by Jane Yolen
He now made himself very agreeable, of course, and asked her in his most insinuating manner for something to eat.
“Where am I to get it from?” said the woman. “I haven’t tasted a morsel myself the whole day.”
But the tramp was a cunning fellow, he was.
“Poor old granny, you must be starving,” he said. “Well, well, I suppose I shall have to ask you to have something with me, then.”
“Have something with you!” said the woman. “You don’t look as if you could ask any one to have anything! What have you got to offer one, I should like to know?”
“He who far and wide does roam sees many things not known at home, and he who many things has seen has wits about him and senses keen,” said the tramp. “Better dead than lose one’s head! Lend me a pot, granny!”
The old woman now became very inquisitive, as you may guess, and so she let him have a pot.
He filled it with water and put it on the fire, and then he blew with all his might till the fire was burning fiercely all round it. Then he took a four-inch nail from his pocket, turned it three times in his hand, and put it into the pot.
The woman stared with all her might.
“What’s this going to be?” she asked.
“Nail broth,” said the tramp, and began to stir the water with the porridge stick.
“Nail broth?” asked the woman.
“Yes, nail broth,” said the tramp.
The old woman had seen and heard a good deal in her time, but that anybody could have made broth with a nail, well, she had never heard the like before.
“That’s something for poor people to know,” she said, “and I should like to learn how to make it.”
“That which is not worth having, will always go a-begging,” said the tramp.
But if she wanted to learn how to make it she had only to watch him, he said, and went on stirring the broth.
The old woman squatted on the ground, her hands clasping her knees, and her eyes following his hand as he stirred the broth.
“This generally makes good broth,” he said, “but this time it will very likely be rather thin, for I have been making broth the whole week with the same nail. If one only had a handful of sifted oatmeal to put in, that would make it all right,” he said. “But what one has to go without, it’s no use thinking more about,” and so he stirred the broth again.
“Well, I think I have a scrap of flour somewhere,” said the old woman, and went out to fetch some, and it was both good and fine.
The tramp began putting the flour into the broth, and went on stirring, while the woman sat staring now at him and then at the pot until her eyes nearly burst their sockets.
“This broth would be good enough for company,” he said, putting in one handful of flour after another. “If I had only a bit of salted beef and a few potatoes to put in, it would be fit for gentlefolks, however particular they might be,” he said. “But what one has to go without, it’s no use thinking more about.”
When the old woman really began to think it over, she thought she had some potatoes, and perhaps a bit of beef as well; and these she gave the tramp, who went on stirring, while she sat and stared as hard as ever.
“This will be grand enough for the best in the land,” he said.
“Well, I never!” said the woman; “and just fancy—all with a nail!”
He was really a wonderful man, that tramp! He could do more than drink a sup and turn the tankard up, he could.
“If one had only a little barley and a drop of milk, we could ask the king himself to have some of it,” he said, “for this is what he has every blessed evening—that I know, for I have been in service under the king’s cook,” he said.
“Dear me! Ask the king to have some! Well, I never!” exclaimed the woman, slapping her knees. She was quite awestruck at the tramp and his grand connections.
“But what one has to go without, it’s no use thinking more about,” said the tramp.
And then she remembered she had a little barley; and as for milk, well, she wasn’t quite out of that, she said, for her best cow had just calved. And then she went to fetch both the one and the other.
The tramp went on stirring, and the woman sat staring, one moment at him and the next at the pot.
Then all at once the tramp took out the nail.
“Now it’s ready, and now we’ll have a real good feast,” he said. “But to this kind of soup the king and the queen always take a dram or two, and one sandwich at least. And then they always have a cloth on the table when they eat,” he said. “But what one has to go without, it’s no use thinking more about.”
But by this time the old woman herself had begun to feel quite grand and fine, I can tell you; and if that was all that was wanted to make it just as the king had it, she thought it would be nice to have it just the same way for once, and play at being king and queen with the tramp. She went straight to a cupboard and brought out the brandy bottle, dram glasses, butter and cheese, smoked beef and veal, until at last the table looked as if it were decked out for company.
Never in her life had the old woman had such a grand feast, and never had she tasted such broth, and just fancy, made only with a nail!
She was in such a good and merry humor at having learned such an economical way of making broth that she did not know how to make enough of the tramp who had taught her such a useful thing.
So they ate and drank, and drank and ate, until they became both tired and sleepy.
The tramp was now going to lie down on the floor. But that would never do, thought the old woman; no, that was impossible. “Such a grand person must have a bed to lie in,” she said.
He did not need much pressing. “It’s just like the sweet Christmas time,” he said, “and a nicer woman I never came across. Ah, well! Happy are they who meet with such good people,” said he; and he lay down on the bed and went asleep.
And next morning when he woke the first thing he got was coffee and a dram.
When he was going the old woman gave him a bright dollar piece.
“And thanks, many thanks, for what you have taught me,” she said. “Now I shall live in comfort, since I have learned how to make broth with a nail.”
“Well it isn’t very difficult, if one only has something good to add to it,” said the tramp as he went his way.
The woman stood at the door staring after him.
“Such people don’t grow on every bush,” she said.
OLD DRY FRYE
United States
One time there was an old man named Dry Frye. He was a preacher but all he preached for was revival collections and all the fried chicken he could eat. And one time he stayed for supper and he was eatin’ fried chicken so fast he got a chicken bone stuck in his throat. Choked him to death. Well, the man of the house he was scared. “Law me!” he says, “they’ll find old Dry Frye here and they’ll hang me for murder sure!” So he took old Dry Frye to a house down the road a piece and propped him up against the door. Somebody went to go out the door directly old Dry Frye fell in the house. “Law me!” says the man of the house. “It’s old Dry Frye!” (Everybody knew old Dry Frye.) “We got to get shed of him quick or we’re liable to be hung for murder!”
So he took old Dry Frye and propped him up in the bresh ‘side the road. And way up in the night some men come along, thought it was a highway robber layin’ for ’em. So they chunked rocks at him, knocked him down, and when they seen who it was (everybody knew old Dry Frye) they thought they’d killed him, and they got scared they’d be hung for murder ’cause they’d passed several people on the road who’d ’a knowed who was along there that night.
Well, they took old Dry Frye and propped him up against a man’s cornhouse. And that man he went out early the next mornin’; and he’d been missin’ corn—so when he seen there was somebody over there at his cornhouse he ran and got his gun. Slipped around, hollered, “Get away from there or I’ll shoot!”
And when old Dry Fry
e never moved he shot and Dry Frye tumbled over and hit the ground.
“Law me!” says the man. “I belive that was old Dry Frye.” (Everybody knew old Dry Frye.) “Now I’ve done killed him and I’ll sure get hung for murder.”
So he went and saw it was him and seen how dead he was, and went to studyin’ up some way to get shed of him. Well, he throwed him in the cornhouse to hide him, and that night he took old Dry Frye down to a baptizin’ place ’side a bend in the river where they were fixin’ to have a big baptizin’ the next day, propped him up on a stump on the riverbank—over a right deep place where the bank was pretty high—propped his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. Made him look awful natural. Left him there, went on home and slept sound.
So early the next mornin’, ’fore anybody else, a little old feisty boy came down there foolin’ around the baptizin’ place. Saw old Dry Frye, hollered, “Howdy, Mr. Frye.”
Went over closer.
“Howdy, Mr. Dry Frye.”
Old Dry Frye sat right on.
“I said Howdy, Dry Frye.”
Old Dry Frye kept on sittin’. That boy, now he was just as feisty as he could be. He didn’t care how he spoke to nobody.
“Look-a-here, Old Dry Frye, if you don’t answer me Howdy I’m goin’ to knock your elbows out from under you—Howdy, Mr. Frye!”
So that feisty boy he reached over and swiped old Dry Frye a lick and over in the river the old man went, right down the bank into that deep water, sunk clean out of sight. Then that boy thought sure he’d drownded Dry Frye. He got scared about bein’ hung for murder but he couldn’t do nothin’ about it right then ’cause he’d seen folks comin’ down the road for the baptizin’. So he hung around and directly everybody gathered for the baptizin’, and they waited and waited for old Dry Frye to come and preach, but he didn’t come and didn’t come and when they got to askin’ who’d seen old Dry Frye, one man said he’d left his place right after supper, and another man said why, no, he’d not seen old Dry Frye since last meetin’. And that feisty boy he let out a giggle where he was sittin’ on one of the benches in the back, and the other boys asked him what he was laughin’ at, but he’d just get tickled again and not tell ’em nothin’. So finally the folks sung a few hymns and took up a collection. So meetin’ broke and everybody went on home, and that boy he went on home, too.
Then ’way along late that night he went down and hooked old Dry Frye out of the river and put him in a sack. Got his shoulder under it and started down the road to hide him somewhere. Well, there were a couple of rogues comin’ along that same night, had stole a couple of hogs and had ’em sacked up carryin’ ’em on their shoulders. Them rogues came over a little rise in the road, saw that boy, and they got scared, dropped their sacks and run back lickety-split and hid in the bresh. The boy he never saw the two rogues so he came on, saw them two sacks and set old Dry Frye down to see what was in the other sacks. Then he left old Dry Frye layin’ there, picked up one of the hogs and went on back home.
So the two rogues they slipped out directly and when they saw the two sacks still layin’ there, they picked ’em up and kept on goin’. Got on home and hung the sacks up in the meathouse. Then the next mornin’ the old woman got up to cook breakfast, went out to the smokehouse to cut some meat. Ripped open one of them sacks and there hung old Dry Frye. Well, she hollered and dropped her butcher knife and she got away from there in such a hurry she tore down one side of the smokehouse, broke out two posts on the back porch, and knocked the kitchen door clean off the hinges. She was sorta scared. She hollered and squalled and the men come runnin’ in their shirt-tails and finally looked out in the smokehouse, saw old Dry Frye hangin’ up there in the place of a hog.
“Law me!” says one of ’em. “It’s old Dry Frye?” (Everybody knew old Dry Frye.) “We’ll sure be hung for murder if we don’t get shed of him some way or other.”
Well, they had some wild horses in a wilderness out on the mountain. So they rounded up one of ’em, got him in the barn. Then they put an old no-’count saddle on him and an old piece of bridle, and put old Dry Frye on. Stropped his legs to the bellyhand, tied his hands to the saddlehorn and pulled the reins through, stuck his old hat on his head; and then they slipped out and opened all the gates. Opened the barn door and let the horse go. He shot out of there and down the road he went with that old preacher-man a-bouncin’ first one side and then the other. And them rogues run out and went to shootin’ and hollerin’, “He’s stole our horse! Stop him! Somebody stop him yonder! Horse thief! Horse thief!”
Everybody down the road come runnin’ out their houses a-shoutin’ and hollerin’ and a-shootin’ around, but that horse had done jumped the fence and took out up the mountain and it looked like he was headed for Kentucky.
And as far as I know old Dry Frye is over there yet a-tearin’ around through the wilderness on that wild horse.
“BYE-BYE”
Haiti
All the birds were flying from Haiti to New York. But Turtle could not go, for he had no wings.
Pigeon felt sorry for Turtle and said, “Turtle, I’ll take you with me. This is what we’ll do. I’ll hold in my mouth one end of a piece of wood and you hold on to the other end. But you must not let go. No matter what happens, do not let go or you’ll fall into the water.”
Pigeon took one end of a piece of wood and Turtle the other end. Up into the air Pigeon flew and Turtle with him, across the land and toward the sea.
As they came near the ocean, Turtle and Pigeon saw on the shore a group of animals who had gathered together to wave goodbye to the birds who were leaving. They were waving steadily until they noticed Turtle and Pigeon. Turtle? They stopped waving and a great hubbub broke out.
“Look!” they cried to each other. “Turtle is going to New York. Even Turtle is going to New York!”
And Turtle was so pleased to hear everyone talking about him that he called out the one English word he knew:
“Bye-bye!”
Oh-oh. Turtle had opened his mouth, and in opening his mouth to speak, he let go of the piece of wood and fell into the sea.
For that reason there are many Pigeons in New York, but Turtle is still in Haiti.
THE BARN IS BURNING
Afro-American (North Carolina)
During slavery time, there was a rich old master in Brunswick County that owned more than three hundred slaves. Among them was one very smart slave named Tom. What I mean by smart is that he was a smooth operator—he knew what was happening. He came to be so smart because he would crawl under the master’s house every night and listen to the master tell his wife what kind of work he was going to have the slaves do the next day. When the master would come out of the house the next morning and begin to tell the slaves what kind of work he wanted them to do that day, Old Tom would say, “Wait just a minute, Master. I know exactly what you’re going to have us do.” So the master would stop talking and let Old Tom tell the slaves what he had in mind for them to do that day. Old Tom could always tell the slaves exactly what the master wanted them to do, too; and the master was very surprised, because he didn’t know how Old Tom was getting his information.
Old Tom wanted to prove to his master that he was the smartest slave on the plantation, because the smartest slave always got the easiest work—and Old Tom was tired of working so hard. Sometimes the masters let their smart slaves sleep in a bed in the big house, too; so Old Tom had been dreaming about how, one day maybe, he would get to sleep in a real bed instead of on an old quilt on his cabin floor. And it wasn’t long before his dreams came to be true, because the next week after Old Tom had started prophesying what work the slaves were supposed to do that day, Old Master told his wife that he thought he was going to bring Old Tom to live in the house with them. And he did, and he gave him a room to sleep in with a big old bed and everything. Old Tom was so tickled he didn’t know what to do with himself—just think, living in the same house with Old Master.
One winter night,
when the master and his wife were seated around the fire, the master called Old Tom in to test his smartness. He pointed to the fire and said, “Tom, what is that?”
“That’s a fire, Old Master,” said Tom.
“No, it isn’t either,” replied Old Master. “That’s a flame of evaporation.”
Just then a cat passed in front of the fire, and Old Master said, “Tom, do you know what that was that just passed by in front of the fireplace?”
“That’s a cat, sir,” replied Tom.
Then Old Master said, “No, it’s not either. That’s a high-ball-a-sooner.”
Old Tom was getting tired of answering questions by this time, so he went over to the window and started looking out. The old master walked over to the window where Tom was and said, “Tom, what is that you’re looking at through the window?”
“I’m looking at a haystack,” said Tom.
Then Old Master said, “That’s not a haystack, that’s a high tower.”
Then Old Tom sat down in a chair and started getting ready to go to his room in the attic to go to bed for the night. He didn’t want to get the carpet all spotted up with dirt in the living room, so he started unbuckling his shoes and taking them off. When the old man looked and saw Tom taking off his shoes, he said, “What are those, Tom?”
And Tom said, “Those are my shoes.”
“No, they aren’t either,” said Old Master. “Those are your tramp-tramps.”
Then the old master pointed through the archway to where a bed could be seen in his bedroom, sand said, “What’s that I’m pointing to in there, Tom?”
“That’s a bed,” said Old Tom,.
“No, it’s not either,” said Old Master. “That’s a flowery bed of ease, and I’m going right now and get in it because we’ve all got a hard day’s work coming up tomorrow.”