Читать книгу Up Eel River - Margaret Prescott Montague - Страница 6

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Howdy, strangers, I sure am pleased to meet you-all. My name’s Jerry Dan Doolittle, but up Eel River in Tony Beaver’s log camp, they all calls me Truth-Teller. Sure, make yerself at home, step right inside the kivers, set a spell, and take a chaw of this book.

Mebbe you think that’s a right funny way to commence, but I ain’t never written no book afore, and it looks like to me that this tale, what’s got me and Tony Beaver in it, along with Preacher Moses Mutters, and his ole partner, Ain’t-That-So, Big Henry, and Jack Sullivan and all the tother hands from the Eel River crew—not to say nothing of Miss Betsy Beaver, and that little boy, what’s sech a great buddy of Tony’s—is going to pass out into the world, travel around, and meet up with a heap of folks we don’t even know, so me and the tother hands is aiming to be polite and make any feller that steps inside these kivers feel at home right from the jump. Yes, sure! Help yerself to these tales! Take one of ’em—take two of ’em—Why, take darned nigh all of ’em if you crave to.

Now then, seeing as we’re kind of acquainted, I’ll git on with the job.

Well, of course I don’t have to tell none of you-all that if you go into the tall timbers, you’ll sure run up erginst some tall tales, and jest about the tallest tales a person kin find anywheres air right here in West Virginia about Tony Beaver and that big log camp of hisn up Eel River. Why, some of them tales is so tall that if you was to up-end ’em they’d look right over the tops of the white oak trees—a fact I’m telling you.

Yes, sir! You’ll hear every kinder tale about that Tony Beaver, but, if you want the truth about the feller, you’ll jest have to come to me, for I’m the onliest hand in all these woods what’s ever been up Eel River and met Tony right face to face, and Tony hisself handed me out a trick for telling the truth from the tother thing. More’n that he named me the Truth-Teller, and ast me please to write a kind of a history of all his big doings—and that’s what I’m aiming at right this minute.

It sure was funny how I happened to go up Eel River. The thing come to pass sorter by chance, but more by me allus being sech a great hand to git to the truth of a thing—Yes, sirs! I’m jest a hog for truth.

Course I’d heared every kinder tale about Tony Beaver and all the fellers in his crew, but I jest passed ’em all up as nothing in this world but a whole parcel of lies, twill one time when ole man Wiley and me was out working in the woods together. Mebbe you know that ole feller? He’s got a great bush of whiskers, and his years is so large, and sets out so from his head, that folks ’lows he needn’t to mind sleeping out nights, for he kin jest lay down on one year, and kiver up with the tother—yes, that’s the feller I mean. Well, him and me was out in the woods one day, like I said. We’d jest felled a right tough ole hickory, and when the thing was down, jest to show it who’s boss, ole man Wiley spits on his hands and jumps acrost the stump of the thing. Then he sets down on the trunk, and bites him off a great chaw of terbacker—and if you’ll notice, strangers—I mean you-all what’s reading this book—the bigger the chaw, the bigger the lie—and says, “Tony Beaver, now, he kin jump acrost Eel River and back ergin, and never tech ground on the tother side. And more’n that he’s got him a yoke of steers up yonder in his camp, so big it takes a crow a week to fly betwixt the horns of one of ’em.”

“Yes, that sounds jest like the Gospel truth to me,” I says right sarcastic.

“ ’Tis the truth, Jerry Dan! Take it or leave it!” says the ole feller, kinder miffed.

“I’ll take the truth, and leave the tother thing,” I says, not wanting to stir him up too much, seeing’s as he ain’t so very old and has got him a right stout fist at the end of his arm.

“You’ll take the whole of it then,” the ole feller says, squinting down his nose and gitting ready for another big one. “It was up Eel River too, Tony growed him that powerful big watermelon, what was so large it tuck the whole of a freight flat to ride it down the river. Tony he had the hands to load it onto the flat, and then he clomb up atop of it, and the train started out. But it’s mighty rough up Eel River, the grades is steep, and the railroad makes a heap of hairpin bends, and being a watermelon, I reckon that melon jest natcherly tuck to the water. Anyhow, that ole freight was hitting the rails jest lickety split on a down grade, and Tony was setting up a-straddle of his melon, with the dust and cinders flying through his hair, the wind whistling in his years, and all the tother hands swinging onto the back cars for dear life, when whoo—pee! the freight hit a sudden bend, and dogged if it didn’t switch Tony and the melon both right off the flat, down the bank, and into Eel River itself!

“Well, sirs! The hands they was all skeered to death for fear pore Tony’d be drowned: but when they got the train checked up, and run back to look, hold and below! The melon had done busted all to pieces, and here come Tony riding down the river on one of its seeds jest like he was riding a saw-log. He hollers to the tothers to get ’em seeds too, and come on jine the drive, and it wa’n’t hardly no time ’fore the water it was right full of hands, whooping and hollering, buck-jumping down the river on them black watermelon seeds, all in the wildest kind of a jamboree. It sure muster been somepen to see, and I know doggoned well it ’ud only be up Eel River you’d run acrost a melon with seeds that big, but you know the saying—

“That’s the way they do

In the Eel River crew!”

“Well!” I says, all fired up, “where in the H—” Aw-oh! Excuse me, strangers! I didn’t go to let fly no kinder rough word like that—jest at the start too! “Where in the heavens is Eel River!” I says.

“That’s it!” says the ole feller, which of course wa’n’t saying nothing at all.

“All right,” I says. “I’ll jest go on over to the schoolhouse, and hunt me up the place in a geography.”

“Aw no, Jerry Dan, you’ll not locate Tony Beaver’s Eel River in no school book!”

“Well, I’m a gonna locate it somewhere, and locate the truth of all these here tales at the same time!” I busts out.

“Haw! Haw! Haw! You’ll never locate Eel River somewheres!” old man Wiley hollers out like I’d hit the biggest kinder joke—I had, but didn’t know it. “If you do locate the place, mebbe you’ll locate the truth, and mebbe you won’t—but you’ll not git there at all, lessen Tony sends that there path of hisn out for you.”

“Tony’s path—what’s that? I never heared nothing about him having a path afore,” I says.

“Well, spread yer years then, and I’ll pour the tale into ’em,” says the ole feller. “That path now, it sure is a handy little trick! Tony he happened up on it all by chance one day when he was coming along through the woods. First off it looked to be jest a common enough little trail going about its business, not paying no ’tention to nobody, with ferns and moss hanging onto its edge, and little gray rocks poked up through its middle, but the minute Tony set foot on it, whoop—ee! the thing squirmed right out from under his feets and pitched him over in the bresh.

“ ‘Hey! Doggone you! What in the thunder air you up to!’ Tony bawls at it mighty mad, for where Tony Beaver sets his foot thare he aims to have it stay. With that he jumps back ergin on the path good and hard with both feet. But ergin she humped up and bucked him off. Well, sirs! Tony he set back in the bresh and studied that frisky little trick for quite a spell, and when he done that he seen it wa’n’t struck down to the ground like most trails, but was kinder loose and free. So then he went to one end of it and ripping it away from the ground, rolled it up mighty keerful and tuck it on back to camp, jest like it was, with the moss and ferns and little gray rocks swinging onto it. There he tamed the critter, and now whenever he wants a person to visit him up Eel River, all he has to do is to send out that there little path, and dogged if the thing won’t fetch anybody into camp jest for all the world like a cat fetching in a mouse.”

“Well, I sure did have to spread my years—large as they is—to take in that tale!” I says. “And how does a person git the word to Tony that he’s wanting to see him?”

“Send it by a jay bird, Jerry Dan,” says the ole feller, kinder laffing. With that he picks up his saw, and went moseying off to camp.

“Jay bird nothing!” I says out loud to myself kinder mad, and “Jay! Jay!” a blue jay says right back at me outer a sumac bush.

“Here, bird! Who you sassing? You git on back up Eel River where you belong, and tell yer boss I’m a-wanting to see him!” I says, and along with the words I throwed a rock at the critter.

The jay give a right funny flirt to his tail and flew off, and I didn’t think nothing more of the thing, but Great Day in the Morning! It was jest that very evening when I was coming through the woods along ’bout sundown, that I run up on a little path laying out there on the ground, looking jest as innocent as you please, and like it wa’n’t doing a thing in this world but warming up its back ’fore the sun went down. “Hey!” I says to myself. “This must be a short cut to camp I’ve never seen afore—b’lieve I’ll take it!” I says.

With that, never thinking nothing, I steps out on the thing. Well, sirs! It had jest been a-laying there waiting for me! The minute I teched foot to it, it busted itself loose from the ground, and went a-t’aring and a-r’aring out through the woods like a black snake racer!

“Aw my soul! What’s got you now, Jerry Dan!” I hollers out, flinging both arms right tight round the thing’s neck, swinging on for all I was worth to keep from being bucked off and fatally busted.

“Hole on! Hole on! Jest—jest—jest—wait a second if you please, sir!” I bellers at the thing, so skeered my words was shaking all up and down, and the goose flesh was right stiff up the spine of my back.

But it never broke its stride, and yonder we went out through the woods, wriggling and wrastling, t’aring up the hills, sliding down the hollers, and diving acrost the cricks and little runs, with the water splashing up, the wind zooning in my years, and my logger boots, heavy as they is, stripped right offen my feet by the pace—a fact I’m telling you.

I shet up both eyes, and give up all for lost, and splash! We split a river wide open, and swee—eeeeesh! we went up the bank on the tother side. “Aw my lands! I wished I’d said good-bye to my folks ’fore ever I tromped on this thing!” I says to myself.

The path had got itself going good by now, and when we hit the top of the next ridge, dogged if it didn’t spread itself right out in the air and jest sail acrost to the next ridge, never teching ground in between. Strangers, I wouldn’t like to tell you-all what a turrible feeling it give me in the stomick when the thing done that.

After that, it never bothered about the hollers no more, but jest went hop-skip, skip-hop, from ridge to ridge, for all the world like a young un hopping acrost a crick on stepping stones, with me swinging onto its neck and wishing I was mo’ ready for a exchange of worlds. “Aw my soul! We’re a-heading straight for the Atlantic ocean, an’—an’—an’ then what?” I says, trying to keep the chatter outer my teeth. “Ho’!—Ho’!—Ho’!—Hole on!—hole on, brother! Wait! Wait! Jest please to wait a second! Whoa! Whoa-up! Hoo-Haw! Gee! Back-a-leg! Doggone it!” I says. “If I jest knowed whether the thing was a human or a critter, I’d know how to talk to it! Hole on, Mister—Mister—Mister Man, or whatever you call yerself, please to put on the brakes,” I says jest as nice and polite as I knowed how. But the thing never checked up. “It don’t seem to understand human talk, so it must be some kinder critter,” I thinks. With that I commenced trying it with every kinder animal talk I could lay my tongue to. “Sukey! Suke! Suke! Suke! S-o-o-o, gal! Back a leg!” No, ’tain’t a cow, I says, seeing as it never took no heed of that cow talk. “Chickie! Chickee! Chickee! Duckie! Duck-ie!” (No, ’tain’t a fowl.) “Pig! Pig! Pig! Pig-ee!” (No, ’tain’t a hawg.) “Well, then—Here, Ponto! Here, Ponto! Here! Here! Here! He—re, Ponto! Good dog—ie! N—i—c—e ole feller!” I tries at it, and I would of patted its head if it had of had a head to pat, and I could of spared a hand from holding on to pat with. “No, ’taint a dawg,” I says, seeings as Ponto didn’t fetch it. “I guess, though, it’s lucky it ain’t,” I thinks, “for if it had a-been, it mought of wagged its tail, and wagged me right into Kingdom Come! My Soul! That was a narrer escape!” I thinks. “I better try it with some animal that don’t wag. Well, then—Sheep! Sheep! She-e-e-e-pie! Shee-pie! Sheep!” (No, ’tain’t a sheep.) “Mebbe it’s a horse then. Kope Kope! K—o—p—e! Whee-ooo! Whee-ooo! Whif—Whif—Whew! Whif—” I tries to whistle at it like you do to a horse, but we was going so fast the wind cut the whistle right off short in my throat, and nigh choked me to death. “Well doggone it, then it must be a mule!” I says, and I wouldn’t like to tell you the words I busts out with then—Aw well! You know how a person talks at a mule! But it jest kep’ right along skip-jumping from ridge to ridge, hop, hop, hop, and if it knowed mule talk it never let on like it did.

“Well, by the way it travels, it mought be a grasshopper,” I thinks. So I tries it with—

“Hoppy-grass, hoppy-grass,

Gimme some molasses!”

Which was the onliest thing I’d ever heard of a person saying to a hop-grass. But that never fetched it neither. “Well, dog my cats!” I says. “It don’t ’pear to be human, critter, ner insec’, and if it’s a veg-a-table, then Skat me! if I know a word to say to it!”

Well, there now! Looked like jest by chance I hit the right kinder talk, for the minute I said “Skat” the thing fa’rly split the wind wide open going. “Well, darn me, if it ain’t a cat!” I says. “Well, sirs! Puss! Puss! Puss! Kittie! Kittie! Kit! Nice little pussie-cat! Whoa-up, kitty! Wh-o-o-a-a, pussie! N-I-C-E little kitty!” I says, making out like I liked cats, though I don’t.

But if it was more a cat critter ’an any other kind, me saying “Skat,” and “dog my cats” like that had got it mad, and now it wouldn’t check up for nothing, but jest kept clipping right along from ridge to ridge, with me laid out on its back, and thinking mighty pale with every jump, “There sure will be a strange face in Heaven to-night—and it’ll be yours, Jerry Dan!”

But by now as I looked down and seen all below winking by, it seemed like the whole world was jest about to bust itself wide open laffing. The rocks and trees and bushes ’peared to be laffing, and every varmint that run out to look as we went by, was carrying on the same way. Rabbits, squirrels, and groundhogs, they’d all run out to look, r’ar back on they behind legs, p’int, and wave they paws up wide, hollering out somepen, and then jest fa’rly fall over on the ground, kicking, and rolling over, and laffing, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Haw! Haw!” fit to bust theyselves wide open.

I didn’t know what it was all about—and yit some way I did too—but d’rectly seeing the critters all so tickled, commenced to git me tickled, skeered though I was. “Well, there’s somepen powerful funny going on, Jerry Dan,” I says to myself, “but looks like I jest can’t reach it with my funny bone.”

But the more I didn’t know what the thing was, seemed like the more tickled I got—Aw well, you-all know how ’tis, sometimes a joke you don’t know’ll git you more tickled ’an one you do. “Well ’tis funny I know, but dogged if I know what ’tis!” I says.

“Hey now, what’s the big laf?” I hollers down at the varmints.

They waves they paws up wide, and hollers back, “Yer traveling from—from—traveling—” but going by so fast I couldn’t ketch what they said.

A ole black crow flopping along ’side of us let out a great “Caw! Caw! Haw—Haw—Haw!”

“You black raskil! Quit Caw-Hawing at me, and tell me what’s hit your funny bone!” I hollers at him.

“Haw! Haw! Haw! Don’t you know yer a-traveling from—from—Haw! Haw! From—traveling from—Haw! Haw! Haw!” He couldn’t git the words out for laffing, and d’rectly we was outer ear-shot.

“Well, I know it’s somepen funny if it’ll make a crow laf,” I says. But right that minute all the tickle was skeered outer me, and I tuck a fresh strangle holt on the path, for the thing scooted up the tallest ridge we’d hit yit, with the bresh and trees down below waving in the wind of it, the coons and squirrels, and varmints, rolling around all blowed about, still laffing and hollering, “Yer traveling from—from—Oh, Haw! Haw!” and jest at the top of the ridge the path flung itself out over a high cliff of rocks right into the air, and I never seen nothing no mo’, but the sky overhead and a twinkle of earth below, all going by in a kind of a daze.

“Good-bye Jerry Dan—pore young feller!” I thinks, wishing my stomick was more used to this kinder riding, and hanging on to the path with all four arms and legs, and toe nails.

Well, I stayed with my pig, as the saying is, and in another pair of seconds, the path landed down somewheres, give a final buck-jump, and a squirm, and lef’ me laying out flat on some kinder ground.

“Well, where in the thunder am I at now!” I thinks, setting up on the ground and looking about still in a kind of a maze. As I ketched my breath and looked, I seen log hands come a-running from every which way, all of ’em whooping and laffing, waving they arms out wide jest like the varmints, p’inting and hollering to one another, “Hey, look ayander! Look! Aw my soul, look what the path fetched in! Aw, Haw! Haw! Haw!”

I jined in too, whooping and laffing with the best of ’em, for I knowed it sure was comical, but still and all, I didn’t know what it was.

“Haw! Haw! Welcome, stranger!” they gits out.

“Welcome, yerself,” I says. “And—excuse me—Haw! Haw! Haw! Will you please to tell me what I’m a-laffing at, so’s I kin laf sure ’nough?”

“Why you big idgit!” one of ’em bellers back all in a breath, “you’re a-laffing ’cause you’ve traveled right from Somewheres to Nowheres, and now yer at it!”

“Well, dog my cats! Er course that’s it! Why—course—course I knowed that was what I was doing all the time! Aw, Haw! Haw! Haw! Traveled from Somewheres to Nowheres, and now yer at it! Well that is comical sure! Traveled—Somewheres—Nowheres—an’ now yer at it! Aw my jaws! My jaws!” I hollers out.

Well, sirs! That thing come nigh killing me, for I reckon I don’t have to tell none of you-all that’s reading this tale, that to travel from Somewheres to Nowheres is jest about the beatenest thing a person kin do. And if you don’t b’lieve me, you jest travel that way onced yerself, and see if it don’t come nigh putting your funny bone outer place. There’s jest one thing funnier than traveling from Somewheres to Nowheres, and that’s to git there—and now I’d done both, and the joke of it come nigh ruining my jaws. It’s the truth they had a kind of a crick in ’em till a right smart time afterwards when we-all up Eel River hit the world’s funny bone, and the big laf that time kinder put ’em back into place ergin—but I don’t aim to tell you-all about that now.

“Well, well!” I says at last, sitting up on the ground, all wore out. “If I’m Nowheres, where am I?”

“Why, yer up Eel River——”

“Yer in Tony Beaver’s log camp——”

“Tony’s path fetched you in——”

“Tony Beaver——”

“Eel River——”

“Ain’t that so!”

“Eerrr—erk! Errr—erk! Errrr—ROOOO!” They all bellers out in a jumble together.

“Eel River!” Well sure enough, there I was! I mighter knowed all the time I was heading for it, and I would’ve liked to laf some more, only that trip from Somewheres to Nowheres had jest laffed me dry. I looks around and yonder was all the hands from Tony Beaver’s log camp I’d been hearing sech tales about, and never b’lieving they was true. There was Preacher Moses Mutters as solemn as a billy goat, and his ole buddy Ain’t-That-So; there was the little fiddler, mighty wide looking betwixt the eyes, and kinder laffing to hisself like he knowed somepen funnier ’an he could lay his tongue to; and there was Big Henry and Jack Sullivan, what’s the biggest kinder buddies, ’cept when they’s fighting one another—which they ’most generally air: yes, sure ’nough! There they all was, and a heap more besides.

“Well, sirs!” I says looking all about with my mouth gapping open. “Here you all air sure ’nough, when all the time, I jest thought you was nothing in this world but a whole parcel of lies!”

“You thought we was what?——”

“What’s that you say, stranger?” Big Henry and the Sullivan feller bawls out, dancing up to me and looking powerful dangerous.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, partners!” I says all in a hurry. “I was jest aiming to say I never thought none of you was so.”

“Aw yes, we’re so—leastways we’re so-so,” says Jack Sullivan, unrolling his fists.

“Hey now! Here’s Tony Beaver hisself! He’ll tell you whether we’re so or not!” Big Henry hollers.

Well, sirs! Believe me or not! There was the great Tony Beaver hisself coming moseying along with that little boy buddy of hisn sitting up on his shoulder mighty proud, his arm round Tony’s neck, looking like he owned the whole world, and then some.

Well now, I ain’t aiming to tell you-all jest what Tony Beaver looks like. He’s sech a great hero that mebbe it’s best jest to think in yer own heads what he looks like—thataway every feller kin think him up to suit hisself.

Well, he come swinging along with that kinder limber tread he’s got, more like some kinder wild varmint than a human, and “Hey! What’s all this about?” he hollers.

“Look a-here, Tony! Here’s a stranger what the path fetched in, saying as how he never knowed we was so,” Big Henry says, all worried up. “Stranger, shake hands with Mister Beaver,” he says.

“Welcome to Eel River, stranger!” Tony says mighty nice and friendly, and “Welcome, stranger!” the little boy up on his shoulder says right after him.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Beaver! Pleased to meet you, sonny!” I says fetching out the best manners I had.

“I got your word all right, and sent the path out for you,” says Tony.

“Why, I didn’t send no word to you, Mister Beaver,” I says.

“Didn’t you send word by a blue jay you was wanting to see me?” he says, and “Yes, sure you did! Sure you sent word by the jay bird!” his little buddy says.

“Why, come to think of it, sure I did! Ain’t that so! But I never thought nothing in this world of it!” I says.

“Yes! Never-thought-nothing-of-it gits a heap of keerless young fellers like you into trouble!” Brother Moses Mutters, the preacher, bawls at me, clawing his fingers through his whiskers, and looking turrible scan’alized, and “Ain’t—that—so!” another ole feller sing-songs, dragging out his words jest thataway, mighty solemn and heavy, like he was dropping rocks down a well. I never did know what that ole brother’s name was. All the fellers jest called him “Ain’t-That-So,” ’count of him allus backing up the preacher with jest them words, no more, and no less.

“Errrr—erk! Errrr—erk! Errrr—ROOOOOO!” Another hand comes out all at onced, flopping his arms, and making out to crow like he’s a rooster. That sure did give me a great jump, but come to find out that was pretty nigh allus what that feller done. Ole Brother Mutters ’ud say somepen mighty solemn; “Ain’t——that——so!” his old partner’d back him up, and, “Errrrr-erk! Errrrr—erk! Errrr—ROOOOOOO!” the joky hand ’ud flop his arms and crow right after them solemn old buddies. Aw, I dunno why the feller done it! It was jest a kind of a way he had—but seemed like it allus made them two ole fellers mad.

“Tell the stranger we’re so, Tony—’fore I tell him with my fist!” Big Henry hollers, all fired up.

“Yes, sure we’re so, all right! But if the feller don’t know it, he’ll jest have to stay in camp a spell to find out how so we air,” says Tony. “Looks like that path tore you up some, stranger,” he says looking me all over, and seeing how all tousled to pieces I was. “But the hands’ll rig you out all right ergin.”

“Yes, sure! We fellers’ll fix you fine!” says the little buddy.

Well, sir! That there path what had fetched me in at sech a clip, had been laying off in the bresh, kinder dozing along, resting up after the trip, but the minute it heared Tony say “path,” it give a bound, and come a-romping and a-wriggling up to him, rolling over on the ground at his feet, humping itself up and rubbing round his legs, precisely like some kinder cat critter.

That was the first time I’d had a right good sight of the thing, for when I come in, I was too busy holding on and too skeered to look—and believe me! now I jest looked and looked at it with all the looks I had. It looked like a—Well, it looked like—like—Aw, you know! Like a—a—a—Well, now I come to study on it, be darned if I kin tell you-all jest what the thing did look like! But anyhow, it sure did make my eyes bulge to see it.

“Look out! Look out, stranger!” the little fiddler yells at me all of a sudden.

“Hey, what!” I says, giving a big jump.

“Hol’ yer eyes in place, or they’ll pop right outer yer head with looking!” he hollers back.

The little feller warned me jest in time, for it’s the truth, in another pair of seconds my eyes would’ve busted right outer my head.

That’s one thing I’ll jest take time right now to warn you strangers of—I mean you-all that’s reading this book. If you ever happen to go up Eel River, do pray mind and hole onto yer eyes, or you sure will lose ’em looking at what you’ll see up there. One time there was a right pitiful happening jest on account of that very thing. Whilst I was still up yonder in Tony’s camp, there was a young feller—but that’s some piece off yit, so I’ll come on back now to the beginning.

“Well, now you air here, what was you wanting to know?” Tony asks me, after I’d got my eyes settled back safe in my head again.

Well, what was it? Traveling so fast, being so skeered, and laffing so hard, had kinder jolted the sense outer me. But in a second it all come back.

“Why, it’s the truth I’m after, Mister Beaver,” I says. “They’s a whole heaper tales going around in the woods about you and all your doings, and I’m aiming to git at what’s so, and what ain’t. For you know as well as I do, even the finest brand of gen-u-ine truth kin very easy be stretched into the tother thing—ain’t that so?”

“Yes, sure that’s so!” he says, and “Sure is so!” the little feller follows him up. “Well now,” says Tony. “If it’s the truth yer after I kin give it to you—Here, run up to camp and fetch me some of that lie-paper!” he hollers to one of the hands. “Mebbe you’ve seen this here sticky fly-paper what ketches flies?” he asks me. “Well, I’ve invented me some sticky lie-paper, what’ll ketch lies as fast as the fly-paper ketches flies—sure is a handy trick!” he says.

And it sure is! When the hand come running back with the paper, there, jest like he said, was three or four great, round, black, ole lies hanging on to it, jest for all the world like flies on fly-paper.

“If there’s one thing I hate worse’n a fresh lie, it’s a ole one! But I’ll fix you all right!” Tony says, picking off them ole lies and stomping ’em into the ground.

“How in the world did you ever come to think of it, Mister Beaver?” I says, jest looking at the paper, and all carried away.

“Aw, it was jest a matter of using yer brains!” he says, shrugging up his shoulders, making out like he didn’t think nothing of it—but I could easy see the feller was tickled to death over his own smartness. “It come to me all of a sudden one day when I was looking at some flies on a fly-paper,” he says. “ ‘Lor’ me! I wished I had somepen that would ketch lies as good as that paper ketches flies,’ I thinks. Then I commenced saying over to myself, ‘Fly-paper, lie-paper, flies, lies, lies, flies, flies, lies,’ jest thataway, and bang! in one second it come to me that lies wa’n’t a thing in this world but flies with the ‘f’ left off! So then I seen all I had to do was jest to invent some sticky paper with the ‘f’ left outer it—that’s exactly what I done, and that’s why this here paper ketches lies ’stead of flies—it’s jest a matter of using yer brains. But I’m still kinder bothered,” he says, looking worried, “for the paper only ketches flies when they’s more’n one of ’em around, for course it takes more’n leaving the ‘f’ off to make a single lie match up to a fly—but it don’t really make no difference,” he says cheering up, “for lies never do come single, they allus travels in droves.”

Well, I looked and I looked at the thing, and says, “Fly-paper, lie-paper, flies, lies, lies, lies, flies,” over and over, and back’ards and for’ards jest like Tony said he’d done, but for the life of me I couldn’t git it figgered out why jest leaving the “f” off would make flies into lies. “Excuse me, Mister Beaver,” I says. “Excuse me, sir, but—but, some way, that don’t ’pear to me to have no sense to it.”

“ ’Tain’t got no sense—that’s why it works so well!” says Tony. “Look a-here!”

With that he swishes the paper round in the air and ketches a whole slew of lies didn’t nobody know was there till the paper fetches ’em into sight.

“Well, it sure is a handy trick!” I says. “And now I see why it’s having no sense makes it work so good! But I never would’ve knowed it, if I hadn’t traveled all the way from Somewheres to Nowheres!”

“Now yer talking, young feller! You’ve ketched right on to the hang of things in this camp,” says Tony. “And seeing as yer sech a great hand for the truth, I’ll ast you to stay with us a spell and be the—the—the—Well doggone it!” says the feller, scratching his ear, “you know what I mean—the—the—Aw! The feller what writes up the doings of a place.”

“Historian, is the word yer aiming at,” says ole Brother Mutters, rolling his tongue ’round, mighty proud of his smartness.

“Ain’t—that—so!” says his ole buddy.

“Errrr—erk! Errrr—erk! Errrr—ROOOOOOOOO!” says the joky feller.

“Yes, historian—I’ll thank you not to take the words outer my mouth, Preacher Mutties!” says Tony. “Now then!” he says to me, “since you’ve traveled all the way from Somewheres to Nowheres, jest to git the truth, I’m a-going to make you the Eel River historian, and hand this here lie-paper over to you, so’s you kin try out things with it, and sort out what’s so, from what ain’t. The tales you tell about Eel River’ll be the truth—and the tales the tother fellers tells, why they’ll jest be the tother thing,” he says. “What mought yer name be, young feller?”

“It mought be Christopher Columbus, or it mought be George Washington, but it is Jeremire Daniel Doolittle—Jerry Dan, for short,” I says.

“Well, Jerry Dan, I’m a-going to give you a new name,” says Tony. “Fellers!” he bawls out, “meet the Truth-Teller, what’s going to tell the truth about this camp!”

At that all hands busts out with a great hullabaloo, stomping they feets, slapping they pants legs, cheering, and hollering out, “Pleased to meet you, Truth-Teller!” “Welcome to Eel River!” “Howdy, Mister Truth-Teller!” and all like that, mighty nice and friendly.

So there you see, strangers—you-all that’s reading this book—how it was I happened to go up Eel River, and to write this tale of Tony and his camp—it all jest come outer me being sech a hog for the truth!