FullReads

There was always a weird charm about this stage of the work to the boys. The sun shone warm and bright in the lee of the corn-crib; the steam rose up, white and voluminous, from the barrel; the eaves dropped steadily; the hens ventured near, nervously, but full of curiosity, while the men laughed and joked with Daddy, starting him off on long stories, and winking at each other when his back was turned.

At last he mounted his planking, selecting Mr. Jennings to pull upon the other handle of the hog-hook. He considered he conferred a distinct honor in this selection.

“The time’s been, sir, when I wouldn’t thank any man for his help. No, sir, wouldn’t thank ‘im.”

“What do you do with these things?” asked one of the men, kicking two iron candlesticks which the old man laid conveniently near.

“Scrape a hawg with them, sir. What do y’ s’pose, you numskull?”

“Well, I never saw anything–“

“You’ll have a chance mighty quick, sir. Grab ahold, sir! Swing ‘im around–there! Now easy, easy! Now then, one, two; one, two–that’s right.”

While he dipped the porker in the water, pulling with his companion rhythmically upon the hook, he talked incessantly, mixing up scraps of stories and boastings of what he could do, with commands of what he wanted the other man to do.

“The best man I ever worked with. Now turn ‘im, turn ‘im!” he yelled, reaching over Jennings’s wrist. “Grab under my wrist. There! won’t ye never learn how to turn a hawg? Now out with ‘im!” was his next wild yell, as the steaming hog was jerked out of the water upon the planking. “Now try the hair on them ears! Beautiful scald,” he said, clutching his hand full of bristles and beaming with pride. “Never see anything finer. Here, Bub, a pail of hot water, quick! Try one of them candlesticks! They ain’t no better scraper than the bottom of an old iron candlestick; no, sir! Dum your new-fangled scrapers! I made a bet once with old Jake Ridgeway that I could scrape the hair off’n two hawgs, by gum, quicker’n he could one. Jake was blowin’ about a new scraper he had….

“Yes, yes, yes, dump it right into the barrel. Condemmit! Ain’t you got no gumption?… So Sim Smith, he held the watch. Sim was a mighty good hand t’ work with; he was about the only man I ever sawed with who didn’t ride the saw. He could jerk a crosscut saw…. Now let him in again, now, he-ho, once again! Rool him over now; that foreleg needs a tech o’ water. Now out with him again; that’s right, that’s right! By gol, a beautiful scald as ever I see!”

Milton, standing near, caught his eye again. “Clean that ear, sir! What the devil you standin’ there for?” He returned to his story after a pause. “A–n–d Jake, he scraped away–hyare!” he shouted suddenly, “don’t ruggle the skin like that! Can’t you see the way I do it? Leave it smooth as a baby, sir–yessir!”

He worked on in this way all day, talking unceasingly, never shirking a hard job, and scarcely showing fatigue at any moment.

“I’m short o’ breath a leetle, that’s all; never git tired, but my wind gives out. Dum cold got on me, too.”

He ate a huge supper of liver and potatoes, still working away hard at an ancient horse trade, and when he drove off at night, he had not yet finished a single one of the dozen stories he had begun.

III

But pitching grain and hog-killing were on the lower levels of his art, for above all else Daddy loved to be called upon to play the fiddle for dances. He “officiated” for the first time at a dance given by one of the younger McTurgs. They were all fiddlers themselves,–had been for three generations,–but they seized the opportunity of helping Daddy and at the same time of relieving themselves of the trouble of furnishing the music while the rest danced.