Pipes O'Pan at Zekesbury

by James Whitcomb Riley

It was too late in the Fall then to think o' buildin' even the onryest kind o' shanty, and so Ezry moved in with Bills. And Bills used to say ef it had n't a-be'n far Ezry he'd a-never a-had no house, ner nuthin' to put in it, nuther. You see, all the household goods 'at Bills had in the world he'd got of Ezry, and he 'lowed he'd be a triflin' whelp ef he didn't do all in his power to make Ezry perfeckly at home 's long as he wanted to stay there. And together they managed to make room far 'em all, by a-buildin' a kind o' shed-like to the main house, intendin' to build when Spring come. And ever'thing went along first-rate, I guess; never heerd no complaints—that is, p'ticular.

Ezry was kind o' down far a long time, though; didn't like to talk about his trouble much, and didn't 'tend meetin' much, like he used to; said it made him think 'bout his house burnin', and he didn't feel safe to lose sight o' the mill. And the meetin's kind o' broke up altogether that winter. Almost broke up religious doin's, it did. 'S long as I've lived here I never seed jist sich a slack in religion as ther' was that winter; and 'fore then, I kin mind the time when ther' wasn't a night the whole endurin' winter when they didn't have preachin' er prayer-meetin' o' some kind a-goin' on. W'y, I ricollect one night in p'ticular—the coldest night, whooh! And somebody had stold the meetin'-house door, and they was obleeged to preach 'thout it. And the wind blowed in so they had to hold the'r hats afore the candles, and then one't-in-a-while they'd git sluffed out. And the snow drifted in so it was jist like settin' out doors; and they had to stand up when they prayed—yessir! stood up to pray. I noticed that night they was a' oncommon lot o' jiners, and I believe to this day 'at most of 'em jined jist to git up wher' the stove was. Lots o' folks had the'r feet froze right in meetin'; and Steve come home with his ears froze like they was whittled out o' bone; and he said 'at Mary Madaline Wells's feet was froze, and she had two pair o' socks on over her shoes. Oh, it was cold, now I tell you!

They run the mill part o' that winter—part they couldn't. And they didn't work to say stiddy tel along in Aprile, and then ther' was snow on the ground yit—in the shadders—and the ground froze, so you couldn't hardly dig a grave. But at last they got to kind o' jiggin' along agin. Plenty to do ther' was; and old Ezry was mighty tickled, too; 'peared to recruit right up like. Ezry was allus best tickled when things was a-stirrin', and then he was a-gittin' ready far buildin', you know, wanted a house of his own, he said—and of course it wasn't adzackly like home, all cluttered up as they was there at Bills's. They got along mighty well, though, together; and the women-folks and childern got along the best in the world. Ezry's woman used to say she never laid eyes on jist sich another woman as Annie was. Said it was jist as good as a winter's schoolin' far the childern; said her two little girls had learnt to read, and didn't know the'r a-b abs afore Annie learnt 'em; well, the oldest one, Mary Patience, she did know her letters, I guess—fourteen year old, she was; but Mandy, the youngest, had never seed inside a book afore that winter; and the way she learnt was jist su'prisin'. She was puny-like and frail-lookin' allus, but ever'body 'lowed she was a heap smarter 'n Mary Patience, and she was; and in my opinion she railly had more sense 'n all the rest o' the childern put together, 'bout books and cipherin' and arethmetic, and the like; and John Wesley, the oldest of 'em, he got to teachin' at last, when he growed up,—but, la! he couldn't write his own name so 's you could read it. I allus thought ther was a good 'eal of old Ezry in John Wesley. Liked to romance 'round with the youngsters 'most too well.—Spiled him far teachin', I allus thought; far instance, ef a scholard said somepin' funny in school, John-Wes he'd jist have to have his laugh out with the rest, and it was jist fun far the boys, you know, to go to school to him. Allus in far spellin'-matches and the like, and learnin' songs and sich. I ricollect he give a' exhibition onc't, one winter, and I'll never fergit it, I reckon.

The school-house would on'y hold 'bout forty, comfortable, and that night ther' was up'ards of a hunderd er more—jist crammed and jammed! And the benches was piled back so's to make room far the flatform they'd built to make the'r speeches and dialogues on; and fellers a-settin' up on them back seats, the'r heads was clean aginst the j'ist. It was a low ceilin', anyhow, and o' course them 'at tuck a part in the doin's was way up, too. Janey Thompson had to give up her part in a dialogue, 'cause she looked so tall she was afeard the congergation would laugh at her; and they couldn't git her to come out and sing in the openin' song 'thout lettin' her set down first and git ready 'fore they pulled the curtain. You see, they had sheets sewed together, and fixed on a string some way, to slide back'ards and for'ards, don't you know. But they was a big bother to 'em—couldn't git 'em to work like. Ever' time they'd git 'em slid 'bout half way acrost, somepin' would ketch, and they'd have to stop and fool with 'em awhile 'fore they could git 'em the balance o' the way acrost. Well, finally, t'ords the last, they jist kep' 'em drawed back all the time. It was a pore affair, and spiled purt nigh ever' piece; but the scholards all wanted it fixed thataway, the teacher said, in a few appropert remarks he made when the thing was over. Well, I was a settin' in the back part o' the house on them high benches, and my head was jist even with them on the flatform, and the lights was pore, wher' the string was stretched far the curtain to slide on it looked like the p'formers was strung on it. And when Lige Boyer's boy was a-speakin'—kind o' mumbled it, you know, and you couldn't half hear—it looked far the world like he was a-chawin' on that-air string; and some devilish feller 'lowed ef he'd chaw it clean in two it'd be a good thing far the balance. After that they all sung a sleigh-ridin' song, and it was right purty, the way they got it off. Had a passel o' sleigh-bells they'd ring ever' onc't-in-a-while, and it sounded purty—shore!

Then Hunicut's girl, Marindy, read a letter 'bout winter, and what fun the youngsters allus had in winter-time, a-sleighin' and the like, and spellin'-matches, and huskin'-bees, and all. Purty good, it was, and made a feller think o' old times. Well, that was about the best thing ther' was done that night; but ever'body said the teacher wrote it far her; and I wouldn't be su'prised much, far they was married not long afterwards. I expect he wrote it far her.—Wouldn't put it past Wes!

They had a dialogue, too, 'at was purty good. Little Bob Arnold was all fixed up—had on his pap's old bell-crowned hat, the one he was married in. Well, I jist thought die I would when I seed that old hat and called to mind the night his pap was married, and we all got him a little how-come-you-so on some left-handed cider 'at had be'n a-layin' in a whisky-bar'l tel it was strong enough to bear up a' egg. I kin ricollect now jist how he looked in that hat, when it was all new, you know, and a-settin on the back of his head, and his hair in his eyes; and sich hair!—as red as git-out—and his little black eyes a-shinin' like beads. Well sir, you'd a-died to a-seed him a-dancin'. We danced all night that night, and would a-be'n a-dancin' yit, I reckon, ef the fiddler hadn't a-give out. Wash Lowry was a-fiddlin' far us; and along to'rds three or four in the mornin' Wash was purty well fagged out. You see, Wash could never play far a dance er nothin' 'thout a-drinkin' more er less, and when he got to a certain pitch you couldn't git nothin' out o' him but "Barbary Allan;" so at last he struck up on that, and jist kep' it up and kep' it up, and nobody couldn't git nothin' else out of him!

Now, anybody 'at ever danced knows 'at "Barbary Allan" hain't no tune to dance by, no way you can fix it; and, o' course, the boys seed at onc't the'r fun was gone ef they could n't git him on another tune.—And they 'd coax and beg and plead with him, and maybe git him started on "The Wind Blows over the Barley," and 'bout the time they'd git to knockin' it down agin purty lively, he'd go to sawin' away on "Barbary Allan"—and I'll-be-switched-to-death ef that feller didn't set there and play hisse'f sound asleep on "Barbary Allan," and we had to wake him up afore he'd quit! Now, that's jes' a plum' facts. And ther' wasn't a better fiddler nowheres than Wash Lowry, when he was at hisse'f. I've heerd a good many fiddlers in my day, and I never heerd one yit 'at could play my style o' fiddlin' ekal to Wash Lowry. You see, Wash didn't play none o' this-here newfangled music—nothin' but the old tunes, you understand, "The Forkéd Deer," and "Old Fat Gal," and "Gray Eagle," and the like. Now, them's music! Used to like to hear Wash play "Gray Eagle." He could come as nigh a-makin' that old tune talk as ever you heerd! Used to think a heap o' his fiddle—and he had a good one, shore. I've heard him say, time and time agin, 'at a five-dollar gold-piece wouldn't buy it, and I knowed him my-se'f to refuse a calf far it onc't—yessir, a yearland calf—and the feller offered him a double-bar'l'd pistol to boot, and blame ef he'd take it; said he'd ruther part with anything else he owned than his fiddle.—But here I am, clean out o' the furry agin. Oh, yes; I was a-tellin' about little Bob, with that old hat; and he had on a swaller-tail coat and a lot o' fixin's, a-actin' like he was 'squire; and he had him a great long beard made out o' corn-silks, and you wouldn't a-knowed him ef it wasn't far his voice. Well, he was a-p'tendin' he was a 'squire a-tryin' some kind o' law-suit, you see; and John Wesley he was the defendunt, and Joney Wiles, I believe it was, played like he was the plaintive. And they'd had a fallin' out 'bout some land, and was a-lawin' far p'session, you understand. Well, Bob he made out it was a mighty bad case when John-Wes comes to consult him about it, and tells him ef a little p'int o' law was left out he thought he could git the land far him. And then John-Wes bribes him, you understand, to leave out the p'int o' law, and the 'squire says he'll do all he kin, and so John-Wes goes out a feelin' purty good. Then Wiles comes in to consult the 'squire don't you see. And the 'squire tells him the same tale he told John Wesley. So Wiles bribes him to leave out the p'int o' law in his favor, don't you know. So when the case is tried he decides in favor o' John-Wes, a-tellin' Wiles some cock-and-bull story 'bout havin' to manage it thataway so 's to git the case mixed so's he could git it far him shore; and posts him to sue far change of venue er somepin',—anyway, Wiles gits a new trial, and then the 'squire decides in his favor, and tells John-Wes another trial will fix it in his favor, and so on.—And so it goes on tel, anyway, he gits holt o' the land hisse'f and all ther money besides, and leaves them to hold the bag! Wellsir, it was purty well got up; and they said it was John-Wes's doin's, and I 'low it was—he was a good hand at anything o' that sort, and knowed how to make fun.—But I've be'n a tellin' you purty much ever'thing but what I started out with, and I'll try and hurry through, 'cause I know you're tired.

'Long 'bout the beginin' o' summer, things had got back to purty much the old way. The boys round was a-gittin' devilish, and o' nights 'specially ther' was a sight o' meanness a-goin' on. The mill-hands, most of'em, was mixed up in it—Coke and Morris, and them 'at had jined meetin' 'long in the winter, had all backslid, and was a-drinkin' and carousin' 'round worse 'n ever.

People perdicted 'at Bills would backslide, but he helt on faithful, to all appearance; said he liked to see a feller when he made up his mind to do right, he liked to see him do it, and not go back on his word; and even went so far as to tell Ezry ef they didn't put a stop to it he'd quit the neighberhood and go some'rs else. And Bills was Ezry's head man then, and he couldn't a-got along 'thout him; and I b'lieve ef Bills had a-said the word old Ezry would a-turned off ever' hand he had. He got so he jist left ever'thing to Bills. Ben Carter was turned off far somepin', and nobody ever knowed what. Bills and him had never got along jist right sence the fight.

Ben was with this set I was a-tellin' you 'bout, and they'd got him to drinkin' and in trouble, o' course. I'd knowed Ben well enough to know he wouldn't do nothin' onry ef he wasn't agged on, and ef he ever was mixed up in anything o' the kind Wes Morris and John Coke was at the bottom of it, and I take notice they wasn't turned off when Ben was.