Grandfather Tales

by Richard Chase

  The youngest asked ’em, says, “What are you doin’ in that thornbush?”

  “Our husbands put us in here.”

  “Good enough for ye!” said the old King.

  Well, the Duke he won the war, and then they took the old King with ’em across the water. And one day the girl told the cook not to put any salt in the meat. So when the King started eatin’ his dinner he said the meat didn’t taste right. His daughter brought him a dish of salt; didn’t say a word, just stood there. Then the old King knew her, and he got his mind back again; and then he sent a servant across the water to get that white dress where he’d hidden it, and when he gave it to his youngest daughter it had a bough of white roses on it—and the roses were just as fresh as if they’d been picked that very day.

  The voice in the shadows ceased. For a moment there was no sound except the soft crackling and hissing of the fire. I had written rapidly, trying to record every word, and my arm ached—and my eyes had misted up a bit. Tom had stopped carving. He sat with his head erect as though listening at something far off. A stick burned in two and fell in the midst of the fire.

  Sarah broke the silence. “I heard a funny one from Aunt Nell Adams the other day. Her girl was home from Cincinnati with her three boys, and you should have heard them kids laugh while Old Nell told ’em that tale.”

  “Well, Sary!” exclaimed Old Rob. “I never did hear you tell ar’ tale yet.”

  “I don’t know whether I can tell it right or not.”

  “Go on and tell it,” commanded Granny.

  Soap, Soap, Soap!

  One time there was a woman fixin to wash clothes and she found out she didn’t have no soap, so she hollered for her little boy and told him to go to the store for soap, says, “Don’t you forget now—soap.”

  So he headed for the store, a-runnin’ along and sayin’, “Soap! soap! soap!”—so he wouldn’t forget. Come to a slick place in the road and he slipped and fell. Got up again, went on, tried to think what it was his mommy sent him for and he couldn’t remember. So he walked back to where he slipped, says, “Right there I had it.”

  Walked on a few steps, stopped, says, “Right there I lost it.”

  Walked back—“Right there I had it.”

  Walked on again—“Right there I lost it.”

  Kept on walkin’ back and forth sayin’, “Right there I had it—Right there I lost it”—till he had him a regular loblolly there in the road—had mud mired plumb over the tops of his shoes. Man come along directly and heard what he was sayin’. Asked him, says, “What ye lost?”

  “Right there I had it—

  Right there I lost it.”

  “What ye lost? I’ll help ye find it.”

  “Right there I had it—

  Right there I lost it.”

  So the man thought he was crazy and started on by, and he slipped in the boy’s loblolly and like to fell. Says, “That blame mud! Hit’s slick as soap.”

  “Soap! soap! soap!” says the boy and started on off again. And that man thought the boy was mockin’ him so he stepped over and grabbed him and shook him, says, “You say you’re sorry and won’t do it again, or I’ll whip you good.”

  “Sorry I done it; won’t do it again—

  Sorry I done it; won’t do it again.”

  So the man turned him loose and the boy run on; but he started in sayin’ that and couldn’t think of the soap. Got down the road and come across an old woman had fell in the ditch and broke all the eggs she had in her basket. She was gettin up about the time that boy come along—

  “Sorry I done it; won’t do it again—

  Sorry I done it; won’t do it again.”

  And the old woman thought he was makin’ fun of her, so she grabbed him and boxed his ears, and then she pushed him in the ditch, says, “I’m out and you’re in.”

  And when he got out the ditch he went on, sayin’:

  “I’m out and you’re in.

  I’m out and you’re in.”

  Come to where a man had one wagon wheel mired ’way down in a mudhole and was tryin’ to get it out—

  “I’m out and you’re in.

  I’m out and you’re in.”

  The man grabbed him, says, “You oughtn’t say that. One’s out and now you come here and help me get the other’n out—or I’ll whup you good.”

  So the boy had to help him, and when they got it out on down the road he went—

  “One’s out; get the other’n out—

  One’s out; get the other’n out.”

  And a one-eyed man come along and that boy went past him—

  “One’s out; get the other’n out—

  One’s out; get the other’n out.”

  So the one-eyed man grabbed him and he just smoked that boy’s britches. Says, “You oughtn’t say sech a thing to me. You might ’a said ‘One’s in anyway!’” Turned him loose, and on the boy went—

  “One’s in anyway—

  One’s in anyway.”

  Come to where a woman was washin’ clothes at her washin’ place in the creek ’side the road. Her two least young ’uns was runnin’ around there playin’ and one of’em had slipped and fell in the creek. The woman run to get it out and just about that time there was that boy—

  “One’s in anyway—

  One’s in anyway.”

  So she jerked the young ’un out the creek, and then she went after that boy and grabbed him, and she was about to give him a good paddlin’ for making fun of her and her young ’uns but when she saw how dirty he was where he’d been in the mud so many times and been cryin’ and wipin’ his face with his muddy hands, she took pity sake on him and turned him loose, says, “You run on back home and tell your mommy to take some soap and wash that black face.”

  Time he heard “Soap” he lit out down the road—

  “Soap! Soap! Soap!—

  Soap! Soap! Soap!”

  And that time he got to the store and got the soap and run on home with it and handed it to his mommy. And she give him one look and then she took him by the ear and marched him down to her wash-place and soused him in the creek—clothes and all. Then she soaped him all over—with his britches and his shirt right on him. Soused him ag’in, till she got all the mud and dirt off him.

  Then she took two clothespins and hung him up on her clothesline by his shirt-tail, and left him there to dry while she got the rest of her washin’ done.

  Another father came for his kids while Sarah was in the midst of her story. He looked around, nodded to Tom and the rest of us, took a chair vacated for him by one of the boys—and stayed; and when the tale was done he asked, “You all keepin’ Old-Christmas Eve?”

  “We come over here with Tom every year on the night of the fifth,” Old Rob answered him, “and you ought to have seen the old dumb-show these boys put on for us tonight. Old Kel’s known it all his life, but this is the first time any of us ever saw it all acted out right.”

  “There was one speech they left out,” said Uncle Kel. “That young ’un who played the Doctor’s part just couldn’t memorize it.”

  “I tried to,” came a voice from the chimney corner. “It was too long. I’d ’a got all tangled up if I’d tried to put it in.”

  “What was it, Kel? Can you say it?” asked Tom.

  Uncle Kel laughed. “Old Bet asks the Doctor how far he’s ever traveled, and the Doctor says—”

  The Skoonkin Huntin’

  Traveled this world all over: house to the barn, upstairs, downstairs, out the front door plumb to the gate—and then me and Paw started gettin’ fixed to go on that larrapin’ rarrapin’ tarrapin’ skoonkin huntin’. So Paw went out to round up all the dogs, all but Old Shorty. And I went and shucked and shelled the pigs a bucket of slop, but when I got down there the punkins was all in the pig-patch, so I picked up a pig and knocked them punkins out of there. Took my bridle out to the chicken-house, slung it on the barn, led the old stump up ’side the horse, throwed the saddle across the fenc
e, jumped a-straddle with both legs on one side, rode down a long straight road that wound all around the mountains, came to a house made of cornbread shingled with flap-jacks, knocked on the woman and a door came out, asked her for a crust of beer and a glass of light-bread, told her no-thank-you-ma’am-please-I-don’t-care-for-some-I-just-had-any. Bark came along and dogged at me, so I ran on till I came to a little valley town sittin’ ’way up on a hill—little roast pigs runnin’ up and down the streets with knives and forks stuck in their backs squealin’ “Who’ll eat me? Who’ll eat me?”—Went on to my brother’s place. Easy to find it—little brick house made out of logs standin’ all by itself in the middle of forty-four others just like it. My old mare stumbled and throwed me over her head and tail right face foremost flat on my back and tore my hide and bruised my shirt; so I went on down to see my gal Sal. She was awful glad to see me—had both doors nailed down and both windows nailed up, so I went on in and throwed my hat on the fire and stirred up the bed and we sat down right close together, she in one corner and me in the other and talked about love and politics and dog-ticks and bed-ticks and straw-ticks and beggar-ticks and we played cards and she drawed a heart and I drawed a diamond and about that time her old man came home and he drawed a club and I says, “Good-bye, honey, and if I never see ye no more the old gray mare is yours.” So Paw he had all the dogs rounded up by then—all but Old Shorty, and then he rounded him up too; and the dogs all trailed—all but Old Shorty, and then he trailed too; and directly they all treed—all but Old Shorty, then he treed too; so I cloomb up that siceyebucky-more tree ’way out on a chestnut limb sittin’ on a pine knot and I shook and I shook, and directly somethin’ hit the ground and I looked around—and it was me; and every blame one of them dogs jumped on me—all but Old Shorty, then he jumped too; so I knocked ’em all off—all but Old Shorty and I grabbed him by the tail and cut his tail off right up close behind his ears. So we got back in home from that larrapin’, rarrapin’, tarrapin’, skoonkin huntin’, had two ’possum tails, two black eyes, four skinned-up shank bones, no horse, and all the dogs—all but Old Shorty.

  This kept the boys doubled over with laughter. Then Tom spoke out, “Another’n just came to my mind. Hit’s a tale my wife used to tell our kids ’fore they growed up; and now their children ask for it every time they come from Roanoke to see me. The way my wife told it—”

  Presented, Bymeby, and Hereafter

  One time there was an old man and he never had married; and he got tired of tryin’ to keep house by himself, so he went and found him an old woman and married her and took her on home. It was about hog-killin’ time then, and that old woman she didn’t like to work a bit, but she went on out to watch the old man put up the meat in the smokehouse. He was a-sortin’ it out, says, “Now these backbones and ribs, that’s for present need and we’ll lay it here; and we’ll hang the shoulders and hams over here, and that’s for by and by; and we’ll put all this sowbelly and fatback up there, and that’ll be for hereafter.”

  Then he looked down at the big tub of lard he had, all rendered out, says, “And look at all that lard! Won’t that be fine to grease cabbage heads with!” He just loved fried cabbage.

  The old woman she listened to every word, kept noddin’ her head—and directly they got the hog-meat all put away for the winter.

  Well, one day pretty soon after that the old man left to go off on a trip somewhere, and the next day a man rode up in the yard, and hollered hello. The old woman came to the door.

  “What can I do for ye?”,

  “Is the man of the house here?”

  “No, he left yesterday. Said he’d be gone all week.”

  “Well, I had a little business with him. I’ll have to come back next week, I reckon.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Presnell Sneed.”

  “O Mister Presentneed! I know exactly what ye come for: you want your meat. He’s got a pile of meat here for ye. I’m glad you’ve done come to get it; hit’ll be out the way.”

  Well, that feller was sort of surprised; but he saw it was a chance to get him a little meat, so he said all right, bein’ as he was there he’d take the meat on with him.

  “But I forgot to bring me a sack,” he told her.

  “Aw, that’s all right; we got plenty of sacks here.”

  The old lady went and hunted him up some tow-sacks and took ’em on out to the smokehouse, and she helped that man to get all them backbones and ribs packed and helped him get ’em loaded on behind the saddle. And just when he was about to start off she hollered out to him, says, “O Mister Presentneed! He’s got some meat here for Mister Bymeby too. If you was to meet him anywhere down the road you tell him he can come on and get his meat, jest any time. Tell him to bring some sacks. We ain’t got no more.”

  He told her he sure would; and then he rode down the road a piece and dumped the meat out them sacks; swapped hats with a man in the road, and directly he pulled on back to the old man’s house.

  “Hello! Hello! Is there anybody home?”

  She looked out the door. “What can I do for ye?”

  “Howdy do, ma’m. My name’s Bymeby, and I want to see your man on a little business.”

  “Well, your meat’s a-hangin’ out there in the smokehouse. That’s what ye come for, I reckon. Jest get down and come on in. I’ll go out there with ye and show ye which meat’s your’n.”

  She helped him get them hams and shoulders all sacked up and loaded on his horse; says, “Now we got meat here for Mister Hereafter, too. If you run across him down the road anywhere would ye mind tellin’ him he can come on here for his meat?—jest any time. You tell him to be sure and bring some sacks.”

  “All right, ma’m. If I see him I’ll be sure to tell him.”

  So that feller he went and dumped them sacks again. Then he turned his coat inside out and in a few minutes there he was back at the old man’s front gate a-hollerin’ hello.

  “Howdy do, stranger.”

  “Howdy do, ma’m. I come to see your man on business. My name’s Hereafter.”

  “Jest get down and come on in, Mister Hereafter. I see you brought some sacks to pack your meat in. Hit’s out yonder in the smokehouse: that big pile of middlin’s. You can go on out there and get it. I’d help ye but I been helpin’ them men pack meat all mornin’ and I’m plumb give out. Now that meat business is out the way, and I’m glad of it.”

  Well, that feller he had to hire him a wagon to haul all his meat off. He took it on to town and sold it; made him a pile of money.

  The old woman got rested up after a while, and then she remembered that lard, so she thought she’d finish the job right for her old man. She went and dragged the lard tub clean on out in the field where the cabbage patch was at, and up one row and down the next—a-greasin’ all the cabbage heads with the old man’s lard. And just when she got the last head covered with the last smear of grease in the tub, she looked behind her and there was the old hound-dog had follered her every step a-lickin’ off the lard just as hard as it could lick.

  And when the old man got in home that Saturday night she stepped out to meet him—“Well, old man, you’ve done had the best luck! All them men come and got their meat.”

  The old man’s eyes popped open. “What men?”

  “Why, Mister Presentneed and Mister Bymeby, and Mister Hereafter—the ones you said the meat was for.”

  The old man ran and looked in the smokehouse; came back just a-r’arin’, says, “And what in the nation have ye done with all my lard?”

  “Why, I done what you said: I greased the cabbage heads with it.”

  “All of it?”

  “Why sure.”

  “Have you done gone and cut that whole field of cabbage heads, old woman?”

  “Law, no!” she says. “You never said cut ’em; I jest greased ’em right where they was at. But that old no-’count hound of your’n come along and licked it ever’ bit off.”

  “You’re plumb
crazy, old woman! And I’m goin’ to leave you, that’s what I’m a-goin’ to do. I’ll not live with ye another minute.”

  And out the gate he put. She hollered after him, says, “Well, if you leave, I’m a-goin’ to leave, too.”

  He hollered back at her, says, “Don’t you leave the house without you wrop up the fire, and be sure you pull the door after ye.”

  He meant for her to cover the fire with ashes so the house wouldn’t be liable to burn down, and to shut the door behind her. Well—that old woman she ran to the fireplace and wropped her apron full of hot coals and ashes; held ’em up with one hand, and then she wrenched the door off its old rickety hinges and pulled it after her down the path and on out the front gate.

  And when the old man heard that door-shutter a-bangin’ on the rocks in the road he looked back, and there came his old woman in a light-flame! The smoke was just a-pourin’ and the door a-jumpin’ up and down behind her. So he ran back and put her out, turned around and started walkin’ on off again—right on down the road, never looked back or nothin’. And the old woman she took off right in after him, with a big hole burnt in her apron, and her face all sooted up, and that door a-knockin’ and a-bangin’ all over the road.