Appealing for a night’s lodging at the home of a retired farmer, the field worker was fortunate enough to be received. As the hostess was showing her to a room, she asked tentatively, “You have lived in B—— a long time?” “About sixty-five years,” was the pleasant reply. “So, then, you know something of most of the old families?” “There are not many old residents of B—— with whose history I am not familiar.” Then followed a few cautious questions in regard to the Kallikak family which drew forth answers that soon convinced the field worker she was on solid ground and could advance without wasting time in needless precautions. At this juncture, the supper bell rang. In the dining room the acquaintance of the host was made. When the meal was over, the couple turned their united attention to the problem put before them. “Why,” the host began, when he comprehended what was wanted, “do you know that is the worst nest you’re getting into, in the whole country? The mountains back here are full of these people; I can point out to you where every one of them lives.” Then he turned to the table and began to sketch a map of the mountain roads which must be followed next day. In the midst of this he paused, as though an idea had come to him, then he said hesitatingly, “You see, it’s really impossible for a stranger like you to find all these people. Some of them live on obscure back roads that you could hardly get at without a guide. Now, my time is of no value, and if you will permit me, I will gladly serve in that capacity myself.” Needless to say, his services were thankfully accepted, with the result that nearly two hundred persons were added to Deborah’s family chart.
This proved, however, only the beginning of the study that has been made of the family in the vicinity of B——. Numerous visits to many homes, always from the center of the genial couple’s house, have made the field worker such a well-known figure among these people, that they long ago forgot what little surprise they may have felt at her first visit. “You’re one of the family?” was frequently asked her at the beginning. “No, not really, only as I know so many of your cousins and aunts and uncles, I thought, since I was in B——, I would like to know you.” This usually sufficed, but if it did not, the field worker was able so to inundate the questioner with information about his own relatives, that before she was through, he had forgotten that anything remained unanswered. The relation once established, no further explanation was necessary. She was able to go in and out among them, study their mentality, awake their reminiscences, until finally the whole story was told.
Besides members of the family, numerous old people were here and there discovered who were able to add materially to the information otherwise obtained. One shrewd old farmer who was found tottering in from the field proved to be of especial service in determining the mental status of Martin Kallikak Jr. In introducing herself, the field worker had spoken of her interest in Revolutionary times and of having come to him because she had been told that he was well informed as to the history of the locality. “Yes,” he said, with excusable pride, as he led the way to the kitchen steps descending into the garden, “not much has happened in this place for the last seventy years in which I have not taken an active part. Do you see that tree there?” and he pointed to a fine maple that threw its luxuriant shade over the path that led to the barn. “The day my wife and I came here sixty years ago, we planted that tree. It was a little sapling then, and see what it has become!” After much more talk she cautiously put the question, “Do you remember an old man, Martin Kallikak, who lived on the mountain edge yonder?” “Do I?” he answered. “Well, I guess! Nobody’d forget him. Simple,” he went on; “not quite right here,” tapping his head, “but inoffensive and kind. All the family was that. Old Moll, simple as she was, would do anything for a neighbor. She finally died—burned to death in the chimney corner. She had come in drunk and sat down there. Whether she fell over in a fit or her clothes caught fire, nobody knows. She was burned to a crisp when they found her. That was the worst of them, they would drink. Poverty was their best friend in this respect, or they would have been drunk all the time. Old Martin could never stop as long as he had a drop. Many’s the time he’s rolled off of Billy Parson’s porch. Billy always had a barrel of cider handy. He’d just chuckle to see old Martin drink and drink until finally he’d lose his balance and over he’d go! But Horser—he was a case! I saw him once after I’d heard he was going to marry Jemima. I looked him over and said, ‘Well, if you aren’t a fine-looking specimen to think of marrying anybody!’ and he answered, ‘I guess you’re right—I aren’t much, but I guess I’ll do fer Jemima.’
“Such scandals as there were when those girls were young!” he continued. “You see, there was a fast set of young men in B—— in those days, lawyers, who didn’t care what they did. One of them got paid back, though, for Jemima wanted to put her child on the town, and they made her tell who was its father. Then he had to give something for its support, and she gave it this man’s full name. I saw him one day soon afterward and he was boiling with rage. All the comfort I gave him was to say, ‘I don’t see but what you’re getting your just deserts, for if anybody wants to play with the pot, they must expect to get blackened!’
Great-grandson of “Daddy” Kallikak.
This boy is an imbecile of the Mongolian type.
Malinda, Daughter of “Jemima.”