SOME NEW IDEAS.
"Did you ever kill a chicken?" asked Uncle Ike, as Quincy entered the room and took a seat in the willow rocker Uncle Ike pointed out to him.
"No," replied Quincy, "but out in Chicago I saw live hogs killed, bristles taken off, cut up, assorted according to kind and quality, and hung up to cool off, in three minutes."
Uncle Ike responded vehemently, "Yes, I know, and it is a shame to the American people that they allow such things."
"That may be true," said Quincy, "but even at that speed they cannot kill and pack as fast as it is wanted."
"Yes," said Uncle Ike, "in the old days man feared God, and he treated man and beast better for that reason. In these days man serves Mammon and he will do anything to win his favor."
"Do you think it is true that men were better in the old days?" asked Quincy.
"No," answered Uncle Ike, "I didn't say so. I said that in the old days man was afraid to do these things; now if he has money he is afraid of neither God, man, nor the devil. To speak frankly, that is why I am so independent myself. I am sure of enough to support me as long as I live; I owe no man anything, and I allow no man to owe me anything."
Quincy, changing the subject, inquired, "What is your method of killing chickens?"
Uncle Ike said, "Let me tell you why I devised a new plan. When I was about eight years old I went with my mother to visit an uncle in a neighboring town. I was born in Eastborough myself, in the old Pettengill house. But this happened some twenty miles from here. My uncle was chopping wood, and boy like, I went out to watch him. An old rooster kept running around the block, flapping its wings, making considerable noise. Uncle shooed him off three or four times. Finally uncle made a grab at him, caught him by the legs, whacked him down on the block and with his axe cut off his head close to his body, and then threw it out on the grass right in front of me. Was that rooster dead? I thought not. It got up on its legs, ran right towards where I was sitting, and before I could get away I was covered with the blood that came from its neck. I don't know how far the rooster ran, but I know I never stopped until I was safe in my mother's arms. The balance of the time I stayed there you couldn't get me within forty yards of my uncle, for every time I met him I could see myself running around without my head."
"That made a lasting impression on you," remarked Quincy.
"Yes," said Uncle Ike, "it has lasted me sixty-eight years, one month, and thirteen days," pointing to a calendar that hung on the wall.
As Quincy looked in the direction indicated he saw something hanging beside it that attracted his attention.
It was a sheet of white paper with a heavy black border. Within the border were written these words, "Sacred to the memory of Isaac Pettengill, who was killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 4th, 1863, aged twenty-nine years. He died for his namesake and his native land."
Quincy said interrogatively, "Did you lose a son in the war?"
"No," was the reply. "I never had a son. That was my substitute."
"Strange that your substitute should have the same name as yourself."
"Yes, it would have been if he had, but he didn't. His right name was Lemuel Butters. But I didn't propose to put my money into such a name as that."
"Were you drafted?" asked Quincy.
"No," said Uncle Ike. "I might as well tell you the whole story, for you seem bound to have it. I came down here in 1850, when I was about sixty. Of course I knew what was going on, but I didn't take much interest in the war, till a lot of soldiers went by one day. They stopped here; we had a talk, and they told me a number of things that I hadn't seen in the papers. I haven't read the daily papers for thirteen years, but I take some weeklies and the magazines and buy some books. Well, the next day I went over to Eastborough Centre and asked the selectmen how much it would cost to send a man to the war. They said substitutes were bringing $150 just then, but that I was over age and couldn't be drafted, and there was no need of my sending anybody. I remarked that in my opinion a man's patriotism ought not to die out as long as he lived. It seemed to me that if a man had $150 it was his duty to pay for a substitute, if he was a hundred. The selectmen said that they had a young fellow named Lem Butters who was willing to go if he got a hundred and fifty. So I planked down the money, but with the understanding that he should take my name. Well, to make a long story short, I got killed at Gettysburg and I wrote that out as a reminder."
"Don't you ever get lonesome alone here by yourself?" Quincy asked.
"Yes," said Uncle Ike. "I am lonesome every minute of the time. That's what I came down here for. I got tired being lonesome with other people around me, so I thought I would come down here and be lonesome all by myself, and I have never been sorry I came."
Quincy opened his eyes and looked inquiringly at Uncle Ike.
"I don't quite understand what you mean by being lonesome with other people around you," said he.
"No, of course you don't," replied Uncle Ike. "You are too young. I was sixty. I was thirty-five when I got married and my wife was only twenty-two, so when I was sixty she was only forty-seven. One girl was twenty-three and the other twenty. I went to work at seven o'clock in the morning and got home at seven at night. My wife and daughters went to theatres, dinners, and parties, and of course I stayed at home and kept house with the servant girl. In my business I had taken in two young fellows as partners, both good, honest men, but soon they got to figuring that on business points they were two and I was one, and pretty soon all I had to do was to put wood on the fire and feed the office cat. So you can see I was pretty lonesome about eighteen hours out of the twenty-four."
Quincy said reflectively, "And your family—"
Uncle Ike broke in, "Are alive and well, I suppose. They don't write me and I don't write them. I told my partners they must buy me out, and I gave them sixty days to do it in. I gave my wife and daughters two-thirds of my fortune and put the other third into an annuity. I am calculating now that if my health holds good I shall beat the insurance company in the end."
Quincy, finding that his inquiries provoked such interesting replies, risked another, "Are your daughters married?"
Uncle Ike laughed quietly. "I don't read the daily papers as I said, so I don't know, but they wouldn't send me cards anyway. They know my ideas of marriage."
Quincy, smiling, asked, "Have you some new ideas on that old custom?"
"Yes, I have," replied Uncle Ike. "If two men go into business and each puts in money and they make money or don't make it, the law doesn't fix it so that they must keep together for their natural lives, but allows the firm to be dissolved by mutual consent."
"Why, sir, that would make marriage a limited partnership," said Quincy with a smile.
"What better is it now?" asked Uncle Ike. "The law doesn't compel couples to live together if they don't want to, and if they don't want to live together, why not let them, under proper restrictions, get up some new firms? Of course, there wouldn't be any objection to parties living together for their natural lives, if they wanted to, and the fact that they did would be pretty good proof that they wanted to."
Quincy started to speak, "But what—"
"I know what you were going to say," said Uncle Ike. "You are going to ask that tiresome old question, what will become of the children? Well, I should consider them part of the property on hand and divide them and the money according to law."
"But few mothers would consent to be parted from their children."
"Oh, that's nonsense," replied Uncle Ike. "I have a Massachusetts State Report here that says about five hundred children every year are abandoned by their mothers for some cause or other. They leave them on doorsteps and in railroad stations; they put them out to board and don't pay their board; and the report says that every one of these little waifs is adopted by good people, and they get a better education and a better bringing up than their own parents could or would give them. Have you ever read, Mr. Sawyer, of the Austrian baron who was crossed in love and decided he would never marry?"
Quincy shook his head.
"Well, he was wealthy and had a big castle, with no one to live in it, and during his life he adopted, educated, clothed, and sent out into the world, fitted to make their own living, more than a thousand children. To my mind, Mr. Sawyer, he was a bigger man than any emperor or king who has ever lived."
Quincy asked, "But how are you going to start such a reform, Mr. Pettengill? The first couple that got reunited on the partnership plan would be the laughing stock of the community."
"Just so," said Uncle Ike, "but I can get over that difficulty. The State of Massachusetts has led in a great many social reforms. Let it take the first step forward in this one; let it declare by law that all marriages on and after a certain day shall terminate five years from the date of marriage unless the couples wish to renew the bonds. Then let everybody laugh at everybody else if they want to."
"Well, how about those couples that were married before that day?"
"That's easy," was Uncle Ike's reply. "Give them all a chance five years after the law to dissolve by mutual consent, if they want to. Don't forget, Mr. Sawyer, that with such a law there would be no need of divorce courts, and if any man insulted a woman, imprisonment for life and even the gallows wouldn't be any too good for him. Will you stay to lunch, Mr. Sawyer? My chicken is about done."
Quincy arose and politely declined the invitation, saying he had been so much interested he had remained much longer than he had intended, but he would be pleased to call again some day if Mr. Pettengill were willing.
"Oh, yes, come any time," said Uncle Ike, "you're a good listener, and I always like a man that allows me to do most of the talking. By the way, we didn't get a chance to say much this time about shooting, fishing, or football."
Quincy went down the steps, and Uncle Ike stood at the door, as he did before he entered. Swiss looked at Quincy with an expression that seemed to say, "You have made a pretty long call." Quincy patted him on the head, called him "good dog," and walked briskly down the path towards the road. When he was about fifty feet from the house, Uncle Ike called out sharply, "Mr. Sawyer!" Quincy turned on his heel quickly and looked towards the speaker. Uncle Ike's voice, still sharp, spoke these farewell words:
"I forgot to tell you, Mr. Sawyer, that I always chloroform my chickens before I cut their heads off."
He stepped back into the house. Swiss, with a bound, was in the room beside him, and when Quincy again turned his steps towards the road the closed door had shut them both from view.