THE MAGIC OF THE ROAD AND SOME TALES
Our particular breakfast consisted of a choice of several “flake”
breakfast foods, a hard fried chop, an egg or two, fried, some German
fried potatoes, and all done as an American small town hotelkeeper used
to dealing with farmers and storekeepers and “hands” would imagine they
ought to be done. Where did the average American first get the idea that
meals of nearly all kinds need to be fried _hard_? Or that tea has to be
made so strong that it looks black and tastes like weeds? Or that German
fried potatoes ought to be soggy and that ’_all_ people prefer German
fried potatoes? If you should ask for French fried potatoes or potatoes
_au gratin_ or potatoes O'Brien in a small country town hotel you would
be greeted with a look of uncertainty if not of resentment. French fried
potatoes, pray—or meat medium or broiled? Impossible! And as for weak,
clear, tasteful tea—shades of Buffalo Bill and Davy Crockett! “Whoever
heard of weak, clear tea? The man has gone mad. He is some ‘city
fellow,’ bent on showing off. It is up to us to teach him not to get
smart. We must frown and delay and show that we do not approve of him at
all.”
While we were eating, I was thinking where our car would take us this
day, and the anticipation of new fields and strange scenes was enough to
make a mere poor breakfast a very trivial matter indeed. Clouds and high
hills, and spinning along the bank of some winding stream, were an ample
exchange for any temporary inconvenience. After breakfast and while
Franklin and I once more tightened up our belongings, Speed brought
about the machine and in the presence of a few residents—a young girl of
fifteen for one, who looked at us with wide, wishful eyes—we strapped on
the bags and took our seats. I could not help feeling as I looked at
some of them who observed us that they were wishing they were in our
places. The car was good to look at. It was quite obvious from the
various bags and wraps that we were en route somewhere. Someone was
always asking us where we were from and where we were going—questions
which the magic name of New York, particularly this distance away,
seemed to make all the more significant. The night before in the garage
at Scranton a youth, hearing us say that we were from there, had
observed with an air: “How is old New York anyway?” And then, with a
flourish: “I’ll have to be going over there pretty soon now. I haven’t
been over in some time.”
Leaving Factoryville, we ran through country so beautiful that before
long I regretted sincerely that we had done any traveling after dark the
night before. We were making our way up a wide valley as I could see,
the same green Susquehanna Valley, between high hills and through a
region given over entirely to dairy farming. The hills looked as though
they were bedded knee deep in rich, succulent grass. Groups of black and
white Holstein cattle were everywhere to be seen. Some of the hills were
laid out in checkerboard fashion by fields of grain or hay or buckwheat
or great thick groves of trees. Before many a farm dooryard was a
platform on which stood a milk can, or two or three: now and then a
neighborhood creamery would come into view, where the local milk was
churned wholesale and butter prepared and shipped. The towns for the
most part were rarely factory towns, looking more as if they harbored
summer boarders or were but now starting on a manufacturing career.
Girls or women were reading or sewing on porches. The region of the
mines was far behind.
And what a day! The everchanging panorama—how wonderful it was!
Tr-r-r-r-r-r and we were descending a steep hill, at the bottom of which
lay a railroad track (one of those against which we had been warned, no
doubt), and in the distance more great hills, sentineling this wide
valley; the road showing like a white thread, miles and miles away.
Tr-r-r-r-r-r, and now we were passing a prosperous farmyard, aglow with
strident flowers, one woman sewing at a window, others talking with a
neighbor at the door. Tr-r-r-r-r-r, here we were swinging around a sharp
curve, over an iron bridge, noisy and shaky and beneath which ran a
turbulent stream, and in the immediate foreground was an old mill or a
barnyard alive with cattle and poultry. I had just time to think, “What
if we should crash through this bridge into the stream below,” when
T-r-r-r-r-r-r, and now came a small factory or foundry section with tall
smokestacks, and beyond it a fair-sized town, clean, healthy,
industrious. No tradition, you see, anywhere. No monuments or cathedrals
or great hotels or any historic scene anywhere to look forward to: but
Tr-r-r-r-r-r and here we are at the farther outskirts of this same small
town with more green fields in the distance, the scuff and scar of
manufacturing gone and only the blue sky and endless green fields and
some birds flying and a farmer cutting his grain with a great reaper.
Tr-r-r-r-r-r—how the miles do fly past, to be sure!
And T-r-r-r-r-r-r (these motors are surely tireless things), here is a
lake now, just showing through the tall, straight trunks of trees, a
silvery flash with a grey icehouse in the distance; and then,
Tr-r-r-r-r-r, a thick green wall of woods, so rich and dark, from which
pour the sweetest, richest, most invigorating odors and into the depth
of which the glance sinks only to find cooler and darker shadows and
even ultimate shadow or a green blackness; and then—Tr-r-r-r-r—a line of
small white cottages facing a stream and a boy scuffing his toes in the
warm, golden dust—oh, happy boyland!—and then, Tr-r-r-r-r—but why go on?
It was all beautiful. It was all so refreshing. It was all like a
song—only—Tr-r-r-r-r—and here comes another great wide spreading view,
which Franklin wishes to sketch. He has a large pad of some peculiarly
white porous paper, on which he works and from which he tears the
sketches when they are done and deposits them in a convenient portfolio.
By now Speed has become resigned to _not_ getting to Indiana as fast as
he would like.
“Shucks!” I heard him say once, as he was oiling up his engine, “if we
didn’t have to stop this way every few minutes, we’d soon get into
Indiana. Give me half way decent roads and this little old motor will
eat up the miles as good as anyone....” But when you have two loons
aboard who are forever calling “Whoa!” and jumping up or out or both and
exclaiming, “Well now, what do you think of that?—isn’t it
beautiful?”—what are you going to do? No real chauffeur can get anywhere
that way—you know that.
Here we were now backing the machine in the shade of a barn while
Franklin fixed himself on the edge of a grey, lichen covered wall and I
strolled off down a steep hill to get a better view of a railroad which
here ran through a granite gorge. Perhaps Franklin worked as many as
thirty or forty minutes. Perhaps I investigated even longer. There was a
field on this slope with a fine spring on it. I had to speculate on what
a fine pool could be made here. In the distance some horizon clouds made
a procession like ships. I had to look at those. The spear pines here at
the edge of this field were very beautiful and reminded me of the
cypresses of Italy. I had to speculate as to the difference. Then
Tr-r-r-r-r-r, and we were on again at about thirtyfive miles an hour.
While we were riding across this country in the bright morning sunshine,
Speed fell into a reminiscent or tale-telling mood. Countrymen born have
this trait at times and Speed was country bred. He began, as I had
already found was his way, without any particular announcement, or a
“Didjah ever hear of the old fellow,” etc., and then he would be off on
a series of yarns the exact flavor and charm of which I cannot hope to
transcribe, but some of which I nevertheless feel I must paraphrase as
best I may.
Thus one of his stories concerned a wedding somewhere in the country.
All the neighbors had been invited and the preacher and the justice of
the peace. The women were all in the house picking wool for a pastime.
The men were all out at the edge of the woods around a log heap they had
built, telling stories. The bride-to-be was all washed and starched and
her hair done up for once, and she was picking wool, too. When the fatal
moment came the preacher and the prospective husband came in, followed
by all the men, and the two stood in the proper position for a wedding
before the fireplace; but the girl never moved. She just called, “Go on;
it’ll be all right.” So the preacher read or spoke the ceremony, and
when it came to the place where he asked her, “Do you take this man to
be your lawful wedded husband, etc.,” she stopped, took a chew of
tobacco out of her mouth, threw it in the fire, expectorated in the same
direction, and said, “I reckon.” Then she went on working again.
Another of these yarns concerned the resurveying of the county line
between Brown and Monroe counties in Indiana which a little while before
had been moved west about two hundred and fifty yards. That put the
house of an old Brown County farmer about ten yards over the Monroe
County line. A part of Monroe County in this region was swampy and
famous for chills and fever—or infamous. When the old farmer came home
that night his wife met him at the gate and said: “Now we just got tuh
move, paw; that’s all there is to it. I’m not goin' to live over there
in Monroe with all these here swamps. We’ll all die with chills and yuh
know it.”
Fishing was great sport in some county in Indiana—I forget which. They
organized fishing parties, sometimes thirty or forty in a drove, and
went fishing, camping out for two or three days at a time, only they
weren’t so strong for hooks and lines, except for the mere sport of it.
To be sure of having enough fish to go ’round, they always took a few
sticks of dynamite and toward evening or noon someone would light a fuse
and attach it to a stick of dynamite and, just as it was getting near
the danger line, throw it in the water.
Well, once upon a time there was just such a fishing party and they had
a stick of dynamite, or two or three. There was also an old fat hotel
man who had come along and he had a very fine big dog with him—a
retriever—that he thought a great deal of. Whenever anyone would shoot a
duck or throw a stick into the water, the dog would go and get it. On
this occasion toward evening someone threw a stick of dynamite in the
water with the fuse lit. Only instead of falling in the water it fell on
some brush floating there and the darn fool dog seeing it jumped in and
began to swim out toward it. They all commenced to holler at the dog to
come back, but in vain. He swam to the dynamite stick, got it in his
mouth, and started for shore—the fuse burning all the while. Then they
all ran for their lives—all but the old fat hotel man, who couldn’t run
very well, though he did his best, and it was his dog. He lit out,
though, through the green briars and brush, hollering, “Go home, Tige!
Go home, Tige!” at every jump. But old Tige was just a-bounding on along
behind him and a-wagging his tail and a-shaking the water off him. What
saved the old man was that at one place the dog stopped to shake the
water off and that gave him a fair start, but he only missed him by
about forty feet at that. The dog was just that near when, bang! and
say, there wasn’t a thing left but just about a half inch of his tail,
which somebody found and which the old man used to wear as a watch-charm
and for good luck. He always said it was mighty good luck for him that
the dog didn’t get any nearer.
And once more upon a time there was a very stingy old man who owned a
field opposite the railway station of a small town. A shed was there
which made a rather good billboard and itinerant showmen and medicine
men occasionally posted bills on it—not without getting the permission
of the owner, however, who invariably extracted tickets or
something—medicine even.
One day, however, the station agent, who was idling in front of his
office, saw a man pasting showbills. He fancied Zeke Peters' (the
owner’s) permission had not been obtained, but he wasn’t sure. It must
be remembered that he was in no way related to Peters. Walking over to
the man, he inquired:
“Does paw know you’re putting up them bills here?”
“Why, no, I didn’t think there’d be any trouble. They’re only small
bills, as you see.”
The agent pulled a long face.
“I know,” he replied, “but I don’t think paw’d like this.”
The showman handed him a ticket for the circus—one ticket.
“Well, I don’t know about this,” said the station agent heavily. “If you
didn’t ask paw, I don’t know whether you’d better do this or not.”
The billposter handed him another ticket.
“Won’t that fix it?” he asked.
“Well,” replied the agent, seemingly somewhat mollified, “paw’s awful
particular, but I guess I can fix it. I’ll try anyhow”—and he walked
solemnly back to the station.
Old Peters didn’t chance to see the bills until a day or two before the
circus. He was very angry, but at this time there were no circus men
around to complain to. When the show came to town he looked up the
box-office and found he had been done. Then he hurried to the agent.
“Where’s them tickets?” he demanded.
“What tickets?” replied the agent.
“That you got from that billposter.”
“Well, I’m usin' ’em. He gave ’em to me.”
“What fer, I'd like to know? It’s my billboard, ain’t it?”
“Well, it was my idea, wasn’t it?”
There Speed stopped.
“Well, did he get the tickets?” I asked.
“Course not. Nobody liked him, so he couldn’t do nothing.”
I liked the ending philosophy of this the best of all.
And once upon a time in some backwoods county in Indiana there was an
election for president. There weren’t but sixtynine voters in the
district and they kept straggling in from six A. M., when the polls
opened, to six P. M., when they closed. Then they all hung around to see
how the vote stood. And guess how it stood?
“Well?”
“It was this-a-way. W. J. Bryan, 15; Andrew Jackson, 12; Jeff Davis, 9;
Abraham Lincoln, 8; Thomas Jefferson, 8; Moses, 6; Abraham, 15; John the
Baptist, 3; Daniel Boone, 2; William McKinley, 1.”
“What about George Washington, Speed?”
“Well, I guess they musta fergot him.”
And, once more now, not every family in Indiana or elsewhere is strong
for education, and especially in the country. So once upon a time there
was a family—father and mother, that is—that got into a row over this
very thing. An old couple had married after each had been married before
and each had had children. Only, now, each of ’em only had one son
apiece left, that is, home with ’em. The old man believed in education
and wanted his boy educated, whereas the woman didn’t. “No, siree,” she
said, “I don’t want any of my children to ever git any of that book
learnin'. None o' the others had any and I ’low as Luke can git along
just as well as they did.”
But the old man he didn’t feel quite right about it and somehow his boy
liked books. So, since he was really the stronger of the two, he sent
the two boys off and made ’em go. The old woman grieved and grieved. She
felt as though her boy was being spoiled, and she said so.
[Illustration: FACTORYVILLE BIDS US FAREWELL]
“Shucks!” said the old man, “he’ll git along all right. What’s the
matter with you, anyhow? If my boy don’t go to school he’ll feel bad,
and if I send him to school and keep yours at home to work the neighbors
will talk—now I just can’t manage it, that’s all.”
So the two boys kept on going for awhile longer. Only the old woman kept
feelin' worse and worse about it. All at once one day she got to feelin'
so terrible bad that she just gathered up her boy’s clothes and took him
over to his grandfather’s to live, and gee! the old grandfather was sore
about it. Say!
“Send that boy to school!” he says. “Never! Why, he ain’t the same boy
any more at all already. I’ll be hanged if he ain’t even fergot how to
cuss,” and he wouldn’t even let the boy’s fosterfather come near him.
Not a bit of it, no siree.
And once upon a time, in the extreme southern part of Indiana where the
ice doesn’t get very thick—not over three inches—there was a backwoods
preacher who made a trip to Evansville and saw an ice machine making ice
a foot thick, and he came back and told his congregation about it.
“Whaddy think of that!” one of the old members exclaimed. “The Lord
can’t make it more’n three inches around here, and he says men in
Evansville can make it a foot thick!”
So they turned the old preacher out for lying, b’gosh!
Once upon a time there was an old Irishman got on the train at Carmel,
Indiana, and walked in the car, but the seats were all taken. One was
occupied by an Indiana farmer and his dog. The Irishman knew, if he
tried to make the dog get down and give him the seat, he would have the
farmer and the dog to fight.
“That’s a very fine darg ye have.”
“Yes, stranger; he’s the finest dog in the county.”
“And he has the marks of a good coon darg.”
“That’s right. He can come as near findin' coons where there ain’t any
as the next one.”
“What brade of darg is he?”
“Well, he’s a cross between an Irishman and a skunk.”
“Bejasus, then he must be related to the both of us!”
Somewhere in the country in Indiana they once built a railroad where
there never had been one and it created great excitement. One old farmer
who had lived on his farm a great many years and had never even seen a
train or a track and had raised a large family, mostly girls, was so
interested that he put his whole family in the wagon and drove up close
to the track so they could get a good view of the cars the first time
they came through. But before the train came he got uneasy. He was
afraid the old grey mare would get scared and run away. So he got out,
unhitched the old horse and tied it to a tree, gave it some hay and got
back into the wagon. Pretty soon he saw the train coming very fast, and
as the old wagon was quite close to the track he thought the train might
jump the track and kill them all, so he leaped out, got between the
shafts and started to pull the wagon a little farther down the hill.
Just then the train neared the station and he got so excited that he
lost all control of himself and away he went down the hill, lickety
split. He ran upon a stump, upset the wagon and threw the old woman and
all the children out, and hurt them worse than ever the old mare would
have. The old woman was furious. She didn’t have any bridle on him and
while he was running she missed seeing the train.
“Gol darn you,” she hollered, “if I didn’t have a sprained ankle now,
I’d fix you—runnin' away like the crazy old fool that you are!”
“That’s all right, Maria,” he called back meekly. “I was a leetle
excited, I’ll admit; but next week when the train goes through again you
and the children kin come down and I’ll stay to home. I just can’t stand
these newfangled things, I reckon.”
And once upon a time (and this is the last one for the present) there
was a real wildcat fight somewhere—a most wonderful wildcat fight. An
old farmer was sitting on a fence hoeing corn—that’s the way they hoe
corn in some places—and all at once he saw two Thomas wildcats
approaching each other from different directions and swiftly. He was
about to jump down and run when suddenly the cats came together. It was
all so swift that he scarcely had time to move. They came along on their
hind feet and when they got together each one began to claw and climb up
the other. In fifteen minutes they were out of sight in the air, each
one climbing rapidly up the other; but he could hear them squalling for
two hours after they were out of sight, and froth and hair fell for two
days!