Mountain life -- Fiction; Tennessee, East -- Fiction
He progressed not beyond this point, for the audience had no mind
to be entertained with the rhetoric of old Josiah Cobbs, resenting
his usurpation of so prominent a position, and his presumption in
undertaking to address the meeting. Certain people in this world are
given to understand that although their estate in life be not inferior
to that of their neighbors, humility becomes them, and a low seat is
their appropriate station. More than one sunbonnet had rustlingly
communed with another as to the fact that Josiah Cobbs would hardly
be heard at an experience meeting, the state of his humble soul not
interesting the community. So simultaneous a storm of giggles swept
the cluster of girls as to demonstrate that their gravity was of the
same tenuous quality as that of their age and sex elsewhere. It was
wonderful that they did not sustain some collapse, and this furnishes
a pleasing commentary upon the strength of the youthful diaphragm.
The men exchanged glances of grim derision, and finally one, with the
air of a person not to be trifled with, rose up and stretched out his
hand for the bewitched seed, forgetting for the moment all his quondam
qualms of distrust.
Josiah Cobbs rendered it up without an instant’s hesitation. Precious
as was the opportunity in his eyes, preëmpted by his own courage,
his was not the type which makes resistance. The hand to despoil him
had hardly need to be strong. The will to have what he possessed was
sufficient for his pillage. He hardly claimed the merits appertaining
to the pioneer. He stood meekly by as the seed was passed from one set
of horny finger-tips to another, and the dictum, “It’s a persimmon
seed, stranger,” was repeated with a decision which implied no previous
examination.
“A persimmon seed, is it?” said the juggler airily, receiving it back.
“Now, gentlemen, you see that there is nothing in this pail of earth
but good pulverized soil.” He passed his fingers through the surface,
shaking them daintily free from the particles afterward, while the
hands of the practical farmers went boldly grappling down to the bottom
with no thought of dirt. “You see me plant this persimmon seed. There!
Now I throw over the pail this empty cloth,--let it stand up in a peak
so as to give the seed air; now I place the whole on the table, where
you can all see it and assure yourselves that no one goes near it.
While awaiting developments I shall try to entertain you by singing
a song. It may be unknown to you--yet why this suggestion in the
presence of so much culture?--that in the days of eld certain wandering
troubadours came to be in some sort men of my profession. In the
intervals of minstrelsy they entertained and astonished their audiences
with feats of the miraculous,--strange exploits of legerdemain and such
light pastimes,--and were therefore termed _jongleurs_. I shall seek to
follow my distinguished Provençal predecessors in the gay science _haud
passibus æquis_, and pipe up as best I may.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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