Glen's Creek

O’er Lake Erie’s dark, deep waters,—across Ohio’s broad, rich lands, and still onward, among the graceful forest trees, gushing springs, and fertile plains of Kentucky, rests in quiet beauty, the shady hillside, bright green valley, and dancing waterbrook, known as Glen’s Creek. No stately spire or glittering dome point out the spot to the passing traveller, but under the shadow of the lofty trees stands a large brick edifice, which has been consecrated to the worship of God. There, each Sabbath, together congregate the old and young, the lofty and the lowly, bond and free, and the incense which from that altar ascends to heaven is not the less pure because in that secluded spot the tones of the Sabbath bell never yet were heard. Not far from the old brick church are numerous time-stained grave-stones, speaking to the living of the pale dead ones, who side by side lie sleeping, unmindful of the wintry storm or summer’s fervid heat.

A little farther down the hill, and near the apple tree, whose apples never get ripe, stands a low white building,—the school house of Glen’s Creek. There, for several years, “Yankee schoolmasters,” one after another, have tried by turns the effect of moral suasion, hickory sticks and leathern straps on the girls and boys who there assemble, some intent upon mastering the mysteries of the Latin Reader, and others thinking wistfully of the miniature mill-dam and fish-pond in the brook at the foot of the hill, or of the play-house under the maple tree, where the earthens are each day washed in the little “tin bucket” which serves the treble purpose of dinner-pail, wash-bowl, and drinking-cup.

But not with Glen’s Creek as it now is has our story aught to do, although few have been the changes since, in the times long gone, the Indian warrior sought shelter from the sultry August sun ’neath the bows of the shady buckeye or towering honey locust, which so thickly stud the hillside of Glen’s Creek. Then, as now, the first spring violet blossomed there, and the earliest crocus grew near the stream whose waters sang as mournfully to the dusky maiden of the forest, as they since have to the fair daughter of the pale-face.

The incidents about to be narrated are believed to have taken place near the commencement of the nineteenth century, when the country of Kentucky, from Lexington to Louisville, was one entire forest, and when, instead of the planter’s handsome dwelling, now so common, there was only the rude log hut surrounded, perhaps, by a few acres of half-cleared land. Brave, indeed, must have been the heart of the hardy yeoman, who, forsaking the home of his fathers, went forth into the wilds of Kentucky, and there, amid dangers innumerable, laid the foundation of the many handsome towns which now dot the surface of that fair State. Woman, too, timid, shrinking woman, was there, and in moments of the most appalling danger the daring courage she displayed equalled that shown by her husband, father and brother. Often on the still midnight air rang out the fearful war-cry, speaking of torture and death to the inmates of the rude dwelling whose flames, rising high over the tree tops, warned some other lonely settler that the enemy was upon his track.

But spite of all dangers and difficulties, the tide of emigration poured steadily in upon Kentucky, until where once the Indian hunter and wild beast held undisputed sway, there may now be seen fertile gardens and cultivated fields, handsome towns and flourishing cities.

CHAPTER II. DEACON WILDER.

Brightly looked forth the stars on one February night, while the pale moon, yet in its first quarter, hung in the western sky, illuminating as far as was possible the little settlement of P——, Virginia. In a large square building, the house of Deacon Wilder, there was a prayer meeting, consisting mostly of members from “the first families in Virginia.”

In this meeting Deacon Wilder took a prominent part, although there was an unusually mournful cadence in the tones of his voice; and twice during the reading of the psalm was he obliged to stop for the purpose of wiping from his eyes two large tear-drops, which seemed sadly out of place on the broad, good-humoured face of the deacon. Other eyes there were, too, on whose long lashes the heavy moisture glistened, and whose faces told of some sad event which either had happened or was about to happen. The cause of all this sorrow was this: Ere the night for the weekly prayer meeting again came, Deacon Wilder and his family, who were universally liked, would be far on the road toward home in the dense forests of Kentucky. In that old-fashioned kitchen were many who had come long, weary miles for the sake of again shaking the deacon’s hand, and again telling his gentle wife how surely their hearts would go with her to her home in the far west.

The meeting proceeded decently and in order, as meetings should, until near its close, when Deacon Wilder, for the last time, lifted up his voice in prayer with the loved friends and neighbours he was leaving. At this point, the grief of the little company burst forth unrestrainedly. The white portion of the audience gave vent to their feelings in tears and half-smothered sobs, while the blacks, of whom there was a goodly number present, manifested their sorrow by groans and loud lamentations.

Among these was an old negro named Cato, who, together with his wife Dillah, had formerly belonged to Deacon Wilder’s father, but on his death they had passed into the possession of the oldest son, Capt. Wilder, who lived within a stone’s throw of his brother. Old Cato was decidedly a Methodist in practice, and when in the course of his prayer Deacon Wilder mentioned that in all human probability he should never on earth meet them again, old Cato, who was looked upon as a pillar by his coloured brethren, forgetting in the intensity of his feelings the exact form of words which he wanted, fervently ejaculated, “Thank the Lord!” after which Dillah, his wife, uttered a hearty “Amen!”

This mistake in the choice of words was a slight set back to the deacon, who was feeling, perhaps, a trifle gratified at seeing himself so generally regretted. But Cato and Dillah were a well-meaning couple, and their mistake passed unnoticed, save by the young people, who smiled a little mischievously. The meeting continued until a late hour, and the hands of the long Dutch clock pointed to the hour of midnight ere the windows of Deacon Wilder’s dwelling were darkened, and its inmates were dreaming, may be, of a home where good-byes and partings were unknown.

Next morning, long before the sun had dallied with the east until over its gray cheek the blushes of daylight were stealing, the deacon’s family were astir. Fires were lighted in the fire-place, candles were lighted in the candlesticks, and breakfast was swallowed in a space of time altogether too short for the credulity of modern dyspeptics. Then commenced the exciting process of “pulling down” and “packing up.” Bedsteads were knocked endwise, bed-clothes were thrown all ways, crockery was smashed, and things generally were put where there was no possible danger of their being found again for one twelvemonth. Deacon Wilder scolded, his wife Sally scolded; old Cato and Dillah, who had come over to superintend matters, scolded; the other negroes ran against each other and every way, literally doing nothing except “’clarin’ they’s fit to drap, they’s so tired;” while George, the deacon’s oldest son, looked on, quietly whistling “Yankee Doodle.”

In the midst of this hubbub, little Charlie, a bright, beautiful, but delicate boy of nine summers, crept away to the foot of the garden, and there, on a large stone under a tall sugar maple, his face buried in his hands, he wept bitterly. Poor Charlie! he was taking his first lesson in home-sickness, even before his childhood’s home had disappeared from view. He had always been opposed to emigrating to Kentucky, which, in his mind, was all “dark, dark woods,” where each member of the family would be tomahawked by the Indians every day at least, if not oftener.

But Charlie’s tears were unavailing—the old homestead was sold, the preparations were nearly completed, and in a few hours he would bid good-bye to the places he loved so well. “I shall never sit under this tree again,” said the weeping boy, “never again play in the dear old brook; and when I die there, I shall be afraid to lie alone in the dark woods, and there will be none but our folks to cry for me, either.”

A soft footstep sounded near, two little arms were thrown round Charlie’s neck, and a childish voice whispered, “Oh, Charlie, Charlie, I will cry when I hear you are dead, and if you will send for me before you die, I will surely come.”

It was Ella, his cousin. She was a year his junior, and since his earliest remembrance she had been the object of his deepest affection. Together they had played in the forest shade, together in the garden had they made their flower-beds, and together had they mourned over torn dresses, lost mittens, bumped heads, nettle stings, and so forth. It is not altogether improbable that Charlie’s grief arose partly from the fact that Ella must be left behind. He had always been delicate, and frequently talked to Ella of dying, so that she readily believed him when he told her he should die in Kentucky; she believed, too, that she should see him again ere he died. Did she believe aright? The story will tell you, but I shall not.

CHAPTER III. CATO AND DILLAH.

Everything was in readiness except the little waggon which was to convey the best looking-glass, the stuffed rocking-chair, Mrs. Wilder, and Charlie. On an old stump near the gate sat Aunt Dillah, industriously wiping the tears from her dusky cheeks, and ever and anon exclaiming, “’Pears like I could bar it better if I was gwine with them.”

This remark was overheard by her master, Capt. Wilder. He had frequently heard Cato express the same wish, and thought it quite natural too, inasmuch as Jake, their only child, was to accompany the deacon. For a moment the captain stood irresolute. We will not say what thoughts passed through his mind, but after a time he went away and in quest of his brother. There was a short consultation, and then Capt. Wilder, returning to Dillah, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, “Aunt Dillah, would it please you and Cato to go to Kentucky, and be killed with the Indians along with Jake?”

“Lor bless you, marster, that it would,” said Dillah, rolling up her eyes till only the whites were visible.

“Very well, you can go,” was Capt. Wilder’s reply.

By this time old Cato and Jake had gathered near, and the “Lord bless you’s” which they poured in upon the captain sent him into the house, out of sight and hearing. But Dillah had no time to lose. Her goods and chattels must be picked up, and old Cato’s Sunday shirt must be wrung out of the rinsing water, Dillah declaring “she could kind o’ shake it out and dry it on the road!” While putting up her things, the old creature frequently lamented the unfortunate fact that the new gown given her last Christmas by “old Miss,” was not made, “for,” said she, “I shall want to look toppin’ and smart-like amongst the folks in Kentuck.”