Centerburg Tales

by Robert McCloskey

  “Do you think up prize contests too, Mr. Gabby?” asked Freddy.

  “’At’s right,” Mr. Gabby agreed.

  “And do you think up what to give away in exchange for box tops, Mr. Gabby?” asked Homer.

  “’At’s my business, sonny!” replied Mr. Gabby with a flourish. “Max,” he commanded, “you tell them about Vimmy-Swimmys.”

  “Vimmy-Swimmys,” Max said reverently, “is a brand-new kind of breakfast food!”

  “The breakfast of champion swimmers!” added Mr. Gabby.

  “Every bite is waterproofed!” exclaimed Max.

  “And that’s a fact!” confided Mr. Gabby. “They float so good that they’re hard to swallow! We thunk up a swell box top for this cereal,” he continued. “You send it in, and by return mail you get a pair of water wings.”

  “And that’s not all,” said Max. “You also get a pair of genuine rubber webbed feet!”

  “‘Get in the swim with Vimmy-Swimmys!’” chanted Max and Mr. Gabby in perfect unison.

  “That sounds like something I’ve heard somewhere before,” said Uncle Ulysses with a frown.

  “No,” said Max firmly, “you have positively never heard that offer before.”

  “’Cause we just thought it up yesterday,” said Mr. Gabby with pride, “and the boxes and box tops are not even printed yet. Now we’re going to get Buster Buyseps to write an endorsement for Vimmy-Swimmys!”

  “You mean Buster Buyseps, the champion swimmer who’s in the movies?” asked Freddy, hardly able to believe his ears.

  “That’s right, sonny,” said Max. “We’re going to get the one and only Buster Buyseps to recommend Vimmy-Swimmys. We’re on our way to have a conference with Buster and get his endorsement.”

  “You bet!” said Mr. Gabby proudly. “We’re driving out to good old Hollywood, California, to sign up Buster for Vimmy-Swimmys!”

  “Let’s eat and get on our way,” Max suggested impatiently. “I’ll have a blue-plate special.”

  “Me too,” Mr. Gabby ordered, and while Uncle Ulysses started dishing out two blue-plates, Mr. Gabby hummed a few measures of “California, Here I Come.”

  III. LOOKING FOR GOLD

  “That reminds me,” said Grampa Hercules, “of the experience I had out in California.”

  “Yeah?” Max remarked indifferently.

  “Yup,” said Grampa Hercules. “I spent considerable time out in California some years ago, panning for gold!”

  “Yeah?” asked Max.

  “Yup,” continued Grampa Hercules. “Was a lot of gold in California in those days, and I reckon I found my share of it.”

  “Did you really find gold?” asked Max, taking a sudden interest in what was going on.

  “Yer durned tootin’ we found gold!” said Grampa Hercules. “We was loaded with the stuff.”

  “Let’s hear about it, pop,” said Mr. Gabby.

  “Wu-a-ll,” said Grampa Hercules, “it was Hopper’s idea that we pack up and go scouting out west to look for gold. Hopper wasn’t his real name, his real name was George, George McThud, but everybody called him by the name o’ Hopper because he was so restless and always hopping around like a toad in a burr patch. Wu-a-ll, like I said, it was Hopper McThud’s idea that we go out west and try our luck at panning for gold. He came up to me one day and said, ‘Hercules, things are getting almighty slow hereabouts, since all them Indians are gone. Let’s pack up our duds and go out west hunting for gold.’

  “I was a-getting pretty fed up myself with just building barrels an’ hauling salt. Centerburg was getting to be quite a town, even had a sheriff way back then. O’ course he didn’t have much to do, and he sat around all day playing checkers, same as now.”

  At this point the sheriff broke in and said, “Dadgommit, that’s not so, Hercules!”

  “You going to let me tell this story, Sheriff?” asked Grampa Hercules, “or do I have to—”

  “Okay, okay,” said Mr. Gabby impatiently, “so you and this here Hopper guy go off to look for gold. What happened next?”

  “Wu-a-ll,” Grampa Hercules continued, “to make a long story short, Hopper and I went down to Cincinnati and got ourselves aboard the Buckeye Bride. She was an awfully pretty steamboat, one o’ the finest on the Cincinnati to St. Louis run. Her smokestacks were—”

  “Okay, okay, pop,” Mr. Gabby interrupted again, “you can skip the commercial because we don’t want to buy the boat. Let’s get to the part about the gold!”

  “Mister, if you knew me better you wouldn’t interrupt me thataway,” threatened Grampa Hercules. “It took Hopper and me three months to get out to the West Coast. To hear you carrying on, a person would think I wasn’t telling this story right.” Grampa Hercules looked around threateningly, then went on.

  “Wu-a-ll, after three months of traveling, Hopper and me got to Californy. We bought ourselves a couple o’ those little mules, and some picks and shovels and pans to pan out gold with, and a lot o’ little buckskin bags to put the nuggets in. And we stocked up real good with vittles, afore we set out for the hills.

  “To hear some folks talk, you’d think that findin’ gold was a powerfully difficult job, but that isn’t so if you know where to look for it. In Californy, you didn’t even have to know where to look, all you had to do was to follow the crowd. Why, a body had to be extra careful not to find the blamed stuff.

  “In some of those towns a fella would have to keep his fingers crossed when he built a house, or, sure as fate, gold would be discovered in his backyard; then he’d have to tear down his house and wash away his yard to get the gold out.

  “Towns and settlements had already started building up around most of the workings, and such carryings on I’ve never seen the like of, even to this day! Since Hopper and me had come clear across the country to get away from towns for a spell, we decided we would take off for the hills and find our own place to pan for gold.

  “Wu-a-ll, pretty much out to the end of nowhere, we found a nice little stream o’ water, running along at the base of a high cliff. ‘Hopper,’ I said, ‘let’s stay here for a spell and set up camp by the bottom of this cliff. Something tells me there ought to be pay dirt hereabouts just waiting for us to pan it out.’

  “And there was gold right there at the foot o’ that cliff. Shucks, don’t let anybody tell you that gold is hard to find. It’s just as easy as rolling off a log. That yellow stuff is scattered all over the map like the spots on a speckled hen.”

  Grampa Herc leaned over and tapped Mr. Gabby on the arm. “In those days a man had to be an awful dull tool not to run across at least a small amount o’ gold once he’d made up his mind that was what he was looking for.”

  Mr. Gabby looked disgusted. “Creepers, pop, that yarn of yours is about as exciting as walking upstairs. No bandits or Indians shot at you. Nobody tried to jump your claim. And you didn’t even run out of water in the middle of the desert!”

  “Hold on there!” cried Grampa Hercules, his voice rising to a bellow. “Stop interrupting this story! They’re common everyday occurrences, what you’re talking about. Shucks, fella, I’ve been shot at and gone hungry more times than you’ve been to see a moving picture show.

  “It’s like I said, discovering gold isn’t so powerfully exciting, it’s what happens to a man after he’s discovered the stuff. It’s a funny thing, I’ve seen a lot of men discover gold, and you can never tell just how it’s going to affect ’em. Some fellows have to rush right off and spend every last bit of it, and others wanta hoard it up and see how big a pile they can get. There are others who use the gold to see how much power they can get, and they commence to throw their weight around something awful. Then every once in a while I’ve seen a fellow begin to wonder what he’s doing, digging and scratching this stuff out o’ the ground, when it isn’t good to eat and you can’t build anything with it. Gold won’t keep you warm in the wintertime like coal does, and you can’t wear the stuff except in a set of store teeth or some shiny thingamabob
that you might as well do without.

  “That Hopper McThud now, he being such a restless fellow, I thought he’d go rushing around and spending it quick as he could, but that wasn’t so at all. He turned out to be one of the hoarding kind—surprised me no end, that did! And me, I was one of the kind who couldn’t hold onto it, I had to spend it fast as I panned it out.

  “Wu-a-ll, we panned and we panned. Let me tell you something, mister, there’s nothing exciting about panning gold either. All you do, all day long, is take a spadeful of dirt and toss it in your pan. Then you dip the pan in the water and commence to shake it back and forth in a way so’s the gravel and the dirt washes out. You just keep on shaking back and forth, back and forth, and finally there’s a gold nugget or two shining in the bottom o’ the pan. Gold is powerfully heavy stuff, you see, and it sinks to the bottom instead of washing out with the dirt.

  “Wu-a-ll, we sat there on our haunches on the banks of that stream, spading and dipping and a-panning. Hopper, when he’d panned himself out a nugget, would right away put it in a little buckskin bag hung on his belt. He’d fill up one little bag with nuggets and then he’d start right in filling another one. Like I said, Hopper turned out to be the hoarding kind, and he’d keep a careful count of his little bags of gold. He never let those bags get off his belt either—wore them night and day, for fear somebody would swipe ’em. About that time our coffee pot sprung a leak and we couldn’t use it to make coffee in, so I kept my gold in that. Every couple of weeks, when the coffee pot got full, I’d ride into town on my mule and spend every last bit of it, right down to the bottom of the pot. Then I’d come riding back to pan out another potful, and watch Hopper count his little bags hung all around his belt. The more gold Hopper panned, the more restless he got, and he hopped around more than ever. He’d pan out a few nuggets on one side of the stream and put them in one of the little bags hung on his belt; then he’d hop over to the other side of the stream and pan out a few more, to hoard in one of his little bags.

  “Gold is mighty heavy stuff, and you could tell that Hopper’s little bags of gold were beginnin’ to weigh considerable, because they pulled his belt and his drawers away down on his hips so his shirt tails were always flapping out when he jumped back and forth across that little stream. Hopper’s bags of gold were gradually getting heavier and heavier, but it didn’t seem to bother him the least bit. He just kept on panning and hoarding and hopping, first on the cliff side of the stream and then on the other side.

  “Wu-a-ll, one day I was setting there next to the little stream when all at once an idea came into my head. ‘Hopper,’ I calls across to him, ‘this water feels mighty nice, so I think I’ll take a bath!’

  “‘What?’ asked Hopper, and he looked at me as though I’d lost my senses. ‘Why, we ain’t been out here pannin’ fer gold fer more than four months,’ he said, ‘and I know fer a fact you had a bath just before we left Ohio!’

  “Now don’t you young uns laugh at that!” Grampa Herc commanded when Homer and Freddy and Ginny Lee and all the other children snickered and giggled. “We had mighty good soap in those days. It didn’t come in a fancy box or wrapper, but, by gum, when you washed something with it, that something stayed clean!”

  Mr. Gabby was about to contradict Grampa Hercules, but he noticed the glint in the old man’s eyes and held his peace.

  “‘Yup,’ I said, ‘I’m going to take a bath!’ And I took off my clothes and waded in. ‘Come on in!’ I called across to Hopper, ‘the water’s fine!’

  “Hopper didn’t say anything. He just shook his head and picked a nugget out o’ the bottom o’ his pan and put it in a little bag on his belt. Then he hopped across the stream and started right in panning again. I was having a good old time swishing myself around in that water and watching Hopper pan out a nugget first on one side, then hop across and pan out another nugget on the other. Then he’d edge his way upstream a mite and start all over.

  “‘Hopper,’ I hollered, ‘I wish you’d hop downstream a mite, because you’re muddying up my bath water something awful with the dirt you’re washing out o’ your pan!’

  And Hopper, he came hopping downstream again. By gorry, that fella was restless! He came to a halt near where I was bathing and stood there watching me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and toying with buttons on his shirt.

  “‘You say the water is fine?’ he asked me.

  “‘It’s mighty fine!’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come on in?’

  “‘Well,’ said Hopper, still fidgiting around on the bank, ‘I’d sort of like to, but I guess I’d better not, I might catch cold.’

  “Wu-a-ll, all of a sudden it came to me what Hopper’s trouble was. He was afraid to go in bathing for fear somebody would take the little bags of gold if he took off his belt for even a minute. Like I said, you can never tell how gold is going to affect a fellow, and poor Hopper, I think he was beginning not to trust even me.

  “I sat myself down in the middle of the stream, facing away from him, and said, ‘Hopper, I’m going to close my eyes, and I won’t look until you say ready. You go up there in the bushes a piece and bury your belt with its bags of gold, then you can come in bathing without worrying.’

  “I could hear him spading and scurrying around up there in the bushes, and then by and by he called out, ‘Ready!’

  “I turned around, and there came Hopper, bouncing down to the bank without his belt. He took off his clothes and started to wade in. I couldn’t tell whether the pebbles were hurting his feet, or whether he was just fidgiting, then I guess he decided he would wade in from the other side. Anyway, Hopper hopped! Heavens to Betsy, what a hop that Hopper McThud hopped! I sat there in the water and watched him sail through the air, going up, up, up, and land neat as a pigeon atop that cliff, three hundred feet high if it was an inch!

  “Yessiree!” said Grampa Herc loudly, to make himself heard above the amazed and pleased voices of the boys and girls. “Yessiree! Hopper McThud had been hopping back and forth across that little stream for about four months, and every time he hopped, his gold that he was hoarding in his little bags was just a little bit heavier by one or two nuggets. When you work up gradually to hopping with a heavy weight like that on your belt, it sure plays hob when you take it off all at once!

  “That’s not all,” Grampa Hercules hastened to say. “Now there’s Hopper McThud perched way up there, atop a three-hundred-foot cliff that’s smooth as a wall, and he just as naked as the day he was born!

  “Hopper couldn’t hop himself down again, and there wasn’t any way for him to climb down. About twenty miles north there was a sort o’ trail that he could have come down, but he’d have been awfully hungry and thirsty and sunburned afore he got himself back to camp.

  “I tried to throw him a rope, but I couldn’t get it anywhere near to the top o’ that cliff. Hopper, he commenced to complain that he was getting sunburned. So I hollered up to him, ‘Keep in the shade of a bush, Hopper, and I’ll try to figure out a way to get you down again!’

  “‘If Hopper can hop up there, I can do it too!’ I figgered. ‘I’ll just have to do like Hopper, and hop back and forth across that stream, carrying just a bit more weight along every hop I hop.’

  “It took Hopper a mighty long spell of hopping before he worked himself up to his big jump, but he was stopping betwixt and between every hop to pan out a bit of gold. I figgered that if I just started right in hopping and put stones in my pockets instead of panning out gold nuggets, I could probably jump up and rescue Hopper right quick. Time was awfully important, you see, because the poor fellow wasn’t going to be able to stay in that hot sun and hold out for long, what with no water and no food for his insides, and not a stitch of clothing for his out.

  “Wu-a-ll,” exclaimed Grampa Herc, “right off, I ate a big meal, so’s not to be losing time over food again, and then I began hopping. I’d hop across the stream, put a stone in my pocket, hop back, put another stone in my pocket, back and fort
h, back and forth,” Grampa Herc chanted, beginning to rock back and forth on the lunchroom stool.

  All the children and Mr. Gabby and Max, even Uncle Ulysses and the sheriff, began to rock back and forth in time with Grampa Herc’s words.

  “Stones were getting heavier all the time,” Grampa Herc reminded his swaying listeners. “I could feel ’em weighting me down . . . weighting me down . . . just a mite heavier every hop I took . . . back and forth, back and forth. Filled all o’ my pants pockets,” chanted Grampa Herc. “Shirt pockets too,” he added in time to the swaying of his audience. “Put a couple of rocks in my right boot, all the time hopping, back and forth . . . left boot . . . back and forth. Carried a couple big rocks in my right hand . . . in my left hand. . . .

  “Wu-a-ll!” he shouted, suddenly stopping still, “I quick ripped off all of my clothes, and quick tied a rope around my waist, and quick took another hop!”

  Everybody’s eyes followed Grampa Herc’s up, up, up to the ceiling of the lunchroom and focused on a spot near the far corner.

  “Whew!” puffed the old man, wiping his brow, and then softly, as though he was still awed and puzzled after all these years, he whispered, “And there I was, atop the cliff along with Hopper McThud!”

  “You don’t say!” said Max.

  “Yeah?” asked Mr. Gabby.

  “Yup!” said Grampa Herc solemnly. “And we climbed down the rope and packed right up and came back to Ohio.”

  “What—?” Mr. Gabby started to ask.

  “Sure felt sorry for Hopper!” Grampa Herc interrupted, stroking his chin.

  “Is that—?” questioned Max.

  “In all the excitement,” Grampa Herc went on, “he forgot where he’d buried his little bags of gold. He dug that place full o’ holes before he gave it up.”