Argosy All-Story Weekly, June 27, 1925 — page 68: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

~ 860 and ways of traveling minstrels. Just now they were singing of the murder of Lawyer Marcum: “So his heart was pierced by the rifle ball, Captain Ewing was standing right there—and saw him fall.” There was a thin quaver of tragedy in the words and the tone, and Cynthia Meade shuddered in her chair. The voices went on, Wailingly: “Leetle Curt Jett is payin’ his debt— In ther prison in Frankfort Town—” All nature was tuned to peace, to loveli- ness, to tranquil beauty. Every human note stirred with the restless sense of impending menace, and this was the country which, for all its serenity and grandeur, the red man had named ‘the dark and bloody ground.” CHAPTER XII. RETRIBUTION. N the door of Cynthia’s room in the pale light of early morning stood Aunt Erie. In her arms she carried a nondescript mass of clothing, and even in that dimness Cynthia could see that her eyes were tear- misted. “Es I told ye yistiddy, honey,” began the hospitable Amazon. ‘Ye kain’t go round dressed in blue denim pants hike a Jackaro, an’ nuther kin ye w’ar them clothes o’ yourn thet’s too slight an’ gauzy ter en- dure.” She paused, then went on: “ This hyar room ye’re a sleepin’ in, hit used ter be Lake’s. Lake, she was my gal an’ she was named fer me—Lake Erie, but we most al- ways called her Lake fer short.” Cynthia sat up in bed rubbing her eyes. She had slept dreamlessly, and the air tasted sweet in her nostrils. “T didn’t know you had a daughter,” she said, and Aunt Erie shook her head. ‘“T hain’t. Not now. She’s dead.” She broke off as if the words choked her. “Lake, she died two year back—an’ I reckon ther best part of me lays in ther grave with her. Wa’ll, these hyar be her clothes. I couldn’t somehow bring myself, ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. fust-off, ter proffer °em ter ye. Seemed like every time I looked up an’ seed ’em, I’d behold a ghost—but yit ye needs ’em—an’ she won’t nuver need ’em no more.”’ Cynthia crawled out of bed. She did not regard herself as a sentimental person, and all the sophisticates, whose columns she read in the New York papers, used the word “ sentimental ” as the ultimate of scathing contempt. Yet, now, she found a catch in her throat as she looked at the big-boned woman who held her armful of clothing in a close embrace against her breast. Cynthia came over and laid a hand ten- derly on the broad shoulder. “ Mebby ye’ve done noted thet things round byar is right sensibly tidier then what ye most gin’rally sees in mounting dwellin’ houses,” went on Aunt Erie. “ Thet’s Lake’s doin’. She fared over ter Miss Pur- viance’s school in Perry County—an’ when she come home she learned us things we didn’t know afore. Most folks hyarabouts, they don’t like ter hev blossoms growin’ in th’ar yards. They calls ’em weed gyar- dens an’ ’lows they gives rise ter ailments from dampness. But Lake, she come back home lovin’ lilies, an’ she planted ’em out, all colors. Them hollyhocks out thar is some of Lake’s lilies.” Cynthia drew her brow in perplexity at this announcement. She had yet to learn that to the mountain folk, all flowers are lilies—just as bouquets are “ flower pots.” “She Varned how ter braid rugs an’ weave kiverlets thet furriners paid good money fer, too,” went on the mother pride fully. “ Thet’ s her loom thet stands right over thar—an’ thar’s a kiverlet still on hit thet she didn’t nuver git ter finish. She knew all ther patterns; log cabin, Star of Bethlehem, an’ ther balance an The woman laid the clothes down on the mussed bed. “ An’ I reckon these hyar clothes thet she made herself is nigh good enough i anybody. Ye’re right welcome ter ’em.” Aunt Erie turned and went hurriedly out. It was as though she had opened a flood gate of emotion, long closed until now, 32 could no longer trust herself to talk. Slowly Cynthia dressed herself in the rai’ ment that Lake had fashioned under thie instruction of the “ fotched-on’” sch CON () IDOOKSHEO