UNCLE TERRY
"I wa'n't consulted 'bout comin' into this world," said Uncle Terry
once, "an' I don't 'spect to be 'bout goin' out. I was born on a wayback
farm in Connecticut, where the rocks was so thick we used ter round the
sheep up once a week an' sharpen thar noses on the grin'stun, so't they
could get 'em 'tween the stuns. I walked a mile to school winters, an'
stubbed my toes on the farm summers, till I was fourteen, an' then the
old man 'greed to give me my time till I was twenty-one if I'ud pay him
half I earned. I had a colt an' old busted wagon, an' I took to
dickerin'. I bought eggs an' honey an' pelts of all sorts, an' peddled
notions an' farmin' tools. When I cum of age I went to the city an'
turned trader an' made a little money; got married an' cum down into
Maine an' bought a gold mine. I've got it yit! That is, I've got the
hole whar I s'posed the mine was. Most o' my money went into it an'
stayed thar. Then I got a chance to tend light and ketch lobsters, an'
hev stuck to it ever since. I take some comfort livin' and try an' pass
it along. The widder Leach calls me a scoffer, but she allus comes to me
when she's needin', an' don't allus have to cum, either. My life's been
like most everybody else's--a streak o' lean an' a streak o' fat, with
lean predominatin'. 'Twas a streak o' fat when I found a good woman an'
she said 'yes,' an' a streak o' lean when I was bamboozled by a lawyer
into buyin' a gold mine. I've kep' that hole ever since an' paid taxes
on't, to prove to myself jest how big a fool a man can be an' live.
"I've never wronged nobody, nor done much prayin', an' when the Almighty
calls me I think I'll stand jest as good a chance o' gittin' a harp as
those who's done more on't. The worst skinnin' I ever got was done by
this ere lawyer who never sot down to meals 'thout askin' a blessin',
an' mebbe that's the reason I'm a scoffer. I've observed a good deal
since I left the old farm, an' have come to the belief that thar's a
sucker born every minit and two ter ketch him. When I was young I took
hold o' the big end o' the log an' did the liftin'; but now I take hold
o' the little end an' do the gruntin'! Thar's one thing I've larned, and
larned it for sartin, an' that is, thar's dum few people in this world
that cut a ham in the middle. Most on 'em cut few slices an' cut 'em
thin."
Among the Southport islanders Uncle Terry was considered an odd stick,
and yet one who would go out of his way to do a good turn to others. He
was seldom seen at church, though his wife and Telly usually were. As he
once remarked: "It's a good thing for 'em, 'cause it takes up thar mind
an' is more sociable, tho' prayin' allus seems to me a good deal like a
man tryin' to lift himself by his boot-straps. It keeps him busy, tho',
an' it's healthy exercise."
In spite of his investment in a mine, he had been frugal and owned most
of the land between the village and the point, and was also joint owner,
with two other men, in a small trading-schooner that made semi-monthly
trips between the Cape and Boston. She carried fish, clams, lobsters,
hay, and potatoes, and fetched an "all sorts" cargo useful to the
islanders, from a paper of needles to a hogshead of molasses.
The most pronounced characteristic of Uncle Terry was his unfailing good
humor, tinged with a mild sarcasm. He loved his fellow-men, and yet
enjoyed puncturing their small conceits, but so droll was his way of
doing it that no one felt the sting. To Bascom, who kept the only store,
and also post-office, at the Cape, and dearly loved to hear himself
talk, Uncle Terry once said: "You've got the greatest gift o' gab I ever
heerd, Bascom, and you could 'a' made your fortin in the show business.
But if you're ever took with religion, the hull island'll turn
infiddle."
And again: when Deacon Oaks, the leader at all prayer-meetings, assured
him how great a blessing religion was, and how much he enjoyed divine
service, Uncle Terry answered: "Your takin' the lead at meetin's is a
blessin' to the rest, for none of 'em has to worry 'bout who's goin' to
speak next. They know you're allus ready."
In this connection it must be stated that the spiritual life of
Southport was of a primitive description. The small unpainted church at
the Cape, above which hung a diminutive bell, was the only place of
worship, and to this, every other Sunday, came a minister from the
mainland. It was furnished with long wooden settees and a small cottage
organ graced the platform, upon which an antique desk did duty as pulpit
and a storage place for hymn books. Four wall bracket lamps lighted this
room for evening service, and their usually smoky chimneys lent a
depressing effect to all exhortation. "Mandy" Oaks presided at the organ
and turned gospel hymns into wheezy and rather long-drawn-out melodies.
Most of the audience tried to chase the tunes along and imagined they
were singing, which, perhaps, is all that is necessary. On the Sundays
between the minister's visits only evening services were held, and
every Thursday evening a prayer-meeting. It was on these latter
occasions that Deacon Oaks was in conspicuous evidence. The Widow Leach,
a poor unfortunate woman who had seen better days, and in whose poverty
stricken life religion was the only consolation, was also prominent; and
her testimony, unvarying in tenor as the tunes played by Mandy, helped
to fill out the service.
"It's lucky the widow's sure o' lots o' happiness in the next world,"
observed Uncle Terry once, "for she ain't gittin' much in this.
"I can't hear Oaks, though, 'thout thinkin' o' Deacon Rogers up in
Wolcott, who never mentioned the need o' rain till he'd got his hay in.
He was a sly fox, and allus thanked the Lord for sendin' rain nights an'
Sundays, so the poor hired men could rest.
"I used to have him held up as a shinin' example, but he opened my eyes
arter I began dickerin' by sellin' me a lot o' eggs that had been sot on
two weeks, an' the storeman I sold 'em to never trusted me agin. 'Twas a
case o' the ungodly sufferin' for the sins o' the righteous that time,
which may be a pervarsion o' Scriptur, but the truth, just the same.
"But I got a little comfort finally, for when the Deacon died, by some
inadvartance the choir sang, 'Praise God from whom all blessin's flow,'
an' I wa'n't the only one who felt that way, either."
In spite of Uncle Terry's mildly flavored shafts of sarcasm, he made no
enemies and his kind heart and sterling honesty were respected far and
near. He was considered a doubter and skeptic, and though seldom seen at
church, as he had originally contributed his share when that edifice was
built, his lack of piety was forgiven.
There is a sense of justice underlying all men's minds, and the natural
instinct is to judge others by what they are and how they live, rather
than by what they profess, and so it was in Uncle Terry's case. He lived
truthfully, obeyed his conscience, observed the Golden Rule, wronged no
one, and as with many others who do likewise, he had a right to feel
that in the final balance his book of life would show a wide margin on
the credit side.