 CHAPTER IV. PART II. OF TAILS OF A VANISHING RIVER. THE WEATHER BOOK OF BUCK GRANGERS' GRANDFATHER. PART II. May 4. No weather now since the thirtieth. Fair and neither warm or cold. Florida and Iowa admitted into the Union yesterday, in 1845. Them are twin states. The line of beans has sprouted and must look out for jaybirds. They will get into these. The weeds will come along all right, you bet. May 5. In Bonaparte died in 1821. He was a bad egg. May 8. Summary weather and fishing in the river is good. S. Concrete was down and says he got a pike of seventeen pounds. I got one of nineteen. Pikes are thick. I can catch all I want right in front of the house and bass and catfish. It is knowing where they are. He cannot tell me anything. He is a windbag. Old Josiah was not born yesterday or the day before, either. May 10. Vegetation greening up and everything lively and on schedule. Pete Quaggno and his squaw come today to see how I was and if I had any tobacco. Him and the other engines down the marsh all had a bad winter. They got a lot of ratskins and coons and some foxes. They ate the bodies of all them animals and smoked some. There was nothing not ate by savages. There was a lot of sickness round there. It showered hard again today as well as yesterday and this may wash them off some. Unusual showers along with thunder and lightning in all PM. Them engines went back in the rain. May 12. Plum blossoms plenty. Potatoes up. All signs say a hot summer. Good many snakes round some pretty long ones. Some drizzle in the air as I write. May 13, 14, 15, 16, 17. Spatters of rain a good deal now. Looks like a wet May if this keeps up. May 18. Fishing pretty good. Got a boat full of pike and bass yesterday. I hear S. Concret has caught nothing up to his place even if he uses nets. Must salt down some for winter. There's lots of suckers in the river. Every little while you get one and there are a few eels. Must smoke some. May 19. I put some seventy pounds of fish in the pork brine that is all empty now. Must get another barrel for pork in the fall. Sprinkles as I write. May 23. Somebody stole my mini-box or it floated off. On this day my almanac says cat and kid a famous pirate was hung in London and this was right. There's a lot around now but not famous. Thick and sticky ear tonight. May 25. Think I seen a light frost this morning. Funny for this time of year. Went after the skunks on the island last night and got some. The chickens in me do not want skunks around. I got three in traps and I got one with a gun and one got me. You bet there's too many skunks. Some cloudy tonight with wobbly sunset. May 27. Fox and skunks both got into the chickens last night. There's too many of both and if the chickens would only roost in the trees. It's hard work to raise chickens. They get lots of things that matter with them. Frisky looking sky tonight. May 29. Ed Baxter and his new wife Fanny Noonan come today. It's hard to see why them two got married. They wanted to see how I was and to borrow some things. Ed has got a squint in one eye and I guess that's why he got fooled. Ed and her are both redheaded. She did not draw much when she married him. I notice the temperature remains about the same with little or no drop or rise. May 31. These are fine days. S. Concret come down and I tell him I have four barrels of pike and bass that I caught and pickled at odd times. He brought some news. He says there was timber thieves working down the river all the winter and spring and them logs then went out was all stole. They was all cut by the thieves and floated down to the Illinois when high water come. Next winter something will be done by the owners if they begin again. He says over a thousand logs was floated out and parties are not known. Looks some like rain as I write. He says if the thieves get caught they will be convicted by the laws of both states. The sheriffs have all been given notice. All men that predicted maid would be seasonable and this is right. This has been a remarkable month. June 2. Fine still day but all fish biting stopped when it thundered in P.M. A swizzle of rain at evening. June 10. All this month so far fine days and summary. Any who do not like this weather should have no weather at all. I got the gun and blowed a new hornet's nest in the tree by the pump. Will not need them. They're worse than Democrats. I notice flies are around. June 11, 12, 13, 14, 15. All fine days. Nothing happened. June 17. On this day in 1775 was the battle of Bunker Hill. Bad day for England. Fish have bit well. No weather to write down. All fine. Your Uncle Josiah enjoys this. I must tell S. Concrete of the catfish I seen in the river today four foot long. This fish was probably six foot if he's seen it when it passed his place. It was slopping in the shallow water out on the sandbar. It was probably astonished in all my empty medicine bottles that are all over the bottom out there. June 27. It rained cats and dogs in pitchforks today and I foresaw this in the weather breeding clouds of last night. A hooting owl was around but too dark to bust him. Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet, murdered in the owl-knack today in 1844. Some wife trouble probably. June 30. Good month all through. Potatoes begin to carry bugs. Must brush them off. June is a bug month. Garden fine if the woodchucks would keep out. Shot several and we'll shoot these right along. Must get them off the island and the skunks too. You bet. Coppery-looking sunset tonight. June 2. Getting hot weather. I do not know where all the potato bugs are from. There must be a big bug-town somewhere that they all hail from. We need some rain. The moon is now full. June 4. This is the nation's birthday but there are too many foreigners. J. Podnett, S. Concret and Amos Horner, Ed Baxter and Pelegus Mason all come down. I think Podnett is a furner. There's lots of mosquitoes now and they bit well in the shade and plenty of flies. These men all say it has never been so dry. There's no water up by the bayous and the marsh is drying out. Concret says there are big fish left swimming in puddles back in the woods where the water went down and left them in April and he says pike and bass as long as your arm are there. I tell him he'd better drop some salt in them puddles. Telly one for old Josiah. Sam Green and a man named Wasson come in the PM to see if there were any hay around. Wasson I think is a furner. I'm Jan Fifth, 1828. It says in the almanac the Turks banished all foreigners from their empire. There was too many there, like there is here. Green says cattle ain't not getting filled on grass yet can live. When my tobacco's gone these men all left in boats. They went home by bug-light at night. Such a pack of lies have never been told as today. I think Wasson should cut some whiskers this fall. It is pretty hot, as I write, and there's too much turmoil and visiting and too much going on here and there. There's too much passing to and fro. There's too many flies and there's too damn many people. God bless all departing travelers. I write this on the Fifth. July 11th. It has never been hotter, even in the shade. Hamilton and Burr had a duel this day in 1804. Burr was a good shot, but a bad man. For a week it has been too hot to write in my weather-book, and the nights are sticky. July 12th. We are having a bad dry spell, and I foresaw this early in the month. Only one light spur to rain since early June. I stay in the shade, for I do not want anybody to get sun-struck. This is a big mosquito-month, and they are at it constant. Anybody that wants mosquitoes and gnats can get them right here. Take notice this is the place in dog-days is the time. July 13th. Hotest we ever had. At Nan Tucket right close to the water three hundred buildings burnt today in 1846. Took fire from the sun, probably. Big snapping-turtle was around the pump today. Maybe he was chased out of the river by the heat. July 15th. Almanac says Jerusalem was taken today in 1029. It's probably hot there, too. If the Almanac would go as far forwards as it goes back it would be a valuable record. It also says W. Penn died in 1718 on the 20th. I keep my Almanac hair with me in the shade. Penn was a great man. I come from his state. It has never been so hot as since the 10th. Your Uncle Josiah has got the thermometer on the tree by the pump now to cool it some. July 16th, 1718, 1920. When it is hot I set generally out of the sun and smoke. That old yellow pipe is pretty hot and it works all day. This has been going on for a week now. You can light a match by sticking it in the river now if you want to. It is sis and hot. You can cook anything by setting it outdoors. No frost in the air now, you bet. I watered down all garden sass from the river with a bucket at evening and all grows well. But some probably cooked. The mercury will have to climb the tree if this keeps up. July 31st, too hot to write in weather-book, still dry. I mostly stay down by the pump and the flies like this. I sleep out on the grass since the 15th and the mosquitoes like that. This has been a remarkable month. August 1st. In August on the first in 1798 was the Battle of the Nile, so my almanac says. Must have been hot out in the water in Egypt at that time. Meteors, which are balls of fire in the sky, are predicted for August. They should begin dropping soon and your Uncle Josiah will keep his eye open. It is so dry now that Ed Baxter says the mush rats have all left the marsh and they're all going out round the country from water to quench their thirst. He says there are cases where they went to wells and fell in and one come to the water bucket in his house. Bad summer for rats. A good cat nap in the shade is a fine thing now. August 2nd. This is Monday and I have stayed in the shade now since this thing commenced. This weather will probably blister the bugs off the potatoes. They won't get off no other way until it gets cool if they're waiting for your Uncle to brush them. Everything will hit up. Lots of smoke, big fire in the wood somewhere I bet. August 5th. Nothing written now since the 2nd. There is thunder off in the west tonight and she is coming up. Some wind in all signs say a soaking storm of rain. August 7th. Rainin' heavy as I write. Rained all night long in yesterday. Must patch the roof some. Had to put a bucket under a leak last night. Good thing I got plenty of buckets. Lightning struck all round in woods hard all night. August 9th. Awful rain since the night of the 5th. We are getting too much rain. Seems like something has busted up above and all there is is coming down. Some should be saved up and sprinkled along the rest of the calendar. What is the use of all this? This is a very wet time. There are or are no floods predicted for this time of year. I must read the Bible some if this keeps up and build an arc. This is a great lesson to us all. In 1812 on this date a caravan of two thousand turks from Mecca was destroyed in the desert by a lack of water. I bet they wished they had some of this. Too bad all the turks were not thar. All turks are wicked men and it says somewhere in the Bible that they shall have their part in hellfire. Hellfire and turks will mix well. The lightning was after your uncle again last night. August 10th. Clearing now with some wind and again warm. Looks wet in the west. There's water enough to swim the young ducks around now all right and plenty of it for anybody that wants it. My potato bugs all floated away. This shows that troubles of all kinds will quit sometime if you wait and do nothing. You can swim all over the country now. Ed Baxter and S. Concrete come in a boat today to see how I was if I was still above water and to borrow tobacco and cucumbers. When anybody comes around it's always something for them. They both say they never seen so many snakes around as this year. Ed says he killed four rattlers and Concrete says he got six. These men will both see more snakes next year than they did this if they did not quit. Concrete's biggest snake was five foot with six rattles. I showed them a skin I took off of six foot with nine rattles and they lit some more of my tobacco and told of early days. I noticed they all get into the trees when your uncle Josiah commences to talk. His feet are mates and he drinks nothing but pump water. Snakes do not come around him much but when they do they are whoppers. Drizzled some last night. August 15th. It is hot again and the old bull-eye now glares steady on the crops. There was a popcorn sky last night. No clouds today. Full bug light at night. August 21st. There come up a hail storm today that was over in five minutes with hailstone's biggest pigeon eggs and a strong wind that would blow bark off a basswood. I did not know where it come from. Something must have happened up above to do all this. Hail turned to rain and it drizzles as I write. Many little dead toads and frogs are all over the island while they probably rain down. Maybe fish and small livestock will come next. August 22nd. Clear it off all right but clouds in the north look like weather breeders tonight. It is a mackerel sky all over. Ed Baxter and Concret come today in a boat that looks like the one that got loose and floated off away from my place three years ago. It is now painted up and the oars changed. They come to see how I was and to borrow some big fish hooks for their set lines. I tell them to use an axe for big fish same as I do. Cannot find any hooks after I seen that boat. My eyesight got bad. The old man's mind is foggy. He does not know how to do. August 31st. Your uncle Josiah went down to the marsh yesterday to see how mush rats are. They summered well. Young ones are thick and well grown and getting lots of clams. Many wood ducks around and the ducks hatched in the marsh all are flying well. Clouded up at night and had a dark time getting back. The moon was around but it was so dark a cat could find nothing. There's a lot of new thick grass in the marsh. I do not like water with so much whiskers on it. This has been a queer month and thermometer has jumped around a good deal. This has been a remarkable month. September 1st. The meteors in my almanac did not fall in August and predictions not reliable. Nothing of the kind around. It is getting long towards fall. Pigeons are around. They broke some dead limbs on the island this week while they roosted. There's slews of them. This is a good year for pigeons. I got 33 with two shots. They did not know that your uncle Josiah was around with a gun. I notice in my almanac oysters are now in season. Nothing of the kind around here. September 4th. Soon after sunup it looked like streaky black clouds up above. But it was pigeon flocks coming south. Pigeons are all over now. Big droves roosted round last night. I must salt down some. They are in the woods after the young acorns. Pigeons are still going over. Can't tell if it's cloudy. Warm day though. September 10th. Must get a hound pup. Old tyke is getting wobbly in the nose and he looses his nose now and then. He is sixsome and not lively. He's a good dog but he's earned his money. He is now going on 13 years and has been over the country some since I had him. Esconcret had some pups last week and I must go up. They may be all spoken for though. Must get some supplies and some back acointment. Hell I broke my pipe. Weather-breeding clouds in the west tonight as I write. September 12th. A sorrel mare was stolen by two men in a buggy Tuesday night from Ed Baxter, who just had bought the mare. They caught these men over eighteen miles off on the hickory top road and they are now locked in jail. He was down at evening to see how I was and to get some eggs. The sheriff and a posse was what nabbed the thieves. I hear from Ed that Henry Clay died last June and that a cheese factory and brick-kill are to be built near West Creek. I foresee a church next. This country is getting too much settled up. There's too damn many people. It rained some today but cleared it noon. Ed had a lot of news. He went off home by a bug light about nine. He kept me up. I write this on the thirteenth. September 14th. A wolf has been on this island frequent, has been after chickens and anything he can get. I set a trap and he turned it over and got the bait every time. Last night I set it bottom side up and he turned it over and I got that cuss. He did not know the trap was bottom upwards and he was astonished. You cannot fool much with your uncle and Josiah. Some drizzle in the air tonight and some colder. It is getting into fall all right. I know where two bee trees are. Your uncle has them spotted. There will be honey here in about a week, you bet. September 17th. The mercury took a sudden jump and it is hot as July and August. I slept out on the grass last night. A good mush melon in the shade is a fine thing now. Concrete and Baxter come yesterday when I was not within and left a bucket they borrowed Saturday to take down the river. I must put a date on that for it's the first thing they ever brought back. September 20th. I got a cub bear that was half-bin and half out of a bee tree after honey and I got him home well chained with a collar. I got about sixty pounds honey. This was yesterday and the day before. The animal eats well on X-tame but scared. I named him Jim Crow. September 21st. It's concrete and Ed Baxter and wife come today to see how I was and to see if I got any honey yet. They are right on schedule. They wanted to borrow some small shot and get some falls. Ed's wife may believe she was scared of the bear. Probably so Ed would save her from it. Concrete says he got a wild cat over to the swamp that was 37 inches tip to tip. I got one forty inches last winter that I spoke nothing of. Mine was a fierce animal. Concrete blows a good deal. The pup I got from Concrete howls all the time and he at his head off up to date. Jim Crow got a piece of the pup yesterday when he got near. The pup tried to bite Concrete and I think this shows he was treated bad at home. I asked Concrete about pork for winter pickle but he seems to think my place is where money drips off the roof and shakes out of the trees. At killing time it'll be different. Ed Baxter said he has dug a deeper well. His other he says is full of mush rats that come for water in dry spell in July to quench their thirst and now living there. I tell him to set and fish for them with a pole. It is now eight pm and your uncle is ready for his blanket. September 25th. I went after supplies. Old Josiah now has plenty of everything. There is backache remedy, foretoitment, magic oil for stiff joints and painkiller and two kinds of bitters and system tonic and pills both blue and pink. I got conditioned powders for chickens of sick. I got some tobacco. Black as Egypt for those who come to borrow. It is strong enough so you can pull nails with it. I got all they had and some candles. Jim Crow as well and he likes all sweet things. I got Jim some striped candy, three sticks. The Pacific Ocean was discovered in 1513 by by Almanac on this day. Funny they missed it before. When I come by Ed Baxter's place last night the boat that used to be mine got loose and come along down with me. I find certain marks on it that I will show Ed. I recognize my own boat and it now seeks its home. A drizzle of moisture, as I write. I tended to a lot of business today. Concrete says the system tonic I've been buying is loaded but does not say with what. He says mix a lot of pump water with it and not to take too much or darkness will come. September 28th. The weather stays moist. Today in 1828 in the Almanac the sultan proceeds to the Turkish camp with the sacred standard. Probably stole from somewhere. September 29th. These cold, stormy drizzles may bring in a few ducks. Would like some ducks. Moon full last night but not seen. End of Chapter 4, Part 2. Recording by Tom Hirsch. Chapter 4, Part 3 of Tales of a Vanishing River. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tom Hirsch. Tales of a Vanishing River by Earl H. Reed. The Weather Book of Buck Granger's Grandfather. Part 3. October 1st. September was a queer month without much weather other way. October now opens clear with frost that nipped the vines last night. Had the pup out for a run on rabbits. His nose is good and he may learn. I never seen a good dog that come from S. Concord's yet. Was down to the marsh yesterday in many new rat houses. They are building thick and high and this means a hard winter and high water in the spring. All signs say a hard winter. Snipers skittin' around and there's a lot of mud hens and loons in the marsh. Two deer swum the marsh and dove into the timber. They know when old Josiah's got a gun and when he left at home. Sam Green and his friend Wasson comin' a boat tonight to see how I was and to get some honey. The pup bit Wasson. Telly won for the pup. These men also wanted to borrow tobacco. Gave them some of the black. I tell them smokin' that kind makes me strong. October 6th stormed and I stayed in. Concord come in the rain to see how I was and to borrow powder and see if I had anything in my medicines for boils. He says he come yesterday and not, but I was not within. I was then in the woods trainin' the pup. His news is Ed Baxter claims he has two twins that come early this morning. And I bet they look like young mush rats. He spoke of pork, but old Josiah's keepin' pretty still until after the snow flies. He says of Ed's twins there are both boys and redheaded. There's too many Baxter's now. S.C. says them two twins will be named James and John. October 12th. In the full of the moon and on a frosty night your Uncle Josiah goes after coons and I note this down. It will be the 27th if night is clear. And notice Columbus landed today in the almanac in 1492. He was the first of the furners. October 18th. Nothing happened since the 12th, but last night a killin' frost and today a swizzle of rain and sleet with northwest wind. This will bring down ducks and geese. Stayed in today and cleaned up shotgun and rifle in all traps. Sawed to all ammunition. Everything all fixed up as I write. Put all potatoes and vegetables in sod cellar and everything all tied up to date. Cleared off some today and some ducks are comin' and some geese are in the sky. Unusual weather for October. Geese honks all night long as I slept. This was last night. I got 25 pounds tobacco in the sod cellar too. When I need tobacco this winter I know where some is. October 19th. Blowing strong from northwest rain and sleet. Sky all speckled with ducks and geese. They are comin' and slews now. Geese honk all night, cannot sleep. Active weather will come right along now. No more loafin' for your Uncle Josiah. He gets on his sheepskin coat now. Take notice he is in the field. October 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25. I've been busy all this time. Josiah is round with a gun. He makes feathers fly and he fetches in the birds. Fine geese and duck weather. The marsh is black with them every morning at sun-up. The Irish rebellion was on the 23rd of this month in 1641. They begun comin' here then. October 30th. Duck and geese weather has stopped and engine summer is upon us. I foresaw this. They are around somewhere but shootin' is poor. No duck and geese weather for a while yet. I stopped it as concrets. I gotta have pork but he said nothin' of pork and neither did your Uncle Josiah. He has nine squillin' around all fat and good condition. October 31st. This has been a remarkable month and changeable at times as Almanac predicted. Jim Crow as well. He has et well. I see heavy bunches of clouds in west that I foresee will breed duck and geese weather as I write. I notice in my Almanac that in many thousands of people died of sickness in India at this time of the year in 1724. There is too many people. No sickness here much at any time. This is a healthy section only three died in five years. I see deer are around. November 2nd. Although a stormy day Ed Baxter come in P.M. to see how I was and to get honey and some tobacco if I had any. He told all the news of them to twins James and John and you would think nobody ever had any before. It's all about them two redheads all the time how they et and how they are smart and how much they weigh. All the brains in the country are settled in James and John. He says he will bring them and show me. They must be some sight and I will be struck blind in one eye probably. You would think the world had come to an end in them too and they was dental Webster. There was an awful famine in Italy in the yard 450 when parents et their children. November 3rd. Light snow bust in the night and I found bear tracks all around this morning. Some friend come to see Jim Crow probably. The pup now sleeps with Jim in the doghouse and he howled at the night. Some rain sputtering as I write. November 4th. Rour and wind from the north today. A heavy sky and sleep I noticed many duck flocks and geese. I will be busy now right along. Must get a deer. Little venison right now would be fine. Your Uncle Josiah has an appetite for some. November 6th. Got a buck right on the island. They will go poking their heads in the window to get shot if I don't watch out. This was yesterday. Jim Crow is loose now and spends time mostly on the roof and up in the cottonwood. He was in the chickens Tuesday night and today he was in the house and upset things. Might as well be a horse loose in the house. Must put him back on chain. If you want to keep busy you want to keep a bear. He is a queer cuss and probably smells the honey. She still blows and tomorrow I go for ducks. Wish I had all the lead I'd spattered around on that marsh in my time. Must have raised the water some. November 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th. Was on the marsh all these days and tried at night. Weather light winds and drizzly. No finer duck and geese weather ever seen. Your Uncle was among them and he shook them loose. I come in wet tonight and must set around a while. I see tracks showing somebody has been here. Probably concrete or Ed Baxter to see how I wasn't to borrow something and to tell me of them two twins. Must wrap up in my blanket and take some strong medicine. I got it cold and I got weather pains. Will stay in and write my weather book. On November 9th in 1837 the Queen of England died at Guildhall. Good mail probably. November 13th, when your Uncle Josiah takes medicine he doses up. I took four kinds today and kept my feet hot with my water jug. I got a good fire. Storms heavy outside but that does not hurt me any. I rid all it says on all my medicine bottles and I can get nothing they will not cure. I got Jim Crow and the pup in the house for company now. They sleep mostly. When they awake they make trouble. I foresee that these animals must be put out. November 14th, something I took yesterday or last night has helped some. I slept well. Probably it was one of the bitters. Snow prevails outside and she falls heavy as I write. I put Jim and the pup out. There was too many in the house. Jim has got honeycomb and the pup has got bones in the doghouse so they are happy. Nobody could want more than that unless they are crazy about money. November 15th, 16th, 17th. I stayed within mostly on these days. We are having a spell of weather. My bitters and my system tonic are most gone but I still got plenty of two kinds that I take internal and three kinds to rub on. Wolves howl around a good deal at night. I keep my sassafras tea head up right along but the bitters do most of the work. They are strong stuff and have some get-ap to them. Sky is full of ducks and geese doing a lot of honking over the house. Probably to twitch me while I can't get out. Your uncle feels some better but he is wise. He will not go out too soon. It would be better for somebody to go that would not be so much lost. November 18th, as Concret come today to see how I was and wanted to trade me a nice fat hog for Jim Crow and I'd done this. Jim is getting a little sassy and Concret's will be a good place for him. When I'll have pork to put in pickle and to smoke, he is to kill the pork and bring it and after that is to take Jim home. I foresee the Jim will make trouble. I am up and around all right now, must go after supplies of bitters and system tonics soon and I must get a cheese. A smidge of cheese helps out a meal. Looks weathery tonight and snow probable. November 19th, as Concret come today with the pork and it is good pork. We fixed a crate to put Jim Crow in and he made a lot of fuss. Them two look funny going off in the boat. Cold and freezing some and ducks and geese have lit out. There are deer around though. I made soft soap today. November 20th, Ed Baxter come in PM to see how I was and to hang some meat in my smokehouse. When he seen the soft soap he wanted to borrow some. Probably to wash them redheaded twins. As Concret also come in evening and Sam Green and Wasson all with pork to smoke. I got lots of friends. My pork must pickle a while before it smokes but I got to fire up the smokehouse now for these men's pork. They all like this because it's something for them. Ed told a lot about them twins. There has never been such twins. Concret's news is Jim Crow got away. The tracks stayed around the chickens a while and then went to the woods where fathers were found. Light sift of snow tonight. The Cape of Good Hope was doubled in the Almanac today in 1497. Queer they wanted two capes, Dar. November 21st. Jim Crow was up in the cottonwood this morning when I went out. Him and the pupper now in the doghouse. Concret will probably come after Jim. She snows and blows heavy as I write. November 23rd. My smokehouse is well known. Pete, Hwagno and two other engines come today to see about putting things in it but I tell them I want to know what they are. They say all signs show a hard winter coming. No danger of them engines stealing my soft soap. Your Uncle Josiah is now all well and feels fine. He was all over the island today. He could pull up a tree or kick the chimbly off the house if it had to be. I noticed two mini small animal tracks on the island and I will now tend to these. The pup is fine and he now goes with me. Light snow last night and I see a wild cat has been across and I would like to get his fur. November 25th. Yesterday I stayed within with my medicines as I did not feel so well. I got a stomach misery. Concret was down and took Jim Crow back today. I did not think Jim likes Concret. He tried to get a piece out of Concret when they was in the boat. Me and Jim always got along all right. Snow was falling. November 26th, 2728. Snow's all the time now. She don't know when to quit. My almanac says G. Washington crossed the Delaware November 28th. It missed saying what y'all are but he got where he wanted to go. Moon was full on the 26th but not seen. November 29th. As Concret come with some meat to smoke today and it looks like bear meat. A fear Jim Crow is now in the smoke house. That man knows nothing of how to keep pets. I was off in the woods when Concret come but I know it is Jim all right. He was a fine bearer and affectionate. I wish Concret had his damn pork back and I had Jim Crow. November 30th. That meat is not Jim at all for Jim is back and up in the cottonwood this morning. He did not want to come down but him and the pupper in the dog house as I write. Jim likes it around here. Mackerel sky tonight and change in weather probable. November a remarkable month all through. December 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. I've been feeling poorly now some time with the misery in my stomach. Tried some of all my internal medicines and feel some better today. Have rubbed my rheumatism with painkiller and took pills both blue and pink that I for liver complaint. Poor old tyke was sick too. I gave him the box of condition powders I had gotten the fall for the chickens but he quit that night. This was on Saturday the fourth. The powders may not have kept well or maybe not good for a dog. I lost my best friend. Bad weather now. I think animals should have no medicine at all of any kind. December 7, Ed backs to come today to see how I was and to get his smoked pork. I promised to take Christmas dinner with Ed and wife. I must take presents for James and John. Likely a bucket of soft soap will be good for them too. Looks gusty and snowy tonight. December 8, S. Concretton Green and his friend Wasson all come to see how I was today and get their smoked stuff. Concret says would like me to keep Jim Crow a while longer for he is too many up to his place. This I will do for Jim and me get along fine. Jim went up the cottonwood when he seen Concret. There's too many smoke houses on this island and too much smoking going on for other people. Snowstorms slanting from the northwest and drifting some as I write. I foresaw this last night. I think Concret is the one that is too many up to his place instead of Jim Crow. I got weather pains in both back and legs now. December 9, now she snows. Big drifts. Cannot see dog house from window. I got Jim Crow and the pup in the house. My weather pains some worse. Must stay in my blanket. December 10th. A soft thaw has come on sudden. A warm sun prevails and everything all slushy. Good weather for wet feet your uncle still stays within. December 12th. Both S. Concret and Ed Baxter come today and brought me a new almanac for next year. This is the first time they ever come that it was not something for them. They said I'd done little favors for them and they would like to make me this little present. This all shows that if you keep being good to people all your life, someday they will bring you a nice little almanac. Probably they will want something next trip. I give them some system tonic and they like that. Ed spoke of them two twins and they are both well and awful smart. He asked if my smoke house was still in good work and order, and if my hen's been laying well lately and if I had plenty of potatoes on hand. December 13th. Them two engines that come here last with Pete Quaggno and his squaw come today and their news is that Pete and his squaw are both sick and wanted tobacco. I sent Pete two pink pills. Them two engines wanted me to send Pete and his squaw a big lot of tobacco by them, but they did not know that your uncle Josiah was sitting around smoking before any of them was born. December 14th. Last night I read in my new almanac. I noticed it predicts worse weather for next year. Storms and tempests will prevail with intense frosts parvable at times, but there will be much changeable weather in many meteors that will be token war. There will be awful winds on parts of the earth. In the back are some prophecies made by the seventh son which I copy down. He says there will be wars and rumors of wars and turbulence and terror will appear on every hand and clouds of darkest hue will hang over the world in the east. Fires will abound in tumults and bloodshed and plots and uproars in some nations. Subject peoples will turn and bite the hoof that holds them down. A certain luckless king may lose his head and something may happen to the pope. Armed men may march to and fro and many will be smitten to the dust. Blood will be shed in Ireland. Tyrants will shake their rods and the torch of discord will be hurled in Crimea. The couch of mortality will be spread and many people will die during the year. Low moans of the oppressed will be heard in Italy. It is all bad news in the Almanac for next year. The seventh son predicts that flocks of boobies will assail the truths of prophecy. He predicts no troubles for anywhere around here. Your uncle Josiah is in out of the wet. December 15. Sam Greencommon says his friend Wasson is sick and wants some medicine. I give him some of each kind, but I ought to see the symptoms. Wasson does not know what ails him, but my medicine will probably fix him up. He probably has stomach complaint, steady freezing weather now. December 16, 17, 18. Everything is froze tight and so is the pump. I've been out on trips and I think one ear is froze. Attended to a lot of business. I got supplies and same kind of Almanac for next year that I've been having. I notice the predictions in it are not half so bad as the one that was fetched for the little present by Conkret. He probably wanted to scare me into the woods. I notice he keeps the same kind I do and he gave me the other. I stopped at his place today and saw Green and Wasson and Jay Podnutthar. Wasson got well, those were all good medicines I sent. Their news is Timber thieves are added again down the river. Wasson hunts down thar and he wants us all to form a posse and chase them out of the country, but your uncle chases nothing these days he does not want. I tell them the owners must be notified. I do not know what them old mud turtles talk about all the time up to Conkrets. I got some candy for Jim Crow and I paid Conkret for his pork at a low price and Jim is now mine again. Jim is good company if you know how to get along with a bear. I got a new medicine, instant relief for internal disorders. We'll try on somebody that comes to see how I am and to borrow medicine. It looks like a good remedy. This has been an active day. December 20. Think I got some cold on my trip side day. I'm taking the new remedy but do not yet know what it will cure. I notice that two things that are on the wrapper I'm troubled with. Big snowstorm now going on. December 21, 22, 23, 24. Your uncle Josiah has felt pretty poorly for these four days. Have taken my medicine steady. Think I am now better. Must go to Baxter's tomorrow. Weather clear and cold. December 26. I took dinner up at Baxter's and it was a good dinner. We'd hit chicken fixings and cooked apples and a great deal of other things and pie of all kinds. I took the chickens up. We talked and smoked and in P.M. Ed got his fiddle out and played hoppy tunes on it. A string was busted but he'd done well with the rest. I got along fine with them two twins. Their parents have a lot of pleasure with them babies. I had them on my lap and it took me back to when I had two little boys that did not know better than to like to be around with their paw. I wish I had them little boys back now. They grew up and went away probably looking for better friends. It is lonesome here on the island with them and their mother all gone. Once in a while I find something around they played with and things their mother had and them things are what I got left. I must have the Baxter's down here next Christmas if I am around. I will catch them twins some young rabbits when they get old enough and some young mud turtles and polywogs to play with like I used to do. Full moon at night on my way back to the island and them two little boys was asleep when I left. December 27, 28, 29, 30. I've been too sick to write in my weather book. December 31st. This was the last day of the year and whatever happened is now all over. It is awful cold and still outside and once in a while I hear frost cracking in the woods. The year is now coming to its end in a few minutes. It is pretty late for me to be around but I am waiting for the old clock to strike 12. Maybe next year at this time I'll be asleep. It is awful lonesome here at night and I wish I had my folks around or if them two little boys was only here or somebody. Maybe tomorrow somebody will come. I notice by the looking glass that the old man's head is pretty white. He has been frosted some. He now goes into his blanket for the yeah ends as he writes. End of Chapter 4 Part 3 Recording by Tom Hirsch Chapter 5 Part 1 of Tales of a Vanishing River This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tom Hirsch. Tales of a Vanishing River by Earl H. Reed Tipton Posey's Store The unpretentious buildings stood just back from the road, near the end of Bundy's Bridge. It was a lonely looking structure, for there were no near neighbors. Its sustenance was drawn from a thinly populated region, but its location made it easy of access from many miles around. The winding thoroughfare that led over the decrepit bridge was an ancient Indian trail that, like the other cherished possessions of the red man, had been merged into the economies of his white brothers. The plashing waters of the river lulled the ear with gentle tumult. The sides, softly under the old bridge, rippled against the decayed abutments with a dirge-like rhythm, and spread out in little swirls and scrolls over the tapering sandbar below. During the hot summer forenoons, barefooted boys in fragmentary costume appeared on the structure from unknown sources. They rested long cane fishpoles along the side rails, and watched for the corks to bob that floated down the lazy current. They soon disrobed and remained naked the rest of the day, making frequent trips into the river, where they wallowed along the muddy margin and splashed in the shallow water. The agile sunburned bodies and the shouts of the noisy happy crew gave a touch of vibrant life and human interest to the melancholy old bridge. When night came, the scant raiment was gathered up, and the slender strings of small bowheads and sunfish, a meager spoil, if judged from a material standpoint, were carried proudly away on the dusty road. Amperors, and particularly one of them, might well envy their innocence and happiness as they faded away into the twilight. Lofty elms, big sycamores and basswoods interlaced with wild grapevines, shaded the approach to the bridge, and fringed the gently sloping banks of the river. The store was a remnant of the past. When it was built about sixty years ago, the location seemed to offer alluring prospects. While the expected town did not materialize in the vicinity of the bridge, the store had done a thriving business before the railroad crossed the river country, and after the old trail was graded. Few of the frequent travelers along the road had failed to stop and contribute more or less to its prosperity. The trappers from up and down the river sold their pelts and obtained supplies there, some of which consisted of very raw-edged liquor that they often claimed eight holes in their stockings. Much of it had never enjoyed the society of a revenue stamp, but as stamps affected neither the flavor nor the hitting quality of the goods, nobody ever inquired into these things. The merciless years changed the fortunes of the place, and it was now in an atmosphere of decay. It was a gray, unpainted two-story affair with a wooden awning over a broad platform in front, along the outer edge of which hung a small, squeaky sign, tipped and posy, general merchandise. It was the general loafing-place of the old muskrat trappers and pot-hunters, known as river rats, and old settlers, whose principal asset was spare time, but everybody for miles around came occasionally to keep track of what's going on and to exchange the gossip of the river country. Posi, the jovial and philosophic proprietor who lived upstairs, was a sympathetic member of the motley gatherings. He was utilized in countless ways. He acted as stakeholder in referee when bets were made on disputed matters of fact, delivered verbal messages, and always had the latest news. He was a good-natured, ruddy-faced old fellow, with an eccentric mustache that curled in at one corner of his mouth, and seemed to be trying to make its escape on the other side. He seldom wore a hat, and his gray hair stood up like a flare over his high forehead. The confused stock of goods included a little of everything that any reasonable human being would want to buy, and lots of things that nobody could ever have any sane use for. Those who were unreasonable could always get what they wanted by waiting a week or two, for Tip declared that he would draw upon the resources of the civilized world through the males, if necessary, to accommodate his customers. Posi was reliable in everything except regular attendance. He opened stores basmodically in the morning, enclosed it whenever there was nobody round at night. When his lifelong friend Bill Stiles was unavailable as a substitute guardian, he often locked up and left a notice on the door, indicating when he would return. I once found one reading, gone off, back Monday. It was Wednesday, and it had been there since Saturday. Various lead-pencil comments had been inscribed on the misleading notice by facetious visitors. Among them, liar. What Monday? Sober up! Stranger called to buy a hundred dollars' worth of goods and found nobody home. The sheriff has been here looking for you twice. And several other notations calculated to annoy the delinquent. Sometimes the notice would simply read, gone off, which, in connection with the fact that the door was locked, was convincing to the most obtuse observer. Tip usually found a fringe of patient customers and assorted loiterers sitting along the edge of the platform, discussing the burning questions of the day when he returned. During the shooting seasons he spent much time on the marsh down the river. Orders were stuck under the door, and during his brief and uncertain visits to the store he filled them and left the goods in a locked wooden box in the rear, to which a few favored customers had duplicate keys. While tips of ferris were not conducted on strictly commercial principles, he had no competition, and eventually did all the business there was to be done. I get all the money they got, and nobody could do more than that if they was here all the time, he remarked, as he laid his gun in a bunch of bloody ducks on the platform and unlocked the door late one night after several days absence. I got them all trained now and they'd be spoiled if I took to being here regular. There were two spare rooms over the store that were reached by a stairway on the outside of the building. I usually occupied one of them whenever I visited that part of the river. Bill Stiles slept in the other when he thought it was too dark for him to go home, or he was not in a condition to make the attempt. It was in use most of the time. Bill was the genius loci, and gave it a rich and mellow character which it would have been difficult for Posey to sustain alone. He was a grizzled veteran of the marshes. For many years he had lived in a tumbledown shack on Huckleberry Island. He trapped muskrats and mink over a wide area in the river, and shot ducks and geese for the market in the spring and fall. When the fur harvest began to fail, and the game laws became oppressive, he concluded that he was getting too old to work, and was too much alone in the world. He moved up the river and built a new shack on Watermelon Bend, which was within easy walking distance from the store, where he could usually find plenty of congenial company when he wanted it. Here he had become a fixture. Out of the ample fun of his experience, flavored and garnished by the rich and inexhaustible fertility of an imagined nation that at times was almost uncanny, had come tales of early life on the river in marshes that had enthralled the loiterers at the store. They shared the shade of the awning with him during the hot summer days, and surrounded the big-bellied wood stove in the dingy interior during the winter days and evenings, when there was nothing doing anywhere else in the region, and listened with rapt attention to his reminiscences. Any expression of incredulity met with a crushing rebuke. I didn't notice that you was there at the time, he would remark with asperity. If you wasn't, that'll be all from you. The muskrat colonies still left along the river and out on the marshy areas were often drawn upon by adventurous youngsters solely for the purpose of seeing Bill Skinnam. Clusters of the unfortunates were brought by their tales and laid on the store platform. The old man would look the crowd over patronizingly, take his ripper from his pocket, and with a few dexterous strokes performed feats of pelt surgery that made the Tyros gasp with admiration. A scun six hundred and forty-eight rats once in five hours that I'd caught on Muckshaw Lake the night before was Bill's invariable remark after he had finished his gruesome performance. The adulation of these small audience was the glow that eliminated his declining days. When I first met the old man years ago, he was engaged in writing his autobiography, and at last accounts he was still at it. His shack and the little room over the store had gradually become literary temples. His complicated manuscripts and notes were kept in an old black satchel of once shiny oil-cloth that he called his war-bag. On its side was the roughly lettered inscription, Historic Chronicles, Styles. He carried it back and forth between his abodes with much solicitude. During the many evenings I spent with him, he would frequently extract its contents and read aloud in the dim light of a kerosene lamp. He often paused and looked over the rims of his spectacles with animation in his grey eyes when he came to passages that he deemed of special importance. The masses of full-scap contained records that were only intelligible to the writer. His grammar and spelling were hopelessly bad. His methods of compilation were baffling, and his penmanship was mystic, but his collection of facts and near facts was prodigious. He took long reflective rests between the periods of active composition. They were deathless chronicles in the sense that they seemed to be without end, and they appeared to become more and more deathless as he proceeded. The first two or three hundred pages were what Bill called a backfire chapter. It began with the creative dawn and was a general historical resume down to the time of his appearance on earth. It skipped lightly over the great events that loom like mountain peaks in the world's history and tower away into the receding centuries. When he came to the deluge, he got lost among Noah's animals for a while and floundered hopelessly for adjectives. It was impossible to enumerate and describe all of them, but he did the best he could. Through a maze of wars and falling empires he got Columbus to America. The Republic was established, and civilization finally flowered with the birth of Bill's styles, A.D. 1836. From the dawn of time to the rocking of Bill's cradle was a far cry, but his annals included what he considered the essential features of that dark period. In addition to a vast amount of matter of purely personal interest, the work was designed to accurately record the happenings in the river country during Bill's lifetime. Much of his material was collected at the store. The year that Bundy's bridge was built in the ferry-ceased operations was shrouded in historic gloom. Five times the year had been changed in the Chronicles, for five eminent authorities differed as to the date, and each of them had at one time or another succeeded in impressing Bill. He seemed confident of all his other facts. The other bridges had given him no trouble. There was no question in his mind as to when the Potawatomies were relieved of their lands and forcibly removed from the country, or when the camp of horse thieves on Grape Island was broken up. There was a tale of another band of horse thieves whose secret retreat was on an island in the middle of a big lake of soft muck, several miles south of the river. The one route of access to it was a concealed sandbar known only to the outlaws. The unsavory crew collected their plunder on the island, where the pilfered beasts were cared for, and their markings changed with various dyes. In due time they smuggled them away in the darkness to distant markets. They once captured a too curious preacher, who was looking for his horse, and kept him in Durant's vial for several months. The expounder of the Gospels labored so faithfully in that seemingly hopeless vineyard that the blasé bandits were finally purified by the word of the Lord, gave up their dark practices, made restitution, and ever after lived model lives. There was a record of a mighty flood that drowned out everything and everybody, ran over the top of the bridge and carried part of it away, and following this were notations of approximate dates of sundry happenings, when the gang of counterfeiters that dwelt in Pinkamank Marsh were caught and sent up, the year that Bill killed a blue goose on Boiler Slew, when the tornado blew all of the water out of the river at Oxbow Bend, and left the channel bearer for half an hour, and the year that 46,000 ratskins was took off Shelby Marsh. A page was devoted to a reign of terror that lasted several weeks in 1877, for five nights an awful roar had come out of bull-snake by you. The mystery was never explained, but Bill thought that the noise had been produced by a whiff-o-matic, or a hoedad, that had come down with the spring flood, lost its way and was shedding horns or scales in the vine-clad thickets. The births, weddings, and deaths of all the old settlers were carefully recorded, and many of their exploits detailed at length. There was an account of the capture of Hank Butts in his illicit still by the Revenue Officers, the failure of the jury to convict, owing to the reputation of the culprit's two sons as dead shots, and the story of Hank's death in a featherbed with his boots on, when he went to visit a city relative and blew out the gas a few months later. Bill's experience with the catty-mount was related with much detail. He had encountered it in the woods when he was young, and had spent two days and nights in a tree, living on crackers, plugged tobacco, and a bottle of sage-teeth that he fortunately happened to have with him. The animal's foot had been shattered by Bill's only bullet, and this prevented it from going into the foliage after him. The captive had chewed up over a pound of the plug, and had carefully re-aimed the resulting juices at the baleful eyeballs that gleamed below him at night, hoping to blind his procedure. When the supply of his ammunition was exhausted, the animal's eyes were still bright, although Bill had scored many body hits and had decidedly changed the general color of his enemy. Hunger finally compelled the savage beast to beat a retreat, and the situation was relieved. The catty-mount had evidently increased in size with the succeeding years, for in the manuscript, its estimated length had been twice corrected with the pen, the last figures being the highest. Bill added that he had killed this fierce and formidable animal later, and that its skin was taken east. Somewhere among the confused piles was the tale of the last voyage of the little stern-wheeler steamer, Morning Star, to the ferry under command of Captain Sink. She had come up from the Illinois River, and the falling waters had left her stranded for a week on a sandbar. Her dotty commander paced the deck and blistered it with profanity. He swore by nine gods that he never again would go above corkscrew bend, that was so crooked that even the fish had sense enough to keep out of it. His vociferous impiety filtered intermittently through the green foliage that overhung the river, and desecrated the shadow-flect aisles of the forest, until the Morning Star's sister boat, the Dampheno, came wheezing upstream. The unfortunate craft was pulled off the bar and navigation officially ended. Reliable data was becoming scarce. Bill's recollections were getting hazy. The old settlers whose memories could be relied upon were dying off, and the mists were absorbing his ascertainable facts. But, while life lasts, the chronicles will go on, for Bill's genius is not of the sort that admits defeat. There is much human history that might with profit be entombed in these humble archives, and its obscurity would be a blessing to those who made it. As the world grows older, it finds less to respect in the dusty tomes that are filled with the story of human folly, selfishness, and needless bloodshed. Bill and I were enjoying a quiet smoke on the store platform one July afternoon, and discussing his historical labours. We're living in terrible times, and the things that's happening now mops everything else off in the map. He declared, as he refilled his cob pipe. I see things in my paper every week that ought to be noted down in my history, but I'm pretty near eighty, and if I try to put them all in, I'll never get through. There's too damn much going on. They're ditching the river and hells to pay up above. They're blasting in the woods with denny-mack, and some of them old conchers that lives in them shacks up above the English lake'll be blown to kingdom come if they don't watch out and duck. They better wake up and come downstream. Say, just see that damned cuss coming over to bridge? That's Rat Hyatt, and I'm gonna jump him when he gets here. He lost my dog, I'll let him take. That fella's no good, and he's a rippin' for damn nation. Muskrat Hyatt was a tall, raw-boned, keen-eyed, near-do-well sort of fella who had hunted and trapped on the river for many years. He lived in an old houseboat that had floated downstream during high water one spring, and got wedged in among some big trees in the woods, about a half a mile above the bridge. He moved into it when the water subsided and found it inagreable abode. I hope the owner never shows up, remarked Rat, after I knew him. I don't think I'd like him. If the water ever gets that high again and floats me off, I'm willing to go most anywheres in the old ark so long as she don't take a notion to go down and roost on the bridge with me. He greeted us with rather an embarrassed air as he came up, and the old man spent considerable time in attempting to extract some definite information about Spot. Rat was evasive and unsatisfactory. They ain't no more patheticer sight than to see some fella that sets and flaps his ears and can't answer nothing that's asked him without trying to chin about something else all the time, declared Bill. I don't care nothing about it's being hot. I want to know where in hell my dog is. That dog of yours is all right, said Hyatt. I reckon he's off somewhere chasing rabbits, and you needn't do no worrying. If anybody stole him, you bet I'll get him in the scalp of the fellow with him. And if he ain't here to-morrow, I'll take a look around. A dog like that can't be kept hid long, and somebody else will have seen him. He ain't no fool, and if he's shut up anywhere, you bet he'll come back when he gets out. Well, you see that he gets out, replied the old man with disparity. I'm done having heart disease every time I don't see that dog when I go to your place, and I want him back where he belongs. I didn't give him to you, and if you don't know where he is, you ain't fit to have charge of no animal. This ain't no small talk that I'm doing. It's the summon up of the corp. Age, Read. Tipton Posey's Store, Part II Spot was a well-trained bird-dog. Hyatt had borrowed him from the old man about two years before, and his facilities for taking care of him were much better than Bill was able to provide. The animal was allowed to remain at Hyatt's houseboat on indefinite leave. He slept under the rude bed, and seemed much happier there than at home. Hyatt was now in rather a delicate position. The dog had not been seen in the neighborhood for over a week. An old trapper had come down the river in a canoe, and stopped for an hour or so at the houseboat. He announced his intention of leaving the country forever, and was on his way to the Illinois where he hoped to find enough muskrats to occupy his remaining days. He wanted a good quail-dog, and, after much jockeying, had acquired Spot in exchange for a repeating rifle and a box of cartridges. The dog was tied in the front end of the canoe and departed with his new owner. Hyatt had an abiding faith that Spot would return in a few days, and that the stranger would be too far away downstream to want to buffet the strong current to get him back. The dog's homing instinct had proved reliable here to fore, as he had been sold several times under similar conditions, and was now regarded as a possible source of steady income by his thrifty guardian. Hyatt was careful not to sell the animal to anybody who was liable to be in that part of the country again. Spot had once gone as far as the Mississippi River with a confiding purchaser, and was away only a little over two weeks. He was now expected back at any time. In fact, he was under the bed when Hyatt arrived home after the disagreeable reproaches of Bill's styles, and the next day the incident was considered closed by both parties. The only pet that Bill had cared anything for in recent years besides his dog was a one-legged duck that he called Esther. The missing support had been acquired by a snapping turtle in the river, and Bill's sympathies and affections had been aroused. During her owner's absence from his shack Esther and her brown brood were confined in the hollow base of a big tree, protected from the weasels and skunks by a wire screen over the opening. By Saturday night Hyatt and Stiles had become quite chummy again. It was very hot, and we sat in front of the store with our coats off. Bill was discoursing sapiently on topics of international import, and we saw somebody down the road. That old mud-turtle coming yonder with that pipe stuck in all them whiskers is Bill Warrick, he announced after further observation. We call him Puckerbrush Bill, on account of his being up in Puckerbrush Bayou one night in his push-boat, and trying to make a shortcut to get back to the river. He got his whiskers tangled in the Puckerbrush and had to cut away a lot of them with his knife to get out. He's between some pretty big bunches of them now, but they ain't nothing to what they was. He had pretty near half a bushel, and he used to carry his money in them. I suppose he'll be telling all about its troubles when it gets here. That's what's the matter with this place, and it makes me tired to hear all these fellers telling their troubles when they ought to be listening to mine. My troubles has got some importance, but theirs don't interest nobody. Hello, Buck, greeted the old man as where it came up. How's things down to the slew? Pretty slow. Got any tobacco? Listen, Adam, whispered Bill. He was duly supplied and took one of the hickory chairs under the awning. Notwithstanding their reported depletion, his whiskers were still impressive, and the warm evening breeze played softly and fondly among the ample remnants. His mouth was concealed somewhere in the maze. His pointed nose and watchful fur of eyes gave his face a peculiar foxy expression. It's a good thing you didn't strike a prairie fire with them whiskers instead of a mess of old pucker-brush, remarked Bill, after a period of silence. I'm going to mow them in a few days to cool off, and then raise a new crop for next winter. There's lots more where them come from, replied Work. I'll get some whiskers that'll make you feel as set up and take notice for the snow flies. The mention of fire and connection with his whiskers must have suggested something to Wirik, for when he appeared without them the following week he said that he hated a razor, couldn't find any shears, and had frizzled them off with a candle. Bill was shocked at his appearance. You look like you was half-naked, a scene now while you've been keeping that ol' mug ears and covered up. You got a bum face. You get busy and get all the whiskers you can right away. The next arrival was Swan Peterson, an aged swede who lived in a dilapidated shack, festooned on the inside with rusty muskrat-taps near the mouth of Crooked Creek. His liver had rebelled against many years of unfair treatment, and his visage was of a greenish-yellow. A prodigious white mustache that suggested a chrysanthemum in full bloom accentuated the evidence of his ailment. He was considerably over six feet tall. The years of hardship and isolation had bent his mighty shoulders and saddened his gray eyes. Peterson was cast in a heroic mould. His ancestors were the sea-wolves who roved over perilous and unknown waters, and met violent deaths in years when the Norse legends were in the making. But their wild forays and stormy lives meant nothing to him. He had no interest in the past or traditions to uphold. All he now wanted in the world was plenty of patent medicine and whiskey to mix with it, and, in a pinch, he could get along without the medicine. The jaundiced Viking came slowly up on the platform, looked us over languidly and commented on the general cussedness of the weather and life's monotonies. I've been here fifty years, and I've seen the same damn thing every year all over again. It's been cold in the winter and hot in summer. I eat and sleep, then eat and sleep some more, and work hard all day, and then eat and sleep every day the same damn thing. I've been taking medicine now five years, and I can't get none that's got any kick. Maybe I got some of the old things that Rasswaddle says wahoo bitters will cure. But maybe I got something else that they didn't know about when they mixed that stuff. I find mixing half wahoo and half whiskey bends some help. But I'm gonna try some other bitters and mix in more whiskey. That whiskey been a good thing, and when I get a good thing, I put a sinker on it. Old Doc Dust drove up in a squeaky buggy with an ancient top. His lazy gray mare seemed glad to get her feet into the hollowed ground in front of the hitching rail. Certain types in the medical profession are never called anything but Doc, except when more profane appellations are required. Dust was a befitting name for the old man, for he appeared to be much dried up. His parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over his protruding cheekbones, and his emaciated figure seemed almost ready to blow away. Afraid Prince Albert Coat was secured with one button at the waist, and a rusty plug hat was jammed down on the back of his head. These things were evidently intended to impart a professional air, but they completed a sad satire. The Doc looked like a hypocritical old scamp. Much human character, or the lack of it, may be indicated by a hat in the manner of wearing it, particularly if it is a plug. Worn in the ordinary conventional way, a correct plug is supposed to provide a roof for a certain kind of dignity, but usually it indicates nothing beyond the mere lack of artistic sensibility. Tipped forward, it suggests sulkiness, obstinacy, and self-complacency, a sort of spotty rowdyism when worn on one side, and disregard of the rights and opinions of others when it is tilted back of the ears. Of course, the condition and the year of coinage of the plug enter into the equation and complicate it, but even a very shabby plug is an entertaining storyteller. To a careful and discriminating student of human folly it is replete with subtleties. A Fiji island cannibal, whose only wearing apparel was a plug hat, was once made chief of his tribe on account of it. It was probably as becoming to him as it had been to the spiritual advisor he had eaten. Such dignity and distinction as it was capable of imparting was his. He had attained what is possibly the apotheosis of barbaric headdress of our age. Doc carried two medicine cases under his buggy seat on his professional rounds. One of them was stocked with a dozen large bottles with Latin labels, and the other with small files containing white pills the size of a number six shot. If his patient preferred allopathy, he or she got it with a vengeance. If homapathy was wanted, the smaller receptacle was drawn upon. The leaders in the allopathy box were Castor Oil, Calamel, and Quinein. Aconite and Belladonna 100 and Magnesium Fos X occupied the places of honor in the other. Dust had weathered several matrimonial storms, and his last wife was now under the wildflowers in the county cemetery, where the epithet on the unpretentious stone erected by her own relatives was more congratulatory than sourful. Doc Hopkins, or Hoppy-Doc as he was irreverently dubbed along the river, was Dust's only rival. The competition was bitter, and many untimely ends were ascribed by each of them to the other's criminal ignorance. Hoppy-Doc often told with great relish a story of Cornelia Kibbins, Dust's first wife, alleging that after a year of tempestuous married life she had fled to her father's home late one winter night for refuge. Her irate parent refused her an asylum. He had felt greatly outraged when the wedding took place, and never wanted to see his daughter again. In answer to the plaintive midnight cry at his door, he leaned out a second-story window and delivered a torrent of invective. As he closed the window he shouted, Dust thou art, and unto Dust shall thou return. The supplient disappeared, and evidently the worm turned, for Dust was a physical wreck for a month afterwards. Old man Kibbins subsequently declared that while his daughter was a damn fool, she had frightened blood in her, and that the doc had better look out for squalls. Dust was guide good-naturedly by the occupants of the platform as he went into the store to get some fine cut. What's that you got out there between them buggy-thirls, doc, queried Hyatt? Bill winked at me and asked him if he had driven by his garden lately. A delicate reference to the cemetery intended to be sarcastic. Another stovepipe hat was brought by Pop Wilkins, an octogenarian. He also wore it jammed well down behind his ears. The old man climbed painfully up the steps with his hickory cane and dropped into a chair that Hyatt brought out of the store for him. He placed the ancient tile under it, mopped his bald head with a large red bandana, and looked wistfully beyond the river. Pop had been afflicted with intermittent Agu for several years. He was once a preacher and a temperance advocate. He was placed on the superannuated list by the Methodist Conference, and had finally been expunged as a backslider. He fell from grace and yielded to the lure of strong waters. Once after he had overindulged for several weeks, he went and sat in sad reflection on the bank of the gloomy river at night. Out of its depths came strange six-footed beasts and multicolored, crawling things that terrified Pop and drove remorse into his soul. Since that eventful night, he had been more moderate, but he was still in danger, and it was a question as to whether old age, Agu, or Jay Barleycorn would get him first. My friend, Colonel Peets, who was a comparatively recent importation into the river country, came over the bridge with a basket on his arm containing a couple setter pups that he wanted posey to see, with a view of possibly having them applied on his account at the store. He was an ex-Confederate from Tennessee, and seemed sadly out of harmony with his surroundings. The pups were liberated on the platform and subjected to much poking about in criticism by the experts. The Colonel considered them fine specimens of a noble strain, but Wirik thought they looked like they had some wolf blood in them. Posey agreed to accept the little animals in lieu of eight dollars owed by the Colonel, with the understanding that they were to be kept for him until they were a month older. Everybody understood his kindly consideration for the old man and knew that he had no earthly use for the pups. The assemblage in front of the store became more varied and interesting with the arrival of other visitors. The chairs were exhausted and the platform edge was entirely occupied. Bill Stiles had just commenced the narration of a horse-trade story when an old man appeared in the twilight on the bridge. He wore a long gray overcoat, although the evening was very warm. The story stopped and interest was centered on the slowly approaching figure. I asked Posey who he was. He bent his head toward me, confidentially, and in something between a low whistle and a whisper, replied, the serpent's hiss. We were in prohibition territory, and the old bootleger was bringing twelve flat-pint bottles in twelve inside pockets of the gray overcoat to break the drought at Posey's store. He was an unbonded warehouse, and the reason for the mysterious gathering on that particular evening was now apparent. He came slowly up the steps and seemed embarrassed to find a stranger present. I was introduced and vouched for by my friend Posey, and he seemed much relieved. Conversation had been rather dull during the last half-hour, but now it had a merry note. The jaundiced viking brightened up and wondered how many bird's nests had been constructed with the whiskers that Wirik had left up in the bayou. Time-worn jokes were laughed at more than usual. Some new insurance that Posey had acquired was regarded as indicating a big fire as soon as business got dull, and Doc Dust was told that he ought to keep the small bag of oats under his buggy seat away from the medicine cases, or he would lose his horse. While time is flitting, remarked the serpent's hiss, as he rose and departed for the barn lot behind the store. One by one, like turtles slipping off a log into a stream, those who sat along the edge of the platform dropped silently to the ground and followed him. And most of the occupants of the chairs joined the procession. Like the oriflaming of Henry the Navarre, the gray overcoat led them on through the dusk. The retreat to the rear was in deference to Posey's scruples. He preferred that the store itself should be kept free from illegitimate traffic. The odor of substantial sin and a faint suggestion of a dragon's breath was in the atmosphere when the crowd returned. Deliverance had come. Iridity was succeeded by bountiful moisture that, like gentle rain, had fallen upon thirsty flowers. The colonel seemed in some way to be dissatisfied with his visit to the barn and was at odds with the odor of the gray overcoat when the expedition returned. He had parted with a silver coin under protest. In a courtesy, sir, compels me to partake of y'all abundance, sir, he declared. It was not that I wanted your infernal mixture, you mink-eyed old gray rubber, he declared, as he left with his puppies. The old bootlegger's name was Richard Shakes, but the obvious natural perversion to dick snakes was too tempting to be resisted by the river-humorists. He was also frequently alluded to as Tiger-cat, a term that seemed much more appropriate to the liquids he dispensed than to him. For outside of his questionable occupation, the old man was entirely inoffensive and harmless. He was another member of the old-time trapping fraternity and lived alone in a log-house on the creek about two miles away. He had a large collection of Indian relics that he had spent many years in accumulating, and he took great delight in showing them to anybody who came to see him. The arrow and spearheads were methodically arranged in long rows on thin, smooth boards and held in place by the heads of tax that overlapped their edges. The boards were nailed to the walls of face-logs all over the interior of the cabin. Nearly everybody in the surrounding country had contributed to the collection at one time or another, and it was being added to constantly. There were many fine specimens of tomahawk heads, stone axes, and other implements that had been fashioned with admirable skill. The old man guarded his hoarded treasures with a miser's solicitude, for they were the solace of his lonely life. He had refused large offers for the collection as a whole, and never could be induced to part with single specimens, except under pressure of immediate necessity. There are few mental comforts comparable with those of absorbing hobbies. They temper the raw winds and asperities of existence to a wonderful degree, and offer a welcome balm of hard interest to life's weary of continued conflict for mythical goals. We may smile at them and others, but we realize their deep significance when they are our own. Poor old shakes was but another example of one made happy by a harmless fad, the joys of which might well be coveted by those whose millions have brought only fear and sorrow. After it is all over, the pursuit of one phantom has been as gratifying as the quest of another, for they both end in darkness. After sitting around for a while and listening to the enlivened conversation and the gossip of the neighborhood that now circulated freely, the old man bought a package of tobacco in the store, for which he said he had been stung ten cents, and left us with the overcoat from which the cargo had been discharged, hung lightly over his arm. The assemblage gradually dispersed, Wirik Hyed and the jaundiced Viking went down to the riverbank and departed in their pushboats. Doc Dust invited Pop Wilkins to ride with him, and they betook themselves into the shadows. Tipton Posey relighted his pipe, and Bill Stiles resumed the story of the horse trade. End of chapter 5 part 2. Recording by Tom Hirsch