From "Buffalo Tales" by Bud Phillips comes this story of
"The Mystery Child of Mt.Hersey".

It you happen to pass thru a sleepy little town in Southwestern
Oklahoma someday at eating time, you may per chance stop at
Snowchild's Cafe. Inside you may meet a matronly,grey-haired, late
middle-aged lady. She owns the place, does most of the table waiting
and cash taking. She is real friendly and may insist on your sitting
and resting a spell before you move on. If she finds that you are
from anywhere near the Buffalo country, she'll smile, look far off,
and then say something like this:

"Why, do tell, my grandpap came from that country--around a place
called Mt. Hersey.I've heard him talk a lot about it when I was a
child and he was old and sitting yonder in the shade."
At this point she will nod in the direction of a large old cottonwood
which stands in the yard of an aged and weather-beaten farmhouse across
the street, and around which the town grew. If you inquire further
(and most of the time if you don't), she'll go on to inform you that
her grandfather was the first and only Snowchild to settle in that
section of Oklahoma, and probably the only one of that name who ever
lived on Buffalo.

"You see,"she will explain,'that was not his real name. He was a
mystery child and was raised by a man by the name of Frank Flood. He
sort of got the name Snowchild tacked on to him."
Now if you have time to listen (or maybe if you don't) you will likely
hear the story of the mystery child of Mt.Hersey.

Frank Flood returned from service in the Confederate Army to his
widowed mother's farm on the Buffalo River near Mt.Hersey. He soon
took a bride and a year or so later a son was born to them. The child
was sickly from birth and died at the age of two years. He was buried
in the little family plot on the hill back of the Flood home.

This happened during Indian Summer when the Buffalo hills glistened
with gold and scarlet under a brilliant blue sky. But those days of
warmth and beauty soon faded into a bleak and unusually cold and snowy
winter.

Though Flood was always an industrious man, it was not always that
virtue which kept him working long hours on his often snow covered
farm that long winter. He was trying to overcome his bitter sorrow of
the past fall. Perhaps that sorrow became a little more acute as
Christmas drew on, for in spite of a heavy snow he spent the eve of
that holiday working on a fence in the hollow by the family burying
ground.

It was dark when he came home. While he and his wife and his aged
mother were eating supper he suddenly remembered that he had left his
prized axe by the fence in the hollow.
This puzzled and troubled him for he had never done such a thing before.
Aunt Chole Flood (his mother) always said she had the strangest feeling
when she saw the perplexity of her son about his unusual forgetfulness
and urged him to return for the axe. He also felt he must go fetch it
home for though the skies had cleared, he feared another snow fall by
morning.

Outside a full moon shining on the snow covered valley and hills made
the night almost as light as day. Old Bounce, the family dog sprang up
and joined his master in the short trek up the hollow. Nearing the
place where the axe had been left, Frank noticed the sudden stop and
stiffening of his dog. The crunch of his own steps in the snow had been,
to him, the only sound in the still night, but evidently the dog heard
something more. The startled man stood looking and listening for a long
moment.

The night was deathly still. Thru the clear and cold air of that
silent night came the unmistakable sound of the whimpering and crying
of a little child. Frank's hair stood on end. Though he was not much
of a believe in "hants" and such, his first thought was of his own
little boy, buried not more than 200 feet of where he stood.

Quickly he remembered that there was not a neighbor in less than a
mile and they had no children. No travelers had passed up or down the
Buffalo in days. The dog inched forward whining low. There came the
sound again.

Later, Frank admitted that he almost fled in panic back down the trail.
Instead he just froze where he stood. And then in the bright moonlight
he saw it. A little child, possibly no more than two and a half years
old, was stumbling along and alone thru the snow towards him. In
moments the child stumbled against his legs, wrapped his arms around
them, buried his face in trouser folds and stopped his crying.

The child was swooped up into strong arms and soon was by the warming
fires of a deeply puzzled and near-frightened household.
"Law, hits yore own little boy cum back from the dead,"old Aunt Chole
Flood kept screeching out in near hysteria.
No, it was not their own little boy, but his coming was almost as
miraculous as if he had been.

Though diligent search was made for distressed travelers thru that
night and for days to come, no explanation could be found for his
sudden and strange appearance.

For years--even after the lad was nearly grown -- inquiry was made
and leads and clues traced to far places, yet the mystery remained
unsolved.

"Hit jist seemed lack he growed up outer the snow," Frank Flood would
sometimes say.

I suppose a lot of the neighbors thought the same for as the years
passed most of them called him Frank's Snowchild.
"Hit's shore a sin and hit'll bring bad luck to name a child a second
time," old Aunt Chole Flood had said, so the boy, more or less grew up
nameless.

In time, a portion of the Flood farm was given him and in making the
deed he was named as Frank Snowchild. From that time on he signed his
name as such.

"Grandpap finally sold out in Arkansas and came to this part of
Oklahoma in a covered wagon. His farm was right here where the town is
now. This place just grew up around the old home house yonder."
The matronly waitress will leave her narrative for a moment to offer
you more coffee and perhaps say with a sigh:
"Now where do you reckon grandpap really did come from and who his
people were?"

Yes, and there may be old timers, children of old timers, around
Mt.Hersey on the Buffalo, still wondering about that!.

End of Story by Bud Phillips, a Kinfolk.

Evelyn Flood
Rkinfolks@aol.com
12 Dec 1999
Published in the Newton County, Arkansas Times Newspaper in my
'Kinfolks' Column.
Write me:
Rkinfolks@aol.com