A copy of the paper binding Alfred to George Washington Palmer is on
record in the county courthouse at Leesburg, Loudoun County, Virginia.
Grandfather argued that if his brother, the judge, could accumulate
farms and town property and raise himself to the dignity of a judge,
Alfred certainly should do equally as well.
It was not many days before Alfred's duties would take him away from
home and he began a round of visits to bid all good-bye.
[Illustration: The Taffy Pulling]
Cousin Mary Craft gave a cotillion party in the country. Cousins Hester
and Martha gave a party in town. Frank Long gave a taffy pulling. The
hot plates of taffy were placed outside the kitchen door on the brick
walk to cool before the taffy was pulled. Archibald Long, Frank's
father, not knowing of the taffy's location, walked out of the house in
his stocking feet, as was his custom ere he retired. In the darkness he
planted one foot, then the other, in a plate of the hot taffy. This
caused him to jump several feet in the air. He started to run. At each
step his feet found another taffy plate. Gobs of the hot stuff sticking
to his feet, pressing up between his toes, the old man introduced a
dance--a high kicking dance that would have won him fame and fortune on
the stage. The hot gobs of taffy clinging to his expansive, woolen
sock-encased feet caused him such intense pain, the old man endeavored
to introduce a new stunt, namely, to throw both feet in the air at the
same time.
All the boys and girls ran from the dining room at the first sound of
the yells of the old man. The lamps within enlightened the weird scene
without.
When both feet were flung in the air simultaneously the old man sat down
suddenly. He sat on the largest plate, with the hottest gob of taffy in
the collection. His seat had barely touched the plate, the taffy had
scarcely squashed through his jeans pants, until he made an effort to
rise again. Failing in this he flopped on his stomach, clutching and
tearing at his seat of latest misery, taffy stringing from his fingers.
Rearing his rear end high in the taffy laden air he planted his head in
another plate of taffy which, was still tenderly clinging to the few
straggling hairs on the old man's pate, as they carried him into the
house, the taffy plate on his head like the crown of the old king.
Gradually dangling, it descended to the floor, only to be trampled in
the dust by the rabble.
The old man was put to bed. Poultices of apple butter, sweet-oil and a
whitish-bluish clay dug from the bottom of the spring were applied to
his blistered parts.
The taffy pulling party, the scene of gayety so suddenly transformed to
one of suffering, lives in the memory of Alfred by the recollection of
long threads of amber colored taffy shimmering in the soft moonlight as
they clung to the plum tree branches where the old man's vigorous kicks
had landed them.
It was maple sugar making time. Uncle Jacob Irons, who lived near
Masontown fifteen miles away, had a large sugar grove. A visit to Uncle
Jake's was always one continued round of pleasure. The staid uncle,
jolly Aunt Bettie, Kate and Tillie, Joe and George, John and Wilson,
were always delighted to have Alfred visit them.
It was a day that marked the passing of winter and the coming of spring,
after a night of light freezing with a white frost, the morning sun
shining all the brighter that he had been hazed so long by winter's
shadows. The earth, the trees, appeared even more brown and barren by
contrast with the splendors of the sky. Here and there a patch of snow,
left sheltered by tree or fence, seemingly endeavoring to hide from the
sunbeams that came out of the south, to pour its flood of warmth on it
until it melted and mouldered away.
It was springtime, the boyhood of the year, when half the world is rhyme
and music is the other. It was springtime in the country, far from the
city and the ways of men. The mountains in the distance, brown colored
in spots, the peaks, like winter kings with beards of snow, seemed to
say: "'Tis time for me to go northward o'er the icy rocks, northward
o'er the sea. Come the spring with all its splendor, all its buds and
all its blossoms, all its flowers and all its grasses."
It was a day that awakened feelings that seemed sacred. Have you ever
lived in the country? Have you ever visited in the country in
springtime? Have you ever asked yourself: "I wonder if the sap in the
sugar trees is stirring yet? Is the sugar water dripping?" Have you ever
worked in a sugar camp, such as there were in old Fayette County in
those days?
Nearer the south than bleak New England, the trees more full of sap, the
sap sweeter than it flows anywhere on earth. The trees in the camp
tapped, the spiles driven, the sweet water dropping; the boys and girls,
the men, yes, the women too, gathering the sap. The day is warm, the run
a big one; to save it, all must hustle the big barrels loaded on the
sleds as the horses move from one tree to another, turning over the
mosses and dried leaves, exposing the Johnny-jump-ups and violets as if
they were just peeping up through the ground at the busy scene.
The redbird is singing in the tree, his plumage all the brighter for the
winter's bleaching. The day is not long enough, the night is consumed.
The boys from all the country about gather at the camp. The moon was a
book and every star a word that read fun and frolic to the jolly crowd
at the camp at Uncle Jake's that night.
Alfred sang songs, and told jokes.
They had sugared off, made a big kettle of sugar. Some dipped big
spoonfuls of the thickened syrup from the kettle, and poured it slowly
into tin cups filled with ice cold water. As it cooled the large lump of
wax was pulled out of the water with the fingers. Some, with buttered
hands, worked the wax until they had whitish taffy, others filled their
mouths with the wax as it came from the water.
The writer will engage to cure any case of stomach trouble that ever
worried man or woman with this maple wax.
The night wore on, the fun flagged. Ben Paul, a husky country boy,
proposed that two or three go to Nick Yonse's still house and procure a
little "licker." Cousin Wilson frowned upon this proposal but as the
boys were his guests he did not further protest. It was impossible to
awaken anyone to get the matured article from the distillery; therefore,
with the aid of a clothesline fastened to a jug which Ben lowered into a
vat filled with corn juice distilled the day previous, a supply was
secured. Ben returned to the camp. He was truthful when he explained
that the offering he brought was no old stale stuff such as they were
accustomed to, but something new and fresh.
Its newness did not deter the boys from helping themselves to big swigs
from the jug, smoothing out their wry faces with draughts of sugar
water. Cousin Wilson refused to participate as he busied himself with
his work. The sight of a tin cup made Alfred fearful that he would spill
his sugar. He also declined. After the custom that had prevailed in the
tavern cellar, the tin cup went round and round, the result was the same
or nearly so as at the tavern. Some sang, others danced, one or two
slept, some wanted to fight. Alfred attempted to pour melody on the
troubled revellers but the only effect of his song was to encourage Ben
Paul to knock the bottom out of a new tin pail endeavoring to keep time
to the song as he had seen Alfred do with the tambourine.
Cousin John, unnoticed by Cousin Wilson, was chief among those who
passed the tin cup around. John was of a friendly disposition and, not
to be rude to his guests, sent the cup around often. Several of the boys
retired into the shadows of the trees just beyond the glare of the
furnace fire to regret their mixing corn and sugar.
[Illustration: The Night at the Sugar Camp]
Wilson plainly informed John that this thing had gone far enough. It was
John's idea of courtesy, or rather his confused notion, that a host's
guests should be permitted to conduct themselves as best suited their
pleasure. Several of them wanted to fight. John said, "All right, let
them fight." Wilson interfered.
John stepped out of the circle and invited any one or all present to
come out. "Any of you excepting Alfred, he's all right. I can lick any
of you with one hand tied behind my back," and John spat on both hands.
"Come out yer," he pleadingly invited Wilson, "or anyone excepting
Alfred."
John, when he invited any or all of the others out, had evidently
forgotten his courtesy to his guests or probably he desired to further
increase their pleasure. Perhaps that was the way he reasoned it, as
several had declared they would rather fight than eat. John did not wish
them to go home feeling they had missed anything.
As a last request, John just pleaded with Wilson to step out. He seemed
more anxious to have Wilson tackle him than any other. As a last
declaration of what he wouldn't sacrifice to have Wilson step out, he
concluded as he slapped his hands together: "Step out, ole feller, just
step out yer. Will you? I'll fight you anyway, I'll fight you now. Come
on; I don't care a dam if I have my Sunday pants on, I'll fight you
anyhow."
The shouts of the boys could be heard re-echoing up and down the hollows
as they wended their ways homeward. The moon had gone down, the night
was darkened; it was nearly dawn. The fire had gone down in the furnace,
the steam ceased to rise from the kettles, the hoot of the old night
owl, after the scenes of the night, made it seem even more quiet.
How to get John into the house that Uncle Jake and the family, might not
be awakened, concerned both Alfred and Wilson. To Alfred was delegated
the task of conducting John home. John led quietly until a shout of
laughter from those bringing up the rear was heard which he chose to
construe as derision directed at him, and then he balked. Alfred would
get him quieted and thus they finally reached the house.
Here John balked again. Alfred and Wilson were both over sensitive. If
the folks discovered John's condition it would reflect upon them. Alfred
greatly feared that Mrs. Young and Uncle Jake would blame him for John's
downfall. They had about made up their minds to carry John to the barn
and stow him away in the hay mow but it had turned uncomfortably cool
and this plan was abandoned. Alfred opened the door leading to the
stairs, partly pulling and pushing him upstairs. He landed John in the
room, where he fell over on the bed.
John muttered and mumbled, flapping and flinging his arms wildly about
his head--he arose to a sitting posture. Alfred endeavored to lay him
down. His face and head were covered with cold perspiration. Alfred knew
the symptoms of the distressing effects that follow the circulation of a
tin cup. He hustled John out of bed. John floundered away from him in
the darkness, and found his way into an unused room. Alfred could hear
him but could not locate him. Groping his way in the darkness Alfred
kept calling in a muffled voice: "John, John, John, where are you? Come
to me."
Just then the house seemed to shake from roof to cellar as John and his
two hundred pounds fell over Uncle Jake's home-made sausage stuffer. The
stuffer was ten feet long. Stuffer and John carried a big rocking chair,
a tin boiler and several other reverberating pieces of household junk
with them.
Ere Alfred could rescue John from the mass of ruins under and on which
he was piled, John began to realize how difficult it is to retain what
you have no matter how strongly you desire to do so. Alfred had to get
out of hearing of John's sufferings to suppress his feeling. He felt
very deeply for John from the very bottom of his stomach; in fact, the
bottom of his stomach seemed disposed to come up. He endeavored to
divert his thoughts but they went back to a tin cup, a wheel-barrow,
cow's ears and other things.
Uncle Jake came out of his room. "What's the matter, what's up? You boys
trying to tear down the house? What's the trouble anyway?"
"Oh, John's drunk too much syrup and it's made him deathly sick," Alfred
began to explain. Uncle Jake interrupted him, saying, as he backed into
the room and closed the door: "Oh, I thought Sammy Steele's mule had
kicked some of you."
The wings of fame fly slowly, reputation travels faster. It is said that
remorse is the echo of a lost virtue. Alfred felt that remorse of
conscience that can come only to one who has fallen and lived on in the
happy illusions that no one heard him drop.
Governor Tener, Doctor Van Voorhis, Mr. Daly and others of John's
friends will no doubt be surprised at this leaf in his life. In all the
years that John and Alfred have lived since, neither has ever forgotten
his first experience with a tin cup that was loaded.