The following has a perennial freshness, although I have heard it a number of times:
“When Olympia was a struggling village and much in need of a church, this portly, industrious man of many talents took upon himself the not overly pleasant task of raising subscriptions for the enterprise, and in his rounds called on Mr. Crosby, owner of the sawmill at Tumwater, and asked how much lumber he would contribute to the church. Mr. Crosby eyed the ‘cloth’ a moment and sarcastically replied, ‘As much as you, sir, will raft and take away between this and sundown.’ ‘Show me the pile!’ was the unexpected rejoinder. Then laying off his coat and beaver tile he waded in with an alacrity that fairly made Mr. Crosby’s hair bristle. All day, without stopping a moment, even for dinner, his tall, stalwart form bent under large loads of shingles, sheeting, siding, scantling, studding and lath, and even large sills and plates were rolled and tumbled into the bay with the agility of a giant, and before sundown Mr. Crosby had the proud satisfaction of seeing the ‘cloth’ triumphantly poling a raft toward Olympia containing lumber enough for a handsome church and a splendid parsonage besides.
“Mr. Crosby was heard to say a few days afterward that no ten men in his employ could, or would, have done that day’s work. Meeting the divine shortly afterwards, Mr. Crosby said, ‘Well, parson, you can handle more lumber between sunrise and dark than any man I ever saw.’
“‘Oh,’ said the parson, ‘I was working that day for my Maker.’
“Moral: Never trust pioneer preachers with your lumber pile, simply because they wear broadcloth coats, for most of them know how to take them off, and then they can work as well as pray.”
This conjuror with the pen has called up another well known personality of the earliest times in the following sketch and anecdote:
“Dr. Maynard was of medium size. He had blue eyes, a square forehead, a strong face and straight black hair, when worn short, but when worn long, as it was when whitened by the snows of many winters, it was quite curly and fell in ringlets over his shoulders. Add to this description, a long, gray beard, and you will see him as he appeared on our streets when on his last legs. When ‘half seas over,’ he overflowed with generous impulses, would give away anything within reach and was full of extravagant promises, many of which were out of his power to fulfill. He once owned Alki Point and sometimes would move there in order to ‘reform,’ but seldom remained longer than a month or six weeks. Alki Point was covered with huge logs and stumps, excepting a little cleared ground near the bay where the house stood. But when the doctor saw it through his telescopic wine-glasses it was transformed into a beautiful farm with broad meadows covered with lowing herds and prancing steeds whose ‘necks were clothed with thunder.’
“One day, in the fall of 1860, while viewing his farm through his favorite glasses, David Stanley, the venerable Salmon Bay hermit, happened along, when Maynard gave him a glowing description of his Alki Point farm as he himself beheld it just then, and wound up by proposing to take the old man in partnership, and offered him half of the fruit and farm stock for simply looking after it and keeping the fences in repair. The temptation to gain sudden riches was too much for even his unworldliness of mind, and he made no delay in embarking for Alki Point with all his worldly effects. His object in living alone, was, he said, to comply with the injunction to keep one’s self ‘unspotted from the world,’ but the doctor assured him that the change would not seriously interfere with his meditations, inasmuch as few people landed at Alki Point, notwithstanding its many attractions.
“The day of his departure for the Mecca of all his earthly hopes turned out very stormy. It was after dark before he reached the point, and on trying to land his boat filled with water. He lost many of his fowls and came near losing his life in the boiling surf. After getting himself and his ‘traps’ ashore, he built a fire, dried his blankets, fried some bacon, ate a hearty supper and turned in.
“The excitement of the day, however, prevented sleep, and he got up and sat by the fire till morning. As soon as it was light he strolled out to look at the stock, but to his surprise, only a bewildering maze of logs and interminable stumps were to be seen where he expected to behold broad fields and green pastures. The only thing he could find resembling stock were—to use his own language—‘an old white horse, stiff in all his joints and blind in one eye, and a little, runty, scrubby, ornery, steer calf.’ After wandering about over and under logs till noon, he concluded he had missed the doctor’s farm, and returned to the beach with the intention of pulling further around, but seeing some men in a boat a short distance from shore, he hailed it and inquired for Dr. Maynard’s farm. Charley Plummer was one of the party and he told the old man that he had the honor of being already upon it. Stanley explained his object in being there, and after a fit of rib-breaking laughter, Mr. Plummer advised him to return to Salmon Bay as soon as possible, which he did the very next day.
“The old man had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and joined heartily in the laugh, saying he had been taken in a great many times in his life, but never in so laughable manner as on this occasion. A few days afterward as Charley Plummer was sitting in Dr. Maynard’s office the hermit put in an appearance. ‘Good afternoon, doctor,’ said he, with an air of profound respect. ‘Why, how do you do, Uncle Stanley, glad to see you—how does the poultry ranch prosper? By the way, have you moved to Alki Point yet?’ ‘O, yes, I took my traps, poultry and all, over there several days ago, and had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Plummer there. Did he mention the circumstances?’ ‘No,’ said the doctor, ‘he just came in. How did you find things?’
“‘To tell the truth, doctor, I couldn’t rest until I could see you and thank you from the bottom of my heart for the inestimable blessing you have conferred upon me.’
“At this demonstration of satisfaction uttered with an air of profound gratitude, the doctor leaned back complacently in his easy chair, while an expression of benignant self-approval illuminated his benevolent face.
“‘Yes,’ continued he, ‘I can never be sufficiently grateful for the benefit your generosity has already been to me individually, besides it bids fair to prove a signal triumph for religion and morality, and it may turn out to be a priceless contribution to science.’
“At the utterance of this unexpected ‘rhapsody’ the doctor turned with unalloyed delight, and seeing that the old man hesitated, he encouraged him by saying, ‘Go on, Uncle, go right along and tell all about it, although I can’t understand exactly how it can prove a triumph for religion or science.’
“‘Well,’ continued the old man with solemn countenance, ‘my orthodoxy has been a little shaky of late, in fact I have seriously doubted the heavenly origin of various forms of inspiration, but when I got to Alki Point and looked around my skepticism fell from my eyes as did the scales from the eyes of Saul of old.’
“‘Yes,’ interrupted the doctor, ‘the scenery over there is really grand and I have often felt devotional myself while contemplating the grand mountain scenery——’
“‘Scenery? Well—yes, I suppose there is some scenery scattered around over there, but it isn’t that.’
“‘No, well what was it, uncle?’
“‘Why, sir, as I was saying, when I get a chance to fairly look around I was thoroughly satisfied that nothing but a miracle, in fact, nothing short of the ingenuity and power of the Almighty could possibly have piled up so many logs and stumps to the acre as I found on your farm.’
“Here the doctor’s face perceptibly lengthened and a very dry laugh, a sort of hysterical cross between a chuckle and a suppressed oath, escaped him, but before he had time to speak the old man went on:
“‘So much for the triumph of religion, but science, sir, will be under much weightier obligations to us when you and I succeed in making an honest living from the progeny of an old blind horse and a little, miserable runty steer calf.’
“This was too much for the doctor and springing to his feet he fairly shouted, ‘There, there, old man, not another word! come right along and I will stand treat for the whole town and we will never mention Alki Point again.’
“‘No, thank you,’ said the hermit, dryly, ‘I never indulge, and since you have been the means of my conversion you ought to be the last man in the world to lead me into temptation, besides our income from the blind horse and runty steer calf will hardly justify such extravagance.’
“Hat and cane in hand he got as far as the door, when Maynard called to him saying, ‘Look here, old man, I hope you’re not offended, and if you will say nothing about this little matter, I’ll doctor you the rest of your life for nothing.’
“After scratching his head a moment the hermit looked up and naively answered, ‘No, I’m not mad, only astonished, and as for your free medicine, if it is all as bitter as the free dose you have just given me, I don’t want any more of it,’ and he bowed himself out and was soon lost to the doctor’s longing gaze. With eyes still fixed on the door he exclaimed, ‘Blast my head if I thought the old crackling had so much dry humor in him. Come, Charley, let’s have something to brave our nerves.’”
Among the unfortunate victims of the drink habit in an early day was poor old Tom Jones. Nature had endowed him with a splendid physique, but he wrecked himself, traveling downward, until he barely lived from hand to mouth. He made a house on the old Conkling place, up the bay toward the Duwampsh River, his tarrying place. Having been absent from his customary haunts for a considerable time, it was reported that he was dead. In the village of Seattle, some marauder had been robbing henroosts and Tom Jones was accused of being the guilty party. Grandfather John Denny told one of his characteristic stories about being awakened by a great commotion in his henhouse, the lusty cocks crowing “Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead! Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead!” rejoicing greatly that they were henceforth safe.
D. T. Denny gathered up seven men and went to investigate the truth of the report of his demise. They found him rolled up in his blankets, in his bunk, not dead but helplessly sick. When they told him what they had come for—to hold an inquest over his dead body, the tears rolled down his withered face. They had him moved nearer town and cared for, but he finally went the way of all the earth.
Another of the army of the wretched was having an attack of the “devil’s trimmings,” as Grandfather John Denny called them, in front of a saloon one day and a group stood around waiting for him to “come to”; upon his showing signs of returning consciousness, all but one filed into the saloon to get a nerve bracer. D. T. Denny, who relates the incident, turned away, he being the only temperance man in the group.