Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 November 1885 — KEZIAH THEW. [ARTICLE]

KEZIAH THEW.

Benjamin Thew was returning homeward with a long, heavy rifle on his shoulder when ho heard of Basil Bonyford’s attentions to his daughter Keziah. He met Ezra Lewis in the road, which was little more than a mountain path over the rugged eastern spurs of the Alleghanys. Ezra stopped in the road to admire the large, fat buck thrown across the saddle of the horse Thew was leading. “You’re a famous shot, Uncle Ben,” lie said, “a famous shot.” Benjamin Thew was very proud of his skill as a hunter, and of his daughter Keziah. He turned his dust-colored, wrinkled face toward the setting sun, and a grim, self-satisfied smile gathered about the corners of his thin lips. Then Ezra Lewis added. “I reckon there ain’t your ekal in this part of Virginny, onless it be young Baz Boynlord.” “Yes,” Thew replied, “I hear he can shoot a leetle at a blazed tree, but I never knew a Whig yit that had narve for rail shootin’.” “Why, Uncle Ben, I thought you an’ Baz were great friends. I've been hearing he is to be half of a wedding at your house, and vour Kizzie t’other half.”

At this the point of Thew’s high, thin nose, which was curved like the beak of an eagle, appeared to creep down toward his short, straggling mustache, and he replied: “Him, Baz Boynford, why,his father in his time was the rankest old Whig on the mountain. What an idea! Who started that lie ?” “I d’no, Uncle Ben. I heard it.” “It’s all moonshine, Ez. No halffaced Whig can do any marrying with Kiz whilst I live, nor after; red deer don’t mate with gray squirrel. ” An hour later, after Benjamin Thew had carefully rubbed his rifle, probed a piece of buckskin into its nozzle and laid it on the pegs near the broad chimney in his kitchen, he turned to Keziah and said: “What’s this I hear about Baz Boynford?” Keziah looked up from the browniug corn brpad in the Dutch oven, the lid ■of which she had just removed, and replied: “I don't know, pap, I didn,t -carry your ears.” “1 denied it, Kizzie, right flat.” Keziah bent lower over the oven and said : “Yes, pap, what did you hear?” “I heerd that Baz Boynford had his eyes set on you.” “Who told you that, pap?" ' “I met Ez Lewis when I was coming down the mountain and he told me. ” Hearing no response from his daughter, Thew asked: “What do you say to that, Kizzie?” “Oh, to that? I’m sure I think if Ez Lewis used his hands more and his tongue less he-would be much better oflf.” “Yes, that may be so; he is raither a shiftless crjtter, but you are not answering about Baz Boynford’s eyes on you.” “Oh, that? Well, I’m sure that they are not very bad eyes, pap. I’ve «ee> a good many worse.” Thew stood beside his daughter, laid ■one of his long bony hands on her .shoulder, and Said: “Now, look here, Kizzie, sen ce ydu have no mother nor sister nor brother, I’m responsible for J OU. Keziah replied laughingly: “Of course you are, papa, and I am responsible for you since you have no one else to care for you, and you don’t know how it worries me sometimes. ” “Yes, of course, Kizzie, and my duty is to keep you from going wrong.” Keziah’s face became very red at this and she exclaimed hotly: “Me going wrong, pap; did Ezra Lewis dare say that, and did you hear it without .shooting him?” ■ “He said there was talk of you and Baz Boynford marrying. ” “Oh, that? Is that all?” “What worse wrong can you do than that, Lizzie?” “Whv, that’s nothing, pap.” “Nothing! That nothing! Why, Kiz-z-i-e, how you talk—Nothing! Nothing! and him—a Whig!” “Ob, indeed, is that so dreadful bad ?”

“Bad! Why, what m the world can be worse?”

“What, to be a Whig?” exclaimed Keziah, with a little “and what are you, pap ?” “Me? me! Thank God ther ain’t nary drop of Whig blood in my veins.”

“Isn’t there, pap? I didn’t know.” Then after a little pause Keziah added: “I’m sure my marrying Baz wouldn’t add any Whig blood to your veins. Would it, pap?” Keziah turned the smoking corn bread out of the Dutch oven and laid it? on the table while she was speaking. Her father, who was already seated, looked across the table and said: “Kizzie, I’m responsible for you. There ain’t no one else, and I’m responsible. I must do my duty by you, daughter, and you must remember you are a Thew.”

“And he is a Boynford,” said Keziah, interrupting, “but people of different names marry, don’t they, pap?” “Yes, yes, Kizzie, that’s all right. I don’t object to the uame, but he is as much like his father as one fox is like another.”

“Well, pap, that isn’t saying anything very bad about Baz. I always have heard his father was a very good-tem-pered and honest man.” “I have nothing to say against that, Kizzie, nothing, no, nothing against that; but—he—was—a —Whig, and I am responsible for you. I must do my duty by you, Kizzie, mind that, child —I must do my duty—and I won’t have any foolishness with Baz Boynford.” Then he helped himself liberally to venison and corn bread. He had said his say and laid down the law of marriage in his household. Then he talked of his long and successful tramp over the mountains. But if fathers forget that love takes no account of politics or religion, young daughters with love in their hearts do not, and certainly her father’s words did not convince Keziah there was any great wickedness in thinking of Basil Boynford, and she bent her brown face over her plate, eating little and wondering much how she would get down the valley to a frolic to be held that night, to which all the young people of the neighborhood were invited.

While she was wondering she heard footsteps on the porch and a tap at the door, and who of all men should enter but Basil Boynford. He was tall, longlimbed, square-shouldered, and slightly angular, but with his bright gray eyes, long brown hair, and the light down of youth on the chin of his nutbrown, good-humored face, he was very pleasant to look on. When Keziah saw him much sweetness gathered about her mouth and much trouble in her eyes, which deepened greatly when she turned toward her father and saw the stern look on his face. Basil saw nothing of all this. He was eager to escort Keziah to the frolic in the valley, and he plunged into his mission at once. “We’ll have a splendid time,” so he said. “You ought to come along, Uncle Ben” (so every one called Benjamin Thew), “vou’ll think yourself young again.” Basil was full of love and hope and there was a rolliicking jollity in his voice. Then Benjamin Thew spoke: “Basil Boynford, Keziah Thew can’t go down to the valley or anvwhere else with you.” “Sho, Uncle Ben, you’re joking; of course we’ll go. Why, look here, Uncle Ben. Kizzie wouldn’t go with any one else, and I wouldn’t go with any one but Kizzie. Why, bless you, Uncle Beu, it wouldn’t be any frolic, not to me, without Kizzie.” While Basil was speaking Thew walked over to the wall and lifted his rifle from the pegs on which it rested. Then turning toward Basil, he said: “I won’t have any Whig running here after my daughter.” “Sho, now!” said Basil, laughing good naturedly. “If I can swallow your rank Locofocoism without getting sick, you oughtn’t to make faces over the little Whig in me.” With that Benjamin Thew raised his rifle, and with an ominous softness in his voice he said: “Basil Boynford, I’ll give you just a minute to git out inter the road.”

Keziah ran in before the muzzle of her father’s rifle to shelter Basil, but he brushed her gently aside and said: “Let him shoot, Kizzie, if he wants to.” Then looking into the eye sighting along the rifle-barrel, he added: “You needn’t shoot, Uncle Ben, unless you’re spoiling for it. That argement is good: it convinces me I ought to go.” Then he went out into the road. And the frolic in the valley was held without the presence of either Basil or Keziah.

If any imagine that Keziah put Basil out of her heart after this, they are mistaken. Opposition does not work that way, and Basil only laughed, greeted Thew with a pleasant “How-de, Uncle Ben,” whenever he met him, and whispered soft nonsense to Keziah on the sly whenever he could. So the months wore away until Christmas. The third day after Christmas Benjamin Thew started away from home early in the morning with his long, trusty rifle on his shoulder. At midnight, a thing which never occurred before, he was nq£ at home. Near daylight Basil Boynford entered Thew’s house, carrying Benjamin Thew on his back. In the middle z of the afternoon Thew slipped on the rocks. In falling he sprained an ankle severely, and at the same time disturbed a great loose rock which rolled over against the stones between which he fell, so that he was confined and in danger of being crushed if he attempted to move the rock in any but one direction, and as to that one he was powerless. Basil Boynford, who was hunting higher up on the mountain, heard his cries for help, and hurried to his side. When he saw

who it was, and how he was confined, Basil sat down near him, with his rifle across his lap. “Well, Uncle Ben,” he said, quietly, j “you’re in a pretty tight fix, ain't you? ' Accidents ain’t no respecters of per- ■ sons, are they, Uncle Ben? Even your . old hide-bound Locofocos are liable to i ’em, and you’d like to have help, wouldn’t you, Uncle Ben? Now, I’m willing to help you, if you are a Locofoco—for a price, Uncle Ben; for a price, mind you! I won’t make any faces about your Locofocoism, and you stand out of the way between me and Kizzie. That’s the price, Uncle Ben.” Thew refused.

“All right, Uncle Ben; I’ll wait. Yon had the best of the argement that night. You put me out inter the road, and I’ve got just a leetle the best end of the argement now. ” So Basil waited, sitting on a rock a few feet away, and occasionally walking up and down, stamping his feet to beat the chill out of his bones. The sun went down, the night air became colder, and Thew had not uttered one word after his first refusal of assent to Basil’s proposal. Shortly after midnight Basil stood near his head, and said, gently: “I’m sorry for you, Uncle Ben, for you’re a pretty good man, as Locofocos go, and I’m thinking the heavy frost will make it powerful onpleasant for you afore morning, and after that you can’t stand between me and Kizzie. When a fellow’s dead he loses his argement. Don’t he, Uncle Ben ?” Then Thew muttered, “I wish I had pledged her! I wish I had.” After a little pause he added, “I ain’t sure but you’re right about that, Baz, and I s’pose I might as well have it go on while I’m living’as after I’m dead.” “That’s about the size of it, Uncle Ben, and a very sensible way of looking at it.” “Very well, Baz, get me out and help me home.” “Certain, Uncle Ben, certain, and I’m powerful sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced, powerful sorry. But you see it’s took a long time to git the argement through you.” Basil rolled the stone away and lifted Thew, who, with the cold and his injury, was unable to stand on his feet. Then Basil took the injured and chilled man on his back. When they were in sight of Thew’s home Benjamin Thew said:

“Baz, you’re a pretty stout lad, for “I ain’t no chicken to carry.” Basil laughed and walked on briskly. “Oh,“ he said, “you’re Kizzie’s father; that makes the load lighter, Uncle Ben.” “Well, Baz,” Thew responded,“there are worse fellows than you, and I’m a man of my word in letter and spent, but I’m thinking if you w; nt Kizzia bad you had better not brag much about your convincing argement.” “Oh, Uncle Ben, I’m not of bragging stock.” “That’s sensible, Baz, and if I was you and wanted Kizzie right bad, I think I wouldn’t never let her hear it; not that I’m objecting, Baz, you may tell her as soon as you get to the door, but I’m giving you fair warning, to keep my promise in spent as well as word. ”

In two weeks Benjamin Thew was on his feet, and in time the guests assembled at Thew’s house to witness the marriage of Keziah and Basil. Among the guests was one Rhoda Boynford, a cousin of Basil’s. He accompanied her to Thew’s. On the way he confided to her the story of the cold night on the mountain side, about which he afterward said: “It only shows what a fool a man can be at times. ” Rhoda was an open-mouthed, rattle-brained creature. She ran into the room where Keziah was dressed, and looking pretty as brides do, only waiting for the arrival of Basil to have the ceremony begin. “Oh, how lovely you look. I don’t wonder at Basil, dear me; but it was the boldest and smartest thing, and did you never know how your father came to consent?”

Then the story came out. Rattlebrained Rhoda did not observe how the color was disappearing from Keziah’s cheek. When she concluded Keziah opened the door, and seeing Basil she beckoned to him. When he was in the room and the door closed, she asked: “Basil, is this story Rhoda tells true?” Basil hesitated a little, and then admitted.

Then Keziah said: “Come into the other room, Basil.” There was something in her low voice that filled Basil with alarm. In the other room and among the guests, Keziah raised her voice. “Friends,” she said, “there will be no marriage here to-day.” There was a little trembling in her voice, which was quite strong and audible to every one in the room. Basil expostulated. So did Benjamin Thew. Then his daughter whispered in his ear, “?ap, I have heard how he won your consent.” “Nonsense, Kizzie, I think I would have done the same for your mother.” “I don’t believe it, pap. It was cruel, very cruel, and I will never marry any man who can be cruel to my father. Never, pap, never!”

Then Keziah turned to the wonderin S guests: “Come, friends, where is the fiddle? Let us dance.” She took the arm of the oldest man in the party. Come, Uncle Ted, you’ll be my partner. If we don’t have a wedding, we’ll have a good time all the same.” The music struck up, and light feet carried wondering heads through the mazes of the Virginia reel. Five years later the war began. Benjamin Thew and Basil Boynford espoused different sides in the great contest. At the first Bull Run Benjamin Thew heard the command: “Forward! guide center! double quick! march!” He rushed forward and never returned.

He was buried on the field where h® fell beside his comrades in gray. The war storm rolled over the land. Several times it approached the home of Keziah Thew, and then receded. In 1863 it burst upon a valley a few miles away. When the battle was over the wrecks of humanity were gathered in a temporary hospital. Tender-hearted Keziah came down from the hills to help the suffering. “I am not on your side,” she said to the officer in charge, “but pity and affection have no sides.” The surgeon looked into her sweet, patient face, and gladly accepted her aid. She went about among the wounded blue coats like a ministering angel, with a face of pity and a touch of gentleness, helping . the living and whispering words of comfort to the dying. On the second night she was in camp she heard a voice behind her: “Kizzie, is that you, or am I dreaming?” It was Basil Boynford who spoke. The surgeons had amputated both his legs and his life hung on a slender thread. Keziah bent down and kissed him. From that moment he began to grow stronger. When camp broke up Keziah carried Basil over the hills to her home, where she nursed him until he was as well as he ever will be in this world, then she drove with him to his little farm and set his house in order.

Years have passed away. Sweet peace touches the land with happiness and covers it with garlands. Many have gone wooing to the home of Keziah Thew and to all she has said: “I never had heart enough for but one love,” and though in all these years she has gone every day, until the threads of gray in her head outnumber the brown, to see what she could do for mutilated Basil Boynford, he has never spoken of the love in his heart which time and Keziah’s tender care have strengthened.