but his dark skin dripped sweat, and his breath came hard. Evidently he had fought a difficult and secret way across the swamps and through the woods; and here, coming out abruptly upon the fork of the road, he stared about him wildly, as though fearful of being observed. Then he began scanning the ground rapidly, as though in search of something.
Motionless, fascinated, the boy watched in silence. What was the man—a pirate? Very probably, for he had gold coins sewn to the fringe of the bright sash about his waist, and all he needed was a sword, Suddenly the man caught sight of the boy, and, crossing rapidly to where he stood, pointed to the maple twig which dangled from the child’s hand.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded fiercely.
“I—I——” gasped the Worst Boy in Town, completely terrified for once.
“Die mande!” shouted the man. “Tell me, son of a Gorgio, or I will throttle thee!”
“I—in the road!” gasped the boy.
“In the road, eh?” panted the man, with an intensity of eagerness which made the words vibrate. “Show me where.”
“There!” said the Worst Boy, flinging down the bit of green. “You're a-chokin’ me!”
The man relaxed his hold on the boy’s neck, but seized him by the ear.
“What d’yer want, anyhow?”
“Which way did the wagon go? A woman was driving it—a painted wagon. Which way, O son of a dog!” screamed the man, “Dibble! Say which way!”
“Along the byroad to Nazareth!” yelled the boy, pointing. “Leggo my ear!”
The man shouted a peal of laughter, as though from sheer relief, and, tearing one of the shining buttons from his vest, put it into the boy’s hand; and rushed off down the lesser road.
The Worst Boy looked first at the vanishing gypsy, and then at the object in his grimy palm. It was a strange button, that was more like a coin, being round, but somewhat irregular in shape. It bore the laurel-wreathed image of a man with a big nose, and curious words that were like those in the detested Latin grammar. It was very heavy, too. The Worst Boy rubbed it on his knee, bit it, hurt his mouth, and then clenched it secretively in the moist hollow of his hand, as a horseman clattered up over the hill from Rand. Almost at the same time there appeared a second horseman along the highroad from Nazareth; and at the fork the two drew rein and exchanged greetings. The first to speak was the young sheriff, who pulled off his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his serious pink face. His hair was straw color and his eyes were blue. He was slim and tall; a very young sheriff.
“Hello, Bill!” said he moodily. “This is a hell of a chase, ain’t it?”
“Seen any signs of him?” asked the old sheriff, whose gray-bearded, hatchet face was drawn with severe, uncompromising lines.
“Nary a sign,” replied the first speaker. “Darn the cuss! I wish he'd elected to stay in jail jist one day more afore breakin’ out!”
“I suppose you do,” rejoined the older man. “I hear you got good reason for wantin’ to stay at home to-day. How is she?”
“Fine!” said the young sheriff, his face brightening. “She’s doing fine! She give us a terrible scare; but she’s fine now.”
“A boy, ain’t it?” asked the old sheriff.
“Yep! Nine pounds. He come at five o'clock this mornin’.”
“You don’t say! Well, well! Congratulate you, I’m sure!” said the old sheriff. “Don’t wonder you hate leavin’ home this mornin’. But a horse thief! Thet’s too ungodly a crime ter let go unpunished. We got ter recapture him, come what may. I was one o’ the o-riginal posse what caught him.”
“Why, so you was!” said the young sheriff. “They never found the horse, did they?”
“Naw! The woman got off with it!” said the old sheriff. “Down to the jail they was all kind o’ wishin’ he'd got away sooner. A crazy sort, he is. Why, he actooly tried ter git us ter let him off because his wife was sick an’ he wanted ter be with her. Ha! ha! he made me sick! A horse thief is the meanest thief in the world. I wouldn't show one no mercy.”
“Right yer are!” said the young sheriff. “Yet I was hearin’ Buck Jones tell us how, if he could git the horse back, he wouldn’t prosecute the gypsy feller for stealin’ it.”
Here the speaker caught sight of the Worst Boy in Town, and addressed him good-naturedly.
“Hello, Bob!” he said. “What you doin’ out o' school at this hour? By heck! If my young one don’t grow up better'n you, I'll lick the pants offen him!”
“Aw, you shut up, Mr. Bower!” said the Worst Boy. “You ain't got no boy.”
“Haven't I, though!” cried the young sheriff, with a joyous laugh. “You just ought to hear him holler!”
The old sheriff looked at the Worst Boy with a disapproving frown.
“Mind how yer talk back to older folks!” he snapped. “Quit wriggling about an’ pay some attenshun! Hev yer seen any persons about here this mornin’? No lies, now!”
Instantly the Worst Boy was alive with antagonism, and he responded with alacrity to the bad name the older man put upon him.
“Naw! Ain't seen no one!” he lied, principally because lying had been suggested.
“Been here long?”
“All mornin’.”
“Well,” said the old sheriff, tu to the young sheriff, “guess I'll be ridin’ back a spell, and take a look down around Devil’s Mountain way. Ride with me as far as the creamery.”
“All right!” said the young sheriff, wheeling his horse about. “I hear that this gypsy feller is powerful strong. D’yer know he broke the winder bars with his bare hands?”
The rest of his speech was lost in the clatter of hoofs; and again the Worst Boy was left sentinel at the fork. He looked at the sun. It was high noon now, and he was hungry. From the distant village came the faint chime of a bell. School was out! It would be safe to go home now. He took the golden button from the palm of his left hand, breathed upon the burnished surface, and polished it again.
“T guess it’s worth at least three migs and six alleys,” he said aloud,
Then, with a great noise of galloping, the young sheriff returned. The Worst Boy ran up and stopped him.
“Say!” the boy called out. “Say! Is you really got a baby up to your house?”
“Yes! You bet!” replied the young sheriff.
“Say, Mr. Bower, I like you,” said the boy; “an’ I'll show you what I got. Lookey here!”
He bounded over to the horseman, and stood on tiptoe to display his treasure. The young sheriff leaned over in his saddle, an exclamation of surprise breaking from him as he examined the shining thing.
“Where did you get that, Bob?” he asked, watching the child’s face closely.
“I didn’t steal it!” cried the Worst Boy in Town, instantly on the defensive.
“Well, if you didn’t steal it, where did you get it, eh?”
“Gimme it!” said the boy. “It’s mine!”
“I'll give it back when you tell me where you got it,” said the man.
“I didn’t take it,” insisted the boy. “A feller give it ter me, I tell yer!”
“What feller was that?”
“A funny-lookin’ feller. He come out o’ the woods,” said the boy.
“When?” said the young sheriff, all excitement.
“’Bout an hour ago.”
“But you said there hadn't been no one——”
“That was because of the old sheriff,” said the boy. “He made me mad. But there was a feller here. Honest there was. He went off along the byroad ter Nazareth.”
“Good!” shouted the young sheriff, tossing back the coin. “I'll have him yet.”
And, wheeling about, he galloped off in the direction taken by the gypsy.
The Worst Boy in Town looked after the fast-disappearing horseman, and then turned and looked toward Rand Village. Then he looked up the shady byroad again, and, forgetting his hunger, set off after the young sheriff at as good a pace as his legs could carry him.
All the May flowers were in blossom, and the perfume of them came warmly from the dim recesses of the woods on either hand. Splashes of sunlight, like a gold-embroidered gypsy design, filtered through the leaves, marking a gorgeous carpet upon the new mosses and deed leaves. From under the broken fences which boundried the woods, the spring beauties lifted their eager little faces, staring in gentle surprise at the running boy in his ragged shirt of blue. Late blossoms of dogwood gleamed high up under the cool, protecting spruces, white stars in the twilight of the dark-green branches. A little bobtail rabbit scuttled across the road and vanished under a thorn bush, red with blossoms. Somewhere in the secret recesses of the wood, a hermit thrush was pouring forth a love song, more pure and passionate than the sweet spring wind.
On and on sped the boy, his sturdy brown legs carrying him swift, his little brown heels spurning the dust.
At a curve in the road there jutted out a miniature hill, covered with scrub oak, and bayberry, and rock pink, growing close and vivid. At its front ran the road; at its rear a stream in a little dell. At one side was a gently sloping bank; and at this point the fence had been taken away to give the wood-cutters access to the heart of their realm. No woodcutters came here at this season; but, none the less, a heavy wagon had been there recently, and several horses. Moved by the sight of these, and by the fact that he could no longer hear the sheriff's horse ahead of him on the road, the boy turned in, the cool, moist ground touching his hot feet healingly.
The track led farther and farther into the wood. Along the little dell the brooklet twinkled, clear and full. Alders grew thickly along the edge, and white birches, young and supple, with yellow-green leaves and coats of shining, satin bark, all of them whispering and fluttering like maidens at a ball. The boy pushed on farther, still following the track, and presently came upon the sound of voices and a faint scent of smoke.
Instinctively he dodged into the underbrush, and on hands and knees approached the place whence the talk came. Very softly he pushed the growing things aside, until finally he could peer through a tangled web of green at a picture like a page out of a storybook.
At one side of a little clearing ran the brook. Close beside it, and forming a second side to the square, stood the painted wagon, its shafts upon the ground, its curtains flung wide, disclosing a disordered interior, where only the little gold gods upon the hanging shelf were in their usual place. Opposite to it four horses were tethered, one of them being the young sheriff's, while on the fourth side of the clearing, so close to the boy that he could almost have touched her, lay the beautiful lady who had driven the painted wagon.
She was lying upon a mattress, and was covered with a silken rug of many colors, bright with embroideries and bits of tinsel. Her dark hair lay about her pale face in a wild, tangled mass, and in its depths had lodged some white petals from the blossoming tree which sheltered her. But most wonderful of all, the lady was smiling sweetly now; and in her arms there lay a bundle, which set up a thin, feeble wailing.
In the center of this charmed space stood the man with the gold rings in his ears—the man who had “come out of the wood.” Facing him stood the young sheriff, who looked from the prostrate woman and her child to the man he had come to capture.
“My God!” the young sheriff was saying. “So that’s why you broke out o’ jail! That’s why you broke the bars with your bare hands! My God!”
“Yes,” said the gypsy.
“Is it a boy?” asked the young sheriff.
“Yes,” said the gypsy again.
“So is mine!” said the young sheriff. And then he did a thing which only a very young sheriff could have done. He put out his right hand.
“What?” exclaimed the gypsy, drawing back.
“Shake!” said the young sheriff. And the two shook hands.
Then the young sheriff walked over to the horses, and, mounting his own, unfastened the led horse of the caravan.
“Seeing how things are, I’m going ter let you be,” said the very young sheriff. “But I’ll take Buck Jones’ horse along with me.”
There was a moment of silence. Then the gypsy bowed his head, and murmured the departing blessing of his people:
“Ja Dereletti! Walk with God!”
And the young sheriff rode off, leading Buck Jones’ horse.
The boy reached the fork of the road as soon as the man did.
“Gimme a ride home?” he cried.
But the young sheriff shook his head.
“Can’t have you getting th’ habit of follerin’ me around!” he shouted. “'Twouldn’t do fer you to be where my boy is! ’Twouldn’t never do!”
And he urged his horse on faster.
So, with a sigh, the Worst Boy in Town put the golden button into his trousers pocket in company with some marbles, a fishhook, a bit of string, and the crushed beetle, and, turning out of the byroad to Nazareth, struck out along the broad highway to Rand Village.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1962, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 61 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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