Mitchell is a Tennessee Twitchell. That said the meaning must be known, and all at once to all who has passed this way. Let us leave it that he was exceeding tall and thin. Indeed, Mitchell was more and less of everything a Twitchell was known to be. Lean enough to shelter dry 'neath his Ma's clothes line had either the need or inclination took hold. Of course, the rain would've had to fall straight down slanting nary a bit, and he would've had to turn himself sideways, Mitchell being a true Twitchell surely could've then. Seeing his Ma topped out at only 6'4" shoe-less and he was more'n a foot taller the line was necessarily short. If ever the need or inclination took hold of him likely he could've bent his neck enough to adjust to the shortness of the line. 'Of course, it would've pained him some. But the theory of his being thin enough to shelter dry 'neath his Ma's clothesline will likely never be fully known. Be that as it may, it is not the story that needs telling. Twitchells are an impressive-looking lot. Not as anyone with eyes good enough to see past their noses would've called any Twitchell good-looking. A reasonable fella with middlin' good eyes would've been hard pressed to call any Twitchell on his best day more'n half-way tolerable looking. All Twitchells heretofore known to mankind are proud, fierce, loud, and boisterous with it. Sensible folks don't usually bring up looks when confabulating with Twitchells. Twitchell's one and all are extry 'touchy and, all of 'em are 'specially long and thin of nose, ears, fingers, neck and every visible body part. Mitchell easily boasted the longest neck of any Twitchell. The heads of every Twitchell known to mountain folk look to be precariously perched on necks far too thin to keep their heads anywhere near steady. But, still, so far, no Twitchell has lost his head, at least not that way. Mitchell was neigh on to 19 when the urge to court took a powerful hold of him, real sudden like. Nineteen was a little late for most mountain folk to get the urge to court. Truth to tell, all Twitchell's came to courtin' late. Some folks said it was the distance. It just plum took longer for Twitchell's 'cause blood had to circulate so far up and around to get to where it needed to go. It was locally speculated that all that altitude slowed down the need for courtin' considerable. Mountain gossip had it that Twitchells were only short on two things, temper and brains. But truth to tell, nobody ever said such to any Twitchell. How some ever, when the need to court came it took hold sudden and certain. Twitchells always took their mates from Willow Holler. That far-off Holler was noted for growing tallish folks though none as tall as the shortest Twitchell. It seemed sound of 'em, to choose their mates from Willow Holler. Which, when a fella cogitated on it a spell seemed to contradict the notion that no Twitchell had good sense. 'Course, the reason for courtin' so far afield, might of had more to do with the fact that no sensible girl growing up around a Twitchell would willingly marry up with one. Twitchell Mountain folks took to calling that far-off holler, Courtin' Holler. Mitchell was in such a powerful hurry to leave his Mountain home to go wife hunting that he most near forgot to grab his shotgun. He was clear around the first bend afore he remembered he'd need shells to make the shotgun work the way it ought, course he could've used the gun stock to stun a critter, but that seemed altogether too time-consuming and he had none to waste. Mitchell hustled back toward the barn and the shells he needed. He grabbed a handful of shells, and stuffed 'em in his oversized shirt pocket. It's a fact that all Twitchells have outsized appendages, so a handful of anything is a heap more than other menfolk could grab. However, afore he reached the first bend leading off the Mountain he remembered his floppy felt hat and ran back to grab it. Then his Ma called to him. He made a u-turn to see what Ma needed. Dang, he thought, just getting off the Mountain is taking a heap too much time. "Where you headed in such an all-fired hurry, son," she asked breathlessly from her short legs running to catch up to his galloping gait. She hands him three sour apples, he puts one into his mouth, as he pockets the other two, turns, and starts running again. " Courtin', he answers, then adds, thanks, Ma." But, he was in such an all-fired hurry he turned his back just as the wind whipped his words away, so Ma didn't hear. "What did ya say son?" she yells to his retreating back. "Courtin', he yells loud enough to stop nearby critters from chattering. He tosses a second apple into his mouth, then shrugs a mite afore scruffing down the last one. Ma sure had to have heard him that time, he thought. Not only did she hear him loud and clear but so had everyone on both mountainsides. Mind you not from eager ears straining to hear but from the thunderous sound of his one-word reply. What Mitchell hadn't heard or seen was his Ma's shaking head, and disgruntled mutterings. " That fool of a boy's likely to starve afore he finds a gal to wed. I just know he didn't have the sense to take enough ammo, nor to think about taking a bit of food in case the huntins' poor. Sure as the world me and the old mans raised a passel of brainless fools. All mountain folks know flat land travel is a heap faster than mountain travel. Hiking up then down into narrow hollers, meeting up with tangled brush, treacherous tree roots, and unexpected gulley washers slows the best of men down a heap. If a body only thought of the advantage of extry long legs in traveling long distances they'd conclude that a Twitchell would get places faster'n regular sized folks. But, that figuring would be wrong. Factoring in that Twitchell's ever last one of 'em need to eat 'bout every hour, and, it takes more n' a few berries and three sour apples to make a dent in their need to eat lessens the advantage of extry long legs more n' a mite. Fact is Mitchell eats about three times more than an average fella and likely could eat half again as much given the opportunity. So the travel time of regular folks and any Twitchell measures out to be about the same. It's a locally known fact that no Twitchell pays heed to what anybody other than their own kin thinks about 'em, good or bad. Nor do they care what anybody knows or thinks they know about 'em. No Twitchell has ever took pains to hide their intentions from outsiders. Twitchell's don't have secrets to hide or tell, including the still behind the barn or the two others in a thicket behind the big house. But, they ain't much on advertising their business neither. So all in all a few folks know where all the stills are and some only know where one of 'em is. Twitchell's keep their shine mostly for their own drinking pleasure and have never sold a drop on either side of the Mountain. Lest ways that's what both Sheriffs and their deputies claimed on both sides of the mountain. On the other hand, Sheriffs and their deputies on both sides claimed the Twitchells sold plenty of shine on the other side. The bickering law left the Twitchells free to sell or not sell on either one side or both sides depending on whether one or the other side of the law was believed or not. Twitchells' conducted their business as they saw fit. They either sold on one side or the other, or both, or neither. Most folks didn't care much one way or the other. One thing everybody knew for certain was that no Mountain law was about to tangle themselves up in a feud with the Twitchell clan. The law on both sides was either too sensible or too scared to start a shooting match. So both sides kept accusing the other side of being too chicken to go after the biggest shiners thereabouts. Likely the accusations they made against each other were in order to stay in office without endangering themselves unduly. Seeing as how the law on both sides was too scared to do anything except leave ' em to their own inclinations the Twitchell clan lived in peace and security. Most Mountain folks didn't much care one way or another as long as the Twitchell clan kept themselves to themselves and didn't go tearing down back country roads whooping, and a hollering like serious drinking moonshine buyers had the habit of doing. Many a good coon dog had lost his worthwhile life under the wheels of an up-to-no-good serious drinking man. Some women folk could and did drink a heap of shine themselves, but most of 'em had the sense to drink alone and at home. Every so often church-going folks took exception with the folks making and selling the devil's brew and kicked up a fuss about it. After a few weeks of passionate sermonizing, aided by good wives tearfully pleading with 'em a few committed drunks would stop getting as drunk as normal. That of course put a hefty dent in the local economy. But as most reformed drunks got awful cantankerous after the first flush of feeling good about their sobriety wore off, they'd go back to hard-drinking, automatically making the economy rebound, improving their mood, as well as every moonshiner's bottom line a heap. Since most wives would rather have a passed-out drunk to contend with than a complaining man dissatisfied with 'em they took the trade-off as an even deal. Church-going women would go back to praying about their lost loved ones and, start harping 'bout fallen women breaking up loving homes. Rightly or wrongly a lot of folks suspected the reason no Twitchell had ever been jailed for selling shine had more to do with the size of Twitchell's and the fact they all liked a good scuffle now and again. Mountain folks figured the Twitchells would keep right on shining and nary a one was ever likely to see the inside of any jail. Seeing as how the complainers were either heavy partakers of 'shine or in the moonshining trade themselves and had seen the inside of both jails more'n a couple of times accusing Twitchells could have been professional jealousy or a terrible tale without a word of truth in it. Be that as it may, the fact was the Law left em' be, and the truth of why may never be fully known. That's not saying folks aplenty hadn't tasted Twitchell shine now and again without ever paying for a drop. Twitchells' were hospitable folks if, or, when a wanderer chanced to pass through their neck of the woods, they were offered a snort of their aged best. Mitchell hadn't traveled far afore he got to hungering. It had been nigh on to three hours since he'd heaped Ma's Country breakfast onto his plate, and them sour apples had been barely enough to taste. He had spotted various small game out of the corner of his eye a time or two and soon quick like the woodsman he was he shot and hit what he aimed for, but heck it weren't but a skinny squirrel, and, the blast took most of it, still it was a bite more' n nothing. The first game he shot was a lean squirrel, next was an even leaner rabbit. On that day it seemed the only thing leaner than the game he shot was the game there was to be had. The longer he traveled the hungrier and weaker he got. The rabbit and squirrel he got wouldn't have filled his belly when he was a toddler and it sure wouldn't now that he was a man full grow-ed. Right at that particular moment, he was questioning why he'd left home and, Ma's good cooking afore he'd done more pondering on this wife huntin' business. But, as he had a philosophical turn of mind, he set his mind on deciding where to go from where he was, either to turn back or carry on. He sure wished he'd done more thinking than gettin' at it. Twitchell's weren't noted for thinking on a thing, but they was downright famous for doing what they thought as soon as they thought it. Finally, after consulting his belly, his heart, and his brain he calculated it'd take near most as long to go back as it would to go on. And without a bride in tow, that would be downright wasteful. If he turned back without a bride, he'd have to start the whole business all over again. Hindsight didn't gain a fella much, but, he sure was wishing he'd had some foresight. Twitchell's, the lot of 'em were of a sudden turn. Mitchell trudged on stopping often to look and listen to the forest. He was hoping he'd catch sight or sound of a buck or a boar hog, something substantial with enough meat to fill him up, give him strength for the journey ahead. It seemed the only luck he was having was bad luck, lest wise it was bad 'til he came to a clearing. There as neat as a good farmer's cornrow was more'n a dozen rabbit traps and all of 'em filled with fat rabbits. If'n he hadn't been so hungry he might of thought some on the right or wrong of doing what he was gonna do. But, near starvation is a mighty big temptation for any fella and as he was twice the size of regular fellows he was twice as tempted. The right or wrong of his eating every one of those rabbits never once entered his noggin. He smacked his lips in anticipation and started gathering twigs. By cracky, he thought, rabbits were small but more n' a dozen should make his belly less complaining. His hunger kept him so intent on the work of setting up spits for roasting fat rabbits that all else receded into irrelevance, including finding his bride. While he was getting the rabbits properly centered on the spits then fanning the fires under 'em so's they'd cook evenly and be done 'bout the same time he didn't hear the something inching up behind him. Twitchells' being big and contentious by nature ain't scared much of anything, mostly they do the scaring. Mitchell wasn't the least bit skittish when he turned 'round, and nearly fell on top of something. That something was spitting and clawing ferociously at him though it barely came past his belly button. It was wild and furious but it wasn't an animal, lest ways it wasn't any kind of animal he'd ever come across in all his born days. Mitchell lifted it up, shook it some so he could get a gander at what it was. The thing had lots of wild red curls and, it didn't show signs of slowing down its attack nary a bit, not even when held high off the ground. Nope, the thing wasn't about to stop spitting and scratching him anytime soon. He grabbed it firmly, though he suffered a knee injury for his efforts and another worse injury that took his breath, causing him to loosen his hold a mite. The red hair slung back enough for him to reckon it was a full-grown-ed female, for all she was so small. He plopped her down on a fallen tree branch to further inspect his opponent from a safer distance. The tiny girl was 'bout as wide as long, which wasn't saying much as there wasn't much of her long or wide. He tried to decipher what she was saying, but it was hard going, 'cause her voice was as little as the rest of her. The only thing big about her was the size of the fight in her. And being a fellow who liked a good scrape himself, he liked her the better for it. Once he got a good look at her face he decided, quick, and Twitchell like he liked it better than any face he'd ever seen afore. Her face was as round and pale as a full moon. What made her face especially pleasing were the dimples on either side of her tiny mouth. Her dimples, dimpled so deep and fast in and out as she fussed it gave him pure pleasure to watch 'em come and go as she fussed. He'd seen dimples afore, plenty of girls he know-ed had 'em but none were so deep and pleasing. Mitchell tried hard to hear what she was saying. He concentrated on following the sounds coming from her mouth as she spoke. But, her voice was so tiny and high-pitched that her voice sounded more like birdsong than words. The smell of roasting rabbits and the growl in his belly kinda toll him what the fuming girl was so mad about. Of course, it was possible them rabbits had nothing to do with her being so mad. But, given the circumstances, it was likely them roasting rabbits were exactly the reason she was so mad. He hadn't thought about the person who'd trapped the rabbits or why they'd been trapped in the first place. All he'd thought about was how they'd taste when he ate 'em and how they'd fill his belly up. For sure and certain them rabbits weren't his nor was he welcomed to 'em. It was easy to understand why she was so het up. He would've been mad too if somebody had took his rabbits. Yep, she had good reason for fussing, no doubt about it. He opened his mouth a couple of times when she stopped fussing to gather breath. But, soon as a word formed in his mind that might calm the situation, afore he got out the words he needed to say, she'd start in speechifying again. He spotted another tree limb, likely from the same fallen tree, and preceded to pull it over. All the time he was arranging seating for himself, she watched but kept right on fussing, without so much as stopping long enough to draw a breath. That little girl must have powerful lungs, he thought. He found high ground near her, then pulled up his makeshift seat, figuring it'd drop him closer to her fussing, so's he could hear a word now and again. She sure did have a lotta words. It seemed to him, she was bound and determined to use every single word she knew. Whether or not he understood anything she said seemed to make her no never mind. He settled down on the log. Sure enough, as soon as he did, most words started making sense. He figured she'd hafta run outta words some time or 'nother, nobody could talk non-stop forever. He wasn't gonna try to say another word, 'til she ran outta words. " Them's my rabbits caught by me! No overgrow-ed, lazy, ignorant, low-life, thieving hillbilly, so no-account he'd stoop to steal from a girl has a right to nary a one of 'em." She went on and on 'bout all the hard work she'd done to collect 'em for her family, and Waldo. "They's mine ever last one of 'em meant fer me, my family, and Waldo. She stomped her tiny foot, glared up at him fearlessly, and asks, so what you gotta say for yourself?" Afore he could answer, she says, " them rabbits is 'bout to burn, best take off afore they turn to charcoal, where nobody'll get any use of 'em." It was a sensible thing to say, and he was agreeable to doing it. He doused the fires starting with the smallest and most done of the rabbits. Then he pulled a Twitchell-sized clean kerchief from his pocket. Being it belonged to a Twitchell it was 'bout the size of most tablecloths, he found a flat space and laid it down. It had been a tiresome day, what with all the walking and frettin' about food, bride getting, and his tangle with a red-haired female with a quick sharp temper. As soon as he took the last of the rabbits off the spits, he sits himself down and starts to tuck into his first bite when she gets all het up again. "Well if that ain't the nerve," she screeched directly into his face. As he was sitting and she was standing they were more or less eye to eye. " I toll you plain and simple, them was my rabbits, meant for just me, my folks and Waldo, and you ain't got enough manners to offer me one of my own rabbits to eat." A dozen would barely hold him anytime at all, but, he supposed she had a fair point, so he offers her one of the smallest ones. She tucks into eatin' and, darned if she ain't finished with hers 'afore he has time to get started on his second rabbit. At this rate, she was likely to eat nearly half of 'em, and that wouldn't do at all. He was gonna be the one having to do all the toting. It worried him whether or not she'd allow him enough rabbits to have the strength to tote her all the way home. Weren't no way her short legs could keep up with his long strides, even if she were running she couldn't keep up with him. Nope, he'd have to tote her every step of the way. For a girl less than normal size she sure could eat good. He was kinda torn up about the situation, then he makes a sudden Twitchell decision. Serious thinking and eating had kept him from noticing she was reaching for her third rabbit and he hadn't even started on his fourth yet. "No," he tells her, I need the rest, of 'em." The food situation was getting downright desperate. He started in 'splaining, " a little gal like you is likely gonna tire pretty fast trudging up rising ground, down into valleys, crossing streams, climbing over boulders, and such. Heck fire, even a big fella like me, would find toting you over such obstacles plumb burdensome. 'Sides he adds, Ma's allays got plenty in the warmer or sitting covered on the table so's you can get your fill of vittles once home." Another potential problem stopped him from reaching for another rabbit. Here he was contemplating the business of fetching a girl home to meet his Ma and Pa and he didn't even know her name. Another thought hit him, who was Waldo? Her mouth and eyes got big, but, nary a word escaped her lips for full-on to five minutes. This silence gave him more time to think and speak than he'd heretofore had during their entire acquaintance. She sputtered something then shut her mouth again. Mitchell had sisters so he knew something 'bout girls. For sure she was sulking, likely 'cause she couldn't figure out how to get her own way. Suddenly it crossed his mind that she might be a worrisome gal to be hitched to for life. But, when he looks down into her face debating on whether to let her go, he decides she's worth the trouble. Even though he'd explained the reason he needed the rest of the rabbits, she forgets and, reaches for one. He was startled, surely she must know he was serious. "No, he says, I toll ya, I gotta be toting you for quite spell, Ma'll feed ya better at home anyways." "Well, as the only home I'm gonna go to is my home I'm gonna eat as many of my rabbits as I wanna." He stands, she stands, he sighs, "I'm gonna marry ya." "I ain't gonna marry up with no stranger. 'Sides ya don't even know my name, and I don't even wanna know yours." "I'm Mitchell Twitchell, so what is your name." "Well, I knew you was a Twitchell, 'cause only Twitchells are so tall and weird looking, so it don't make me no never mind which Twitchell since I ain't aiming to hitch up with anybody but my intended." "Ain't no reason to be ashamed of your name is there, he asked slyly?" "Course not, she huffs, I'm Paradise Prudence Coopersmith," she tells him with obvious pride. To his recollecting he'd never heard of any Coopersmith's hereabouts. "Since you says you're aiming to marry up with this Waldo fella, I ought to palaver with your Pa and, this Waldo, about this situation. " "Yeah, that's a good idea," she said, suddenly bright-eyed and sparkling, simply grinning up at him, like she knew a grand secret. "My Pa and Waldo'll knock you off'n your high horse, right enough, she told him grinning smugly." Since he hasn't a blindfolded man's notion 'bout the direction or whether it's uphill or in the valley. 'Ceptin' he fingers it can't be all that far since she'd come to check on her rabbits. "Well, he says, reckon you'd best lead the way. "I reckon that's best, she nods, this away." she leads slightly south and towards the west. It was gonna be awful hard mincing his way by following behind her tiny steps.
