Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1913-04-13


it must be a likeness of their son. About !,
it were draped branches of laurel, that
chaplet of the everlasting hills, and +A
few faded marigolds. Perhaps he was 80 ~
dead. Broadwater wondered. - ~
And he had grown to look upon the
picture with certain awe. There was
reason for Grandpap MorelandS not having spoken
of his boy But it could be nothing, surely, of which
the father and the mother ashamed: the picture
itself strong, however mute, denial of that.
The old mountaineer appearing at his guests door
to announce the evening meal Broadwater standing
before the portrait He did not interrupt the from
the city, but waited until he had turned of his own
cord.
"Ill tell you about him after supper, he said; and
his voice little different, Broadwater thought
And Broadwater noted that in the difference there was
nothing of either sorrow or regret
Half an hour later, when they seated before the
wide fireplace Grandpap Moreland told the story of his
NE and my wife never had but two Children. One
IVA of em cyril, who is married and got
Children of her own; tother was a boy, who is now
man, and whose picture you was lookln at He was
big and strappn' the size inside that he
outside be burned he wasn't He had eyes that
blue the sky minute, and the color of new
rifle barrel the next. He never whipped by man.
and he bent his knees to nothn but grounding
hole. My Lord mercy what man he was! And yit
he as tenderhearted as cyril never seen sech
Teller in all O. my horned days. tell you, we're that
proud of him that CANT hardly bear to talk about
him. which is the we haint told you about
him afore this
He's now in the West, David is. He left here on ac-
count O. the law. The law right; but David too
was right. David always believed in the law; he lived
by it too until he felt that thar higher law than
that made by man, no matter how good man might be
in his lawrnak1n'.
TT was in May and the was jest leafed good
with the woods full O wild bloom and the birds and
squirrels rantin and ussin everywhar I'd been to
the Valley, to take to the store and to git
bag O. cornmeal from the MILL and as l come drivin
my along up the Stiffknee Spur road thinkin
to myself how good it to be alive sech pretty
world thar stepped out o the laurelS tall lean
dressed in boots blue shirt, and broadbrmmed gray
hat with wide blue handkerchief his face up to
his eyes, and repeater rifle in his hands He throwed
the gun to his shoulder with the barrel ntn straight
towards
@Put 'em up, and be quick about it!' he says but
little weak and boiler like in his voice Then he adds
II don't do much talkn' with my mouth"
1t come so student that l didn't know hardly what
to do 1 come to- though, and jerked at my and
stopped 'em; then turned and faced the hghwaynan
seen his eyes glitter the edge the handkerchief
and they looked keen and determined if they was
sunk back and like them of very sick man. So put
up my hands.
He got up in my wagon and commenced feelin'
around in my pockets until he d found my old wore-out
purse He opened it and shook the little change I'd got
for the eggs out in his hand and counted it. Then he
put the money back in the purse and the purse back
my pocket:
ri may be as crooked as barrel O. snakes he says
tryin to talk gruff and only bein ptfu, "but I'll
take the last cent from a old man like you"
"Put 'er thar | says, lowern my right hand and
holdn it out to him. which he took and shook hard
as he coud-which wasn't very hard. 81 don't know
you from Adams off OK" goes on; @but thars
thin mighty white in you. I'll tell the world that. And
you take the money if you want it."
He started to say Somethin'; but he didn't He let
loose O my hand turned and jumped out O. the wagon,
and split off up through the laurels, eavin wshn
he hadn't gone.
WELL, my slow, and it a uphill road,
w and was a long time a maxim the next mile
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