The Bolivar bulletin. [volume] (Bolivar, Hardeman County, Tenn.) 1865-1888, 1879-08-21
THE "UNFORTINIrS.''


THE "UNFORTINITS."
a Family Gathering Under the willows.
"I'm sorry enOugh,'' said the red
checked, gray-bearded old station
agent at South Verona Junction, as ]
alighted from the Ashuckum express.
I" The Boston train has gone. It's the
new 'rangement made to accommodate
the tunnel line at Greenville, and there's
been somebody left over here every day
since it took effect; it amt goin' ter
do" he went on in voice of chagrin,
as if he was personally responsible for
the company's miscalculations.
''Now you've got four mortal hours
ter wait, and it's a terrible dull place
for stranger ter wait in. This ere
havin' passengers left over at South
Verony is new business-bu with q
little start of recollection and in a dep
recatory tone, "there's swamp honey
suckles out here just a little way, lots
on 'em. Ladies come up from the city
on purpose ter pick 'em-but perhaps
yoW don't care nothin' about 'em, eh?''
go, thank you for speaking of
them," / said, "they are my especial de-
light. Do you think you can direct me
so that L can find where they growP''
''I'll send that leetle unfortinit along
with you; she'll be glad ter go. Where
is the child? She's ginerally som'ers
round in sight er hearin' Hillow
there, unfortiniti'' he shouted in voice
which was a laughable imitation of a
ow.pitched locomotive whistle.
Directly in response to the call,
yellow, bushy head, followed by
plump, square little body, appeared
from the half-open doorway of neigh
hr,r oh nrafxr nd
nOndescript, wee creature stood beside
us, nodding her round head shrewdly
in eager confirmation of the directions
the goOd-natured station-agent gave me.
"What is your nameP'' 1 asked, look
ing down into the square little girls face
and shy blue eyes, as we went out of the
station together along the edge of the
shaded bank.
"Och! sure an don't ye know 1 be
Brislin's grip" she answered, in a dia-
lect which was a curious mixture of Irish
and Yankee. ''I be the wun what was
left whin Brislin's house burnt up-last
year 'tis now-an' all the Brislins,
'cept me, was burnt up in it. 1 craWled
out the windy; don't ye knowP 1t tole
all about it in the papers. hain't saw
home since that day; but they all be
good to me in the shanty village, an
get enough to eat mostly. 1 stays any
where where there bees childer to look
after. 1 was used to that; but oar
childer-there was a load of 'em-was
burnt in the fire, an Uncle Sammy IS
wife took to callin' me the unfortinit,
an now that bees what I'm called most
ly, though some of them says, kinder
soft like, 'It be Brislin's girl Uncle
Sammy, it was he that sint me with We
his wife an all of 'em calls him I'm
Gle Sammy-he says it's drefful strange
how so many o. the unfortinit sort hap
pens round here. There be tree o.
them up there in the Willers, or four,
countin' the babby," pointing with the
short forefinger of her brown, fat,
grimy hand. Ughi" as the long,
1.-THE, swaying branches of the tall will.
low tree near us whipped about in the
freshening breeze, turning the white un.
dersides of their tender leaves to the
light, ' 'Ughi do you believe that be q
ghOostP"
90 Why should it beP" asked, shiver.
ing in spite of myself at such a sepul.
chral tone coming from the diminutivt
body of my guide.
"WhyP bekase there be graves in the
little yard that the little willows fence
in. The big willow be the shady tree
Uncle Sammy knows all about it. Hell
tell ye the tree stories, if ye ask him
and they be curis stories. /, mese'f, re
mimber when the ole man lay in the
freight-house yonder, dead as a ham
mer. Jake, the looker-over, said h'
was, ,and Freeman's s wife said the ghoosts
o. the Young man an the young woman
an the babby watched wild the body al
night. l wint wild Brislin, that was my
father, an looked in a windy, but WI
couldn't see nothin' But Freeman
wife, she lives nigh the freight-house
she seed them there, an she sees then
now every little while, an they've beel
in her very bedroom, but not lately
She has ghoost-seein' eyes, Uncle Sam
my says. The very reddest o. the swee
pinks grows just beyond the Willer
over there, but we childer be afeard t.
stay there an pick 'em. l will be afte
goin' with yo5t, though, if ye don't min'
my takin' hold o. your dress"
l reached down and clasped the littl
fat fingers, feeling well paid for tn
slight act of protection by the eloquen
look of surprise mingled with gratitud
cast up in my face from the sky-blu
eyes.
90 We childer, to keep 'em quiet, pU
little punches % flowers on the grave
most every day in warm weather. w
runs an throws 'em over an wheels al
runs back wild our eyes shut for fear W
shall see suthin'-ugh! :" as anothe
gust of wind swept the long slende
branches of the great willow, disclosip
their shimmering CLEANS of white, %
you see 'en, lady? If they be ghoost
am they may be, they be LOVELY ones.
After our hands were filed with Il
wonderful wild sweet azalea blooms,
went up and looked through the willo
hedge at the three lonely grass-grow
graves over which were scattered nos
gays of wild flowers in various stag
of decay, offered by the simple childrs
of the 'shanty village" " for Il
quieting of the supposed restle
spirits.
al guess as long as be here now
t'row over a few" said the square lit
girl. al shouldn't want 'em to fe
slighted, for they be strangers in
strange land-not as 1 know ghoos
would feel Sighted" she added naiv
ly, as we walked away, " but it seen