Mountain life -- Tennessee -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
The shadows had shifted, slanted. The moon was westering fast. Every
gauzy effect of vapor had its fascination in the embellishing beam,
and shone vaguely iridescent All were drifting down the valley toward
Chilhowee. Above them rose that enchanted mountain’s summit, with its
long irregular horizontal line, purple and romantic, suggestive of its
crags, its caves, its forests, and its wild unwritten poetry. A star was
close upon it. Peace brooded on its heights.
The prophecy of dawn was momently reiterated with fuller phrase, with
plainer significance. Even Mink, reluctant to recognize it, yielded at
last to Jerry Price’s insistence. And indeed the jug was empty.
“Put the jug in the hollow tree, then, like we promised, an’ let’s go,”
said Mink. “Mos’ day, ennyhow. ‘Oh, ah! Oh, ah! The daylight’s apt ter
break,’ said the witch.”
The jug was thrust in the hollow of the tree, and the drunken fellows, in
the securities of their fancied quiet, went whooping through the woods.
The owl’s hoot ceased as their meaningless clamor rose from under the
boughs. Now and then that crisp, matutinal sound, the vibrant chirp of
half-awakened nestlings, jarred the air.
The group presently began to separate, some going down to Eskaqua Cove,
where they would find their several homes if they could, but would at
all hazards lay down their neighbors’ fences. Rood lingered for a time
with Mink and one or two others who cherished the design of seeing old
man Griff’s mill started before day. He turned off, however, when they
had reached the open spaces of Piomingo Cove. It lay quiet, pastoral,
encircled by the solemn mountains, with the long slant of the moonbeams
upon it and the glister of the dew. The fields had all a pearly, luminous
effect, marked off by the zigzag lines of the rail fences and the dark
bushes that stood in corners. The houses, indicated by clumps of trees
among which they nestled, were dark and silent. Not even a dog barked.
When a cock crew the sudden note seemed clear and resonant as a bugle.
“Crowin’ fur fower o’clock.” said Mink.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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