AFTERWORD

THE CROSSING

BOOK I

THE BORDERLAND

CHAPTER I

THE BLUE WALL

I was born under the Blue Ridge, and under that side which is blue in the evening light, in a wild land of game and forest and rushing waters.  There, on the borders of a creek that runs into the Yadkin River, in a cabin that was chinked with red mud, I came into the world a subject of King George the Third, in that part of his realm known as the province of North Carolina.

The cabin reeked of corn-pone and bacon, and the odor of pelts.  It had two shakedowns, on one of which I slept under a bearskin.  A rough stone chimney was reared outside, and the fireplace was as long as my father was tall.  There was a crane in it, and a bake kettle; and over it great buckhorns held my father’s rifle when it was not in use.  On other horns hung jerked bear’s meat and venison hams, and gourds for drinking cups, and bags of seed, and my father’s best hunting shirt; also, in a neglected corner, several articles of woman’s attire from pegs.  These once belonged to my mother.  Among them was a gown of silk, of a fine, faded pattern, over which I was wont to speculate.  The women at the Cross-Roads, twelve miles away, were dressed in coarse butternut wool and huge sunbonnets.  But when I questioned my father on these matters he would give me no answers.

My father was—­how shall I say what he was?  To this day I can only surmise many things of him.  He was a Scotchman born, and I know now that he had a slight Scotch accent.  At the time of which I write, my early childhood, he was a frontiersman and hunter.  I can see him now, with his hunting shirt and leggings and moccasins; his powder horn, engraved with wondrous scenes; his bullet pouch and tomahawk and hunting knife.  He was a tall, lean man with a strange, sad face.  And he talked little save when he drank too many “horns,” as they were called in that country.  These lapses of my father’s were a perpetual source of wonder to me,—­and, I must say, of delight.  They occurred only when a passing traveller who hit his fancy chanced that way, or, what was almost as rare, a neighbor.  Many a winter night I have lain awake under the skins, listening to a flow of language that held me spellbound, though I understood scarce a word of it.

       “Virtuous and vicious every man must be,
        Few in the extreme, but all in a degree.”

The chance neighbor or traveller was no less struck with wonder.  And many the time have I heard the query, at the Cross-Roads and elsewhere, “Whar Alec Trimble got his larnin’?”