Читать книгу The Characteristics of American Humour - Various Authors - Страница 19

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In a remote region of the Hoosac Mountains is a little place called Turkeytown. It is a straggling assemblage of dingy, old-fashioned houses surrounded by the woods, and the inhabitants are as old-fashioned as their dwellings. They raise corn and pumpkins, believe in witches, and know nothing of railroads or the march of intellect. There has never been more than one pair of boots in the town: these are called “the town boots,” and are provided at the public expense, to be worn to Boston every winter by the representative. I had the satisfaction last week of actually seeing these venerable coriaceous integuments in official duty upon the long shanks of Colonel Crabapple of the General Court, and was struck with becoming awe at their veteran looks. They seemed to be somewhat the worse for wear, but the Colonel informed me the town had lately voted to have them heel-tapped, and the vote would probably be carried into effect before the next session.

The present story, however, is not about boots, but about Bob Lee, who was an odd sort of a fellow, that lived upon the skirts of Turkeytown, and got his living by hook and by crook. He had neither chick nor child, but kept a bachelor’s hall in a ricketty old house, without any companion except an old black hen, whom he kept to amuse him because she had a most unearthly mode of cackling that nobody could understand. Bob used to spend his time in shooting wild ducks, trapping foxes and musquashes, catching pigeons, and other vagabond and aboriginal occupations, by means of which he contrived to keep his pot boiling, and a ragged jacket upon his back. Nothing could induce him to work hard and lay up something for a rainy day. Bob left the rainy days to take care of themselves, and thought of nothing but sunshine. In short, the incorrigible vagabond was as lazy, careless, ragged and happy as any man you ever saw of a summer’s day.

And it fell out upon a summer’s day, that Bob found himself without a cent in his pocket or a morsel of victuals in the house. His whole disposable wealth consisted of a single fox-skin nailed against his back door, drying in the sun. Something must be had for dinner, and Bob took down the fox-skin, and set off for Deacon Grabbit’s store to sell it. As luck would have it, before he had gone a quarter of a mile, he met old Tim Twist, the Connecticut pedlar, a crony and boon companion of many years’ standing. Tim, who was glad to see his old gossip, invited him into Major Shute’s tavern to take a glass of New-England. Bob, who had never signed the temperance pledge, accepted the invitation nothing loth. They sat down over half a pint, and discussed the news. No drink tastes better than that which a man gets for nothing. It was a hot day, and both were very thirsty. Tim was very liberal for a Connecticut man. What will you have? In the upshot they found they had made an immense potation of it; and Bob took leave of his old friend, clearly satisfied that he had not taken so heavy a pull for many a day.

He had hardly got out of sight of the tavern before he found the road too crooked to travel; he sat down under an apple-tree to take a little cool reflection, but the more he reflected, the more he could not understand it: his eyes began to wag in his head, and he was just on the point of falling asleep, when a bob o’link alighted on a branch over his head and began to sing “Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link!” Bob Lee’s brains were by this time in such a fog, that his eyes and ears were all askew, and he did not doubt somebody was calling on him.

“Hollo, neighbor;” says Bob Lee.

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! what ye got? what ye got? what ye got?” chattered the bird—as Bob thought.

“Got a fox-skin,” answered he. “D’ye want to buy?”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! what’ll ye take? what’ll ye take?” returned the little feathered chatterer.

“Half a dollar,” replied Bob, “and it’s worth every cent of the money.”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link! two and threepence! two and threepence! two and threepence!” was the reply from the apple-tree.

“Won’t take it,” said Bob; “it’s a real silver-grey: half a dollar is little enough for it. Can’t sell it for two and threepence.”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! you’d better, you’d better, you’d better; two and threepence, two and threepence, two and threepence; now or never, now or never, now or never.”

“Can’t ye say any more? Well, take it then. I won’t stand for ninepence. Hand us over the money,” said Bob, twisting his head round and round, endeavouring to get a sight of the person with whom he was bargaining.

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link! let’s have it! let’s have it, let’s have it: quick or ye’ll lose it! quick or ye’ll lose it!”

Bob turned his head toward the quarter from which the sound proceeded, and imagining he saw somebody in the tree, threw up the fox-skin, exclaiming, “There it is, and cheap enough too, at two and threepence.” Mr. Bob o’link started and flew away, singing “Bob o’link, bob o’link! catch a weasel, catch a weasel, catch a weasel!” for Bob Lee made clear English of every thing that the bird said, and never doubted all the while that he was driving a regular bargain with a country trader. At the same time, spying a toadstool growing at the foot of the tree, he imagined it to be a half dollar, and made a grasp at it. The toadstool was demolished under his hand, but Bob happening to clutch a pebble-stone at the same moment, thrust it into his pocket, fully persuaded he had secured his coin. “Can’t make change—remember it next time!” said he, and so turning about, he made the best of his way homewards.

When he awoke the next morning, he felt in his pocket for the half dollar, but his astonishment cannot be described at finding it metamorphosed into a stone. He rubbed his eyes, but the more he rubbed them, the more like a stone it looked:—decidedly a stone! He thought of witchcraft, but presently recollecting that he had taken a drop too much, just before the bargain under the apple-tree, he became of opinion that he had been cheated, and that the crafty rogue who had bought his fox-skin, had taken advantage of his circumstances to palm off a stone upon him for silver. Bob started upon his legs at the very thought. “A rascal!” he exclaimed, “I’ll catch him if he’s above ground!” No sooner said than done. Out he sallied in a tremendous chafe, determined to pursue the rogue to the further end of the state. He questioned every person he met, whether he had not seen a crafty-looking caitiff sharking about the town and buying fox-skins, but nobody seemed to know any such creature. He ran up and down the road, called at Major Shute’s tavern, at Deacon Grabbit’s store, at Colonel Crabapple’s grocery, at Tim Thumper’s shoemaker’s shop, at Cobb’s bank and at Slouch’s corner, but not a soul had seen the man with the fox-skin. Bob was half out of his wits at being thus baulked in his chase, never imagining he was all the while in pursuit of an innocent little bob o’link.

In great vexation at this disappointment, he was slowly plodding his way homeward, when he came in sight of the spot where he had made this unfortunate traffic with the roguish unknown. “Oh apple-tree!” he exclaimed, “if thou bee’st an honest apple-tree, tell me what has become of my fox-skin.” He looked up as he uttered these words, and to his astonishment, there was his fox-skin, dangling in the air at the end of a branch! He knew not what to make of so strange an adventure, but he was nevertheless overjoyed to recover his property, and climbing the tree, threw it to the ground. The tree was old and hollow; in descending, he thrust his foot into an opening in the trunk, some distance above the ground, and felt something loose inside. He drew it out and found it was a heavy lump, which he imagined at first to be a stone wrapped round with a cloth. It proved, however, on examination, to be a bag of dollars!

He could hardly believe his eyes, but after turning them over and over, ringing them upon a stone and cutting the edge of some of them with a knife, at length satisfied himself that they were true silver pieces. The next inquiry was, how they came there, and to whom they belonged. Here he was totally in the dark. The owner of the land surely could not be the proprietor of the money, for he had no need of a strong-box in such a sly place. The money had lain in the tree some years, as was evident from the condition of the bag, which was nearly decayed. Was it stolen? No—because nobody in these parts had lost such a sum. Was it the fruit of a highway robbery? No robbery had been committed in this quarter, time out of mind. There were no imaginable means of accounting for the deposit of money in such a place. The owner or depositor had never returned to claim it, and was now probably dead or gone away, never to return.

Such were the thoughts that Bob revolved in his mind as he gloated over his newly-gotten treasure. At first he thought of making the discovery public, but reflecting on the many annoyances which this would bring upon him in the inquisitive curiosity of his neighbours, and more especially considering that the cash must in consequence lie a long time useless, ere he could be legally allowed to apply it as his own property, he resolved to say nothing about it, but to consider the money his own immediately. It was therefore conveyed the same evening to his house, and snugly lodged in his chest.

From that day forward it began to be remarked among the neighbours, that Bob Lee was mighty flush of money, and though he had no visible means of subsistence, spent a great deal more than he was wont. More especially it excited their wonder that his pockets always contained hard dollars, while other people had little besides paper. There is nothing equal to the prying curiosity of the inhabitants of a country village, and the buzzing and stir which an insignificant matter will arouse among a set of inquisitive gossips. Everybody began to talk about the affair, but nobody knew how to account for it. All sorts of guesses and conjectures were put upon the rack, but nothing was able to explain the mystery. All sorts of hints, inquiries and entreaties were put in requisition. Bob was proof against all their inquisitiveness and seemed resolved to let them die in the agonies of unsatisfied curiosity.

Bob stood it out for a long while; but human endurance has its limits, and after being worried with guesses and questions till he despaired of ever being left in quiet possession of his own secret, he began to cast about for a method of allaying the public curiosity in some measure, or at least of turning it aside from himself. An old gossip, named Goody Brown, had laid siege to him about the affair from the first moment. One afternoon she dropped in as usual, and after some preliminary tattle, recommenced the attack by inquiring, with a significant look and shake of the head, whether money was as scarce as ever with him. Bob had been for some time thinking of a trick to play the old lady, and thought this a good moment to begin his mystification: so putting on a look of great seriousness, knitting his brows, and puckering up his mouth, as if big with a mighty secret about to be communicated, he replied:

“Really, Mrs. Brown—I have been thinking, whether—now you are a prudent woman, I am certain.”

“A prudent woman, indeed! who ever thought of calling me imprudent? Everybody calls me a prudent woman, to be sure. You need not doubt it, though I say so.”

“You are a prudent woman, no doubt, and I have been thinking, I say, whether I might trust you with a secret!”

“A secret! a secret! a secret! Oh, Mr. Bob, then there is a secret?” stud the old lady aroused into great animation by the prospect of getting at the bottom of the mystery at last.

“Yes, Mrs. Brown, to confess the truth, there is a secret.”

“Oh! I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was a secret. I always said there was a secret—I was always sure there was a secret! I told everybody I knew there must be a secret.”

“But Mrs. Brown, this must be kept a secret; so perhaps I had better keep it to myself. If you cannot keep a secret, why then—”

“Good lack! Mr. Lee, I am sure you are not afraid. Never fear me: I can keep a secret. Everybody knows how well I can keep a secret.”

“Everybody knows, to be sure, how well you can keep a secret; that is just what I am thinking about.”

“Sure, Mr. Bob, you don’t mean to keep me out of the secret now you have begun. Come, come, what is it? You know I can keep a secret; you know I can.”

“But this, recollect, Mrs. Brown, is a very particular secret; and if I tell it to you—hey, Mrs. Brown, it must be in confidence you know.”

“Oh, in confidence! to be sure in confidence—certainly in confidence. I keep everything in confidence.”

“But now I recollect, Mrs. Brown, that story about Zachary Numps—they say you blabb’d.”

“Oh law! now Mr. Lee, no such thing! I only said one day in company with two or three people—altogether in confidence—that some folks might, if they chose, say so and so about some folks. It was all in confidence, but somehow or other it got out.”

“If you are sure you can keep the secret then, I think I may trust you with it; but you must promise.”

“Oh, promise! certainly I will promise, Mr. Bob; nobody will promise more than I will—that is, I certainly will promise to keep the secret.”

“Then let me tell you,” said he, in a low, solemn voice, hitching his chair at the same time nearer to the old woman, who sat with open mouth and staring eyes, eager to devour the wished-for secret: “These dollars of mine, you know, Mrs. Brown—” here he stopped, keeping her in the most provoking suspense imaginable.

“Yes, yes; the dollars, the dollars.”

“These dollars of mine, you know, Mrs. Brown, why they are dollars—hey?”

“Yes, the dollars, the dollars; go on, go on—where do they come from? Mr. Bob, where do you get them?—where do you get them?”

“Why, I get them somewhere, you know; but where do you think?”

“Yes, yes, you get them somewhere; I always thought you got them somewhere: I always told everybody I knew you must get them somewhere.”

“Very well, Mrs. Brown.”

“Very well, Mr. Lee; but where do you get them? that is the question—you have not told me.”

“Where do I get them,” said Bob, slowly and solemnly, and rubbing his hands together, screwing up his mouth, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, while the old lady was on the tenter-hooks of suspense and expectation. “Where do I get them? Now what do you think, Mrs. Brown, of my old black hen?”

“Your old black hen! What do you mean?”

“There’s the thing now! Then you never guessed, hey? Is it possible you never heard the story of the goose with the golden egg?”

“To be sure,” replied Goody, opening her eyes wider than ever; “to be sure I have, to be sure, Mr. Bob—to be sure. But your hen, you know, is not a goose.”

“That is very true, Mrs. Brown; but here is another question. If a goose can lay a golden egg, why can’t a hen lay a silver one?”

“Sure enough, Mr. Lee, sure enough, sure enough,” said the old woman, beginning to get some light on the subject.

“Sure enough, as you say. Now this black hen of mine—every day I go to the nest and find a silver dollar there!”

“You amaze me, Bob!” said she, in the greatest astonishment. “Who would have thought it! Indeed! indeed! indeed! and is it true?”

“Why, Mrs. Brown, if I do not get them there, where do I get them?”

“Sure enough. Well, my stars! I almost knew it—I always thought there was something strange in the looks of that black hen.”

“Ah, you are a cunning woman—but be sure you keep it a secret.”

“To be sure, never fear me. A dollar a day! Who would have thought it! Bless me, what a lucky man! Do, Mr. Lee, let me see the nest; it must be very curious: I am dying to see it.”

“Certainly, with all my heart; but let us see if there is nobody coming. Ah, step this way; I keep her in a snug place, you see, because if she should run away, what should I do for cash?”

So saying, he led the way, and the old woman trotted after him. He carried her in at one door and out at another, up this passage and down that, over, under and through, zig-zag and round about, through all the rigmarole turnings and twistings upon his premises, in order to give the whole affair an appearance of greater mystery. At last coming to a little nook in the corner of his barn, he told her that was the place. She gazed at it with staring eyes and uplifted hands, exclaiming,

“Was there ever anything like it!”

Bob, to carry on the trick, concealed a dollar in his sleeve, and thrust his hand into the nest, drew it forth, and exhibited it to the old woman, who was now fully convinced, because she had actually seen the dollar in the nest, and who could doubt after such a proof?

It is needless to add that within two days, the story was trumpeted all over the town, and Bob was beset with greater crowds than ever; so far from diminishing the curiosity of his neighbours by the stratagem, he found he had augmented it tenfold. It is not to be supposed that every one believed the story, but there were enough who did, and the remainder fell to wondering, guessing and questioning with more pertinacity than ever. Bob’s house was besieged from morning till night, and the unfortunate man, under these redoubled annoyances, found he had got out of the frying-pan into the fire. He now denied the whole story, and declared that he had been only sporting with the credulity of the old Goody; but unluckily they would not believe him; people do not like to have their belief in the marvellous disturbed; they could not believe his tale of finding the money in an oak tree, but that the dollars were got from a hen’s nest, was something worth believing. Bob, at a loss what to do in this emergency, applied to many people for advice, and at last was struck with the following counsel from Deacon Grabbit.

“If I were in your place,” said the Deacon, “I think I would make the hen turn me a penny:—for why? If folks believe she gives you a dollar a day, they will be willing to give a good price for her, and if they buy her and find themselves mistaken, that is their look-out. Now I would put her up at auction and sell her for the most she will bring: it will be a fair bargain, provided you warrant nothing!”

This advice seemed excellent, and Bob was not long in making up his mind to follow it. He accordingly gave public notice, that he should expose his hen at auction in front of the Meeting-house on Saturday afternoon next, at four of the clock. This announcement made a great stir, and when the time arrived, he found a prodigious crowd assembled. Bob mounted the top of a hogshead with his hen in one hand and a stick of wood in the other, and began the following harangue—

“Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong! Ahoy, ahoy, ahoy! Know all men by these presents. Whereas, nevertheless, notwithstanding. Gentlemen, please to come to order and attend to the sale. Here we are in the name of the commonwealth, and here is the fowl all the world is talking about, now to be sold to the highest bidder. Whoever buys her will get a black pullet for his pay, but as to silver dollars, that is neither here nor there; I warrant no such thing, but it may be, and it may not be; nobody knows all the pickings and scratchings of the hen creation. I’ll warrant the creature to be sound of wind and limb, but whether her eggs are round or flat, I shan’t be flat enough to swear quite so roundly: that is the buyer’s affair, not mine. Gentlemen, I moreover warrant her to be a black hen, and that no washing can make her white, except whitewashing. But whether black or white, nobody can say black is the white of her eye, for she is as honest a soul as ever picked up a crumb, and if she deals in dollars, you may depend upon it they are not counterfeit. Whoever buys her will get his money’s worth if he does not give too much; and he may reckon on any reasonable number of chickens, provided he does not reckon them before they are hatched. Gentlemen, I won’t be certain as to her age, but I will assure you this, that if she is too young, it is a fault will grow less and less every day. Here she goes. What’ll ye give me? What’ll ye give me? What’ll ye give me? Come bid away, gentlemen, and make your fortunes. Some folks say I have made my fortune by her, and good luck betide them while they speak the truth, say I. People say this and that, but I say nothing. So, who buys my hen?—Going—going, going!”

The old hen set up a loud cackling, and fluttered her wings prodigiously, at the conclusion of this speech, much to the astonishment of the crowd of spectators, who gaped, stared and scratched their heads, imagining that the creature understood every word of what was uttered, and never suspecting that Bob had given her a smart pull by the tail to make her squall out. They shook their heads and observed that the creature looked as if she saw something: Bob called out for bidders, but his customers, with true Yankee caution, bid slowly, and made very low offers: at last, however, she was knocked off to a credulous bumpkin, named Giles Elderberry, for six dollars, to be paid in corn and potatoes at a fair price the next fall. Bob delivered him the hen, and took Giles’s note of hand for the pay.

Giles took his purchase home in great glee, hugging himself with the prospect of having a heap of silver ere many days. He bestowed her snugly in his hencoop, and was hardly able to shut his eyes that night, by thinking of the fortune that awaited him. Next morning he ran to the nest, but was disappointed in not finding the dollar. He waited all day and saw the night approach, but nothing rewarded his patience. He began to scratch his head, but presently bethought himself that it was Sunday, and the hen being orthodox, would not lay till the next day. So he went to bed again with undiminished hopes. But Monday came and there was no dollar to be seen: he cudgelled his brain, and suspected there might be witches in the case; thereupon he nailed a horse-shoe on the door of the hencoop, and waited another day, but nothing came of it. He now sat down upon a log of wood, and fell to pondering upon the matter with all his might; finally another thought struck him, and he imagined a nest-egg might be wanting. Straightway he procured a dollar and lodged it in the nest, but it did not bring him even six per cent. interest, for the next day there was a dollar and no more. He tried various other expedients, but they all failed in the same manner. The neighbours inquired about his success, but he informed them that the hen put it off terribly. He consulted Bob Lee about it, and got only a bantering answer and a hint about the note of hand. Giles was not to be bantered out of his belief, but laid the case before sundry of his acquaintance, who were notorious for their credulity in all marvellous affairs. Most of them gave it as their opinion that the hen was bewitched, and Giles was already inclined to the same belief: his only solicitude now was to discover some means of disenchantment.

At length a waggish fellow of the town, who had got a scent of the affair, meeting Giles one day, informed him that he knew of a scheme that would do the job for him. Giles begged earnestly to know it, and promised as a recompense to give him the first dollar the hen should lay, in case the plan succeeded, “for you know,” said he, “it is a fair bargain, no cure, no pay.”

“You’ll find that next fall,” replied the fellow.

He then communicated the scheme, by which Giles was instructed to go to the top of Blueberry Hill the next morning at six o’clock, mark out a circle on the ground, set up a tall pole in the centre with the hen at the top: he was then to walk three times round it, heels foremost, say the A B C backwards, sing a stave of Old hundred, cry cock-a-doodle-doo, and sneeze three times—all which he was assured would break the spell.

Giles took all this for gospel, and the next morning he was on the spot ready prepared at the hour. He set his fowl up in the air and went to work with the incantation; all was going on prosperously and according to rule: he had got through the psalm tune, crowed as exactly like an old rooster as one could wish, and was just taking a thumping pinch of Scotch yellow to enable him to sneeze with more effect, when casting his eyes aloft he descried a monstrous hen-hawk upon the wing in the act of making a stoop at his enchanted fowl. Giles blurted out a tremendous sternutation, but the hawk was not to be sneezed out of his prey, for before he could rub away the tears which this explosion shook into his eyes, souse came the hawk upon the hen, and both were out of sight among the woods!

Giles scratched his head and stared with wonder, but they never came back to give any account of themselves: he is certain although, that had he got through the incantation half a minute sooner, the hen would have been as safe as a thief in a mill. I have heard people say that he has still some expectation of their return, but I believe he has given up speculating in poultry. However, the memory of the story remains in those parts, and when a person does anything that shows uncommon wisdom, such as discovering that the Dutch have taken Holland, or that asses have ears, he is said to be akin to the witches, like Bob Lee’s hen.