It was a beautiful, hot, sunny morning, and after breakfast Uncle Ike
came out on the porch in his shirt sleeves, and with a pair of old
hunting shoes on, and his shirt sleeves rolled up, showing the sleeves
of a red flannel undershirt, a kind he always wore, winter and summer.
He leaned against the post of the porch, lit his pipe, and looked away
toward the hazy, hot horizon, and thought of old days that had been
brought to his mind the day before, when he saw the parade of a Wild
West show. The old man was a '49er, who went across the plains for gold
when the country was young, and the yells of the Indians had made him
nervous, as they did half a century ago. He had staked the red-headed
boy and several of his chums to go to the show, and was waiting for
them to show up and report. He stepped down on the lawn and took up the
nozzle of a sprinkler and turned it on a lilac bush, when suddenly
there was a yell that was unmistakably that of a Comanche Indian; and he
stopped and looked at the bush, and could plainly see a moccasin and
a leg with buckskin fringe on it, and he knew the boys were laying for
him, to scalp him and have fun with him; so he held the nozzle as his
only protection against the bloodthirsty band of savages, headed by
Chief Red Head, his nephew, but a bad Indian when off the reservation.
From behind an evergreen tree down by the gate there came a
blood-curdling yell, which was evidently from the throat of “Watermelon
Jim,” a neighbor's boy, while from the wild cucumber vine on the south
porch came a noise like that of a pack of wolves breakfasting on a fawn.
“Surrender!” shouted a damp voice from behind the lilac bush, where the
hose was turned. “Surrender, or we burn down your ranch over your head!”
and a painted Indian, with red, short hair showing under the feather,
crawled toward a rosebush, where it was dry.
“Never!” said Uncle Ike, as he bit the stem of his pipe, and smiled at
the boys who were peeking out from behind the different hiding places.
“Your Uncle Ike often dies, but he never surrenders,” and he cocked the
nozzle of the lawn sprinkler, and stood ready for the attack.
The red-headed Indian lit a parlor match and held it aloft, which was
apparently a smoke signal, for an Indian behind the porch appeared and
suddenly a swish was heard in the air, and a piece of clothesline with a
noose in it came near going over Uncle Ike's head; so near that it broke
his clay pipe, leaving the stem between his lips.
“Ah, ha! You will, will you? Vamoose!” said Uncle Ike, as he turned the
hose on the Indian with the lasso, and drove him behind the porch with
water dripping down his calico shirt, taking the color out. Then an
Indian near the gate began to fire blank cartridges with a toy pistol
and Uncle Ike put his elbow up in front of his face, as he said
afterward, to save his beauty, and Uncle Ike started toward that Indian,
dragging the hose, and shouting, “Take to the chaparral, condemn you, or
I will drown you out like a gopher!”
[Illustration: Take to the chaparral, condemn you 137]
For a moment there was an ominous silence. The Indians had withdrawn
behind the currant bushes, but Uncle Ike knew enough of Indian warfare
to know that the silence was only temporary. Suddenly there was a
blazing and crackling, and a big smoke from the back of the house, and
it seemed the redskins had set fire to the house, the hired girl yelled
fire and murder, and came out with a pail of water, while the chief
yelled “Charge!” and in a minute Uncle Ike was surrounded by the tribe,
his legs tied with the clothesline, though he fought with the garden
hose until there was not a dry rag on one of the boys or himself.
“Burn him at the stake!” shouted a little shrimp who carries papers
every afternoon, after school, as he wiped the red paint off his cheek
on to his bare arm, and shook water out of his trousers leg.
“No, let's hold him for a ransom,” said the redheaded boy. “Aunt Almira
will give us enough to buy a melon, and make us a pail of lemonade, if
we let this gray-haired old settler off without scalping him.”
“Chief, spare me, please,” said Uncle Ike, as he sat up in a puddle
of water on the battle ground, with his legs tied. “I am the mother of
eleven orphan children. O, spare me! and don't walk on that pipe of mine
on the grass there, with your moccasins. I will compromise this thing
myself, and pay the ransom. Here is a dollar. Go and buy melons, and we
will have a big feed right here. But what was the fire behind the house,
and is it put out?”
“The ransom is agreed to,” said the red-headed boy, as he took off his
string of feathers, and gave a yell, hitting his lips with the back
of his hand so it would “gargle,” “and the fire is out. We put some
kerosene on an empty beer case, that was all.” So Uncle Ike handed over
the dollar, and was released, while a boy who had washed his paint off
was sent to a grocery after a melon. Then they wiped the mud off Uncle
Ike, and all went upon the porch, a new pipe of peace was provided, and
they talked about the Wild West show of the night before, while Uncle
Ike did the most of the smoking of the pipe of peace, though he wiped
the stem once and handed it to the red-headed chief to take a whiff,
but the chief, after his experience with plug tobacco cholera a few days
before, declined with thanks.
“What interested you most at the show?” said Uncle Ike, puffing away, as
he sat on the floor of the porch, and leaned his back against one of
the posts. “When you go to a show you always want to get your mind on
something that makes an impression on you.”
“Well, sir,” said the boy who had worked the lasso on Uncle Ike, “the
way these Mexicans handled the lariat struck me the hardest, only they
look so darned lazy. They just wait for a horse to get in the right
place, and then pull up. I would like to see them chase something, and
catch it by the leg, that was trying to get away. But the Cossacks! O,
my! couldn't they ride, standing up, or dragging on the ground with one
foot in the stirrup. Gosh! if Russia turned about a million of those
Cossacks loose on China, they wouldn't do a thing to John Chinaman.”
“The Indians got me,” said another boy, as he took off a moccasin and
hung it up in the sun to dry, after his fight to the death with Uncle
Ike's waterworks. “I would like to be an Indian, or a squaw, and never
have anything to do but travel with a show, and yell. They just have a
soft snap, dressing up in feathers, and paint, and buckskin, and living
on the fat of the land, and yelling ki-yi! in a falsetto voice.”
“Oh, I don't know,” said the red-headed boy, “what struck me as the most
exciting was the battle of San Juan hill. Say, did you see our boys just
walk right up to the Spaniards, in the face of a perfect hailstorm of
blank cartridges, with a gatling gun stuttering smokeless powder, and
the boys in blue firing volleys, and the rough riders walking on foot,
and the Spaniards just falling back, and pretty soon we went right over
them, and down came the Spanish flag, and then the Stars and Stripes
went up, and there was where I yelled so the roof ripped. But what made
me cry was to see Old Glory and the British flag get together, every
little while, and float side by side, and seem to be grown together as
one flag, and everybody seemed glad. What you think about things, Uncle
Ike? Don't sit there and smoke up, all the time, but tell us what you
think about the American and British flags waving together so much
lately. Are you in favor of an alliance? Do you want to be an assistant
Englishman, Uncle Ike?”
“Well, I don't want to be quoted much on this business,” said Uncle Ike,
as he looked around at the boys, who were listening intently. “I have
watched the course of England and all the countries, for over, fifty
years, in their relations with this country, and the only friendship
England ever showed to us was in the last war. They did us good, no
doubt, and I trust I am grateful, as becomes a good citizen. It was like
a big boy and little boy fighting. The big boy can whip if he is not
interfered with, but a lot of boys are standing around, ready to mix in
to help the little fellow. They are ready to trip up the big fellow,
so the little one can jump on him, and they are getting ready to throw
stones at him, and kick him on the shins. Then a big bully that they are
all afraid to tackle, comes along and says: 'This little fellow picked
on the big fellow, and kept nagging him till he had to fight or run. Now
the little fool has got to take his medicine, and you fellows mustn't
mix in, or you got me to fight. Just keep hands off, that's all.' That's
all there was to it, but it came in mighty handy, and we appreciate it,
but there is too much grand stand play about an alliance. In other wars
with England, Germans and French and Poles have fought with us, and for
us, and yet we have never felt like having an alliance with them. Do you
ever take much stock in Russia, boys? Don't ever forget Russia. During
our war between the North and South, we were once in a tight place.
England and other countries were about to recognize the Southern
Confederacy, and England was doing everything possible to break us up,
furnishing privateers, and harboring confederate gunboats, and making it
warm for us. Boys, your Uncle Abraham Lincoln was perspiring a good
deal those days. They say he couldn't wear a collar, he sweat so. It
was believed that England and several other countries were going to
simultaneously recognize the Confederacy, and maybe turn in and fight
us. Warships from other countries were hovering around our southern
coast, and our soldiers were feeling pretty blue, the cabinet never
smiled, and nobody laughed out loud except Uncle Abe, and even his laugh
seemed to have a hollow, croupy sound. One day, when the strain was
the greatest, and everybody felt as though there was a funeral in the
family, and there were funerals in most families, a flock of warships
flying the flag of Russia, steamed by Sandy Hook, and up to New York,
saluted the forts and the Stars and Stripes all along up to the Battery.
It seemed as though those battleships never would stop coming. They
lined up all around New York, and their guns pointed toward the sea, and
every Russian on board acted as though he was loaded for bear. The news
went to Washington that night, and they say Uncle Abe had night sweats.
The next morning a Russian admiral, who had gone over to Washington on a
night train, called to pay his respects to the President, and presented
him with a document in the Russian language, which had to be interpreted
by the Russian minister. When it was interpreted they say old Abe danced
a highland fling, and hugged the Russians and danced all hands around.
That document has never been published, but it was to the effect that
the Russian fleet was at the disposal of the President of the United
States, to fight any country on the face of God's green earth that
attempted to mix in. See? It was not long before other nations
discovered that Russia had sent her fleet to stay, and every Russian on
every vessel acted as though he was spoiling for a fight, and seemed to
say to the world, 'Come on, condemn you!' And nobody ever came along to
fight. And Uncle Abe began to be in a laughing mood, and you know the
rest, if you have read up about the war. Nobody has ever suggested an
alliance with Russia, and yet we are under more obligations to that old
Czar than to anybody. In fact, we don't want an alliance with anybody.
We want the friendship of all. If I have any more love for one country
than another, I do not know which it is, only when I see a Russian, even
one of those Cossacks that rode so well, I feel like taking him by the
hand and telling him, when he goes home, to go up to the Winter palace
and give my love to the Czar, because I always have before me the
picture of that Russian fleet in New York harbor, when things were hot.
England has done a similar favor during this last war, and if we had
another war, and the newspapers would quit nagging him, you would find
the young emperor of Germany doing something for us equally as good. So,
boys, don't get stuck on one country, but give them all a chance to be
good to us.”
“Gosh, Uncle Ike, I never heard anything about that Russian fleet,” said
the red-headed boy. “England can go plum to thunder. I thought England
was the only country that was ever even polite to us.”
“Come on, boys, let's go and play Cossack,” said one of the Indians, and
they went rolling over the picket fence on their stomachs, leaving Uncle
Ike to go and put on some dry clothes.