_Dear Father_:
I take it that you are now enough of a philosopher to suppress any
surprise you may feel to see a letter dated at this outpost of
civilization. I admit that it's somewhat off the beaten track for the
distribution of lard and pork products, but I got here legitimately
enough, as you shall learn. The people hereabouts raise their own hogs,
and I believe it would interest you to see the real article. Their lard
is so attractive in appearance that I mistook it for vanilla ice cream
when shown some last night, not stopping to think that your simon-pure
farmer never uses his cream for such frivolous purposes. However, their
stuff showed me that the nearer you get to nature and the farther from
the stock-yards, the more respectable an animal is the pig.
But to the adventure that brought me here. I left for the southern part
of the state yesterday morning on the Gatling Gun Express, and all went
well until we struck a cow at about noon, a few miles from where I have
pitched the Graham headquarters. The cow is now beef, all right, but the
locomotive is also scrap-iron. The track was blocked for keeps at the
lonely crossing where the horror occurred, and there seemed to be no
escape from a dreary wait for the wrecking train. But I investigated,
and soon discovered an ancient farmer with a horse whose meridian of
life had long since passed, jogging along toward somewhere--anywhere,
away from the slough of despond in which the cow had deposited us. I
grabbed my samples--which, by the way, are of no earthly use in this
section of the world--and begged for transportation. I got it for
twenty-five cents and a cigar whose antecedents I fain would forget, and
started for the interior.
It was an interesting locality where we brought up. Doolittle's Mills
are apparently so named because there's so little doing in them that
the building which gives the place its name looks like a church where
all the citizens are atheists. Once a year, in the time of the early
spring freshets, they saw a few boards for exercise. But just now the
farmers have the call, and the call is usually the tin-horn summons to
dinner, which is the only sound that awakes any interest in the people.
Just now they are putting in potatoes, corn, and beans, and the only
fertilizer they use are cuss words and hard cider, which go well enough
together at the start, but don't hitch worth a cent at harvest time.
My rustic benefactor was christened Martin Van Buren Philpot, but long
use has shrunk his cognomen considerably, and he is now known as "Vebe."
He has a big quiverful of children, the thirteenth of whom arrived about
three weeks ago. "Vebe" has named him Theodore Roosevelt, and is still
waiting for the silver mug. Says he's afraid the thirteen part of it
will queer the kid's chances.
You would like Mrs. Philpot, I think. She is full of homely philosophy
and has a face to match. Her cooking, though, might be improved by a
course of training under Oscar of the Waldorf. I don't just remember the
sort of biscuits Ma used to produce, but if they were anything like Mrs.
Philpot's I can account for your dyspepsia.
The little Philpots are sportive creatures who insist on showing me the
pigs about a dozen times a day. I believe I unwarily dropped a hint as
to my occupation when I arrived, and they seem to think I want to see
pork all the time. They call me the hog man, but they are such innocent
kids that I can't show any resentment. This afternoon they took me out
to the pasture to view a sit-still's nest. Said the mother bird was on
the eggs and wouldn't fly, even when handled. Just before we reached the
place two of them ran ahead, and Johnny Philpot clapped his straw hat on
the ground and signalled me to hurry.
"She's here, all right, mister," said Johnny, quivering with excitement.
"Now you jest stoop down, and when I lift my hat, you grab the bird."
Slowly the brim of yellow straw rose, and with lightning-like celerity I
dashed my hand through the opening. Then there was a sharp click and a
wild whoop from myself as a steel trap closed its jaws on my fingers and
held on like death. You never saw such delighted children in your life.
They danced around me all the while I was trying to get the confounded
thing off my hand, and said I "swore orful." I guess I did. After awhile
Johnny helped me, and allowed I was real funny. He'll never know how
near he came to a violent death in his happy childhood.
The way these simple people combine business and pleasure would be a
revelation to the packing house. I saw a good example of this
peculiarity at a barn-raising that "Vebe" Philpot arranged for this
morning. It showed, too, that the countryman was the original socialist.
About forty farmers gathered at the place in vehicles that would simply
make the Lake Front howl. Every man then visited the toolhouse, where a
tin wash-boiler filled with what they call here "horse's neck," a savage
compound of whiskey and hard cider, occupied the place of honor. They
tell me that "horse's neck" and barn-raisings are one and inseparable in
these parts, and that any attempt to preach temperance at such
occasions would lead to rioting. I'll do old Philpot the justice to say
that his wash-boiler was the real thing, and erred a bit on the side of
hard liquor, if anything.
Having gotten themselves in first-class trim, the barn-raisers proceeded
to business. The way they do the work is this: Two uprights lying on the
ground are fastened top and bottom by crossbeams and a long rope is
hitched to each end. About fifteen men attach their persons to each
rope, and the other ten jam big crowbars against the bottom beam to
prevent its slipping. Then somebody yells "hist her!" and the crowd on
the ropes tug like bulls and that part of the frame goes slowly up. They
prop this up lightly to prevent its falling, and proceed to get the
other end perpendicular in the same fashion. Then up go the sides to be
cleated to the end, and the thing is done.
But it wasn't quite done this morning, for just as the second side was
being fastened in place by my genial host, who had been boosted up on
the corner to do the job, one of the props broke, and the whole blamed
frame, including "Vebe," came to the ground in a grand crash. "Vebe"
wasn't hurt very much physically, but his spirits were greatly damaged.
Father, you may think you can juggle expletives pretty well, you may
believe that Milligan can swear good and plenty; but neither of you ever
dreamed of such a Niagara of blue-streaked and sulphur-fumed cuss words
as came from that irate farmer. The rest of the crowd lit out, after a
farewell visit to the wash-boiler, for, as one weazened old veteran told
me confidentially, "When 'Vebe' war in tarntrums it war no use treatin'
him like a civilized critter."
To that mishap of the morning I attribute the rather doleful ending of
something that occurred this evening. It seems that old Philpot's son
Ike got married a day or two ago, and, after the poetic custom of the
country, the neighbors determined to give him a serenade. To-night was
the chosen time. I guess it was a surprise, all right, for when the
awful pandemonium of tin horns, cow-bells, rattles, cracked cornets and
whistles broke upon the peaceful air like a blast from a madhouse, old
"Vebe" made a dash for his double-barrelled shotgun and let go twice
into the crowd.
"Dern fresh fools," he growled, as he cleaned his smoking gun. "Guess
that'll season 'em all right." I was horrified and asked him if he
wasn't afraid he had killed somebody.
"Kill nuthin'," he snorted. "That thar was good honest rock salt. It'll
melt inside their blasted pelts and sting like all possessed, but that's
all. Don't you worry about any of 'em dyin', they're too consarned
tough."
Of course Ike and his new wife appeared on the scene as soon as the
rumpus began, and the young husband bitterly upbraided his dad, until I
thought I should have to serve as referee in a good bout then and there.
Ike said that the old man had ruined his credit in the town forever;
that he never could hold his head up again. He appealed to me, and asked
why fathers always wanted to make jackasses of themselves where their
sons were concerned. I couldn't tell him, of course. Finally the
household quieted down, but the upshot of it is that Ike is going to
quit to-morrow and get out a handbill, saying that his father was drunk
when the unfortunate affair occurred, and inviting the town to serenade
him again in his new home. You see it's almost a religious point with
young couples in this section of the world that their banns be blessed
with the most outrageous racket man can devise. They actually feel sort
of shame-faced otherwise.
Speaking of banns naturally leads me to remark, that however shy on
personal beauty Mrs. Philpot may be, she has a daughter of the A1 pure
leaf brand. Her name is Verbena, and she can certainly give points to
her namesake in the matter of sweetness. Naturally, she was somewhat
upset after the stirring experiences of this evening, and I felt it my
duty to restore her equanimity, especially as I was a guest in the
house. We sat for quite a while in the best parlor and Verbena grew
somewhat confidential. She said she had a beau over at Bumstead Four
Corners, but that as a sparker he was about as useful as a pig of lead.
Asked me if I didn't think that city men had more real romance and made
better husbands. At this point I slowly withdrew my hand from her pretty
one, for there was something in the suggestion that looked ominous.
I think I might have kissed Verbena good-night had not old Philpot
appeared on the scene. I am almost inclined to believe that he had some
notion as to what I meditated and that he was simply a little ahead of
time. For, before coming to my room to write, I strolled out for a smoke
and met one of Philpot's neighbors, a garrulous old fellow.
"Verbena's a likely gal," was the way he opened on me. I admitted it.
"Engaged yit?" was his astounding query. Quietly but firmly, I denied
the soft impeachment. "So-ho" he said, "Vebe's a-gettin' slow."
Curiosity got the better of me and in a half hour's talk I wormed
considerable information out of my companion. It seems that the three
oldest girls married recently and that their husbands were travelling
men who, for some occult reason, had penetrated into this country. In
two cases there was an elopement, said my informant.
"What did the father do?" I asked, thinking of old Philpot's shotgun.
"Do?" echoed the old farmer, "waal, he helped the hired man to sot the
ladder under Dahlia's window, and when Lobelia skipped with her feller,
'Vebe' routed the hired man out o' bed at two in the morning to hitch
up the best hoss, so's he could foller the elopers with the girl's
trunk. I tell yer, it's tough tripe to have so many darters in this
country."
I've made up my mind that Verbena's flier than she looks and that she
and her old man have an understanding.
To-morrow I leave this sylvan retreat and start once more on the pursuit
of the man who wants pig. I believe this little outing has given me new
nerve, and that you will soon get Orders, More Orders and Big Orders,
the only trinity you seem to think has any holiness in it. I wonder how
Verbena will take my departure.
Your dutiful son,
PIERREPONT.
P.S. I've been thinking over old Philpot's rock salt shooting, and it
suggests a great idea. "Why not kill hogs with volleys of the stuff,
thus obviating the necessity of salting 'em?" Do I get a raise for this
invention?
P.
LETTER No. XIV.
_A companionable deputy sheriff, a hospitable townsman, and "the
best-natured wife on earth" inspires Pierrepont's pen to the narration
of lively incidents._