Grandfather Tales

by Richard Chase

  “I know a man,” I said, “who wakes up his apple trees on Old-Christmas Eve.”

  “Wakes up his apple trees?”

  “What about that now!” exclaimed Jeems.

  “How did he do it?”

  “Everybody goes out in the orchard at sundown and we sing an old song that was handed down for this Apple Tree Wassail—as they call it. And at the end of the song we all shout together:

  ‘Stand fast, root!

  Bear well, top!

  Every little twig bear an apple big!

  Every little bough bear an apple now!

  Hats full, caps full, three-bushel bags full,

  cellar full, barn floors full,

  little heaps under the stairs,

  and my pockets full too!’

  Then we all set off firecrackers and shotguns, and stomp the ground and whoop and holler as loud as we can.”

  “A-a-a Lord!” said Old Kel. “Used to be a lot of Old-Christmas signs and ways.”

  “They used to tell me that alder buds would burst and leaf out on Old-Christmas Eve,” said Granny. “Said the bees would roar in the bee-gum like they wanted to swarm.”

  “Greenbriar will blossom, too,” put in Old Kel; “and hop vines spring up.”

  “Get up on a high place on the twelfth night of Christmas,” Granny told us, “and you’ll see a big star rise.”

  “They used to say,” murmured Uncle Kel, “that the twenty-fifth was set aside so they could have a big time, celebrate and drink and all. New Christmas was made for man, but Old Christmas—and my grandfather always thought that was the right Christmas—is holy, sacred. You ought to be good now, on the twelfth day; not celebrate but stay home and keep that day quiet-like and think on the Lord.”

  “I used to know a song about the twelve days of Christmas,” said Granny, “but hit’s done left me, all but the first of it”

  “Why, you know that, Tom!” said Rhody. “I heard you singin’ it when I went by here the other day. Sing it!”

  Tom started the song and Granny said, “That ain’t the tune.” Tom kept on, and Rhody began to sing parts of it with him. Then Steve joined in, and before the end the whole room was full of singing.

  III

  O the third day of Christmas my true-love sent to me

  three French hens, two turtle doves,

  and a parteridge in a pear tree, in a pear tree.

  IV

  O the fourth day of Christmas my true-love sent to me

  four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves,

  and a parteridge in a pear tree, in a pear tree.

  V

  O the fifth day of Christmas my true-love sent to me:

  VI

  O the sixth day of Christmas my true-love sent to me

  * The phrase of the tune for this is now used for the rest of the new gifts—“seven swans a-swimmin’” etc. The new phrase from “five goldie wrens” back to the “parteridge in a pear tree” is used from now on.

  four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves,

  and a parteridge in a pear tree, in a pear tree.

  And so, adding the gifts one by one, we sang on to the last verse:

  “O the twelfth day of Christmas my true-love sent to me,

  twelve bulls a-bellowin’,

  eleven lords a-leapin’,

  ten ladies dancin’,

  nine boys a-singin’,

  eight hares a-runnin’,

  seven swans a-swimmin’,

  six geese a-layin’,

  five goldie wrens;

  four calling birds,

  three French hens,

  two turtle doves,

  and a parteridge in a pear tree.”

  Old Kel leaned over to Tom and began to tell him something Tom’s song had reminded him of. I caught the words “seven squintin’ squirrels, six pippycoritical custards,” and I wanted to listen, but Granny London took my ear to tell me where Tom had the song “wrong” both in words and tune.

  About the middle of Granny’s re-singing there was a burst of laughter from Old Rob and the men and boys listening to Old Kel, so I knew I’d missed something.

  Then Tom got up, and took his flashlight down from the fire-board and went out. We heard him turning over boards under the porch. He was brushing snow from his hair and shoulders when he re-entered. “There’s your snow, Jeems. Comin’ down fast, and stickin’ too.” The boys were up and out as quick as a wink.

  “It’s already a inch deep!” one of them called gleefully.

  Tom had brought in a long thin piece of board and gone back to work with his knife.

  “Tell this man about your huntin’ trip, Rob,” said Old Kel; “and mind you don’t make up no lies.” The old man grinned dryly at Jeems and me.

  “Why, no, indeed! I might handle the truth just a little careless-like; but I’ll tell ye no lies, whole lies, and nothin’ but lies.” And he put on a most sober face as he started—

  Only a Fair Day’s Huntin’

  One summer I was workin’ in West Virginia, back when I was young; and a crowd of us boys, off work on a Saturday, we went to go bathin’ in a big pond. Got up there, that pond was plumb kivvered in wild ducks. Well, I told the other boys to lie low a minute, slipped off my clothes, grabbed up four plowlines was layin’ there on the fence, and eased in that pond. Slipped under the water, swum around underneath all them ducks till I’d tied all their feet up with them lines. Poked my head up amongst ’em, hollered “Whoo!” and slapped my hands. I had a good grip on the end of that line and hit tied in one length, but I miscalculated on how much I could hold, and them ducks got lined up some way or other and pulled me out the water and flew on off with me a-hangin’ to that plowline. Right on up through the clouds and across the country they went, and I’d ’a been a goner if I hadn’t fin’lly pulled up a ways on that line and made me a loop. So I slipped down in that loop and sat there with my legs crossed lookin’ over the country. Houses looked about the size of patent bee-gums, and folks was like ants crawlin’ around.

  Well, them ducks flew the daylong and right on up in the night, and never showed no sign of givin’ out till about sunup Sunday mornin’. So when I see they was headin’ down to light, I watched, and time I was on the ground I snubbed the end of that line around a big wahoo. Calculated after I got me a bite to eat somewhere I’d turn their heads and fly ’em back. Went over to a house, was standin’ there fairly close, hollered, and a old man come out. Asked him could I get me a little something to eat, and he said yes.

  “Anybody there with ye?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said, “I’m batchin’.”

  So I come out from behind the bresh and went on to the house.

  He handed me a pair of big overalls, says, “The fare’ll be pretty bad, but if you can stand it you’re welcome.”

  “Can you tell me where I’m at?” I asked him.

  “Why, yes,” he says, “you’re here.”

  “Where’s here?” I says. “I just come to this country.”

  “South Carolina,” he told me.

  “Huntin’ good down here?” I asked him.

  “Good?” says the old man. “Why, the other day I went out to hunt me a little game—” And that old feller he tried to tell me a lot of stuff that didn’t have a bit of truth in it.

  So directly we got fixed to go out huntin’. He had an old big-bored gun there, double-barr’led muzzle-loadin’ shotgun, and he put a double-charge of powder in both barr’ls—I didn’t know he’d done that—loaded her up with buckshot and we headed for the river. ’Course, he let me have the gun.

  Well, we got down there on the river-bank and looked up the river and there was a big flock of ducks. I raised the gun, but ’fore I could fire I heard a racket down the river, and there was about a hundred wild geese. Well, I wanted the ducks, and I wanted them geese, both. So I took a notion: I lowered the gun and stuck the middle finger of each hand in the ends of them gun-barr’ls and pulle
d ’em apart, bent one to the right and one to the left. Then I raised up and set the gun about level with the water and . . . just as I went to fire a big buck deer slipped down the opposite bank to get him a drink, and I was about to pull that gun straight again so’s I could get him instead of the game-birds, but right then a grea-a-t big cottonmouth snake r’ared up out the water and was makin’ right at me.—Well, I pulled both triggers.

  And that double charge of powder goin’ off in both barr’ls at onct, hit kicked me a back somersault up the curve in the bank and throwed me right out in the middle of the river. I come back to the top pretty quick and shook the water out my eyes. Seen that old man runnin’ downstream to get the dead geese ’fore they floated off; so I stayed out there a-tread-in’ water, gathered up my ducks when they floated on down to where I was at. Got holt of ’em and swum on back.

  And when I got out on dry land again I felt somethin’ floppin’ around inside my britches legs, and don’t you know that old man’s overalls had done run full of fish. Shook myself and there was big catfish come out the right leg, and trout and bass fell out the left ’un. I bent over to pick ’em up, jerked a buckle off one shoulder-strap and hit went flyin’ in the grass and killed a big rabbit sittin’ there.

  Looked around to see what about that snake and it was dead all right. The ramrod had jarred out when I fired, flew straight down that cottonmouth’s throat and choked it to death. But I forgot to see what about the deer ’cause just then that old man come back with the geese. So we got to fixin’ that gun back straight again, jerked the ramrod out that snake’s mouth and put it back in the socket. Then we loaded it—I loaded it that time. And when we went to put on the caps we seen both hammers was gone. Just about then we heard a racket, looked across the river and there was that deer backin’ against the riverbank and a-dodgin’ and a-jumpin’ a sound like hornets or somethin’ was after it. Well, we swum over right quick, and—don’t you know!—them two hammers had that deer hemmed in and cornered and was a-snappin’ at it one on one side and the other’n on the other.

  So I picked me up a rock and hit the deer between the eyes, grabbed them hammers, and then we floated the deer across, put the hammers back on the gun, picked up all that game and went on back to the old man’s shack. He didn’t have much to say.

  Well, I left him the game: sixty-three ducks, forty-eight geese, twelve big catfish, fifteen trout, four bass weighed about ten or eleven pounds apiece, the deer, and the rabbit. “Only a fair day’s huntin’,” I told him. “Not bad, but you come on back to Virginia with me and we’ll really go on a huntin’ trip.”

  He said no, he didn’t reckon he could go right then. So I give him back his overalls and went and turned my string of ducks north. Got fixed in my loop-seat—put me a board in it that time—untied the rope from that wahoo and my ducks took off. We had a good wind with us goin’ back, and they landed me right back in that same pond about sundown. I eased out the water with my end of that plowline and looped it over a fencepost right quick. Them ducks was give out but I wasn’t takin’ no chances on them carryin’ me off to Canady or Mexico or some such outlandish place.

  Got back in my clothes, and showed up in plenty of time for work on Monday mornin’.—Them ducks got fat bein’ tied down to one place like they was, and one Saturday me and the boys had us a big roast-duck picnic up there. I can show ye the place—if you don’t believe me.

  “Aw, you left out all that about Honey River and Pancake Mountain,” complained Steve.

  “If I was to try to tell you all that happened on my huntin’ trips, boys, we’d be here till tomorrow night too.”

  Tom had finished the long strip, which he had notched like a saw. He got up and put it on the fireboard with the little man.

  “I’d better tell Dick here about the stalk of corn I raised that time,” he said.

  “Look out, boys!”—and Old Rob ducked as though he were about to be bit. “Tom’s goin’ to tell a big ’un!”

  The Tall Cornstalk

  Well now, I’ve seen a lot of things in my time. I remember old Brin, John Edward’s big milch cow that gave so much milk, and how she got hung up in a grapevine in a sinkhole out ’side the mountain and how the milk run out of her bag till it filled that hole up over the old cow’s head. Drownded her. Yes, sir;—and while she was dyin’ she kicked around and churned up a hundred pounds of butter. Good butter, too. I eat supper down at John’s two years after that and John’s old lady had some of it on the table.

  And I recollect Johnny Martin’s old horse and how he turned him loose in a peavine cove to die when he got too old to work—and anyway, he had them two sores on his back so he couldn’t be rode none. Then me and Johnny went huntin’ on the ridge above that cove several years after that. Looked off down in the holler, seen a big oak tree a-movin’ around down there—and a dogwood follerin’ right in behind it. And when we got down there, blamed if it wasn’t Johnny’s old horse, had them trees growin’ up out of him. An acorn had fell in the sore in the middle of his back and a dogwood berry had lodged in the one jest over his hindquarters. And that old horse was spry as a colt. Looked like he got strength from them trees a-takin’ root in him like that. Well, Johnny run back home and got his axe, and we cut the oak. I led the old horse out from under it when it fell. Took the horse on in, and Johnny Martin got his adze and his drawknife and some chisels,’and he shaped that oak stump into as pretty a saddle as you ever saw. And that dogwood—he never cut it. Jus’ left it standin’ so’s he could have him a shadebush everwhen he had to ride out in the hot sun.

  And them snakes that got to fightin’—now I never saw that, but they said both snakes had a holt of each other by the tip of their tails and they both commenced swallerin’. Swallered each other up till there wasn’t but about three inches of snake left where one was that much longer’n the other’n.

  Yes, and I can remember Gal Swindall’s big bull that run around the fodder stack so hard he butted his own rump, butted his brains out.

  But anyway, this cornstalk I’m fixin’ to tell ye about, hit was the biggest I ever seen. And my two boys, Burl and Blaine, they could prove it to ye if they was here to do it but Burl’s in the Hiawathia Islands in the navy and Blaine’s in the Marines somewhere over about Chiny.

  Well, we was shellin’ seed-corn to plant in the old bottom on the creek next to where there used to be an old stave mill where my great-granddaddy’s great-great-granddaddy worked. Aimed to have us a good newground for our corn crop that year. I reckon we grubbed a million roots and herbs from that old bottom, besides grapevine and greenbriar and black-berry bresh and graveyard vine, not to mention trees that had stumps six foot across and locusts thick as wheat in a wheat-field and locusts roots runnin’ a mile or so in every direction—and rocks! We could ’a built three hotels out of them rocks we hauled and toted and throwed out of that piece of newground. We had to work awful hard tryin’ to make a little somethin’ to eat for our family: Mommy and Pa, and Jeb and Ceelie and Deelie (twins, they was) and Tom and Everett and Polly and Matthew and the second set of twins, Allie and Callie, and Hode and Clariebell and the least kids and me and my wife (I was the oldest boy) and my boys Burl and Earl (they was twins, but Earl he died) and Blaine and my three least ’uns—and Grandpa and Grandma and Great-uncle Jeff and Cousin Herman and Cousin Therman (they was twins too) and Aunt Becky (Rebecca—that was her real name) they stayed with us some too back then. Why, I reckon we sweated about ten thousand gallons gettin’ that bottom patch cleared and ready for plantin’. And we was pretty peart the day we got through with it: ten acres or more, fine black dirt, level as a housefloor. Well, like I was sayin’, we were all out on the back porch shellin’ the last of that seed-corn ’fore daylight that mornin’, and we was shellin’ for a fare-you-well and right then Ma called us to come eat breakfast—when I dropped the ear I had—and I was awful hungry so I left it where it fell off the porch.

  And after we’d eat, I looked for it, found where it had f
ell in the trough where we watered the chickens. Picked it up and right then I noticed where the water had done swelled one of the grains on that cob—swelled it to about the size of a plum. So I shelled the rest of it off and saved that big one to itself. Put it in my pocket

  So we went on down to that field directly and started in plantin’. And about twelve I noticed somethin’ bumpin’ my leg, seen my pocket bulgin’ out like a baseball. That grain of corn had swelled some more. I took it and set it on a big flat rock at the edge of the field. Got all the corn in the ground about sundown, and when I went to get that grain of corn—don’t you know!—hit had done swelled to about the size of a big pumpkin. Must ’a weighed about sixty pounds or more. So I called Burl and Blaine and we toted it to one corner of the field, dug us a good-sized hole, and rolled it in. Shoveled the dirt back over it, stomped it down a lick or two, picked up the shovel and started to go to the house. And we hadn’t any more’n turned our backs, when somethin’ behind us went off like a shotgun. We jerked around and the stalk of that corn had shot out the ground ten or twelve feet and was a-growin’ right on. We watched it a minute or two, and then I run for the axe. I figgered it ’uld take all the strength out the rest of the field. Grabbed the axe up out the chop-block, run back and started cuttin’, but that thing was growin’ so fast I couldn’t hit it twice in the same place. It was gatherin’ thick dark about then anyhow so we had to let it grow and went on back to the house.