The Puddleford Papers: or, Humors of the West

And, dear reader, it does not lighten the gloom of the picture to find Dobbs, and Teazle, and Short, quarrelling over the remains of some departed one, endeavoring to delude the public into something themselves have no conception of, about the manner in which he or she went out of the world. Not that all the physicians are Dobbses or Teazles, but these sketches are written away out on the rim of society, the rim of western society, where the townships are not yet all organized, and a sacred regard to truth compels me to record facts as they exist.

CHAPTER XIV

Uncommonly Common Schools. – Annual School District Meeting. – Accounts for Contingent Expenses. – Turtle and Old Gulick's Boy. – "That are Glass." – The Colonel starts the Wheels again. – Bulliphant's Tactics. – Have we hired "Deacon Fluett's Darter," or not? – Isabel Strickett. – Bunker Hill and Turkey. – Sah-Jane Beagles. – The Question settled.

Common schools are said to be the engine of popular liberty. I think we had some of the most un-commonly common schools, at Puddleford, that could be found anywhere under the wings of the American eagle. Our system was, of course, the same as that of all other townships in the state, but its administration was not in all respects what it should be. Our schools were managed by Puddlefordians, and they were responsible only for the talent which had been given them. Every citizen knows that our government is a piece of mechanism, made up of wheels within wheels, and while these wheels are in one sense totally independent, and stand still or turn as they are moved or let alone, yet they may indirectly affect the whole. In other words, our government is like a cluster of Chinese balls, curiously wrought within, and detached from each other, and yet it is, after all, but one ball. There is something beautiful in the construction and operation of this piece of machinery. A school district is one machine, a township another, a county another, and a state another – all independent organizations, yet every community must work its own organization. They are not operated afar off by some great central power, over the heads of the people; but they are worked by the people themselves, for themselves.

However clumsily the work may be performed at first, practice makes perfect, and men become the masters, as well as the administrators of their own laws.

We had an annual school district meeting in the village of Puddleford – and there were many others in the country at the same time – for the township was cut up into several districts, and I never attended one that did not end in a "row," to use a western classical expression. The business of these meetings was all prescribed by statute, and it amounted to settling and allowing the accounts of the board for the last school year, voting contingent fund for the next, determining whether a school should be taught by a male or a female teacher, and for how many months, and the election of new officers.

The last meeting I attended, Longbow was in the chair by virtue of his office as president of the school district board. Being organized, the clerk of the board presented his account for contingent expenses, and Longbow wished to know "if the meetin' would pass 'em."

Turtle "wanted to hear 'em read."

Longbow said "the only account they had was in their head."

Turtle said "that warn't 'cordin' to the staterts."

Longbow said "he'd risk that – his word was as good as anybody's writin', or any statert."

Turtle said "he'd hear what they was, but 'twarn't right, and for his part, he didn't b'lieve the board know'd what they'd been about for the last six months."

Longbow raised his green shade from his blind eye, rose on his feet, looked down very ferociously upon Turtle, stamped his foot, and informed Ike "that this was an org'nized meetin', and he mustn't reflect on-ter the officers of the de-strict; 'twas criminal!"

The account was then repeated by Longbow, item by item, and among the rest was two shillings for setting glass.

When glass was mentioned, Turtle sprang to his feet again. "Thar, old man," he exclaimed, rapping his knuckles on the desk, "thar's where I'se got you – thar's a breach er trust, a squand'rin' of funds, that ain't a-going to go down in this ere meetin'. Old Gulick's boy broke that are glass just out of sheer dev'ltry, and you s'pose this ere school de-strict is a-goin' to pay for't? What do you s'pose these ere staterts was passed for? What do you s'pose you was 'lected for? To pay for old Gulick's boy? – Well, I rather caklate not, by the light of this ere moon – not in this ere age of Puddleford."

Squire Longbow took a large chew of plug-tobacco, which I thought he nipped off very short, and remained standing, with his eyes fixed on Turtle.

Sile Bates rose, and said "he wanted to know the particulars 'bout that are glass."

Longbow said "the board 'spended money in their 'scretion, and 'twarn't fur Turtle or Bates, or anybody else, to 'raign 'em up 'fore this 'ere meetin'."

Here was a long pause. The "Colonel" finally arose, put his hand deliberately into his pocket, drew out a quarter, and flung it at the Squire, and "hop'd the meetin' would go on, as it was the first public gathering that he ever knew blocked by twenty-five cents."

This settled the difficulty, and the report for contingent expenses was adopted.

Bulliphant then said he had a motion. He "moved that we hire Deacon Fluett's darter to keep our school."

The Squire said "the meetin' couldn't hire, but it could say male or female teacher."

Bulliphant "moved we hire a female, and we recommend Deacon Fluett's darter."

Bates said "he jest as 'lieve have one of Fluett's two-year olds."

The "Colonel" said "she couldn't spell Baker."

Swipes thought "she was scarcely fit to go to school."

Turtle said "the meetin' hadn't got nothin' to do with it, nohow, and the whole motion was agin law."

Bulliphant, who had become a little out of humor, then "moved that we don't hire Deacon Fluett's darter."

Bates declared "the motion out of order."

The Squire said "he guess'd the motion was proper. The staterts said the meetin' shouldn't hire anybody, but the de-strict board should; and this ere motion was jest 'cordin' to statert."

But the meeting voted down Bulliphant's motion, and Bulliphant then declared that the vote was "tan-ter-mount to a resolve to hire the woman."

Here was a parliamentary entanglement that occupied an hour; but the "Colonel" settled it at last, by reminding the president "that it was two negatives that made one affirmative – not one;" and the Squire said "so he believed he had seen it laid down inter the books."

But I cannot attempt to report the proceedings of this miscellaneous body. The business occupied some four or five hours, and was finally brought to a close. A new school board was elected, and your humble servant was one of the number; positively the first office that was ever visited upon him.

The great question with two of the members of our board, in hiring a teacher, was the price. Qualification was secondary. The first application was made by a long-armed, red-necked, fiery-headed youth of about nineteen years, who had managed to run himself up into the world about six feet two inches, and who had not worn off his flesh by hard study, and who carried about him digestive organs as strong as the bowels of a thrashing-machine. He "wanted a school, 'cause he had nothing else to do in the winter months."

He was accordingly introduced to our School Inspectors; the only one of whom I knew was Bates. The other two were rather more frightened at the presentation than the applicant himself.

Bates proposed first to try the gentleman in geography and history. "Where's Bunker Hill?" inquired Bates, authoritatively.

"Wal, 'bout that," said Strickett – our applicant called his name Izabel Strickett – "'bout that, why, it's where the battle was fit, warn't it?"

"Jes so," replied Bates; "and where was that?"

"Down at the east'ard."

"Who did the fightin' there?"

"Gin'rul Washington fit all the revolution."

"Where's Spain?"

"Where?" repeated Strickett – "Spain? where is it?"

"Yes! where?"

"Wal, now," exclaimed Strickett, looking steadily on the floor, "I'll be darn'd if that ere hain't just slipped my mind."

"Where's Turkey?"

"O, yes," said Strickett, "Turkey – the place they call Turkey – if you'd ask'd me in the street, I'd told you right off, but I've got so fruster'd I don't know nothin';" and thinking a moment, he exclaimed, "it's where the Turks live. I thought I know'd."

"How many States are there in the Union?"

"'Tween twenty-live and thirty – throwin' out Canady."

Bates then attempted an examination in reading and spelling. "Spell hos!" said Bates.

"H – o – s."

"Thunder!" roared Bates. Bates did know how to spell horse. He had seen notices of stray horses, and a horse was the most conspicuous object in Puddleford, excepting, of course, Squire Longbow. "H – o – s! that's a hos-of-a-way to spell hos!" and Bates looked at Strickett very severely, feeling a pride of his own knowledge.

Strickett said "he us'd the book when he teach'd school – he didn't teach out of his head – and he didn't believe the 'spectors themselves could spell Ompompanoosuck right off, without getting stuck."

Izabel's examination was something after this sort, through the several English branches; yet a majority of the Board of School Inspectors decided to give him a certificate, if we said so, as he was to teach our school, and we were more interested than they in his qualifications; and whether the Inspectors knew what his qualifications really were, "this deponent saith not." Strickett "sloped."

The next application was by letter. The epistle declared that the applicant "brok'd his arm inter a saw-mill, and he couldn't do much out-door work till it heal'd up agin, and if we'd hire him to carry on our school, he tho't he would make it go well 'nough," – but the School Board decided that all-powerful as sympathy might be, it could scarcely drive a district school under such orthography, syntax, and prosody.

Next appeared Mrs. Beagle, in behalf of her "Sah-Jane." "She know'd Sah-Jane, and she know'd Sah-Jane was jist the thing for the Puddleford school; and if we only know'd Sah-Jane as well as she know'd Sah-Jane, we'd have her, cost what it might." She said "Sah-Jane was a most s'prisin' gal – she hung right to her books, day and night – and she know'd she had a sleight at teachin'. Mr. Giblett's folks told Mr. Brown's folks, so she heer'd, that if they ever did get Sah-Jane into that ere school, she'd make a buzzin' that would tell some."

Sah-Jane's case was, however, indefinitely postponed. Some objections, among other things, on the score of age, were suggested. This roused the wrath of Mrs. Beagle, and she "guessed her Sah-Jane was old enough to teach a Puddleford school – if she tho't she warn't, she'd bile her up in-ter soap-grease, and sell her for a shillin' a quart! – and as for the de-strict board, they'd better go to a school-marm themselves, and larn somethin', or be 'lected over agin, she didn't care which;" and Mrs. Beagle left at a very quick step, her face much flushed and full of cayenne and vengeance.

There were a great many more applications, and at last the board hired – I say the board—I didn't. But the other members overruled me, and price, not qualification, settled the question at last.

This was the way the machinery was worked in our school district, during the very early days of Puddleford. As the stream never rises above the fountain-head, education was quite feeble. But we do better now – there is less friction on our gudgeons, and if Puddleford should turn out a President one of these days, it would be nothing more than what our glorious institutions have before "ground out" under more discouraging circumstances.

CHAPTER XV

Venison Styles again. – Sermon on Nature. – Funeral Songs of the Birds. – Their Flight and Return. – His Theory of Government. – Sakoset. – The Indians.

Venison Styles, rough and rugged as he was, had acquired much knowledge in a wild way, and could, in that way, stagger a philosopher. No man had a nicer insight into nature. Birds and brooks, hills and valleys, trees and flowers, were all his study. He had no faith in science, except just so far as it came within his own experience. "Book larnin'," he said, "was all very well; but lookin' natur' in the face, and listening to what she said, was a deal better." I remember one of his sermons, which he delivered to me one bright October afternoon, when the woods were all russet and gold, the squirrels chattering in the trees, the nuts dropping, the partridges whirring and drumming, and the soft autumnal light was faintly struggling along the aisles of the forest. "You see," said Venison, "how all natur' is talkin', and if you will only listen, can tell enymost what she says. There," he continued, "just hear that robin pecking away on that ere coke bush. Hear him pipe away so melancholy-like – 'All goin'! all goin'!' he says. How low and fine that yaller-bird sings – a kinder fun'ral song. The jay is sad-like, and acts just as though he felt winter comin'. That crow, sailin' through the air, croaks awful gloomy-like and holler – and all these ere crickets and insects jine in so sad and downcast. 'Tain't their spring song. They are down onter another key now. They begin to feel frost inter their bones. They know what's comin'."

"Know!" said I; "what do birds know about winter, till it comes." I wanted to draw the old philosopher out.

"Know! know!" continued Venison. "Birds think and talk – yes, they do —they know. I've heerd 'em talk to one another, from tree-top to tree-top, across these woods many a time – lay plans many a day. What makes 'em flockin' around us to-day, and soarin' around in companies, if they don't understand each other? They go round and round for a week or two, visit this wood and that, jabber, and fret, and fume, pick up a straggler here, 'nother there, and when they get a good ready, and are flock'd, off they go, travellin' south. Hain't they got col'nels, captins, and laws? – they are jest as much of a body as our school de-strict is, and every bird knows what he is about, what he is going to do, and how, too."

"Why don't all the blackbirds go into one flock, Venison?" said I.

"There 'tis! there 'tis!" replied Venison; "if 'twas all chance, they would. But it jest ain't chance. Natur' has 'lowed them to fix it. There," he continued, "goes a flock now – they've got a captin among 'em, leading 'em on – he knows every one under him – and they are jest around visitin' their friends before goin' off – that's all."

"Do you think they will come back again, Venison?" I inquired.

"Back again! back again!" he exclaimed, looking up to me with surprise. "Why, man, this is their home – they were born 'here. This is their ground, hereabouts. They know every tree, and mash, and river for miles 'round. You'll hear 'em chatterin' and gabblin' by next April 'gain."

"Doubtful," I replied.

"Well, now," said Venison, "I've tried that. Down to where I live, the blackbirds and robins are thick as spatter. They make it all ring round me. I caught a dozen or more of each in a net one fall, cut off one toe all round, and let 'em go. Jim Spikes bet they wouldn't come back; I bet they would. I wanted to try it, you see. When spring came on again there the fellers were, sure enough, or most on 'em, on hand, ready for summer's business again. Jim gin in – he did."

"I should think they would stray away, Venison," said I.

"Don't you believe in a God!" broke out Venison, in an animated tone. "When He made 'em, He put a compass inter their heads that can't get out of fix, and they run jest as straight by it as my dog does by his nose – and a dog's nose is his compass, you know."

This was a quaint, but a very pointed way, of illustrating a law of nature. Venison was a quaint man, and drove at a conclusion frequently cross lots, by some startling figure of speech.

"And I've got an idee," continued Venison, "an idee – I don't put it down as fact – that birds know one another, jest as we do – remember each other from y'ar to y'ar – how they sang together last y'ar and every y'ar in the shadows and sunshine of this old wood, and nested and raised their young 'uns together – and they kinder bid good by to one 'nother when they go off in the fall, and say How are you? when spring comes on – and may be they have their likes and dislikes, and old grudges to bring up agin – for there is a world of human natur' in 'em – a world on't – it is only an idee – can't say – but I believe it – but," – and the old hunter turned round with a sad look, – "they won't roam round here much longer; the big trees are tumblin'; the old seventy-sixers are enymost gone; morn'er twenty y'ars ago they were mighty noisy up in that ar oak (he pointed to an enormous oak stump), but the varmints heeved it down, and made it inter lumber – the old tree that liv'd and rock'd in the storms five hundred years, I reckon; the bees and birds all knew it, and jest hung around it 'cause they lov'd it. I have had many a good shot from it. I heerd it crash when it came down – felt it, I did – feel it yet – the varmints."

"But," said I, with an effort to turn the current of the old man's thoughts, "you really believe that birds have their captains and colonels, and all that, do you?"

"Yes, sir! and mor'n that; kings and queens, for aught I know. It's a king that leads the ducks in their flight, ain't it? Hain't you heer'd him blow his horn, away in the sky, as he led 'em on up the rivers and takes? Don't the bees have their queen?"

Venison launched forth in his peculiar style on the theory of government, despotic and republican – maintained that God "hadn't any republics" in his kingdom – "all on 'em kings and queens – nobody was 'lected there – all on 'em were made from the beginning to rule and reign over their subjects." He maintained that as God was almighty, so he put almighty power in the rulers of the kingdoms under him. Therefore – such was his argument – "man orter be governed by man" – not by the voice of the people, but by a sovereign higher than himself. His arguments and language were home-made, but his ideas were brought out with great point and force.

I had long known that Venison was well posted on the trees and shrubs, flowers, and even the weeds. Nothing that he had ever observed had failed him. Probably he never read a book on the subject in his life, that is, if he could read. The familiar names of all creation were understood by him, and he had his own theories about everything animate and inanimate. I started him off on this subject. I called his attention to the oak over which he shed a tear, and by degrees drew him along to the time when the axe and the plough would change the whole face of the country around us into hamlets, green pastures, and waving fields of grain. The old man looked solemn. The subject was not pleasant to him – he heaved a sigh, and said, finally, "'Tis all the same! 'tis all the same with me! I shall be under the ground then! I don't wanter live to see it."

He rallied, and went on – "They've enymost spilt it now. When I was young, I could see a deer a mile away – no underbrush to shade my rifle. The deer, too, look'd grander like, somehow, than they do now. They had a freedom in 'em. They seemed to know the woods was theirs. They kinder go sneakin' round now, as though some critter was arter 'em. This stream was filled with ducks, flappin' their wings, and washin' themselves; and many a time I've heer'd 'em, jest as the sun was a-settin', talkin' to themselves, and gettin' ready to go to bed. But the settlers came in, dammed the river, and down came the sawdust, and it roar'd and rattled 'em all away. The partridges used to drum and drum in the still afternoon, and whirr about – and they are gone, too. I don't believe natur' likes to be disturbed. She sorter rebels agin the plough at first. She allers sends up coke and bramble when the furrows are first made – fights it as well as she can, till they get her under, and put her inter what they call crops. The Lord made the airth well enough to begin with. He knew what we wanted. He gave us airth and sky, woods and water – birds and fish to eat – and it all rais'd itself, and enough on't, too. This thing they call civ'lation is right agin natur'. It makes poor young men and wim'in'. They hain't got no stuff in 'em – they can't do anythin' – they are peepin' round, full of pain of every sort – full of rheumatiz, agers, janders, and all sorter ails. I've gone morn'er twenty miles a day, loaded with game, and not a tired hair in me – can do it agin." And thus Venison preached, too much and too long for me to record in full.

Venison continued, and declared that "there was enough of everything just as it was." He attempted to show that there were seeds of life deep in the earth, planted there from the beginning, that came forth in due time, and replenished the earth. He never "see'd any coke till they ploughed a furrow, and built that ere rail fence" – "and down in that ere breakin' (which I saw had been neglected, and was overgrown heavily), the blackberries and ten thousand other things were comin' up." He said he "would jest like to know where all that seed had been lyin' since the world was made – how long it would have laid, he'd jest like ter know, if that ere plough hadn't stirred up the sile." And thus he attempted to illustrate his theory of vegetation.

"Not only the trees, but the Injuns were goin'. 'Tain't as 'twas with 'em when they went a-whoopin' around among the streams and woods. I've see'd mor'n nor forty canoes sailing away here on this river at on'st – and then we had raal Injuns – tall, six-foot fellers, with eyes like the eagle. But they, too, are pinin' out like. The white man, and the white man's ways, and the white man's drink, has taken all the tuck out on 'em. They know, what are left on 'em, that they ain't raal Injuns any more. They don't whoop any more. They hang about the towns a while, and get full of pizen, and then slink away silently inter the forest again. Sometimes, when huntin' season comes on, they fire up, and chase the game, but it is kinder melancholy, after all – like a flame jest spirtin' out a minute from a charr'd and half-burning log. There's old Sakoset (I've known him enymost on to forty years), was jest as much of a king, and had jest as much of a throne, as old George Third ever had. He lov'd his tribe, and they lov'd him. His word was law. These were all his grounds for a hundred miles round. I know it warn't mark'd off into counties, townships, and school de-stricts. They didn't have any place to file away papers, nor didn't write everythin' they did in books – but they had their laws jest as well, all written down inter their heads; and they knew their history – they had, what white men call their traditions – they knew all about their fathers and grandfathers, and great-great-grandfathers – and old Sakoset was their chief. He was six feet three inches by measure, and as straight as that 'ere hickory. He was knit all over as tight as an oak. He was as hansome as a picter, and I've seen him in council, when I tho't he was the noblest lookin' mortal on this airth. And there warn't no man, no gov'ment (Venison grew excited here) that had as good a right to these 'ere grounds as Sakoset. God gave 'em to him, and the white man stole 'em away, stole 'em, sir! – stole 'em. Yes, sir! they passed a law that they should be removed 'yond the 'Sippi – gave 'em huntin' grounds, as they call 'em – drove 'em together like scar'd sheep, and forc'd 'em away from their own sile. But old Sakoset didn't like his new home, wouldn't stay, and he and a few of his tribe straggled back here agin, and now wander round these woods. But he ain't the same man any more; he's all broke down like; 'tain't the same place to him, he says. The stream winds round the hill yet, and the mountain is there, but the forest is mostly down, and the white man is everywhere. Sakoset says but little; goes round dreamin'-like; hangs about alone in the woods, a-thinkin', and sees in his mind his tribe all before him as it was when he was king over them on these grounds. I saw him a few days ago up in the Injun buryin'-ground sittin' so still, I first tho't he was a monerment somebody had put up – but 'twas Sakoset."