Better Than Men

by Rush C. Hawkins

For the information of readers not acquainted with the average “droveyer” of forty and fifty years ago, it is necessary to record that he was not the sort of an individual calculated to adorn refined society, and the language used by those in charge of this particular “drove” was more characteristic for its strength than for its elegance or politeness. I tried to appease their wrath, apologized for the unseemly conduct of dog and horse, alleged sudden fright, marshalled a fine array of other excuses, and finally succeeded in neutralizing the flow of their ire—just a little. But the chief spokesman was not satisfied with excuses and soft words; he was a materialist, and wanted to know, then and there, who was to put up the fence and pay for the damage done by the trampling down of growing crops. Under the circumstances the query did not seem to be an unreasonable one, and I suggested that the better course to pursue would be for the authors of the mischief to make terms with the owner of the crops, state facts, and await his decision.

The season happened to be between planting and harvest, and “the men-folks,” we were told, “are up on yender hill mending fence, and won’t be down till dinner.” The head “droveyer,” impatient to keep with his “drove,” would not wait, and informed me, in a rather emphatic sort of way, that I would have to wait and “settle up.” There was no appeal in sight from his decision. So he went and I waited.

The hot part of the day had arrived, and it was within about two hours “till dinner.” After “hitchin’” the horse in the barn, away from the flies, I suggested the loan of an axe. This excited surprise, and the question came from the head of the interior of that particular domestic establishment: “What are you going to do with an axe?” I answered: “I’m going to mend the fence where those cattle broke through.” This feather came very near breaking the back of the housewife, and her sense of the ridiculous was excited up to the point of explosion, but she was too well bred to give the laugh direct, full in the face, and contented herself by making an acute mental survey of my physical points. She measured with her eye the hands and girth of chest, and made a close calculation as to the amount of biceps assigned to each arm, and after some reflection, said: “You’ll find an old axe in the woodshed; you can take it and try and patch up the places, and, when you hear the horn, you can come in and eat with the rest of the folks.” I started off, filled with the pride born of knowledge, and confident of a coming success, but the even flow of my happiness was soon disturbed by a sound from the upper register of a very loud, shrill voice, saying, “Don’t split your feet open with that are axe.” This was like a small streak of ice water down the spinal column, but I was on my mettle and not to be discouraged. The vacant spaces in the broken fence were encountered and yielded to superior force, and a fairish amount of success was accomplished about the time the welcome tones of the sonorous horn announced the hour for feeding.

I was introduced to the “men-folks” as the stranger whose dog and horse had “scart the cattle inter the oats.” At first it was easy to see that I was not regarded with favor, but, as the dinner proceeded, and as anecdotes succeeded each other about men, things and far-off countries I had seen, the Green Mountain ice began to melt, and, by the time the “Injun puddin’” was emptied out of its bag, cordial relations were established. The two bright-faced boys had become communicative, and the older members of the family had forgotten for the time the damage to the oats.

The dinner ended, I requested a board of survey and an estimate. The first relevant observation in relation to the case before the court came from the grandfather: “Well, I declare, I couldn’t done it better myself. I didn’t know you city folk could work so. Where did you l’arn to mend fences?” This first witness for the defence produced a marked effect upon the jury. The next point of observation was the field of damaged oats. The eldest son, a Sunday-school-sort of boy, exclaimed: “By pepper, they are pretty well trampled down, ain’t they? No cradle can git under ’em; guess’ll have ter go at ’em with the sickle, but we can save the heft of ’em by bending our backs a little.”

During the investigation not a word was uttered about compensation, and, after leaving the field, the conversation ran into generalities; but before we reached the house the grandfather’s curiosity got the better of his timidity, and he asked: “Where did you l’arn to mend fences?” When I told him that my name was ——, that I was a grandson of ——, was born at the “Old H. Place at the crotch of the roads in the town of P——,” learned to mend fences there, etc., etc., he had great difficulty in suppressing the dimensions of the proud satisfaction my information had produced. In his mind I was a degenerate Vermonter, living in the great City of New York, but had not forgotten the lessons learned at the old farm. I knew how to mend a fence, and that, for him, was my certificate of character.

From the moment of my disclosures, I was admitted to the inner family circle, and there was no more farm-work for the rest of the day, while the afternoon hours were devoted to reminiscences of the olden times: “Ah,” said the old grandfather, “when I first laid eyes on ye, I thought I’d seen somebody like ye afore, and I remember it was your grandfather on yer father’s side. He was a soldier of the Revolutionary War in one of the Rhode Island ridgiments, and my father belonged to one from Massachusetts; both served till the end of the war, and then emigrated to Vermont, together. My father settled on this farm, where I was born in 1790; your grandfather took up some land in P——, and till the end of his days was the best schoolmaster and surveyor anywhere round these parts. He was a master-hand at poetry, and used to write sarcastical varses agin the lop-sided cusses he hated. There’s allus some mean critters in these country towns, who take advantage of poor folks that ain’t very smart and cheat ’em outer their property. They used to feel mighty mean, I tell ye, when they read your grandfather’s varses about ’em. I heerd old Si Simmons, up to town meeting only last year, telling about a mean old critter down in P—— by the name of Podges and how your grandfather writ a varse for his gravestun, and I remember it was about like this:

“‘Here lies the body of Podges Seth,

The biggest knave that e’er drew breath;

He lived like a hog and died like a brute,