LEGENDS OF THE ECCENTRIC
The unusual mental twist which frequently escapes notice in the crowded
city, is often the center of interest in a rural neighborhood. Those
who thus excite morbid curiosity in their youth are indeed unfortunate
and often suffer keenly from the semi-ostracism which sometimes
follows. But the elderly who have developed unusual characteristics
seem on the contrary to rather pride themselves upon their
peculiarities, holding the view of the ancient Quaker who is reported
to have said one day to his wife: “Everyone is queer but me and thee;
and thee is some queer.”
* * * * *
Of the various minor misfortunes to which the elderly are subject,
perhaps deafness is the most to be dreaded. This is illustrated in the
case of the elderly country merchant.
“You Don’t Have to Yell at Me”
Mr. H-- was the prosperous owner of a general store and had about
everything he needed except normal hearing. He was deaf, unmistakably
deaf, but with the pathetic obstinacy of some thus afflicted, he would
not admit it.
Late one afternoon a well-known citizen called at the store on an
errand for his wife. Others were waiting as the following transaction
was pulled off, and not strange to say, seemed to find it rather
amusing.
“I want a half pound of cream tartar.”
The storekeeper seemed unusually impressed.
“Freem Parker,” said he. “What’s happened to him?”
Freeman Parker was a well known and popular citizen of the vicinity.
“A half pound of cream tartar, I said,” the customer replied, raising
his voice.
“Freem Parker is dead,” said the merchant.
“Why, when did it happen?”
“I want a half pound of CREAM TARTAR,” was the reply in a very loud
voice.
“Oh! you want cream tartar, do you,” said the dealer in icy tones.
“You don’t need to yell at me. I’m not deaf.”
As before suggested, it is good policy in a rural district to cultivate
reasonably cordial relations with one’s neighbors. Therefore it was
probably poor tactics for a certain exasperated farmer to set a bear
trap in his corn crib. To be sure, he was eminently successful, finding
an exceedingly undesirable citizen the next morning securely fastened
by one hand in the savage jaws of the trap. But it may be taken for
granted that the farmer, who released the man at once, must have felt
easier when the man left the neighborhood which it is hoped he soon
did. Another farm owner was much more diplomatic.
The Story of the Stolen Bundle of Hay
In this instance there was an exhibition of forbearance and strategy
much to be admired.
Finding the barn door open one morning in the late winter, the farmer
was at a loss to understand how the fastenings became loosened. Further
inspection showed that hay had been thrown down from the loft. Still
further examination revealed signs that hay had been carried away,
presumably in a bundle on somebody’s shoulders.
A couple of mornings later there was further evidence of the same petty
thieving. The farmer decided to watch and see what happened. As it was
fairly comfortable sleeping on the hay rolled up in a blanket, the
adventure assumed a considerable degree of entertainment.
About midnight the farmer was aroused by someone carefully opening the
barn door. It was too dark to identify the intruder and in fact the
farmer did not want to know who of his nearby acquaintances could stoop
to anything so contemptible.
The thief had a long rope which in the dim light he laid upon the floor
of the barn. He next piled on as much hay as he could well carry on his
shoulders, and tying it up with the rope, he hastened away.
The farmer watched the man crossing the field. Suddenly an idea came
to him; he did not want to have trouble with a neighbor and he did not
want to lose any more hay. Following at a little distance behind the
thief, his footsteps naturally unheard because of the rustle of the
hay, the farmer struck a match and held it up to the bundle for an
instant and then dodged behind a tree. A moment later the hay burst
into flames. The thief dropped his rope and, screaming with terror,
rushed from sight. It was evident that he regarded the fire as of
supernatural origin. The farmer lost no more hay.
* * * * *
Another farmer met a similar problem in a rather different manner. He
was not overburdened with tender solicitude for ne’er-do-wells, as the
following record will show.
The Raid on Jim Green’s Pork Barrel
Jim Green was the sort of agriculturalist who worked hard by day and
slept hard by night. It therefore required several successive attempts
one very early morning before his more wakeful wife succeeded in
arousing him.
“Wake up! wake up!” said she, in a loud whisper, meanwhile nudging her
sleeping husband vigorously.
“Why--why, what’s the matter?” said Jim.
“There’s somebody in the cellar,” she whispered, “I’ve been hearing
strange noises for several minutes.”
Jim was now wide awake and hastily slipping on a few clothes, he made
his way to a window and in the dim light soon made out the figure
of a man crouched down by the cellar window, evidently working with
a partner. Further strain of the eyes revealed a pile of what Jim’s
experienced vision showed him to be salt pork, lying on the ground at
the man’s elbow. Jim tiptoed to a side door, opened it quietly and made
his way as silently as possible to where the man was kneeling. But
the slight rustle of his clothing or the jar of his footsteps alarmed
the watcher at the window and, glancing over his shoulder, he hastily
dodged around the corner of the wood shed.
Jim promptly took the missing man’s place by the cellar window and
awaited developments. Shortly thereafter a man in the cellar came to
the window by which Jim was crouching and passed out several pieces of
very damp salt pork which Jim received silently.
“I’ve got all there is in the barrel,” he whispered, “except the
last layer. Probably we better leave that so the folks here won’t be
entirely out of pork.”
“No,” Jim whispered, “pull it all out; what do we care whether they
have any pork or not?”
The man in the cellar went back and, plunging his arm deep in the
clammy brine, succeeded in digging up the last layer of pork which
he brought to the window, passing it up to the owner outside. He
then climbed out of the cellar window himself, where he was promptly
collared by Jim and identified as a shiftless farm laborer of the
neighborhood. He was soon released, however, after he had revealed the
name of his partner, another bird of similar feather.
Not until long after the two prowlers had removed from the
neighborhood, did Jim tell the story. Neighbors then remembered that
when Jim Green needed farm help, the two pork thieves always responded
promptly.
Comparatively few city born people realize how important a factor
the weather is in the daily routine of the farmer. They know that a
long-continued drought causes short crops and that floods sometimes do
considerable damage in certain valleys. Of the inconvenience caused
by unwelcome showers which sometimes become epidemic in busy seasons,
they have no knowledge. In a certain thriving farming section, there
had been a series of sudden thunder showers which had been very
discouraging to hay makers.
How Lote Platt Beat the Thunder Shower
“Lote” Platt had grown somewhat irascible in his old age and weather
eccentricities had gradually become a personal matter with him. When
unceremonious thunder showers had soaked a certain crop of clover hay
about the third or fourth time, Lote began to feel peevish. However, he
spread the hay out to dry and after one wet surface had responded to
the sun’s rays, he turned the other side up and early in the afternoon
found the clover in prime order to go in the barn.
He hastened to rake it into long windrows and was just preparing to
send his hired man after the oxen and cart when he heard the grumbling
of thunder and felt the coolness of the rain breeze. Another shower was
coming!
The hired man started on the run to get the oxen, but Lote soon
realized that the shower, and apparently a very wet one too, was going
to reach the hay field long before the oxen could be gotten there.
“Boo-boo,” said Lote, as an unusually loud peal of thunder made the air
vibrate. “I’ll show you something you never thought of.”
Lote was at the extreme windward side of the field and the long
rows of freshly raked hay stretched out before the strong breeze,
the forerunner of the approaching storm. Dropping on one knee, Lote
scratched a match, shielded it a moment with his old straw hat and then
held the blaze to the end of the windrow. Fanned by the wind, the fire
followed the long row of dry hay across the field. Then another blaze
followed by others also, and when the shower arrived, the clover which
had cost so much labor to be fitted for the hay mow, had ceased to be a
problem.
* * * * *
When the proverbially amiable citizen bursts forth in rage, it is
astonishing to those who look on, and apt to be quite disconcerting to
a perfectly innocent victim. It certainly was to the lumberjack who was
“bawled out” by Uncle Jimmy Ryan.
The Tale of the Old-Fashioned “Settle”
A logging enterprise was under way back along the edge of the mountain
and Uncle Jimmy’s wife was induced by the boss to board some of the
help. A newcomer had joined the gang and was informed at quitting time
that arrangements had been made for him to join the others at Uncle
Jimmy’s.
The new recruit made his way with a half dozen other husky workers to
the little low roofed farm house and going into the combined kitchen,
dining and living room, dropped his bag in a corner, tossing his
overcoat on one end of what seemed to be a large chest along the wall
back of the cooking range.
Uncle Jimmy, a short and roly-poly man of sixty-five or so, was moving
blandly about, speaking to one and then another of the “guests,”
when suddenly his eye fell on the overcoat, hanging over one end of
the chest. Rushing forward, he caught the coat and turning to the
astonished man who owned it, proceeded to express great indignation,
although in his excitement he had lapsed into the Irish brogue of his
early days so that what he said was unintelligible.
Finally the wife who had kept serene during her husband’s tirade, made
the matter clear.
The “chest” was an old-fashioned “settle” with an adjustable back. It
contained a mattress and at about five o’clock every day Uncle Jimmy’s
mother of ninety or more went to bed in the settle, the wooden back of
which was shut down, closing tightly. A circular opening in the end,
near the old lady’s face, provided air circulation.
The lumberman had unknowingly closed the opening. The offender
apologized and harmony was restored.
* * * * *
There is no place like the farm for those unfortunates whose ability
to perform crude manual labor is their chief asset. The farmer who
must exercise a never failing forbearance in the management of horses
and cattle often extends his sympathetic supervision over the mentally
defective ones who can be utilized in providing the necessary hand
labor. Thus it came about that one of those grown up children had found
a comfortable home at Mr. Hubbard’s.
The Lost Harrow Teeth
Thomas was socially inclined and the boys of the community were too
kindly disposed to exclude him from their company.
The owner of a nearby farm had been “seeding down” a stumpy addition
to his pasture, and early in the summer some boys, including Thomas,
wandered in that direction one Sunday afternoon, discovering a small
wooden harrow with iron “teeth,” which had been left on the field until
a more convenient season. The shrinking of the wood in the summer sun
had loosened these teeth and a few of them had dropped out. Thus it
came about that the boys were afflicted with a wonderfully funny idea.
A few mornings later Mr. Perry, the owner of the harrow and
incidentally of several farms in the neighborhood, had occasion to
drive up to Mr. Hubbard’s place on business. It was but a short
distance and he could easily have walked, but for the fact that he was
very lame.
Mr. Hubbard was at home, and receiving his visitor very cordially, they
entered into an earnest conversation. The child of misfortune, Thomas,
came around the corner of an outbuilding and seeing the two men so
busily occupied, stopped at once. He seemed to be much agitated.
The conversation continued, the two neighbors, however, subconsciously
watching the boy. Suddenly he rushed forward.
“You old lame cuss!” said he, addressing the astonished visitor.
“You old lame cuss! I don’t know anything about your harrow teeth.” He
then dodged back out of sight.
The two men looked at each other in amazement.
“What do you suppose he means?” said Mr. Perry.
“I don’t know,” was the reply, “but I intend to find out.”
“Here, you, Thomas!” he called, “come back here.”
The boy came reluctantly forward, and after some questioning revealed
that the boys in their holiday spirit of mischief had concealed the
loose harrow teeth in a hollow stump near where the harrow lay as a
joke on the Perry boys--a trifling matter in itself but which had
assumed great and terrifying importance to poor unfortunate Thomas.
* * * * *
To speak of the childish wrath of the aged is misleading in its
suggestiveness. More properly we should refer to the childish wrath of
the old man; for it is an undeniable fact that elderly women exhibit
much greater patience with the inevitable annoyances of life than old
men do.
A popular cartoonist has frequently exhibited these sudden tactics
of impotent wrath in a very amusing way. But his imagination never
has suggested anything more violent in its explosiveness than Uncle
Reuben’s rage at a balky “salt shake.”
The Story of the Salt Shake
Uncle Reuben and his more amiable wife were visiting with relatives.
His hostess was one of the New England type who never could do enough
for her guests.
Uncle Reuben who was quite advanced in years and whose habitual
irritability had proportionally increased, was feeling unusually
peevish this morning. It was midsummer and exceedingly warm and humid.
The contents of the glass salt shake allotted to this peevish old
gentleman had become, like everything else, affected by the prevailing
humidity. The most vigorous shaking failed to produce any results.
After repeated attempts, Uncle Reuben paused and quietly examined
the salt shake which he held in his hand. His amiable wife, knowing
his characteristics, looked anxious. His kindly hostess, also well
acquainted with the aforesaid characteristics, looked deeply concerned.
Finally Uncle Reuben spoke in those tones of forced calmness which are
usually associated with some great crisis.
“Pauline,” said he, “I wish to buy this salt shake.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t sell it,” replied his hostess, “you may have it, and
welcome.”
“No, I want to buy it!” said Uncle Reuben in dramatic tones.
“I want to buy it. I want to take it out to the stone pile and grind it
to powder.”
“Better Give Them to Some Poor Boy”
Just because a man has to be supported as a public charge by the town
he lives in, is no reason why he should not have some definite ideas
about correct dress.
“Uncle Timmy” may have seen better days, but it was so far back in
his history that no one remembered anything about it. He was supplied
with board in a private family at the town’s expense, the poor master
incidentally providing two other urgent necessities, _viz._, wearing
apparel and chewing tobacco, the latter being purchased in quantity and
“doled out” to Uncle Timmy little at a time, as otherwise the expense
of this luxury would have reached a very large item in the course of a
year.
About once in so often Uncle Timmy would happen around to see the poor
master to talk things over. He was very sociable indeed and would go
into all the details as to the menu at his boarding place, which was
very seldom satisfactory.
One day Uncle Timmy appeared, and after he had given a report of how he
was enjoying his present boarding place, it occurred to the poor master
that a certain pair of misfit shoes, which were of no special value to
anyone, might be utilized by this long-time guest of the community. So
he brought out the shoes and suggested that Uncle Timmy take them home
with him.
The old man turned the shoes over and over and examined them carefully.
When it was suggested that he try them on, as apparently they would fit
him, he shook his head.
“No,” said he. “I guess I won’t take them. You better give them to some
poor boy.”
There is no doubt that Uncle Timmy was naturally an aristocrat.