“She hasn’t enough wood chopped to last a week,” said Tip.

“She chopped the last wood-pile herself,” said I.

“There’s Cevery,” pleaded Tip.  “Cevery never done me no harm, and who’ll dandle him?”

“The same good soul that dandled him the day you rode over the mountain,” I answered.

“But it’s a good half mile from our house to the spring,” Tip said, “and who’ll carry the water?”

“Earl and Pearl and Alice Eliza,” I replied.  “They’ve always done it; why worry now?”

“Well, I don’t care nohow,” Tip cried, stamping the floor.  “I want to go back to Black Log.”

“So do I, Tip,” I said; “but—­there’s that bad spot on my head again.”

“Now see what you’ve done with your argyin’, Tip Pulsifer,” cried the old woman, running to me.  “Poor thing—­ain’t the Miracle workin’?”

“I guess it is, but that’s an awful bad spot—­that’s right, Widow, powwow it.”

* * * * * *

For ten long days more Mrs. Tip Pulsifer chopped her own wood, Cevery went undandled, and Earl and Pearl and Alice Eliza carried the water that half mile from the spring.  For nine long days more John Shadrack’s widow entertained the two strangers who had sought a refuge in Happy Valley, and found it.  Rare pleasure did John Shadrack’s widow have from our visit.  There seemed no way she could repay us.  It did her old heart good to have someone to whom she could recount the manifold virtues of her John—­and a wonderful man John was, I judge.  Had I not come, she might have lost the Heaven-given gift of powwowing, for there is no sickness in Happy Valley—­the people die without it.  It was a pleasure to have Mark settin’ around the kitchen; it was elevatin’ to hear Tip tell of his home and his wife and children; and as for cooking, it was no pleasure to cook for just one.

“You must come agin,” she cried, on the morning of that ninth day, as she stood in the doorway of her little log-house and waved her apron at us.  “It’s been a treat to have you.”

So we went away, Tip and I, with Harmon Shadrack’s mule and the battered buggy.  Our backs were turned to the Sunset Land.  Our faces were toward the East and the red glow of the early morning.  When we saw Thunder Knob again, Happy Valley was far below us, and only the thin spire of smoke drifting through the pines marked the Shadrack clearing.  I kissed my hand in farewell salute to it.  Perhaps John’s widow saw me—­she sees so much in her dreams.

“There’s no place like Black Log,” said Tip, as we turned the crest of Thunder Knob.  “Mind how pretty it is—­mind the shadders on the ridge yon—­and them white barns.  Mind the big creek—­there by the kivered bridge—­ain’t it gleamin’ cheerful?  There’s no place like our walley.”

XIX