build the homes
of which they had dreamed through the long winter. Axes rang amidst
the white dogwoods and the crabs and redbuds, and there were riotous
log-raisings in the clearings. But I think the building of Tom's house
was the most joyous occasion of all, and for none in the settlement
would men work more willingly than for him and Polly Ann. The cabin went
up as if by magic. It stood on a rise upon the bank of the river in a
grove of oaks and hickories, with a big persimmon tree in front of the
door. It was in the shade of this tree that Polly Ann sat watching Tom
and me through the mild spring days as we barked the roof, and none ever
felt greater joy and pride in a home than she. We had our first supper
on a wide puncheon under the persimmon tree on the few pewter plates
we had fetched across the mountain, the blue smoke from our own hearth
rising in the valley until the cold night air spread it out in a line
above us, while the horses grazed at the river's edge.
After that we went to ploughing, an occupation which Tom fancied but
little, for he loved the life of a hunter best of all. But there was
corn to be raised and fodder for the horses, and a truck-patch to be
cleared near the house.
One day a great event happened,--and after the manner of many great
events, it began in mystery. Leaping on the roan mare, I was riding like
mad for Harrodstown to fetch Mrs. Cowan. And she, when she heard the
summons, abandoned a turkey on the spit, pitched her brats out of the
door, seized the mare, and dashing through the gates at a gallop left
me to make my way back afoot. Scenting a sensation, I hurried along the
wooded trace at a dog trot, and when I came in sight of the cabin there
was Mrs. Cowan sitting on the step, holding in her long but motherly
arms something bundled up in nettle linen, while Tom stood sheepishly
by, staring at it.
"Shucks," Mrs. Cowan was saying loudly, "I reckon ye're as little use
to-day as Swein Poulsson,--standin' there on one foot. Ye anger me--just
grinning at it like a fool--and yer own doin'. Have ye forgot how to
talk?"
Tom grinned the more, but was saved the effort of a reply by a loud
noise from the bundle.
"Here's another," cried Mrs. Cowan to me. "Ye needn't act as if it was
an animal. Faith, yereself was like that once, all red an' crinkled. But
I warrant ye didn't have the heft," and she lifted it, judicially. "A
grand baby," attacking Tom again, "and ye're no more worth
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