The Pensacola journal. (Pensacola, Fla.) 1898-1985, 1920-07-12

camp ground for hunters since white
men first came to the Flatwoods, and
no telling how many generations be-
fore for rowing Indian bands. The old
ca bin itself was not without its bit
of historical interest, having been oc-
cupied for a night and a day by Cen
eral Harrison on his famous campaign
against Tecumseh and the Prophet, a
campaign that ended in the famous
Battle of Tippecanoe.
The spell of the place came over
the man as he fingered a half reluc-
tant moment, a chance intruder upon
the tranquil scene. The grave, some
what severe lines of his face softened.
The shadow that had come to rest
there habitually lifted and in the tenn
pered light that filtered through the
trees it became rapt, fine-the boyish
face it had a right to be.
A thought crossed him; the cloud
came back.-like drawing a blind be-
fore a sunny window. He STROBE half
impatiently around the west end of
the cabin; took down the gourd always
to be found there, and hastily filled his
bucket.
When he returned to the house boat,
the Iron Gray-Woman still lay back
in the shaky rocking chair. Dipping
the battered lineup full of fresh water,
the man stepped to her side.
Your cool drink, mother"
The thin lids raised. The eyes she
turned toward him must have been
wonderfully beautiful in her day-large
and deep and lustrous. The cough that
wasted her breast seemed powerless
to dim their luster. They burned on,
as if the rest of her had been used
for fuel to. feed their fires.
She reached a thin hand, took the
cup and drained it in the avid, nervous
manner of the fever ridden. The cool
drink, alive with the fresh tang of the
spring, seemed to restrength her. She
leaned near the small window, slid
it open to its utmost inch and sat
looking out through the trees on shore
and up to the cliffs rising above them.
The man crossed the cabin and laid
his land on the rumpled curtain over
the doorway about to return to his
task of sharpening the fish spear.
1T looks coo1-and calnl-up there"
He paused; glanced back over his
shoulder at her, and waited for her
to go on.
as that log house I see up there
under the cliffs ?"
The floor of the house boat creaked
under the weight of him as he came
to the window. He had to stoop low
to bring his eyes lever with the open
ing.
"a log house; old and empty"
The Iron Gray Woman sat musing
a moment, her eyes astray among the
trees nodding languidly in the serene
June afternoon.
81 wish 1 might live again upon the
shore. The sun beats down so hot
upon the house-boat. and l grow
weary of the eternal throb of the
river. If could only live little while
up there, l should grow strong"
And why not It's empty, and no
body would care. In these deep woods,
there's nobody to care"
A flicker of light crossed her face.
I'D get well up there, under the
strong cliffs, with the cool spring so
near. And I've lived so song-since
you were a child in arms-on the
Ohio; the White: the Wa
bash !"
always, mother Always the house
boat-drifting drifting-and you so
frail. so beautiful !"
The man had left the window and
knelt by the rocking chair. The Iron
Gray Woman saw the question in his
eyes-a hunger for some word out of
the past; word that had never come.
She turned back to the window to es
cape the question. All his life she
had kept it from him-whateyer it had
been that happened back there behind
the veil of her silence that left him
a river waif; a nomad in
an orderly world; a fisher of pearls;
a pearihunter. Her eyes came back
and faitered over him. No longer a
child; a boy;-the reflection startled
her A man knelt at her side-the
question written big upon his face.
And it was his right to know. Her
head dropped back against the quilt
that cushioned the chair. It's a solemn
thing to be the mother of a man
but solemn.