Here we were now backing the machine in the shade of a barn while Franklin fixed himself on the edge of a grey, lichen covered wall and I strolled off down a steep hill to get a better view of a railroad which here ran through a granite gorge. Perhaps Franklin worked as many as thirty or forty minutes. Perhaps I investigated even longer. There was a field on this slope with a fine spring on it. I had to speculate on what a fine pool could be made here. In the distance some horizon clouds made a procession like ships. I had to look at those. The spear pines here at the edge of this field were very beautiful and reminded me of the cypresses of Italy. I had to speculate as to the difference. Then Tr-r-r-r-r-r, and we were on again at about thirtyfive miles an hour.
While we were riding across this country in the bright morning sunshine, Speed fell into a reminiscent or tale-telling mood. Countrymen born have this trait at times and Speed was country bred. He began, as I had already found was his way, without any particular announcement, or a “Didjah ever hear of the old fellow,” etc., and then he would be off on a series of yarns the exact flavor and charm of which I cannot hope to transcribe, but some of which I nevertheless feel I must paraphrase as best I may.
Thus one of his stories concerned a wedding somewhere in the country. All the neighbors had been invited and the preacher and the justice of the peace. The women were all in the house picking wool for a pastime. The men were all out at the edge of the woods around a log heap they had built, telling stories. The bride-to-be was all washed and starched and her hair done up for once, and she was picking wool, too. When the fatal moment came the preacher and the prospective husband came in, followed by all the men, and the two stood in the proper position for a wedding before the fireplace; but the girl never moved. She just called, “Go on; it’ll be all right.” So the preacher read or spoke the ceremony, and when it came to the place where he asked her, “Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband, etc.,” she stopped, took a chew of tobacco out of her mouth, threw it in the fire, expectorated in the same direction, and said, “I reckon.” Then she went on working again.
Another of these yarns concerned the resurveying of the county line between Brown and Monroe counties in Indiana which a little while before had been moved west about two hundred and fifty yards. That put the house of an old Brown County farmer about ten yards over the Monroe County line. A part of Monroe County in this region was swampy and famous for chills and fever—or infamous. When the old farmer came home that night his wife met him at the gate and said: “Now we just got tuh move, paw; that’s all there is to it. I’m not goin' to live over there in Monroe with all these here swamps. We’ll all die with chills and yuh know it.”
Fishing was great sport in some county in Indiana—I forget which. They organized fishing parties, sometimes thirty or forty in a drove, and went fishing, camping out for two or three days at a time, only they weren’t so strong for hooks and lines, except for the mere sport of it. To be sure of having enough fish to go ’round, they always took a few sticks of dynamite and toward evening or noon someone would light a fuse and attach it to a stick of dynamite and, just as it was getting near the danger line, throw it in the water.
Well, once upon a time there was just such a fishing party and they had a stick of dynamite, or two or three. There was also an old fat hotel man who had come along and he had a very fine big dog with him—a retriever—that he thought a great deal of. Whenever anyone would shoot a duck or throw a stick into the water, the dog would go and get it. On this occasion toward evening someone threw a stick of dynamite in the water with the fuse lit. Only instead of falling in the water it fell on some brush floating there and the darn fool dog seeing it jumped in and began to swim out toward it. They all commenced to holler at the dog to come back, but in vain. He swam to the dynamite stick, got it in his mouth, and started for shore—the fuse burning all the while. Then they all ran for their lives—all but the old fat hotel man, who couldn’t run very well, though he did his best, and it was his dog. He lit out, though, through the green briars and brush, hollering, “Go home, Tige! Go home, Tige!” at every jump. But old Tige was just a-bounding on along behind him and a-wagging his tail and a-shaking the water off him. What saved the old man was that at one place the dog stopped to shake the water off and that gave him a fair start, but he only missed him by about forty feet at that. The dog was just that near when, bang! and say, there wasn’t a thing left but just about a half inch of his tail, which somebody found and which the old man used to wear as a watch-charm and for good luck. He always said it was mighty good luck for him that the dog didn’t get any nearer.
And once more upon a time there was a very stingy old man who owned a field opposite the railway station of a small town. A shed was there which made a rather good billboard and itinerant showmen and medicine men occasionally posted bills on it—not without getting the permission of the owner, however, who invariably extracted tickets or something—medicine even.
One day, however, the station agent, who was idling in front of his office, saw a man pasting showbills. He fancied Zeke Peters' (the owner’s) permission had not been obtained, but he wasn’t sure. It must be remembered that he was in no way related to Peters. Walking over to the man, he inquired:
“Does paw know you’re putting up them bills here?”
“Why, no, I didn’t think there’d be any trouble. They’re only small bills, as you see.”