TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY
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VOL 1. NASHVILLE, TENN., MARCH, 1906. NO. 6
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Contents
[Illustration]
MAJOR J. W. THOMAS Frontispiece
HOW THE BISHOP FROZE John Trotwood Moore
EARLY APPLES—A SOUTHERN OPPORTUNITY R. A. Wilkes
THE ARMY HORSE O. M. Norton
THE HISTORY OF THE HALS John Trotwood Moore
MAMMY AND MEMORY Poem
NITRIFICATION OF THE SOIL Wm. Dennison
THE GREAT NEW SOUTH
BRE’R WASHINGTON’S CONSOLATION Old Wash
CONCERNING LITTLENESS John Trotwood Moore
OLE COTTON TAIL Old Wash
STORIES OF THE SOIL
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF THE SOUTH John Trotwood Moore
A FAMOUS HORSE RACE B. M. Hord
WITH OUR WRITERS
WITH TROTWOOD—Personal Department
BUSINESS DEPARTMENT
Copyright 1906 by Trotwood Publishing Co. All rights reserved. Entered
as second-class matter Sept. 8, 1905, at the Postoffice at Nashville,
Tenn., under the Act of Congress of March 8, 1879.
Major John W. Thomas
Just as the forms are closing for the March edition of TROTWOOD’S
MONTHLY comes news of the death of Major John Wilson Thomas, who was
born in Nashville, Tennessee, on August 24, 1830, and died in Nashville,
February 12, 1906.
At the age of 28 he entered railroad work, and was in harness
continually up to the time of his death, being at that time President of
the Nashville, Chattanooga & St. Louis Railroad.
We regret that limited time and space will not permit us to give a
detailed account of the many incidents that made up the life of this
great and good man, but we are safe in saying that a more popular man
never lived in the South—or elsewhere. The “Old Man,” as he was
affectionately called by his employes, was ever ready to listen with a
sympathetic ear to the story of the unfortunate, and encouragement was
always freely given. Every employe under him was supposed to do his very
best. He demanded everything there was in a man, and got it; not from
fear, but through the love they had for him. His word was law and his
decision final, for right and justice always prevailed. No man was ever
loved and respected more by his employes than Major Thomas, and his
record as a railroad man was seldom if ever equaled. He did not grow up
with the road, but it grew up with him, and he made it what it is
to-day.
Somebody will take his place as president of the N., C. & St. L. road,
but there is no one to take his place in the hearts of his friends. He
was a great and good man.
THE MOURNING TENNESSEE
BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLK.
[The little engine, “Tennessee,” that always drew the private car of
President Thomas stands draped in mourning for thirty days.]
Do you know, as you stand there waiting,
Rigged out in your trappings of woe,
That someone lies dead, up yonder?
Do you know, Tennessee, do you know?
Do you know why that grim, black banner
Trails over each shining place?
Do you understand, I wonder,
The stain on your fireman’s face?
Do you know, as you stand there waiting,
You dear little thing, Tennessee,
That the cab and the coach are empty?
Lonesome as they can be?
That the face that shone out from the window,
Flashing your welcome back,
No more will brighten the darkness
Of the desolate, lonely track.
Does it hurt you to know that his footstep
Will linger no more at the door?
Does it hurt you to know that his presence
Will gladden the way no more.
He is dead! Can you understand it?
Under your brass and steel,
Because that his great heart loved you,
I am sure you must know and feel.
Yet, your whistle would shriek its anguish,
I am sure, if you understood,
And your bell would toll if I touched it;
You would voice your grief if you could.
You must know, as you stand there waiting,
Rigged out in your misery,
He would come if he could, for he loved you,
You poor little friend, Tennessee.
Dumb things have a speech of their own, though,
And I’m sure you are trying to tell
Of those long, good flights together,
For I know that he loved you well.
Just a month you must wear your trappings,
Your lustreless emblems of woe;
But I’m sure you will miss him forever
Deep down in the heart, you know.
I toss you a sigh, and a heartbreak,
And I give you this truth, in a tear;
The sting of death isn’t dying,
But memory, do you hear?
How the Bishop Froze
BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
[Through the kindness of John C. Winston & Co., publishers, of
Philadelphia, Pa., we are permitted to give to our readers this treat,
being one of the chapters from the forthcoming novel of John Trotwood
Moore, entitled “The Bishop of Cottontown,” now in the Winston press,
and which will be issued by them early in March. This novel has been
pronounced truly great by many publishers’ readers. It deals with child
labor in the Southern cotton mills and the Bishop is the kindly old
preacher and ex-trainer of ante-bellum thoroughbreds, who is the hero of
the book.—E. E. Sweetland, Business Manager.]
It was ten o’clock and the Bishop was on his way to church. He was
driving the old roan of the night before. A parody on a horse, to one
who did not look closely, but to one who knows and looks beyond the mere
external form for that hidden something in both man and horse which
bespeaks strength and reserve force, there was seen through the
blindness and the ugliness and the sleepy, ambling, shuffling gait a
clean-cut form, with deep chest and closely ribbed; with well drawn
flanks, a fine, flat steel-turned bone, and a powerful muscle, above
hock and forearms, that clung to the leg as the Bishop said, “like bees
aswarmin’.”
At his little cottage gate stood Bud Billings, the best slubber in the
cotton mill. Bud never talked to any one except the Bishop, and his
wife, who was the worst Xantippe in Cottontown, declared she had lived
with him six months straight and never heard him come nearer speaking
than a grunt. It was also a saying of Richard Travis that Bud had been
known to break all records for silence by drawing a year’s wages at the
mill, never missing a minute and never speaking a word.
Nor had he ever looked any one full in the eye in his life.
As the Bishop drove shamblingly along down the road, deeply preoccupied
in his forthcoming sermon, there came from out of a hole, situated
somewhere between the grizzled fringe of hair that marked Bud’s whiskers
and the grizzled fringe above that marked his eye-brows, a piping,
apologetic voice that sounded like the first few rasps of an old rusty
saw; but to the occupant of the buggy it meant, with a drawl:
“Howdy do, Bishop?”
A blind horse is quick to observe and take fright at anything uncanny.
He is the natural ghost-finder of the highways, and that voice was too
much for the old roan. To him it sounded like something that had been
resurrected. It was a ghost-voice, arising after many years. He shied,
sprang forward, half wheeled and nearly upset the buggy, until brought
up with a jerk by the powerful arms of his driver. The shaft-band had
broken and the buggy had run upon the horse’s rump, and the shafts stuck
up almost at right angles over his back. The roan stood trembling with
the half turned, inquisitive muzzle of the sightless horse—a paralysis
of fear all over his face. But when Bud came forward and touched his
face and stroked it, the fear vanished, and the old roan bobbed his tail
up and down and wiggled his head reassuringly and apologetically.
“Wal, I declar, Bishop,” grinned Bud, “kin yo’ critter fetch a caper?”
The Bishop got leisurely out of his buggy, pulled down the shafts and
tied up the girth before he spoke. Then he gave a puckering hitch to his
underlip and deposited in the sand, with a puddling plunk, the half cup
of tobacco juice that had closed his mouth.
He stepped back and said very sternly:
“Whoa, Ben Butler!”
“Why, he’un’s sleep a’ready,” grinned Bud.
The Bishop glanced at the bowed head, cocked hind foot and listless
tail: “Sof’nin’ of the brain, Bud,” smiled the Bishop; “they say when
old folks begin to take it they jus’ go to sleep while settin’ up
talkin’. Now, a horse, Bud,” he said, striking an attitude for a
discussion on his favorite topic, “a horse is like a man—he must have
some meanness or he c’u’dn’t live, an’ some goodness or nobody else
c’u’d live. But git in, Bud, and let’s go along to meetin’—’pears like
it’s gettin’ late.”
This was what Bud had been listening for. This was the treat of the
week for him—to ride to meetin’ with the Bishop. Bud, a
slubber-slave—henpecked at home, browbeaten and cowed at the mill,
timid, scared, “an’ powerful slow-mouthed,” as his spouse termed it,
worshipped the old Bishop and had no greater pleasure in life, after
his hard week’s work, than “to ride to meetin’ with the old man an’
jes’ hear him narrate.”
The Bishop’s great, sympathetic soul went out to the poor fellow, and
though he had rather spend the next two miles of Ben Butler’s slow
journey to church in thinking over his sermon, he never failed, as he
termed it, “to pick up charity even on the road-side,” and it was pretty
to see how the old man would turn loose his crude histrionic talent to
amuse the slubber. He knew, too, that Bud was foolish about horses, and
that Ben Butler was his model!
They got into the old buggy, and Ben Butler began to draw it slowly
along the sandy road to the little church, two miles away up the
mountain side.
Bud was now in the seventh heaven. He was riding behind Ben Butler, the
greatest horse in the world, and talking to the Bishop, the only person
who ever heard the sound of his voice, save in deprecatory and scary
grunts.
It was touching to see how the old man humored the simple and
imposed-upon creature at his side. It was beautiful to see how,
forgetting himself and his sermon, he prepared to entertain, in his
quaint way, this slave to the slubbing machine.
Bud looked fondly at the Bishop—then admiringly at Ben Butler. He drew a
long breath of pure air, and sitting on the edge of the seat, prepared
to jump if necessary, for Bud was mortally afraid of being in a runaway,
and his scared eyes seemed to be looking for the soft places in the
road.
“Bishop,” he drawled after a while, “huc-cum you name sech a
hoss”—pointing to the old roan—“sech a grand hoss, for sech a man—sech a
man as he was,” he added humbly.
“Did you ever notice Ben Butler’s eyes, Bud?” asked the old man
knowingly.
“Blind,” said Bud sadly, shaking his head—“too bad—too bad—great—great
hoss!”
“Yes, but the leds, Bud—that hoss, Ben Butler there, holds a world’s
record—he’s the only cock-eyed hoss in the world.”
“You don’t say so—that critter!—cock-eyed?” Bud laughed and slapped
his leg gleefully. “Didn’t I always tell you so? World’s
record—great—great!”
Then it broke gradually through on Bud’s dull mind.
He slapped his leg again. “An’ him—his namesake—he was cock-eyed, too—I
seed him onct at New ’Leens.”
“Don’t you never trust a cock-eyed man, Bud. He’ll flicker on you in the
home-stretch. I’ve tried it an’ it never fails. Love him, but don’t
trust him. The world is full of folks we oughter love, but not trust.”
“No—I never will,” said Bud as thoughtfully as he knew how to be—“nor a
cock-eyed ’oman neither. My wife’s cock-eyed,” he added.
He was silent a moment. Then he showed the old man a scar on his
forehead: “She done that last month—busted a plate on my head.”
“That’s bad,” said the Bishop consolingly—“but you ortenter aggravate
her, Bud.”
“That’s so—I ortenter—least-wise, not whilst there’s any crockery in the
house,” said Bud sadly.
“There’s another thing about this hoss,” went on the Bishop—“he’s always
spoony on mules. He ain’t happy if he can’t hang over the front gate
spoonin’ with every stray mule that comes along. There’s old long-eared
Lize that he’s dead stuck on—if he c’u’d write he’d be composin’ a
sonnet to her ears, like poets do to their lady love’s—callin’ them Star
Pointers of a Greater Hope, I reck’n, an’ all that. Why, he’d ruther
hold hands by moonlight with some old Maria mule than to set up by
lamplight with a thoroughbred filly.”
“Great—great!” said Bud slapping his leg—“didn’t I tell you so?”
“So I named him Ben Butler when he was born. That was right after the
war, an’ I hated old Ben so an’ loved hosses so, I thought ef I’d name
my colt for old Ben maybe I’d learn to love him, in time.”
Bud shook his head. “That’s ag’in nature, Bishop.”
“But I have, Bud—sho’ as you are born I love old Ben Butler.” He lowered
his voice to an earnest whisper: “I ain’t never told you what he done
for po’ Cap’n Tom.”
“Never heurd o’ Cap’n Tom.”
The Bishop looked hurt. “Never mind, Bud, you wouldn’t understand. But
maybe you will ketch this. Listen now.”
Bud listened intently with his head on one side.
“I ain’t never hated a man in my life but what God has let me live long
enough to find out I was in the wrong—dead wrong. There are Jews and
Yankees. I useter hate ’em worse’n sin—but now what do you reckon?”
“One on ’em busted a plate on yo’ head?” asked Bud.
“Jesus Christ was a Jew, an’ Cap’n Tom jined the Yankees.”
“Bud,” he said cheerily after a pause, “did I ever tell you the story of
this here Ben Butler here?”
Bud’s eyes grew bright and he slapped his leg again.
“Well,” said the old man, brightening up into one of his funny moods,
“you know my first wife was named Kathleen—Kathleen Galloway when she
was a gal, an’ she was the pretties’ gal in the settlement an’ could go
all the gaits both saddle an’ harness. She was han’som’ as a
three-year-old an’ cu’d out-dance, out-ride, out-sing an’ out-flirt any
other gal that ever come down the pike. When she got her Sunday harness
on an’ began to move, she made all the other gals look like they were
nailed to the road-side. It’s true, she needed a little weight in front
to balance her, an’ she had a lot of ginger in her make-up, but she was
straight and sound, didn’t wear anything but the harness an’ never
teched herself anywhere nor cross-fired nor hit her knees.”
“Good—great!” said Bud, slapping his leg.
“Oh, she was beautiful, Bud, with that silky hair that ’ud make a
thoroughbred filly’s look coarse as sheep’s wool, an’ two
mischief-lovin’ eyes an’ a heart that was all gold. Bud—Bud”—and there
was a huskiness in the old man’s voice—“I know I can tell you because it
will never come back to me ag’in, but I love that Kathleen now as I did
then. A man may marry many times, but he can never love but once.
Sometimes it’s his fust wife, sometimes his secon’, an’ often it’s the
sweetheart he never got—but he loved only one of ’em the right way, an’
up yander, in some other star, where spirits that are alike meet in one
eternal wedlock, they’ll be one there forever.
“Her daddy, ole man Galloway, had a thoroughbred filly that he named
Kathleena for his daughter, an’ she c’u’d do anything that the gal left
out. An’ one day when she took the bit in her teeth an’ run a quarter in
twenty-five seconds, she sot ’em all wild an’ lots of fellers tried to
buy the filly an’ get the old man to throw in the gal for her keep an’
board.
“I was one of ’em. I was clerkin’ for the old man an’ boardin’ in the
house, an’ whenever a young feller begins to board in a house where
there is a thoroughbred gal, the nex’ thing he knows he’ll be—”
“Buckled in the traces,” cried Bud slapping his leg gleefully, at this,
his first product of brilliancy.
The old man smiled: “’Pon my word, Bud, you’re gittin’ so smart. I don’t
know what I’ll be doin’ with you—so ’riginal an’ smart. Why, you’ll quit
keepin’ an old man’s company—like me. I won’t be able to entertain you
at all. But, as I was sayin’ the next thing he knows, he’ll be one of
the family.
“So me an’ Kathleen, we soon got spoony an’ wanted to marry. Lots of ’em
wanted to marry her, but I drawed the pole an’ was the only one she’d
take as a runnin’ mate. So I went after the old man this a way: I told
him I’d buy the filly if he’d give me Kathleen. I never will forgit what
he said: ‘They ain’t narry one of ’em for sale, swap or hire, an’ I wish
you young fellers ’ud tend to yo’ own business an’ let my fillies alone.
I’m gwinter bus’ the wurl’s record wid ’em both—Kathleena the runnin’
record an Kathleen the gal record, so be damn to you an’ don’t pester me
no mo’.’”
“Did he say damn?” asked Bud aghast—that such a word should ever come
from the Bishop.
“He sho’ did, Bud. I wouldn’t lie about the old man, now that he’s dead.
It ain’t right to lie about dead people—even to make ’em say nice an’
proper things they never thought of whilst alive. If we’d stop lyin’
about the ungodly dead an’ tell the truth about ’em, maybe the livin’
’u’d stop tryin’ to foller after ’em in that respect. As it is, every
one of ’em knows that no matter how wicked he lives there’ll be a lot o’
nice lies told over him after he’s gone, an’ a monument erected, maybe,
to tell how good he was. An’ there’s another lot of half pious folks in
the wurl it ’u’d help—kind o’ sissy pious folks—that jus’ do manage to
miss all the fun in this world an’ jus’ are mean enough to ketch hell in
the nex’. Get religion, but don’t get the sissy kind. So I am for
tellin’ it about old man Galloway jus’ as he was.
“You orter heard him swear. Bud—it was part of his religion. An’
wherever he is to-day in that other world, he is at it yet, for in that
other life, Bud, we’re just ourselves on a bigger scale than we are in
this. He used to cuss the clerks around the store jus’ from habit, an’
when I went to work for him he said:
“‘Young man, maybe I’ll cuss you out some mornin’, but don’t pay no
’tention to it—it’s just a habit I’ve got into, an’ the boys all
understand it.’
“‘Glad you told me,’ I said, lookin’ him square in the eye—‘one
confidence deserves another. I’ve got a nasty habit of my own, but I
hope you won’t pay no ’tention to it, for it’s a habit, an’ I can’t help
it. I don’t mean nothin’ by it, an’ the boys all understand it, but when
a man cusses me I allers knock him down—do it befo’ I think’—I
said—‘jes’ a habit I’ve got.’
“Well, he never cussed me all the time I was there. My stock went up
with the old man an’ my chances was good to get the gal, if I hadn’t
made a fool hoss-trade; for with old man Galloway a good hoss-trade
covered all the multitude of sins in a man that charity now does in
religion. In them days a man might have all the learnin’ and virtues an’
graces, but if he c’u’dn’t trade hosses he was tinklin’ brass an’
soundin’ cymbal in that community.
“The man that throwed the silk into me was Jud Carpenter—the same fellow
that’s now the whipper-in for these mills. Now, don’t be scared,” said
the old man soothingly as Bud’s scary eyes looked about him and he
clutched the buggy as if he would jump out—“he’ll not pester you
now—he’s kept away from me ever since. He swapped me a black hoss with a
star an’ snip that looked like the genuine thing, but was about the
neatest turned gold-brick that was ever put on an unsuspectin’
millionaire.
“Well, in the trade he simply robbed me of a fine mare I had, that cost
me one-an’-a-quarter. Kathleen an’ me was already engaged, but when old
man Galloway heard of it, he told me the jig was up an’ no such
double-barrel idiot as I was sh’u’d ever leave any of my colts in the
Galloway paddock—that when he looked over his gran’-chillun’s pedigree
he didn’t wanter see all of ’em crossin’ back to the same damned fool!
Oh, he was nasty. He said that my colts was dead sho’ to be luffers with
wheels in their heads, an’ when pinched they’d quit, an’ when collared
they’d lay down. That there was a yaller streak in me that was already
pilin’ up coupons on the future for tears and heartaches an’ maybe a
gallows or two, an’ a lot of uncomplimentary talk of that kind.
“Well, Kathleen cried, an’ I wept, an’ I’ll never forgit the night she
gave me a little good-bye kiss out under the big oak tree an’ told me
we’d hafter part.
“The old man maybe sized me up all right as bein’ a fool, but he missed
it on my bein’ a quitter. I had no notion of being fired an’ blistered
an’ turned out to grass that early in the game. I wrote her a poem every
other day, an’ lied between heats, till the po’ gal was nearly crazy,
an’ when I finally got it into her head that if it was a busted blood
vessel with the old man, it was a busted heart with me, she cried a
little mo’ an’ consented to run off with me an’ take the chances of the
village doctor cuppin’ the old man at the right time.
“The old lady was on my side and helped things along. I had everything
fixed even to the moon, which was shinin’ jes’ bright enough to carry us
to the Justice’s without a lantern, some three miles away, an’ into the
nex’ county.
“I’ll never fergit how the night looked as I rode over after her, how
the wildflowers smelt, an’ the fresh dew on the leaves. I remember that
I even heard a mockin’-bird wake up about midnight as I tied my hoss to
a lim’ in the orchard nearby, an’ slipped aroun’ to meet Kathleen at the
bars behin’ the house. It was a half mile to the house an’ I was
slippin’ through the sugar-maple trees along the path we’d both walked
so often befo’, when I saw what I thought was Kathleen comin’ towards
me. I ran to meet her. It wa’n’t Kathleen, but her mother—an’ she told
me to git in a hurry, that the old man knew all, had locked Kathleen up
in the kitchen, turned the brindle dog loose in the yard, an’ was hidin’
in the woods nigh the barn, with his gun loaded with bird-shot, an’ that
if I went any further the chances were I’d not sit down agin for a year.
She had slipped around through the woods just to warn me.
“Of course I wanted to fight an’ take her anyway—kill the dog an’ the
old man, storm the kitchen an’ run off with Kathleen in my arms as they
do in novels. But the old lady said she didn’t want the dog hurt—it
being a valuable coon-dog—and that I was to go away out of the county
an’ wait for a better time.
“It mighty nigh broke me up, but I decided the old lady was right an’
I’d go away. But ’long towards the shank of the night, after I had put
up my hoss, the moon was still shinin’, an’ I c’u’dn’t sleep for
thinkin’ of Kathleen. I stole afoot over to her house just to look at
her window. The house was all quiet an’ even the brindle dog was asleep.
I threw kisses at her bed-room window, but even then I c’u’dn’t go away,
so I slipped around to the barn and laid down in the hay to think over
my hard luck. My heart ached an’ burned an’ I was nigh dead with love.
“I wondered if I’d ever get her, if they’d wean her from me, an’ give
her to the rich little feller whose fine farm j’ined the old man’s an’
who the old man was wuckin’ fur—whether the two wouldn’t over-persuade
her whilst I was gone. For I’d made up my mind I’d go befo’
daylight—that there wasn’t anything else for me to do.
“I was layin’ in the hay, an’ boylike, the tears was rollin’ down. If I
c’u’d only kiss her han’ befo’ I left—if I c’u’d only see her face at
the winder!
“I must have sobbed out loud, for jus’ then I heard a gentle,
sympathetic whinny an’ a cold, inquisitive little muzzle was thrust into
my face, as I lay on my back with my heart nearly busted. It was
Kathleena, an’ I rubbed my hot face against her cool cheek—for it seemed
so human of her to come an’ try to console me, an’ I put my arms around
her neck an’ kissed her silky mane an’ imagined it was Kathleen’s hair.
“Oh, I was heart-broke an’ silly.
“Then all at onct a thought came to me, an’ I slipped the bridle an’
saddle on her an’ led her out at the back door, an’ I scratched this on
a slip of paper an’ stuck it on the barn do’:
“‘To old man Galloway:
“‘You wouldn’t let me ’lope with yo’ dorter, so I’ve ’loped with yo’
filly, an’ you’ll never see hair nor hide of her till you send me
word to come back to this house an’ fetch a preacher.’
(Signed) “‘HILLIARD WATTS.’”
The old man smiled, and Bud slapped his leg gleefully.
“Great—great! Oh, my, but who’d a thought of it?” he grunted.
“They say it ’u’d done you good to have been there the nex’ mornin’ an’
heurd the cussin’ recurd busted—but me an’ the filly was forty miles
away. He got out a warrant for me for hoss-stealin’, but the sheriff was
fur me, an’ though he hunted high an’ low he never could find me.”
“Well, it went on for a month, an’ I got the old man’s note, sent by the
sheriff:
“‘To Hilliard Watts, Wher-Ever Found.
“‘Come on home an’ fetch yo’ preacher. Can’t afford to lose the
filly, an’ the gal has been off her feed ever since you left.
“‘JOBE GALLOWAY.’”
“Oh, Bud, I’ll never forgit that homecomin’ when she met me at the gate
an’ kissed me an’ laughed a little an’ cried a heap, an’ we walked in
the little parlor an’ the preacher made us one.
“Nor of that happy, happy year, when all life seemed a sweet dream now
as I look back, an’ even the memory of it keeps me happy. Memory is a
land that never changes in a world of changes, an’ that should show us
our soul is immortal, for memory is only the reflection of our soul.”
His voice grew more tender, and low: “Toward the last of the year I seed
her makin’ little things slyly an’ hidin’ ’em away in the bureau drawer,
an’ one night she put away a tiny half-finished little dress with the
needle stickin’ in the hem—just as she left it—just as her beautiful
hands made the last stitch they ever made on earth....
“Oh, Bud, Bud, out of this blow come the sweetest thought I ever had,
an’ I know from that day that this life ain’t all, that we’ll live agin
as sho’ as God lives an’ is just—an’ no man can doubt that. No—no—Bud,
this life ain’t all, because it’s God’s unvarying law to finish things.
That tree there is finished, an’ them birds, they are finished, an’ that
flower by the road-side an’ the mountain yonder an’ the world an’ the
stars an’ the sun. An’ we’re mo’ than they be, Bud—even the tiniest
soul, like Kathleen’s little one that jes’ opened its eyes an’ smiled
an’ died, when its mammy died. It had something that the trees an’ birds
an’ mountains didn’t have—a soul—an’ don’t you kno’ He’ll finish all
such lives up yonder? He’ll pay it back a thousandfold for what He cuts
off here.”
Bud wept because the tears were running down the old man’s cheeks. He
wanted to say something, but he could not speak. That queer feeling that
came over him at times and made him silent had come again.
The Bishop laughed outright as his mind went back again.
“Well,” he went on reminiscently, “I’ll have to finish my tale an’ tell
you how I throwed the cold steel into Jud Carpenter when I got back. I
saw I had it to do, to work back into my daddy-in-law’s graces an’ save
my reputation.
“Now, Jud had lied to me an’ swindled me terribly, when he put off that
old no-count hoss on me. Of course, I might have sued him, for a lie is
a microbe which naturally develops into a lawyer’s fee. But while it’s a
terrible braggart, it’s really cowardly an’ delicate, an’ will die of
lock-jaw if you only pick its thumb.
“So I breshed up that old black to split-silk fineness, an’ turned him
over to Dr. Sykes, a friend of mine living in the next village. An’ I
said to the Doctor, ‘Now remember he is yo’ hoss until Jud Carpenter
comes an’ offers you two hundred dollars for him.’
“‘Will he be fool enough to do it?’ he asked, as he looked the old
counterfeit over.
“‘Wait and see,’ I said.
“I said nothin’, laid low an’ froze an’ it wa’n’t long befo’ Jud come
’round as I ’lowed he’d do. He expected me to kick an’ howl; but as I
took it all so nice he didn’t understand it. Nine times out of ten the
best thing to do when the other feller has robbed you is to freeze. The
hunter on the plain knows the value of that, an’ that he can freeze an’
make a deer walk right up to him, to find out what he is. Why, a rabbit
will do it, if you jump him quick, an’ he gets confused an’ don’t know
jes’ what’s up; an’ so Jud come as I thort he’d do. He couldn’t stan’ it
no longer, an’ he wanted to rub it in. He brought his crowd to enjoy the
fun.
“‘Oh, Mr. Watts,’ he said grinnin’, ‘how do you like a coal black
stump-sucker?’
“‘Well,’ I said, indifferent enough—‘I’ve knowed good judges of hosses
to make a hones’ mistake now an’ then, an’ sell a hoss to a customer
with the heaves thinkin’ he’s a stump-sucker. But it ’u’d turn out to be
only the heaves an’ easily cured.’
“‘Is that so?’ said Jud, changing his tone.
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘an’ I’ve knowed better judges of hosses to sell a
nervous hoss for a balker that had been balked only onct by a rattle
head. But in keerful hands I’ve seed him git over it,’ I said,
indifferent like.
“‘Indeed?’ said Jud.
“‘Yes, Jud,’ said I, ‘I’ve knowed real hones’ hoss traders to make bad
breaks of that kind, now and then—honest intentions an’ all that, but
bad judgment,’—sez I—‘an’ I’ll cut it short by sayin’ that I’ll just
give you two an’ a half if you’ll match that no-count wind-broken black
as you thort that you swapped me.’
“‘Do you mean it?’ said Jud, solemn-like.
“‘I’ll make a bond to that effect,’ I said solemnly.
“Jud went off thoughtful. In a week or so he come back. He hung aroun’ a
while an’ said:
“‘I was up in the country the other day, an’ do you kno’ I saw a dead
match for yo’ black? Only a little slicker an’ better lookin’—same star
an’ white hind foot. As nigh like him as one black-eyed pea looks like
another.’
“‘Jud,’ I said, ‘I never did see two hosses look exactly alike. You’re
honestly mistaken.’
“‘They ain’t a hair’s difference,’ he said. ‘He’s a little slicker than
yours—that’s all—better groomed than the one in yo’ barn.’
“‘I reckon he is,’ said I, for I knew very well there wa’n’t none in my
barn. ‘That’s strange,’ I went on, ‘but you kno’ what I said.’
“‘Do you still hold to that offer?’ he axed.
“‘I’ll make bond with my daddy-in-law on it,’ I said.
“‘Nuff said,’ an’ Jud was gone. The next day he came back leading the
black, slicker an’ hence no-counter than ever, if possible.
“‘Look at him,’ he said, proudly—‘a dead match for yourn. Jes’ han’ me
that two an’ a half an’ take him. You now have a team worth a thousan’.’
“I looked the hoss over plum’ surprised like.
“‘Why, Jud,’ I said as softly as I cu’d, for I was nigh to bustin’, an’
I had a lot of friends come to see the sho’, an’ they standin’ ’round
stickin’ their old hats in their mouths to keep from explodin’—‘Why,
Jud, my dear friend,’ I said, ‘ain’t you kind o’ mistaken about this? I
said a match for the black, an’ it peers to me like you’ve gone an’
bought the black hisse’f an’ is tryin’ to put him off on me. No—no—my
kind frien’, you’ll not fin’ anything no-count enuff to be his match on
this terrestrial ball.’
“By this time you c’u’d have raked Jud’s eyes off his face with a
soap-gourd.
“‘What? W-h-a-t? He—why—I bought him of Dr. Sykes.’
“‘Why, that’s funny,’ I said, ‘but it comes in handy all round. If you’d
told me that the other day I might have told you,’ I said—‘yes, I might
have, but I doubt it—that I’d loaned him to Dr. Sykes an’ told him
whenever you offered him two hundred cash for him to let him go. Jes’
keep him,’ sez I, ‘till you find his mate, an’ I’ll take an oath to buy
’em.’”
Bud slapped his leg an’ yelled with delight.
“Whew,” said the Bishop—“not so loud. We’re at the church.
“But remember, Bud, it’s good policy allers to freeze. When you’re in
doubt—freeze!”
Early Apples—A Southern Opportunity
By R. A. WILKES, CULLEOKA, TENN.
[Note: Mr. Wilkes has made a life study of this subject and speaks
from a practical standpoint, at the request of the editor of
Trotwood’s. He has, of course, confined his paper to the hill lands
of the Middle South; but in the publicity which will be given by
this publication, it is to be hoped other sections of the South will
take advantage of this wonderful opportunity where their conditions
are favorable.—Ed.]
Nature never gave to any people a fairer heritage than to the farmers of
Middle Tennessee. With a rich soil, a mild climate and an abundant
rainfall, it is in truth a garden spot. Adapted to the growth of nearly
every product necessary for man’s sustenance, covered with forests,
underlaid with minerals and phosphates, midway between the cold blasts
of the North and the excessive heat of the South, with cold, pure water
pouring from under every hill, and not a taint of malaria in the
atmosphere, it is the ideal farmer’s home. With all its advantages and
opportunities there should be the highest degree of success and
prosperity, and the owner of a Middle Tennessee farm should be the
happiest and most contented man that lives. That such is not the case in
recent years, however, is a lamentable fact.
Distinctly an agricultural people, prosperity depends upon the success
of the farmers, and that they are not prospering as they should is an
undeniable fact. The reason for this can be found in the fact that
Tennessee farmers have failed to realize the results of the marvelous
expansion and upheaval of the industrial conditions that have come as
the result of building railways and the invention of labor-saving
machinery. There was a time when the owners of these rich hills and
valleys could successfully meet all competitors in the markets then
accessible, and growing all their own supplies, the sale of their
surplus products kept the balance always in their favor. But with the
building of railways that opened up vast acres of rich territory, and
the invention of machinery that multiplied many fold the products of
labor, new centers of production were made accessible, and where
Tennesseans once had the markets all to themselves, new competitors came
in, and with this new competition came the beginning of the end of their
supremacy in growing many standard products. Failing to realize the new
state of affairs, and unwilling to acknowledge defeat in lines they had
so long excelled in, they continued their efforts to compete with these
new forces in the same lines of production, and in the unequal contest
sacrificed much of their rich soil rather than be driven from their
beaten paths into lines to which they were strangers. They failed to
look facts squarely in the face and to recognize their true condition,
and continued to struggle against an ever-increasing balance that in the
end could only bring disaster. Take a plain business view of the
situation and consider the chances an average Middle Tennessee farmer
has in growing grain crops upon his rolling land and steep hillsides,
rich though they be, when he must meet in competitive markets grain
grown in that great area known as the West, with its broad, level fields
and virgin soil, where the labor of one man controlling perfect working
machinery so far surpasses the same labor upon his restricted, rough
area. Labor is always the greatest cost of production, and the physical
character of a large part of Middle Tennessee will always prevent that
economical use of machinery that is available to the Western farmer in
growing grain and other farm products in the handling of which machinery
is effective. No people can permanently prosper who must meet in
competitive markets the cheaper grown products of more favored sections,
for while they may have a degree of prosperity in periods of high prices
like the present, yet, when the low price periods come, as come they
will, they bring loss and often ruin to the weak competitor, for it is
Nature’s law that only the fittest shall survive. What then is to be the
future of Middle Tennessee farming? This question is hard to answer, not
for a lack of answer to the question, nor for a lack of products that
can be grown with success, but rather because there are so many ways to
meet it, and so many products to select from, and such a variety of
soils to select for, that it is more a question of adaptability and
location, and the fitness and taste of the individual than a want of
ways to meet the issue. There are many owners of large, level farms that
may still compete in growing all ordinary farm products, and there are
many who grow certain lines of live stock and have special markets for
their surplus, and others whose soil and location make profitable
different lines; and to these classes changes in their mode of farming
may not be desirable.
But the majority of Middle Tennessee farmers have only small farms, all
more or less rolling, and many of them too rough and steep for the
economical use of machinery, and for these some change in their system
is an absolute necessity.
There should be grown upon every farm two distinct lines of products—the
one for home consumption, for these can always be utilized for much more
than their market value, and Tennessee farmers as a rule pursue the
right course in regard to their own supplies; but it is in the products
that are grown for market that the mistake has been made, and they must
change this line, and grow those that give greater returns per acre, and
a greater value for the labor, and quit growing those lines that bring
them in direct competition with labor that is supplemented by the use of
machinery.
While much of the virgin soil has been washed from the rich hills of
this Middle Tennessee country in the endeavor to meet competition and to
regain lost supremacy, yet its natural advantages are so great and the
soil is so richly stored with the elements of plant food that it
recuperates rapidly, and when under a new system, with intensive
farming, and a proper rotation and selection of crops that suit its
varied soil, and in the sale of which her farmers can stand upon the top
round of the ladder, and look down upon, instead of up to, their
competitors, as they do now, then will this grand commonwealth flourish
as it never did, and its farmers will reap a harvest of prosperity
unsurpassed by that of any farmers upon earth.
Among the many products that can be grown with the greatest assurance of
success, I know of none with results more certain and sure to give rich
returns for the labor bestowed, nor more exempt from hurtful
competition, than that of growing the early varieties of apples upon the
hills and uplands of this great basin. Ninety-five per cent of all the
apples grown are winter varieties, and with the utmost care in handling,
and the best facilities that cold storage can give for keeping them,
there is a period of several months in the early summer when the markets
are bare of apples, except a remnant of stale cold storage stock; and it
is at this scarce period when prices are highest, competition least and
demand greatest, that our early apples are at their best, and supply an
urgent demand for the fruit acids so necessary at this season to the
people of cold climates, to eliminate the effects of living many months
upon rich, heating foods. Fruit acids are Nature’s remedy for many ills,
and they are indispensable where the winters are long and cold; and in
no fruit are these acids so rich and so well adapted to the needs of man
as in the apple; and no apple is ready for use at so opportune a time as
these Tennessee grown early kinds. They are ready for use at a season
when all fruits are scarce, and the market is an open one, from which
Tennesseans can reap a rich harvest if they will take advantage of the
opportunity presented. Only a few years since fruits were a luxury of
the rich, and were not considered articles of food; but as their value
became known under the modern rational ideas of living, they have
quickly become necessities; and where obtainable, are staple foods upon
the tables of every class and condition of man. Among fruits the apple
stands pre-eminent for its many uses and great healthfulness; and he is
a poor provider indeed who does not supply his family with this, the
most healthful and palatable dish that can go upon his table in some of
its many prepared forms. The supply of apples has not increased in the
same ratio that consumption has, for it takes time to grow orchards, and
older orchards die; but the demand is an ever increasing one. These
early apples sell much higher than the winter varieties, and the
territory that can grow them is so limited that low prices need not be
feared. They cost much less to grow, for they mature before the drouths
and storms of summer come, and are less subject to damage by insects and
fungus disease. Middle Tennessee is the heart of the territory that can
grow choice apples that mature in that bare season, the months of June
and July, and should, and I believe will, be the center of this industry
in the years to come. Farther South the apple does not grow with any
success, and north of us they do not mature in time to compete, and
there is only a small zone east and west of us that can grow them, and
we have at least two months with practically no competition, and an
unlimited demand. With the rapid and constantly improving facilities for
moving this class of freight these apples can be put into any of the
cities in perfect condition, shipped in ordinary cars without the heavy
ice changes that most fruits must bear. With the limited area available
for their production, and the small amount now grown, it will take years
to furnish an adequate supply; and the greatest danger will be the
scarcity and not an overproduction, for with greater supplies the buyers
will come and the markets will be at our doors.
With more growers and greater supplies will come organization.
Associations will be formed, and instead of haphazard individual
shipments, the crop will be handled in a systematic way, and be
distributed to meet the needs of the different markets. The railroads
will be ready helpers along these lines, for they realize the importance
to their own interests of fostering enterprises of this kind. The L. &
N. R. R. is now doing a great work in encouraging the increased growth
of this class of products and give assurance of their ready co-operation
at all times. This industry has passed the experimental stage, and it is
an assured fact that these early apples will become a standard
production of Middle Tennessee. It has been demonstrated by practical
tests that the hills of Tennessee are especially adapted to this class
of fruits, and the great success that has followed the efforts of the
few who had the foresight to anticipate the coming results, and the
nerve to back their views is a sure indication of what the future will
develop along this line.
The pioneer in this line of business was Mr. W. L. Wilkes, of Spring
Hill, Tennessee, and the success that he achieved has been followed by
the planting of many large orchards around him that will soon be
yielding a harvest to their owners. He is too modest to say much of the
profits, but the facts are so patent that his neighbors are following
his example and a revolution is taking place in the farming of that
section. He claims that there is better profit in growing these apples
now than when he began, for the business was then a venture, and the
fruit was unknown upon the market, but now growing them is an assured
fact, and there is a demand for all that can be supplied. The question
of varieties, too, has been settled by experience, while then it was a
matter of test.
Fruit well grown and handled has ever been the most profitable of all
crops; and certainly a better opportunity was never offered to any
people than this one offers to the farmers of Tennessee and other
Southern States. Knowing what has already been done and the success
already achieved, it offers an opportunity to the man who has a taste
for fruit growing and has the energy and capacity to properly care for
an orchard, and the patience to wait for its fruiting, an assurance of
success greater than that of almost any other business. And when his
orchard has passed its fruitful age, and ceased to be profitable, it
leaves the soil as rich as that of a virgin forest, as an inheritance
for his children.
It must not be inferred that good results will be had in growing apples,
or any kinds of fruit without up-to-date methods of culture; for fruits
do not take kindly to careless and slovenly ways. There are many details
necessary to success, and explicit directions cannot be given in an
article of this kind that will be a sufficient guide to those who have
no practical knowledge of fruit growing. There are some general rules,
however, that apply in all cases, and that cannot be too strongly
emphasized. No one should go into commercial fruit growing without first
considering well their surroundings as to soil, location, shipping
facilities and other matters of that kind, and more especially to their
own fitness for the business. A man must have an adaptability to, and a
taste for, any business to make a success of it, for each individual
has, more or less, an adaptation for some calling; and many of the
failures in life are the result of the individual’s failing to get into
the right channel.
The right person with the proper surroundings, having settled the
question of planting in the affirmative, there will come many matters of
detail that will require the exercise of common sense and judgment, and
for the practice of which no specific rules can be given. I do not know
any better way to help beginners than to tell them some of the things
they should not do, and thereby prevent their making some costly
mistakes.
The most important question to be decided by a commercial planter is
that of varieties, for they must be of the kinds to suit the market
demands, must be regular bearers and barrel-fillers, and must ripen in
succession. Don’t plant many varieties, for they must be shipped in
carloads, and each variety should be ample for that purpose. Don’t plant
novelties, the kinds that have all the good points and that never fail
to bear, regardless of frosts and freezes, and are so often palmed off
at fancy prices by smooth-talking salesmen who always have the perfect
kinds; for when your “perfect kinds” begin to show up their crops of
crabs and seedlings your smooth agent will be far away practicing his
games upon other suckers. The perfect apple is yet a vision of the
future, and need not be expected until the perfect man comes.
Confine your commercial planting to well tested kinds that have
succeeded in locations similar to yours. Don’t buy inferior trees
because they are cheap. You are planting for a lifetime, and your time
and money will be worse than wasted trying to grow profitable orchards
from inferior stock. Life is too short to waste it waiting for diseased
trees to drag along for years and then die just as their fruitings
should begin. Buy the best trees that you can get; for if you are not
willing to pay a fair price for good stock, don’t go into the business;
for that very fact is conclusive proof that you have missed your
calling. Having made your selection of varieties, and bought good trees,
don’t let them lie around exposed to sun and air until half dead and
then blame the nurseryman if they fail to grow. A tree is a thing of
life and loses vitality every hour it is exposed, and it will need all
of its vitality in adapting itself to its new home, and to recover from
its rude removal from where it grew. Don’t buy old trees, thinking you
will gain a year’s time in growth and fruiting, for such will not be the
case. All experienced planters agree that one-year apple trees will live
better, grow better and bear fruit as early as older ones. They can be
bought for less money, are easier to plant and can be pruned to grow the
style of tree you want. Only the thrifty, healthy trees are large enough
for planting at one year old, and in buying them you run no risk of
getting inferior stock.
Don’t plant without a thorough preparation of the soil, for no after
care will compensate for the bad effect of careless preparation. The
first year is the crucial period in the life of a tree; it has lost in
removal many of its roots, and practically all of those fine, fibrous
feeders through which it drank life from the soil; and while nature has
stored in its cells a reserve supply of vitality, yet it needs every aid
that can be given to enable it to overcome the loss of roots and the
shock of removal and to succeed in its efforts to become established in
its new home. Do not forget that the success or failure of your orchard
will be largely owing to the manner of planting and to the treatment
that it gets during the first year.