When the news of this spread they knew for certain that only by fire could the evil charm be broken and the conjure-woman be destroyed. So one night soon after that a party of men broke into Marm Perrys cabin and made prisoners of her and her cat. They muffled her head in a bedquilt and they thrust the cat into a bag, both of them yowling and kicking; and they carried them to a place on the bluff above Island Creek, a mile or so from the young settlement, and there they kindled a great fire of brush; and when the flames had taken good hold of the wood they threw Marm Perry and her cat into the blaze and stood back to see them burn. Mind you, this didnt happen at Salem, Massachusetts, in or about the year 1692. It happened less than a century ago near a small river landing on what was then the southwestern frontier of these United States.
There were certain men, though leaders of opinion and action in the rough young community who did not altogether hold with the theory that the evil eye was killing off the babies. Somehow they learned what was afoot and they followed, hotspeed, on the trail of the volunteer executioners. As the tale has stood through nearly a hundred years of telling, they arrived barely in time. When they broke through the ring of witch burners and snatched Marm Perry off the pyre, her apron strings had burned in two. As for the cat, it burst through the bag and ran off through the woods, with its fur all ablaze, and was never seen again. I remember how I used to dream that story over and over again. Always in my dreams it reached its climax when that living firebrand went tearing off into the thickets. Somehow, to me, the unsalvaged cat took on more importance than its rescued owner.
There were times, too, when I chanced to be the only caller upon Judge Priests front porch, and these are the times which in retrospect seem to me to have been the finest of all. I used to slip away from home alone, along toward suppertime, and pay the Judge a visit. Many and many a day, sitting there on that porch step, I watched the birds going to bed. His big front yard was a great place for the birds. In the deep grass, all summer long and all day long, the cock partridge would be directing the attention of a mythical Bob White to the fact that his peaches were ripe and overripe. If spared by boys and house cats until the hunting season began he would captain a covey. Now he was chiefly concerned with a family. Years later I found that his dictionary name was American quail; but to us then he was a partridge, and in our town we still know him by no other title.
Forgetting all about the dogs and the guns of the autumn before he would even invade Judge Priests chicken lot to pick up titbits overlooked by the dull-eyed resident flock; and toward twilight, growing bolder still, he would whistle and whistle from the tall white gate post of the front fence, while his trim brown helpmate clucked lullabies to her speckled brood in the rank tangle back of the quince bushes.
When the redbirds called it a day and knocked off, the mocking birds took up the job and on clear moonlight nights sang all night in the honey locusts. Just before sunset yellow-hammers would be flickering about, tremendously occupied with things forgotten until then; and the chimney swifts that nested in Judge Priests chimney would go whooshing up and down the sooty flue, making haunted-house noises in the old sitting room below.
Sprawled in his favourite porch chair, the Judge would talk and I would listen. Sometimes, the situation being reversed, I would talk and he listen. Under the spell of his sympathetic understanding I would be moved to do what that most sensitive and secretive of creatures a small boy rarely does do: I would bestow my confidences upon him. And if he felt like laughing at least, he never laughed. And if he felt that the disclosures called for a lecture he rarely did that, either; but if he did the admonition was so cleverly sugar-coated by his way of framing it that I took it down without tasting it.
As I see the vision now, it was at the close of a mighty warm day, when the sun went down as a red-hot ball and all the west was copper-plated with promise of more heat to-morrow, when Mr. Herman Felsburg passed. I dont know what errand was taking him up Clay Street that evening he lived clear over on the other side of town. But, anyway, he passed; and as he headed into the sunset glow I was inspired by a boys instinctive appreciation of the ludicrous to speak of the peculiar conformation of Mr. Felsburgs legs. I dont recall now just what it was I said, but I do recall, as clearly as though it happened yesterday, the look that came into Judge Priests chubby round face.
Aha! he said; and from the way he said it I knew he was displeased with me. He didnt scold me, though only he peered at me over his glasses until I felt my repentant soul shrivelling smaller and smaller inside of me; and then after a bit he said: Aha! Well, son, I reckin mebbe youre right. Old Man Herman has got a funny-lookin pair of laigs, aint he? They do look kinder like a set of hames that aint been treated kindly, dont they? Whut was it you said they favoured horse collars, wasnt it? I tucked a regretful head down between my hunched shoulders, making no reply. After another little pause he went on:
Well, sonny, ef you should be spared to grow up to be a man, and there should be a war comin along, and you should git drawed into it someway, jest you remember this: Ef your laigs take you into ez many tight places and into ez many hard-fit fights as Ive saw them little crookedy laigs takin that little man, you wont have no call to feel ashamed of em not even ef yours should be so twisted youd have to walk backward in order to go furward.
At hearing this my astonishment was so great I forgot my remorse of a minute before. I took it for granted that off yonder, in those far-away days, most of the older men in our town had seen service on one side or the other in the Big War mainly on the Southern side. But somehow it never occurred to me that Mr. Herman Felsburg might also have been a soldier. As far back as I recalled he had been in the clothing business. Boylike, I assumed he had always been in the clothing business. So
Was Mr. Felsburg in the war? I asked.
He most suttinly was, answered Judge Priest.
As a regular sure-nuff soldier! I asked, still in doubt.
Ez a reglar sure-nuff soldier.
I considered for a moment.
Why, hes Jewish, aint he, Judge? I asked next.
So fur as my best information and belief go, hes practically exclusively all Jewish, said Judge Priest with a little chuckle.
But I didnt think Jewish gentlemen ever did any fighting, Judge?
I imagine that bewilderment was in my tone, for my juvenile education was undergoing enlargement by leaps and bounds.
Didnt you? he said. Well, boy, you go to Sunday school, dont you?
Oh, yes, sir every Sunday nearly.
Well, didnt you ever hear tell at Sunday school of a little feller named David that taken a rock-sling and killed a big giant named Goliath?
Yes, sir; but
Well, that there little feller David was a Jew.
I know, sir; but but that was so long ago!
It was quite a spell back, and thats a fact, agreed Judge Priest. Even so, I reckin human nature continues to keep right on bein human nature. Youll be findin that out, son, when you git a little further along in years. They learnt you about Samson, too, didnt they at that there Sunday school?
I am quite sure I must have shown enthusiasm along here. At that period Samson was, with me, a favourite character in history. By reason of his recorded performances he held rank in my estimation with Israel Putnam and General N. B. Forrest.
I am quite sure I must have shown enthusiasm along here. At that period Samson was, with me, a favourite character in history. By reason of his recorded performances he held rank in my estimation with Israel Putnam and General N. B. Forrest.
Aha! continued the Judge. Old Man Samson was right smart of a fighter, takin one thing with another, wasnt he? Remember hearin about that time when he taken the jawbone of an ass and killed up I dont know how many of them old Philistines?
Oh, yes, sir. And then that other time when they cut off his hair short and put him in jail, and after it grew out again he pulled the temple right smack down and killed everybody!
It strikes me I did hear somebody speakin of that circumstance too. I expect it must have created a right smart talk round the neighbourhood.
I can hear the old Judge saying this, and I can see across the years the quizzical little wrinkles bunching at the corners of his eyes.
He sat a minute looking down at me and smiling.
Samson was much of a man and he was a Jew.
Was he? I was shocked in a new place.
Thats jest exactly what he was. And there was a man oncet named Judas not the Judas youve heared about, but a feller with the full name of Judas Maccabæus; and he was such a pert hand at fightin they called him the Hammer of the Jews. Judgin by whut Ive been able to glean about him, his enemies felt jest as well satisfied ef they could hear, before the hostilities started, that Judas was laid up sick in bed somewheres. It taken considerable of a load off their minds, ez you might say.
But jest as you was sayin, son, about David its been a good while since them parties flourished. When we look back on it, it stretches all the way frum here to B. C.; and thats a good long stretch, and a lot of things have been happenin meantime. But I sometimes git to thinkin that mebbe little Herman Felsburg has got some of that old-time Jew fightin blood in his veins. Anyhow, he belongs to the same breed. No, sirree, sonny; it dont always pay to judge a man by his laigs. You kin do that with reguards to a frog or a grasshopper, or even sometimes with a chicken; but not with a man. It aint the shape of em that counts its where theyll take you in time of trouble.
He cocked his head down at me I saying nothing at all. There didnt seem to be anything for me to say; so I maintained silence and he spoke on:
You jest bear that in mind next time you feel moved to talk about laigs. And ef it should happen to be Mister Felsburgs laigs that youre takin fur your text, remember this whut Im tellin you now: They may be crooked; but, son, there aint no gamer pair of laigs nowheres in this world. Ive seen em carry in him into battle when, all the time, my knees was knockin together, the same ez one of these here end men in a minstrel show knocks his bones together. His laigs may a trembled a little bit too I aint sayin they didnt but they kept right on promenadin him up to where the trouble was; and thats the main pint with a set of shanks. You jest remember that.
Being sufficiently humbled I said I would remember it.
Theres still another thing about Herman Felsburgs laigs that most people round here dont know, neither, added Judge Priest when I had made my pledge: All up and down the back sides of his calves, and clear down on his shins, theres a whole passel of little red marks. Theres so many of them little scars that they look jest like lacework on his skin.
Did he get them in the war? I inquired eagerly, scenting a story.
No; he got them before the war came along, said Judge Priest. Some of these times, sonny, when youre a little bit older, Ill tell you a tale about them scars on Mr. Felsburgs laigs. There aint many besides me that knows it.
Couldnt I hear it now? I asked.
I reckin you aint a suitable age to understand y it, said Judge Priest. I reckin wed better wait a few years. But I wont for-git Ill tell you when the times ripe. Anyhow, theres somethin else afoot now somethin that ought to interest a hongry boy.
I became aware of his house servant Jeff Poindexter standing in the hall doorway, waiting until his master concluded whatever he might be saying in order to make an important announcement.
All right, Jeff! said Judge Priest. Ill be there in a minute. Then, turning to me: Son-boy, hadnt you better stay here fur supper with me? I expect theres vittles enough fur two. Come on Ill make Jeff run over to your house and tell your mother I kept you to supper with me.
After that memorable supper with Judge Priest all the meals I ever took as his guest were memorable events and still are ensues a lapse, to be measured by years, before I heard the second chapter of what might be called the tale of Mr. Felsburgs legs. I heard it one evening in the Judges sitting room.
A squeak had come into my voice, and there was a suspicion of down a mere trace, as the chemists say on my upper lip. I was in the second week of proud incumbency of my first regular job. I had gone to work on the Daily Evening News the cubbiest of cub reporters, green as a young gourd, but proud as Potiphar over my new job and my new responsibilities. This time it was professional duty rather than the social instinct that took me to the old Judges house.
I had been charged by my editor to get from him divers litigatious facts relating to a decision he had that day rendered in the circuit court where he presided. The information having been vouchsafed, the talk took a various trend. Somewhere in the course of it Mr. Felsburgs name came up and my memory ran back like a spark along a tarred string to that other day when he had promised to relate to me an episode connected with certain small scars on those two bandy legs of our leading clothing merchant.
The present occasion seemed fitting for hearing this long-delayed narrative. I reminded my host of his olden promise; and between puffs at his corncob pipe he told me the thing which I retell here and now, except that, for purposes of convenience, I have translated the actual wording of it out of Judge Priests vernacular into my own.
So doing, it devolves upon me, first off, to introduce into the main theme a character not heretofore mentioned a man named Thomas Albritton, a farmer in our country, and at one period a prosperous one. He lived, while he lived for he has been dead a good while now six miles from town, on the Massac Creek Road. He lived there all his days. His father before him had cleared the timber off the land and built the two-room log house of squared logs, with the open gallery between. With additions, the house grew in time to be a rambling, roomy structure, but from first to last it kept its identity; and even after the last of the old tenants died off or moved off, and new tenants moved in, it was still known as the Albritton place. For all I know to the contrary, it yet goes by that name.
From pioneer days on until this Thomas Albritton became heir to the farm and head of the family, the Albrittons had been a forehanded breed people with a name for thrift. In fact, I had it that night from the old Judge that, for a good many years after he grew up, this Thomas Albritton enjoyed his due share of affluence. He raised as good a grade of tobacco and as many bushels of corn to the acre as anybody in the Massac Bottoms raised; and, so far as ready money went, he was better off than most of his neighbours.