Jack Ballington, Forester

John Trotwood Moore

Jack Ballington, Forester

Published by Good Press, 2022

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EAN 4064066097295

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

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ILLUSTRATIONS

I Was Never So Happy . . . . . . Frontispiece

Stop Her—He'll Kill Her, I Cried

Love is not Love that Alters.

I was on Him, My Knee on His Breast

FOREWORD

I am the child of the Centuries. I am the son of the Æons which were. I have always been, and I shall always be. To make me it has taken fire, star-dust, and the Spirit of God—the lives of billions of people, and the lights of a million suns.

I have grown from sun and star-dust to the Thing-Which-Thinks.

It were the basest ingratitude if I were not both thankful to God and proud of my pedigree.

What has come to me has been good; what shall come will be better: for I am Evolution, and I grow ever to greater things. Life has been good; death will be better; for it is the cause of all my past, making for a still greater future.

And this I know, not from Books nor from Knowledge, but from the unafraid, never silent voice of Instinct within me, which is God.

My debt to the past is great: I can never, in full, repay it; for they, my creditors, passed with it. They left me a world beautiful: shall I make it a world bare? They left a world bountiful: shall I leave it blazed and barren to the sands of death?

I am in debt to the Past. Shall the Future present the bill to find that I have gone to my grave a bankrupt? Find that I have wantonly laid waste the land, leaving no root of wild flower, no shade of tree, no spring that falleth from the hills?

Shall I destroy their trees for the little gain it may bring to my short Life-tenantry? Shall I make of their land a desert by day and a deluge by night? Shall I stamp with the degeneracy of gullies my own offspring, and scar with the red birth-mark of poverty the unborn of my own breed?

I live, charged with a great Goodness from the Past: I can die, paying it, only by a greater Kindness for the Future.

I

THE HEIR OF THE BLUEGRASS

JACK BALLINGTON,

FORESTER

CHAPTER I

SOUL-DREAMS AND THE SOIL

Those who live near to Nature learn much: for it is only by living close to her that we learn from her. The best advice ever given on longevity was from the cheery old gentleman who said: To live long, live naturally; eat what you want, and walk on the sunny side of the street.

School children think that some wise man made all the hard rules of grammar that grown-up folks try to teach them. They do not know that the child-man learned to talk first and that the rules were made from his speech. It is like the simple people at the circus who think the trained horse is dancing to the music; it is the music that is dancing to him. From the facts of life we draw our rules just as the scholars made rules of grammar from the facts of language.

Nature is the One great Fact.

I was thinking of one of her facts the other day—she has so many—but one I had noticed very plainly: the man who lives close to her is an optimist.

Let the farmer fail year after year, and still he plants, hoping. Let the merchant fall behind one year and he is shaken; another year, and he quits. One season of deep water-hauling sends the fisherman home to his fields. When the wild game vanishes the pioneer hunter becomes the pioneer farmer. The merchant, the lawyer, the doctor,—there never was one who did not dream, betimes, over his books, that he would yet live to retire and till his acres.

Every failure in life goes back to the soil for a new start.

That is the fact; now for the rule. It is this: God intended that man should be, first of all, a soil-worker. And tilling the soil includes not only planting, but bringing all growing and living things thereon to strength.

Rearing things on the soil is man's natural vocation, since neither drought, nor flood, nor failure, can shut out from his heart that instinct of hope which has come down through so many centuries of soil-loving ancestors. The hoping instinct has been housed in him so long that it is part of his heredity.

Maritime nations found empires, but not religions. Religions come from the soil. Men, living in the open, watching their flocks by night, find in the eternal wonder of the soul-questioning stars that which satisfies their own souls.

Imagine fighting Rome founding a religion! Or bookish Greece! Or the trading Saxon!

Religions come from mangers. All great soul-dreams were born amid flocks and herds.

This is my own story, and the telling of it shall be in my own way. And as I am not a writer, but a forester, doubtless my telling will be all awry. For I have seen enough of life to know that the generals who have won in the field of fiction, like the generals who have won in the field of fact, have won because they have had the drilling.

And in my case the drilling has been only trees—trees, and their children, the flowers.

CHAPTER II

LITTLE SISTER

This is my story, as I said, and the telling of it must be in my own way. That is why I am giving this chapter first—because it happened first—four years before the real story began. Another reason is that in the telling of it I can set forth the characters of the old general, my grandsire, who believed in fighting; of my Aunt Lucretia, his daughter, who believed in pedigrees; of Eloise, the beautiful and daring one, who believed in dancing and riding and shooting, and in making those who loved her miserable; of Colonel Goff, an Englishman, who believed in horses and hounds; and of Little Sister, who believed in Uncle Jack; and even of myself, Uncle Jack, who believed in trees.

Little Sister is the three-year-old daughter of my brother Ned Ballington, who, with his lovely wife, Thesis, and his major domo, Uncle Wash (a colored gentleman of the Old School), and his other live things and birds, resides on the farm adjoining ours.

But Little Sister, whose real name is Mildred, and her brother, two years younger, who was baptized Edward, but whom Uncle Jack had nicknamed Captain Skipper, because nothing could keep him still, spent the most of their time at The Home Stretch, the home of their great grandsire, General John Rutherford, where also lived their Aunt Lucretia, and Eloise, and Uncle Jack.

It was either very hot or very cold on those days when Uncle Jack did not drive them over to spend the day, and maybe a night, too. Once in a great while the footing was too slippery for the pony. But these omissions occurred, at the most, perhaps twice each summer and winter; for the heart of the Middle Basin, that beautiful bluegrass country in which they live, beats in the breast of Summer.

John Rutherford, the First, built The Home Stretch in 1800. It adjoined the lands of Andrew Jackson, and the very spirit of the old fighter hangs over the place. For John Rutherford had loved him—nay, had lived, fought, and died for him—at New Orleans. There is a tradition that Old Hickory himself named the place—in fact, that John Rutherford owned it for no other reason than that his horse beat Andrew Jackson's in the home stretch. The bet was a thousand acres of land. The race track may still be seen at Clover Bottom, just across the way, where Stone's River makes a bend around a hundred acres of land, rich as ever the crow made a granary of, and as level as Chalmette Plain, where Jackson's riflemen stopped the British before New Orleans.

Little Sister was a fair, frail, sensitive little tot. Her bright blue eyes, pale pink face and dark brown hair kept one thinking of full summer moons rainbowed at night. And her temper—she was fire and powder there—a flash, maybe a clenched small fist, a small foot brought down in sudden scorn—an explosion—and then she was sobbing for forgiveness in your arms. That was Little Sister.

Once she slapped Aunt Lucretia in the face. I can't see where in the world she gets her temper from, Aunt Lucretia said; for if there is an angel on earth it is Thesis, her mother. General Rutherford (Aunt Lucretia always called her father General Rutherford), this child ought to be spanked till she is conquered. Her mother sends her over here expecting us to make her behave.

Tut, tut, Madam, said the General (he always called his daughter madam), that is not the way to break colts. That kind of a conquering would spoil her. She'll need all of that temper, when she knows enough to control it, to get through life and land anywhere near the wire first. Besides, with her sensitiveness, don't you see she is suffering now more than if we had punished her? If she were a plug now (for the General hated nothing so much as a plug), she would never be sorry till you made her sorry with a beating. But the conscience of a thoroughbred beats hickory, and gentleness, Madam, is away ahead of blows in everything but war—and we are not fighting now.

Then to make sure that she did not get a whipping, Uncle Jack, who was eighteen and preparing for college, would snatch her away from Aunt Lucretia and take her out to see the colts. At sight of them her troubles vanished; for her love of all live things which are born on a stock farm was as deep as her Ballington blood. A great burst of sunshine would spread over her conscience-stricken face.

O Uncle Jack, aren't they just too sweet for anything? Do let me get down this minute and hug them—every one! And Uncle Jack would let her, if he had to catch each colt himself.

The clear-cut way she talked English! And her great heart of motherhood! These were the two wonderful things in a tot so small. It was not difficult to see where she inherited the first. But how could so tiny a thing have such a great mother-heart? She loved everything little—everything just born on the place. The fact that anything in hair, hide or feathers had arrived was a cause of jollification. O do let me see the dear little things! would be her cry. And she generally saw them if Uncle Jack were around.

One day they missed her from the house and Uncle Jack quickly tracked her to the cow barn. It had occurred to him that the day before he had shown her the Short-Horn's latest edition, a big, double-jointed, ugly, hungry male calf, who slept all day in a bedded stall, a young Hercules in repose, and only waked up long enough to wrinkle his huge nose and sleep again.

There Uncle Jack found her. She had climbed over the high stall-gate to pet and coddle the great calf. She had placed her own beautiful string of beads around his tawny neck.

Come out of there, laughed Uncle Jack. What do you see pretty about that great ugly calf?

O Uncle Jack, and she sighed affectedly, I am truly sorry for him. He is not pretty, to be sure—and so I have given him my beads. And he doesn't seem to be very bright, nor at all well mannered, poor dear—but—but, she added reflectively—he has a lovely curly head and he seems to be such a healthy child!

On another occasion they missed her. It was nearly night. Everybody started out in alarm to hunt for her. Aunt Lucretia was the first to find her, coming from the brood-sow's lot.

Where in the world have you been, child? she asked as she picked her up.

Playing with the little yesterday-pigs, said Little Sister. And Aunt Lucretia, I ought to have come home sooner, I know, but I kissed one of the cunningest of the little pigs good night, and all the others looked so hurt, and squealed so because I didn't kiss them too, I just had to catch and kiss every one before they would go to sleep.

Inheritance had played a tremendous part in Little Sister. Most children crow and lisp and talk in divers languages before they learn to talk English; while some never learn at all. But not so with her. The first long word she attempted was perfectly pronounced. The first sentence she put together was grammatically correct. The correctness of her language for one so small made it sound so quaint that Uncle Jack had her always talking. Her earnestness and intensity only added to her originality.

Pete was a little darky on the farm whose chief business was to entertain Little Sister when everything else failed. His repertoire consisted of all the funny tricks of a monkey. But his two-star performances were racking like Deacon Jones' old clay-bank pacer and playing 'possum. Little Sister never tired of having Pete do these two things. They were very comical. Everybody knew Deacon Jones, with his angular, sedate, solemn way of riding, and the double-shuffling, twisting, cork-screw gait of the old pacer. The ludicrous motions of the pacer had struck Pete early in life, and he had soon learned to get down on all-fours and make Deacon Jones's horse ashamed of himself. The imitation was so perfect that Ned and Uncle Jack used to call in their friends to see the show, which consisted of Pete's doing the racking act, while Little Sister, astraddle of his back, with one hand in his shirt collar, and the other wielding a hickory switch, played the Deacon.

One evening, before company, Pete had paced around so many times that he was leg-weary. Little Sister, astride his back, whacked him in the flanks vigorously and exclaimed: Come, pace along there, damn you, or I'll put a head on you!

The company nearly fell out of their chairs, while Thesis blushed and Ned stammered an apology. Then he remembered that only a few days before he had heard his grandsire, the swearing old Indian Fighter, make the same remark to Pete for being slow about bringing his shaving water; and he knew that if Little Sister was proud of anyone, it was of her great grandsire, who fought valiantly with Stonewall in the Valley.

Ned and Thesis gave the old gentleman a talk, and begged him to be careful of his oaths in the presence of Little Sister: but when he had heard it, he laughed more than he had laughed for a year, and straightway proceeded to buy her a doll that cost a gold eagle, and was as large, and nearly as beautiful, as Little Sister herself.

The spring that Little Sister was four years old, the General, as was his custom every morning before breakfast, went out to the barn and paddock to see the brood mares and colts. A stately brown mare, ankle-deep in blue grass, stood in the paddock nearest the house, under a great maple tree, its falling branches almost concealing her. She turned every now and then in a nervous, unhappy way, and, going up to the brown, new-born weakling of a colt lying in the blue grass, and which seemed unable to rise, she lowered her shapely head till her nozzle caressed it and then she whinnied softly. Something was very badly wrong and she knew it.

The old General had been looking on for quite a while, frowning. When the General was sorry for anything he expressed his sympathy by a nervous strutting and swearing. When he was angry or fighting—as his battles in Virginia proved—he was as silent as a stone wall, and as staunch. Then he never swore.

The damned little thing's deformed, Jim, he said to the negro stable boy who was standing near. Poor old Betty, and he rubbed his favorite saddle mare's nose, she is distressed.

There was the sound of fox hunters coming up the pike. The hounds passed first, in a trot, nosing. Then the two hunters rode up to the rock fence where the General stood. One of them rode a docked hunter with ungainly long head and sloping rump and shoulders. Both horse and rider were unmistakably English; the man was middle-aged, portly, and handsome. The other rider was a young man riding a Tennessee saddle horse.

Good morning, General, said the Englishman, saluting, can't you join us to-day? Thought we'd exercise the pack a bit. The blooming old chap was out last night—over in the hills after a negro's chickens—and we'll take up his trail and have a little chase. Fawncy striking him in that stretch of Stone's River bottom—aw—but we'll have a chase!

No—no—Goff, said the old General, impatiently, I'm pestered to death with this little colt. I don't know what to do with it.

The hunter glanced over into the paddock.

O that old ambling saddle mare of yours! Aw—you know what we did with them in England—two centuries ago—anything with that Andalusian jennet blood in it—that old pacing gait—killed 'em—aw! exterminated 'em, sir! Always told you so. They're fit for nothing but for old women to ride to church on.

The younger man broke out into a boisterous laugh. His face was round and weak, his mouth wide, his eyes insincere, and his laugh was affected and betook of his eyes.

The Colonel's right, Grandpa. Tell Jim to kill it an' come on with us.

The old General glanced at him quickly. Braxton Bragg Rutherford, my son, when you enter West Point you will find it a rule there that very young officers do not try to impress their views on their superiors until asked.

Colonel Goff, suh, he said, turning to the Englishman, that old mare has carried me for fifteen years and never stumped her toe. Her dam carried me through the Valley campaign with Stonewall Jackson. She helped us chase Banks and Fremont out of God's country. She saved my life once because she could outfoot Yankee cavalry. You were with me and know it. I owe the whole family a debt I can never repay, and suh, I'll be damned if I don't hate to kill her colt.

Colonel Goff looked over the fence at the colt lying in the grass. Then he said to the negro, aside: Pull out its legs, my man—there—that will do. Hold them up!

The legs were knuckled over at the ankles, deformed evidently. When it tried to stand it came down limply in a heap.

Colonel Goff turned and, beckoning to the negro, whispered: Jim, take it into the stall there and destroy it without letting the General know. Then he added in a louder tone, Come, General, we'll wait till you get your cup of coffee and join us.

But the General shook his head. Rough he was and used to war and death, yet this was old Betty's colt. Goff, knowing his stubbornness, saluted, and rode on after the hounds.

The old man stood thinking. He examined the deformed limbs again. Very sternly he looked the colt over. Very sternly he reached his conclusion, and once reached it was irrevocable. Jim, knowing, put in apologetically:

Giner'l, hit'll never walk, we'll hafter kill it.

I don't want to see it done, Jim. I'll go in. Po' ole Betty—that she should be played off on like that! He stroked the mare's neck with a kindly pat, and went in.

Breakfast was ready for him. He sat down, abstracted, worried. Uncle Jack, his grandson, eighteen, slender, and slightly lame, and who didn't love to talk of the war, nor the thought of going to West Point, and who wanted always to study about trees and a better way of farming, sat next to Little Sister. The General told him of his misfortune. "It is a great disappointment to me, suh, old Betty, my favorite saddle mare—I've ridden her for fifteen years—the best mare in Tennessee, by gad, suh, the very best!

It's weak, puny and no-count, Jack, he went on as he tested his coffee—deformed or something in its front, and knuckles over, can't stand up.

That's too bad, said Uncle Jack; I'll go out after breakfast and see what I can do for it, Grandfather.

No use, said the General, gruffly. It'll be merciful to destroy it. I've told Jim, too; it'll be better off dead.

Little Sister had not seemed to listen, but she had heard. This last remark of her grandsire stopped a spoonful of oatmeal half way to her mouth. The next instant, unobserved, she had slipped from her chair and gone to the barn.

I tell you, Jack, I think this breeding business is a poor lottery, went on the old General after a while. To think of old Betty, the gamest, speediest, best mare I ever owned—

There were protesting screams from the barn. They were instantly recognized as Little Sister's. Uncle Jack glanced at her empty place, paled, kicked over two chairs and a setter dog which blocked the door, and rushed to the barn.

A tragedy was on there. A negro stood in old Betty's stall with an ax in his hand. On some straw in a far corner lay a sorry-looking colt. But it was not alone, for Little Sister stood over it, shaking her tiny fist at the black executioner, and screaming with grief and anger:

You shan't kill this baby colt—you shan't—don't you come in here—don't! How dare you, Jim?

The flash of her keen blue eyes had awed the negro in the doorway. He had stopped, hesitating, in confusion.

Go away, Jim, said Uncle Jack firmly. Come, Little Sister, let us go back to grandpa. But for once in her life Uncle Jack had no influence over her. She was indignant, grieved. She fairly blazed through her tears and sobs: she would never speak to grandpa again as long as she lived! As for Jim, she would kill him as soon as she got big enough! She wouldn't even speak to Uncle Jack unless he promised her that the baby colt should not be killed!

Poor little colt, she said as she put her arms around its neck and her tears fell over its big, soft eyes, God sent you last night and they want to kill you to-day.

Uncle Jack brushed away a tear himself and,