by James Still
Mother complained to Uncle Jolly, “I reckon you’ve heard Mr. Hard Head figures on moving to Houndshell.”
“When your man was bom,” Uncle Jolly reported, “they struck a match to see was his feet cloven. They scorched a heel and he’s been running ever since.”
“Who can forget our hardships at the camp?”
Dodging the past, Pap said, “The mines are warm in winter, cool in summer, and there’s a pay packet every other Saturday. If you are short of cash, you can charge stuff at the commissary.” As he expounded, his confidence grew. “After a sorry season comes the good. Following every dry spell falls a rain.”
“Even now,” Mother reminded, “Low Glory is working just two days a week. What hope is there of a job?”
Pap predicted, “Times are changing. It’s in the air. I can fair smell it.”
“They’re apt to bury me when I die,” declared Uncle Jolly, “but I’ll not bury myself alive in a coal mine.”
“You’ve heard it already,” said Pap. “They’re talking of closing the Sporty school. Next session the children might have to walk to Buffalo Wallow. Three miles going, three back. Too far for Dan in his primer year. And the teacher has the name of being handy with the limber-jim.** Too handy.”
“I can foot it,” I broke in. “I plain can.”
Pap said, “The mines are down now, but Sim Brannon will hire me the first job that rears up.” Sim and Pap had been cronies.
Uncle Jolly advised, “Stay home and send the young-’uns to the boarding school at the forks of Troublesome. Hindman Settlement, they call it. Why, I was there myself in boyhood, and I liked it a heap.” Troublesome Creek was in Knott County, over the ridge from the head of Sporty. Uncle Jolly’s land sat astraddle the Knott and Baldridge County line.
“How long did you stay at the Settlement School?” Pap quizzed.
“A spell,” said Uncle Jolly.
“How long was that?”
“Until my head was so packed with knowledge I was scared it would split.”
“How long?”
Uncle Jolly grinned. “Four days,” he said.
Uncle Jolly rode past the Sporty Creek school on an August afternoon when heat-boogers* danced the dry creek bed and willows hung limp along the banks. I sat carving my name on a bench with a knife borrowed from Ard Trent. I knicked and gouged, keeping an eye sharp on Duncil, listening to the primer class blab, “See the fat fox? Can the fox see the dog? Run, fox, run.”
A third grader poked his head out of the window, and reported, “Yonder comes Jolly Middleton!” There came Uncle Jolly riding barebones,† his mare wearing a bonnet over her ears and a shawl about her neck. He had Jenny Peg dressed in finery.
“Hit’s the de’il,”* a little one breathed, and the primer children huddled together.
A cry of glee rose at sight of a horse dressed like people, and scholars would have rushed to the windows had Duncil not swept the air with his pointing stick. Only Mittie Hyden kept calm. She looked on coldly, her chin thrown.
I crowed to Ard, “I’d bet buckeyes he’s going to my house.”
Ard’s small eyes dulled. He was envious. He said, “My opinion, he’s going to Bryson’s mill to have bread ground.”
“Now, no,” said I. “He’s not packing‡ corn.”
“If I had my bow-and-spike,”† Ard breathed, “they’d make the finest bull’s-eye there ever was.”
Uncle Jolly circled the schoolhouse. He made Jenny Peg prance. He had her trained pretty. Then he halted and got to his feet. He stood on her back and stretched an arm into the air. He reached and pulled down a book. Opening it, he made to read although he didn’t know even the letter his mare’s track made. Or so Pap claimed.
Duncil tried to teach despite the pranking in the yard. He whistled the pointer, threatening to tap noggins should we leave our seats. He started the primer class again: “See the fat fox? Can the fox see the dog?” But they couldn’t hold their eyes on the page. Scholars chuckled and edged toward the windows. Ard grabbed the water bucket and ran to the well.
Mittie said, “We’re being made a laughingstock.”
We quieted a grain, thinking what Fight Creek and Buffalo Wallow children might say.
Uncle Jolly put the book into his shirt and spun the horse on her heels. He pinched her withers, and she cranked her neck and flared her lips and nickered. He laughed. He outlaughed his critter. Then he dug heels against her sides and fled upcreek.
“Sporty will be called dog for this,” Mittie warned. “It’s become the worst school in Baldridge County. Textbooks worn to a frazzle. Teacher won’t ask for new ones. Not strange we’ve drawed a witty.”
Duncil’s face reddened.
“Uncle Jolly is smart,” I defended, “and his mare is as clever as people.”
Mittie darted a glance at me.
Hands raised the room over, begging leave to talk. Some scholars spoke unbidden:
“One day my mom passed Jolly Middleton, and he was all howdy-do and how-are-ye. He tipped his hat, and out flew a bird.”
“Biggest fun box ever was, my pap claims,” said another.
Rue Thomas began, “Once on a time there was a deputy sheriff who aimed to arrest Jolly Middleton—”
Duncil found his tongue. “I grant you there’s one nag in the world with more brains than her master. Now hush.”
Ard fetched in a bucket of water. He whispered to me, “Tomorrow I’m bringin my bow-and-spike for sure.”
Rue Thomas tried again, “Once the law* undertook to corner Jolly Middleton—”
“Quiet!” Duncil ordered. He lifted his chin, trying to think of a way to sober us. Finally he said, “We’ll have a spell of storytelling to finish the day. Accounts of honor and valor.” He nodded at Mittie. “Young lady, take the floor and lead with the history of the Trojan horse in the days of yore.”
Mittie stood and went forward without urging. I listened although I opened the dictionary and pretended to study. She told of the Greeks building a mighty wooden horse, hollow as a barrel and with a door in its belly. She told of the critter getting drawn into Troy-town, and of warriors climbing forth at night and sticking spears through everybody. We listened, still as moss eating rocks.
When school let out, I ran the whole way home. I wanted to implore Pap not to move to Houndshell. Pap sat on the porch, and the rocker of his chair was stopped by a book. Before I could get my breath, he announced, “That scamp of an uncle of yours has been here again. And he has confounded creation by doing a worthy deed. He’s talked the superintendent into promising new textbooks for Sporty, and you’re to notify Duncil Hargis.”
I stared at the book on the floor, too winded to speak.
Pap bent to free the rocker. Raising the volume, he added, “And Jolly says for you to read this one until your head begins to rattle.”
I seized the book. A giant strode the cover, drawing ships by ropes, and the title read Gulliver’s Voyage to Lilliput. I opened the lid, quickly reading, “My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire; I was the third of five sons. …”
I wore the book like a garment. It rested at night under my pillow, and I carried it to school during the day. No longer did I swing from the rafters of the old mill for pastime or climb the mulberry tree in our yard to check on the ripeness of the fruit. I turned stingy. I wouldn’t loan my book, declaring, “I’ll be the only fellow fixed to tell about Lemuel Gulliver and what he done. I’m bound it will cap any old wooden horse yarn.”
Nine days passed before Uncle Jolly returned. By then our textbooks were shedding leaves to match frostbitten maples. Come the slightest draft, pages flew. Scholars bundled their books and tied them with string or weighted them with pencil boxes and rulers. Pless Fowley’s child stored her primer in a poke.*
When I reported Uncle Jolly’s message to Duncil, he twitted, “Any news that rogue peddles has a sticker in it. Not an earnest bone in his body, in my judgment.”
Mittie tossed her head, agreein
g. Yet she mumbled, “I wish a whirlywind would come and blow our books to Guinea. Then somebody would be bound to do something.”
“The ones on hand will endure a spell longer,” Duncil said flatly.
“Fight Creek and Buffalo Wallow are making light of us,” said one scholar.
“They’re calling Sporty school a rat’s nest.”
“Naming us the poorhouse.”
Duncil’s ire raised. He lifted his pointing stick. “Bridle your tongues,” he warned, “else you’ll taste hickory tea.”
A fifth grader asked, unheeding, “If Jolly comes again, what are we aiming to do?” Rue Thomas opened his mouth to tell of a happening but didn’t get two words spoken before Duncil’s pointer whistled and struck a bench and broke.
Uncle Jolly passed us again on a Tuesday morning with corn for Bryson’s mill. He rode feet high and legs crossed, and he came singing “Meet Little Susie on the Mountain Green.” A sack petticoat draped Jenny Peg’s hindquarters, a bow of ribbon graced her headstall, and her face was powdered white with flour.
Pless Fowley’s child moaned, “Hit’s the de’il, hit is.” She gathered her primer into the poke. Scholars watched, mouths sagged in wonder.
Ard breathed to me, “I’m seeing my pure pick of a bull’s-eye.”
Uncle Jolly rode into the schoolyard and bowed, and the mare bent a knee and dipped her head. He set Jenny Peg to sidestepping, hoof over hoof, shaking her hips, flapping the skirt. She ended in a spin, whirling like a flying jenny.* Then, pinching her withers, he cried, “Fool stutter!”
The mare nickered, and Uncle Jolly laughed fit to fall. Away they scampered, and while still in view, the critter lost her petticoat.
A scholar sang out, “He yelled school butter!”
“School butter wasn’t named,” I said.
“The next thing to it.”
The upper grades boys leaped to their feet, angry and clamorous, thinking their ears might have deceived them. They would have taken after Uncle Jolly had not Duncil raised a second pointer—a hickory limb as long as a spear.
Duncil brandished the pointer, and the scholars quieted. They settled, knowing Uncle Jolly would return when Bryson had ground his corn. Duncil closed the grammar he held. Until Uncle Jolly went his way, it was useless to try to instruct. Forthwith he inquired, “Which of you is prepared to entertain us with a narrative of ancient days? A tale to discipline our minds.”
Rue Thomas said, “I can speak on a deputy aiming to capture a mischief-maker and what happened. Aye, hit’s agood’un.”
“It’s not what I’ve requested,” Duncil reminded sharply.
Ard’s hand popped up. “Here’s a fellow ready with a tale about Old Gulliver and what he done. A back-yonder story.” He wagged a thumb at me.
“Come forward,” Duncil invited.
I played shy. I let him urge twice, not to seem too eager. Then I strode to the front. I told of Gulliver riding the waters, of the ship wrecking, and of his swimming ashore.
“He took a nap on dry land, and tiny folks no better than a finger came and drove pegs and tied him flat with threads. They fastened him to the ground, limb and hair. A dwarf mounted Gulliver’s leg bearing a sword, and he was a soldier, and brave….”
I related the voyage to Lilliput beginning to end, though the scholars barely attended my words and kept staring along the road. Whether Mittie listened I couldn’t discover, for she loosened the biscuit of hair on her head and let it cover her face.
“Be-dog,” a voice grumbled as I finished, “I’d rather to hear the truth.”
“Ought to hear of Jolly Middleton nearly getting jail-housed,” Rue Thomas said. “A gospel fact.”
Duncil groaned. And he checked the clock. There was still time to reckon with. He gave in. “Maybe we can have done with the subject by talking it to death, wearing it out plumb. Say on.”
Rue Thomas babbled, “Once Jolly Middleton took a trip to town. Rode by the courthouse and blocking his path was a deputy sheriff ready to arrest him for some roundyboo.* There stood the Law, a warrant in his fist. Think Jolly would turn and flee? Now, no. Not that jasper. Up he trotted into the Law’s teeth, and he jabbed his beast in the hip, and low she bent to the balls of her knees. He reached and shook the deputy’s hand, and was away and gone ere the Law could bat an eye.”
A primer child whimpered, “What air we aiming to do when the De’il comes?”
Then we heard a clop-clop of hooves and saw Uncle Jolly approaching. He lay stretched the length of his critter’s back, with the poke of meal for a pillow. His feet were bare, and his shoes dangled at the end of the mare’s tail.
An ox team couldn’t have held us. We rushed to the windows. Even Mittie craned her neck to see, her mouth primped with scorn. Ard snatched the water bucket and ran outside. I thought to myself, Ard Trent couldn’t hit a barn door with an arrow spike.
The mare drew up in the schoolyard, and Uncle Jolly lay prone a moment. Then he stretched his arms and legs and made to rise. He yawned near wide enough to split. In the midst of the yawn, he gulped unaccountably, his eyes bulged, his tongue hung out. He seemed stricken. He began to twist and toss. He yelled, “Oh!” and “Ouch!” and “Mercy me!” As if in torment he slapped his breeches, his chest, his skull.
The scholars watched, not knowing whether to pity or to jeer.
Uncle Jolly reached inside his shirt and drew out four crawdabbers.† He pulled a frog from one pocket, a granny-hatchet† from another. His breeches legs yielded a terrapin each, his hat a ball of June bugs. He rid himself of them and breathed a sigh of relief. Then he straddled Jenny Peg, spoke “Giddy-yap,” and started away. Uncle Jolly gained the road and halted. He looked over his shoulder and a wry grin caught his mouth as he shouted:
School butter, chicken flutter,
Rotten eggs for Duncil’s supper.
Boys hopped through the windows before Duncil could reach for the pointer. Girls and primer children struck for the doors. Ard came around a corner with a spike fitted to his bow, and let fly. The spike grazed the mare’s shoulder, and she sank to her knees. Caught unawares, Uncle Jolly tumbled to the ground head-foremost. The poke burst; the meal spilled. Up they sprang as scholars sped toward them. The mare took flight across the bottom behind the schoolhouse, Uncle Jolly at her heels. Duncil Hargis was left waving a pointer in the yard.
I kept pace with the swiftest. I went along for the race, satisfied we could never overhaul Uncle Jolly, and I traveled empty-handed, having forgotten my book. Uncle Jolly and his beast outran us, the same way we shook off the short-legged scholars. On nearing the creek they parted company, the mare veering along the bank, Uncle Jolly plunging into the willows. When last we saw him he was headed toward the knob.
At the creek we searched the dry bed for tracks. We combed the willows and the canebrake beyond. We threshed out the undergrowth between the creek and the foot of the knob. We elder scholars climbed to the first bench of the knob and paused to catch our breaths. We stared down upon the schoolhouse roof. We could almost see inside the chimney. From somewhere Duncil’s voice lifted, calling, calling. And of a sudden we saw the girls and the young boys hurrying back across the bottom, crying shrilly. I saw Holly among them. Then we saw Uncle Jolly race out of the schoolhouse with papers fluttering from his arms.
We plunged downhill, retracing our steps. We scurried to join the scholars gathering beyond the play yard. There under a tree Uncle Jolly lay snoring, a hat covering his face, bare feet shining. Jenny Peg was nowhere in sight. Ard Trent stood close, but only Mittie Hyden wasn’t the least afraid. Mittie walked a ring around him, scoffing, “He’s not asleep. Hit’s pure put-on.”
The bunch crept closer.
A little one asked, “What air we aiming to do?”
“We’d duck him in the creek if it wasn’t dry,” Rue Thomas said.
“It would take a block and tackle to lift him,” a scholar said.
“He’s too heavy to ride on a rail,” another made exc
use.
Mittie accused, “I’m of a mind you fellows are scared.”
“I hain’t afraid,” Ard declared, and he moved alongside Uncle Jolly to prove it. “I know a thing we can do. Fix him the same as the Lilliputians done Old Gulliver. Snare him up plug-line.”
“Who’ll tie the first string?” Rue Thomas posed.
“I will,” said Ard. “Fetch me some sticks for pegs, and I’ll show you who’s game.” After they were brought, he pounded them into the ground with a rock beside Uncle Jolly’s feet. He cut his bowstring into lengths and staked the toes.
Uncle Jolly snored on.
The scholars grew brave. They dug twine and thread out of pockets. They unwound three stocking balls. They fenced Uncle Jolly with pegs and made fast his legs, arms, neck, wrists, and fingers. Fishing lines criss-crossed his body; pack threads tethered locks of his hair. Even the buttons of his shirt suffered tying. They yoked him like a fly in a spider’s web, and still he kept snoring.
When they had him bound, Ard played soldier. He stepped onto Uncle Jolly’s thigh and mounted proudly to his chest. He balanced his feet and drew forth his knife and brandished it for a sword.
The hat slid from Uncle Jolly’s face. His eyelids opened, and his eyes flew wide at sight of the blade. All of a sudden he bucked. Strings parted, and sticks went flying, and Ard teetered. He bucked again, and Ard upset and fell, and the blade raked Uncle Jolly’s nose from saddle to tip.
We stared, not moving, though we heard the mare’s hooves rattling and saw Duncil coming pointer in hand.
Pless Fowley’s child ran among us, holding an empty poke, crying, “All the books have been dropped into the well. Nary a page is left.”
Mittie Hyden looked squarely at me and said, “Jolly Middleton is the best devil there ever was.”