House Divided by Ben Ames Williams

the vineyard now. All the land that’s workable is working, or resting to be put to work another year.” James Fiddler looked at him in a way that suggested the comradeship between these two, and Trav spoke half to himself. “And always something new to do. It’s a full, rich way of life.”
    The other spoke of what they both knew. “I used to plan to get what I could and go away. Now I want nothing but to go on here with you.”
    â€œThe place is more than me or you.”
    â€œHard to think of Chimneys without you!”
    Trav smiled contentedly. “Yes. I’ve set my roots here now.”
    He turned his horse to go on. The trail, following a meandering branch, dipped into the grateful shade of oaks undergrown with dogwood and haw and scattering redbud. The horses jogged serenely till Trav, leading, turned up hill along another trail. Then his beast sheered in protest at this departure from the homeward way, and Trav spoke chidingly and urged the horse to an easy canter, while James Fiddler dropped far enough behind to be clear of the pebbles thrown up by flying hoofs. They came over a rise and down into a cove among the hills, to a triangular clearing in the bottoms where a man with a mule on a jerk rein was plowing between freshly sprouted rows of corn while at his heels a boy of eight or nine dropped black-eyed peas in the fresh furrows. Ed Blandy had here a few well-tilled acres, a saddlebag log house which his hands had built, and a wife and four youngsters.

    He came toward them; and he and Trav spoke together like old friends of the need of rain, and why there were always more pests to eat the crops in a dry season, and how corn depleted a piece of land if you planted it year after year. Their voices were hushed by the quiet peace of the ending day. Trav saw Ed’s boy waiting yonder by the flap-eared mule and said his own Peter would soon be old enough to ride the rounds with him. “Lucy—” She was his daughter, ten years old, named for his mother. “Lucy comes along sometimes, now, when I’m not going too far.”
    Blandy had killed a young buck deer down by the branch that morning, and he went to fetch a haunch from the spring house. With the venison hung to his saddle, Trav led James Fiddler homeward, the horses fretting because they must walk the last mile to cool off quietly. They came up past the saw mill toward the house, and when they emerged from the woods Trav saw scores of swallows and martins circling above the corn cribs, and bull bats on whickering wing high in the sky.
    â€œA flight of weevils coming out of the old corn,” he said. “Let’s empty the cribs for a good brushing and scrubbing before we put the new crop in.”
    Fiddler assented. At the stables, Negro boys raced to take the reins, and Trav moved on alone toward the big house. He approached it from the rear, past the smithy where black Sam was still at work, a fountain of sparks rising from his ringing hammer blows; past the poultry yards where roosters scratched and geese hissed and strutting gobblers made their stiff wings scrape the ground and guineas pot-racked nervously and ’Phemy, the mulatto woman whose charges they were, was stuffing the young turkeys with pepper corns; past the idle windlass of the horse-powered thresher, and the shoemaker’s shop; past the log house wherein wool from his own sheep was spun and woven.
    This was his world, complete in itself; and he loved it. He entered the big house by a side door on the ground level, coming directly into what—before he added a separate wing—had been the kitchen. This was a low-ceiled room, its walls and ceiling half-timbered, the spaces between the timbers filled with straw and clay nogging. Always cool in summer, a deep hearth gave ample heat when heat was needed. Here were his ledgers and his letter press and all the meticulously kept
farm records; here were James Fiddler’s desk