A VILLAGE TAIL

A VILLAGE TAIL


The villagers said that John was a odd child. His mother thought he was too. She would shake her head sadly, and observe to John’s father: That it is too bad our boy’s got a spell on him.

His father always met this lament with indifference, if not impatience.
Old woman, stop that talk about conjure. That is not true and do not want that foolishness in him.

Cause you all ways try that Mo Jo and it isn’t right I know a heap my self.    Many of people have been driving out their senses by conjuration, or death by witches.

I keep on telling old woman, it is not so. Believe it all you want tough, but don’t you tell my son any of it.

Perhaps ten-year-old John was puzzling to the simple folk there in the Florida woods for he was an imaginative child and fond of day-dreams. The St. John River flowed a scarce three hundred feet from his back door. On its banks at this point grow numerous palms, luxuriant magnolias and bay trees with a dense undergrowth of ferns, cat-tails and rope-grass. On the bosom of the stream float millions of delicately colored hyacinths. The little brown boy loved to wander down to the water’s edge, and, casting in dry twigs, watch them sail away down stream to Jacksonville, the sea, the wide world and John wanted to follow them.

Sometimes in his dreams he was a prince, riding away in a gorgeous carriage. Often he was a knight bestride a fiery charger prancing down the white shell road that led to distant lands. At other times he was a steamboat captain piloting his craft down the St. John River to where the sky seemed to touch the water. No matter what he dreamed or who he fancied himself to be, he always ended by riding away to the horizon; for in his childish ignorance he thought this to be farthest land.
But these twigs which John called his ships did not always sail away. Sometimes they would be swept in among the weeds growing in the shallow water, and be held there. One day his father came upon him scolding the weeds for stopping his sea-going vessels.

Let go my ships! You old mean weeds you!” John screamed and stamped impotently. They want to go on there way let them go on!
Alfred laid his hand on his son’s head lovingly. “What’s matter, son?”
My ships, pa, the child answered weeping. I throw them in to go way off an them old weeds won’t let them.

Well, don’t cry I thought you were a grown up man. Men don’t cry lake babies. You mustn’t take it too hard about your ships. You got to get use to things getting’ tied up. The loser folks that due go on off too something else that do not ketch them and hold them!

Alfred his fathers brown face grew wistful for a moment, and the child noticing it, asked quickly: Do weeds tangle up folks too, pa?

Now, no, child, don’t be taking too much stock of what I say. I talk in parables sometimes. Come on, let’s go on to supper.

Alfred took his son’s hand, and started slowly toward the house. Soon John broke the silence.

Pa, when I get as big as you I am going’ farther than them ships. I’m going’ to where the sky touches the ground.

Well, son, when I was a boy he said I was going too, but I hope you have better luck than me.

Pa, I bet I seen something in the woods you haven’t seen!”
What?
See the tallest pine tree over there how it looks like a skull with a crown on?
Yes, indeed!” said the father looking toward the tree designated. It dose look lake a skull since you call my attention to it. You imagine things nobody else ever did, son!

Sometimes, Pa that old tree waves at me just after the sun goes down, and makes me sad and scared, too.

You scared of the dark, that’s okay, sonny. When you get big enough you won’t think of such.

Hand in hand the two trudged across the plowed land and up to the house, the child dreaming of the days when he should wander to far countries and the man of the days when he might have—and thus they entered the kitchen.


By nutbuster