Uncle Ike was out in the front yard in the early morning, in his shirt
sleeves, with no collar on, an old pair of rubber boots to keep the dew
from wetting his feet, and he was helping the Indian summer haze all he
could, by smoking the clay pipe and blowing the smoke up among the red
and yellow leaves of autumn, and as he kicked the beautiful leaves on
the lawn into piles he thought what foolish people they were who claimed
last week that winter had come, because it was a little chilly, when
he could have told them, by half a century's experience, that the most
beautiful part of the year was to come, the Indian summer, the lazy days
when you want to shoot snipe, and eat grapes, and have appendicitis.
The red-headed boy came out yawning, half awake, and raised his arms and
stretched until it seemed that he would break his back.
“You remind me of Indian summer,” said the old man, as he stepped on the
boy's bare foot with his soft rubber boot.
“Oh, I don't know,” said the boy, as he let out a secret school society
yell at some boys across the street, which brought them all over-into
the yard, as though there was a dog fight on. “Uncle Ike, you remind me
of Father Time, after he has been to a barber and got shaved, with your
smooth old laughing face. Why do I remind you of Indian summer?”
“Well, your red hair resembles the frosted leaf of the maple tree, your
brown freckles look like the dead and dying leaves of the oak, your
unwashed chalky face looks like the leaves of the ash, your sparkling
eyes like the dewy diamonds on the grass, and your sleepy look as you
just come from your bed makes me think of the hazy atmosphere that the
Indians loved so well. What all you boys around here for so early in the
morning, anyway, disturbing your Uncle Ike when he wants to think?” and
he grabbed half a dozen boys and piled them up in a heap on the grass,
and put one of his big rubber boots on the top one, and held them down,
squirming like a lot of angleworms in a tomato can.
[Illustration: Squirming like a lot of angleworms 185]
The red-headed boy took Uncle Ike by the suspenders and pulled him off
the boys, and then they all grabbed his legs and threw him down and sat
on him, breaking his pipe, and pulling off his rubber boots and making
him yell, “Enough!” before they would let him up, but he laughed and
spanked them with a leg of a rubber boot, and finally they all sat down
on the porch, panting, and Uncle Ike was the youngest boy in the gang,
apparently.
“Come to order,” said the red-headed boy, and every boy took off his
hat, and braced back against the side of the house, and Uncle Ike looked
on, wondering what was coming next. “We have met, gentlemen,” said the
red-headed boy, “to make arrangements to nominate Dewey for President.
We have watched the manner in which the people have received him at New
York and Washington; have noticed his modesty and level-headedness, and
us boys, Uncle Ike, have decided that Dewey shall be the next President.
If any person has got anything to say why he should not be President,
let him speak now, or forever after hold his peace. It is up to you,
Uncle Ike, and this assemblage would like to hear a few casual remarks
from you, before breakfast, on this subject. Now, boys, hurrah for Uncle
Ike, the jolliest old scrapper in the business. Now, give the yell, 'Who
are we! who are we! we are the kids for old Dewe-e--siz! boom! yah!'”
and the boys yelled until Uncle Ike had to respond.
“Well, you condum heathen can settle more public questions here on this
porch than all the political parties,” said the old man, as he fixed a
broken suspender with a nail, and came up to the boys with one rubber
boot in his hand, and reached for a new pipe on the window sill, loaded
it, and lit it for a talk. “You ought to have better sense than to think
of Dewey placing himself in the hands of the politicians, and going into
politics, where he will have to be cat-hauled by all the disreputable
critters in the country. Look at Grant! When he got out of the war he
was just like Dewey, and would be alive today if he had not got into the
hands of the politicians. Dewey can sit down in Washington as he is,
and have more power for good than any President, and he will be proud of
himself and his country. If he went into politics he would be betrayed,
and made responsible for all the stealing and mistakes of those under
him, and in a little while he would hate himself, and would like to get
all the politicians into a Spanish ship and turn the Olympia loose on
them.”
“Yes, but nobody could say anything against Dewey,” said the red-headed
boy, interrupting Uncle Ike. “All he would have to do would be to
appoint a cabinet of admirals, and give all the other offices to the
midshipmen and jackies, and send army officers abroad as ministers and
things. The people would lynch a man that said anything against Dewey.”
“They couldn't say anything against, him, could they?” said Uncle Ike,
pulling on the rubber boot. “Well, you are an amateur in politics. Do
you know what they would do if Dewey were nominated? They would prove
that he murdered a man in Vermont in 1852, in cold blood, and produce
the corpse. They would swear that he was the inventor of the wooden
nutmeg, and that he had six wives living, and that he was in cahoots
with Aguinaldo, and that he didn't sink the Spanish fleet, but that it
got waterlogged and went down without a shot being fired. They would
claim that he was the originator of the process of boiling maple roots
and putting the juice into glucose, and selling it for pure Vermont
maple syrup. They would claim that the reception he received at the
hands of the American people was a put-up job; that he paid all the
expenses himself, out of money he stole from the government, and that
all the cheering was done by hired claquers, who were all promised an
office when he was elected. And then if he was elected, every man that
knew him before he went to Manila would claim to have been the making of
him, and want to be in the cabinet, and every man that has shook hands
with him since, would expect the best office at his disposal, and if
they didn't get the offices they would prove that he was responsible
for the embalmed beef scandal, and that he was in partnership with Capt.
Carter in robbing the government, and ought to be in jail. Oh, you can't
tell me anything about politics, and if I could see Dewey I would tell
him to say nothing but 'nixy' to every proposition to mix him up.
Now, all you boys come in to breakfast,” and the old man tossed the boys
toward the dining room door as though they were footballs.
“Well, Uncle Ike, you have punctured our tire again. Every time we get
a scheme to save the country, you come in with your condumed talky-talk,
and throw us in the air. Guess you will have to take the nomination
yourself, and run on a platform of seven words, 'Here's to the boys,
God bless 'em,'” and the red-headed boy got under Uncle Ike's arm, and
the gang went in to breakfast, Uncle Ike trying to argue against being
nominated, and having to go to the White House with a lot of tough boys
making life a burden to him, when he would have to get married, for no
President is a success as a bachelor, as Cleveland found out. As Uncle
Ike got the boys all around the table, he bent his head and reverently
asked a blessing--something he had never done before in the presence of
the red-headed boy, and when the meal was over and the boys had all
gone away, except the warm-haired one, and Uncle Ike had begun to smoke
again, the boy said to him:
“Uncle Ike, I did not know that you belonged to any church.”
“Well, I don't,” said Uncle Ike, as he got up and looked out of the
window, and blew smoke at a fly that was buzzing on the glass.
“Then how could you ask a blessing, and expect that it will be heard? I
supposed a person had to be initiated in a church, and be sworn in, and
given the password, and take the degrees, before he was ordained to ask
a blessing,” said the boy.
“No, that is not necessary,” the old man said. “Now, you haven't got
much religion, and never jined, but you give thanks to the Lord quite
often. When you are happy, and enjoying yourself, and smile and
laugh, you are unconsciously thanking the Ruler for making things so
comfortable. All pleasure is made possible by a higher power, and all
you got to do is to feel grateful, same as you would to me if I gave you
a dollar, and there you are. You just be square, and do business on the
golden rule plan, and you have got a heap more religion than some people
who are Matting about all the time. I just thought I would paralyze you
kids by showing you that I was all wool, and wanted the Lord to keep tab
on us, and know that we appreciated good health, and all that. Now, you
go to school, and don't say anything to that blue-eyed teacher of yours
that you have nominated me for President. I don't want to get girls
after me, thinking they will be mistress of the White House,” and the
old man took his gun and went down into the marsh looking for snipe.