by Ralph Moody
26
’Bijah Out-trades Himself
GRANDFATHER and Mr. Swale were waiting in the barnyard when I brought the cows in. Old Myra was out in front, as usual, the spotted cow next, and the brindle and Clara Belle were only a few steps behind me. “There you be, ’Bijah! There you be!” Grandfather sang out when the spotted cow came up past the sheep barn. “There’s a nice good cow for you. Easy milking, and clever as a kitten. Freshened less’n a month agone. Cal’late I could let you have her for about ten dollars boot. Fetch her right up here, Ralphie, where ’Bijah can get a good look at her!”
The old spotted cow weaved a little as I drove her up toward the barn. Her box-shaped bag with its uneven teats flopped from side to side, and her hip bones stuck out like sawed-off tree limbs. Halfway up, she stopped, turned her head back toward the sheep barn where we used to keep her calf, and lowed. It was almost a wail. “Gorry sakes,” Grandfather said, “’Tain’t half-past four yet, and her a-bellering to be milked a’ready. Fetch a milk pail, Ralphie, so’s ’Bijah can try her out his own self.”
Just as he said it, the brindle cow bellowed from the door of the sheep barn. Even though her twin calves were gone, she always stopped there and bawled when she came in from the pasture. “Time and tarnation!” Grandfather shouted at me. “Didn’t I tell you not to fetch Clara Belle and the brindle in?”
“I didn’t.” I told him. “They just followed us.”
“Whyn’t you put the bars up so’s to keep ’em back? Get ’em out where they can get some grass in their bellies.” He sounded awfully mad, so I drove them back into the lane and put up the bars at the end of the barnyard. When I came back, he was stroking the spotted cow on the forehead, and Mr. Swale was standing away and looking at her. His mouth was pulled down at the corners, and he grumbled, “Never mind! Never mind the milk pail!”
Grandfather’s face looked worried, and he said, “’N awful good cow, ’Bijah. ’N awful good cow. If you don’t trade for her you’ll always regret it. I’ll guarantee her and stand right behind my word.”
Mr. Swale walked around to the other side, bent over, and looked at the cow’s bag. “Don’t cal’late she’s just the cow I’m a-looking for, Tom,” he said.
“’N awful nice good cow.” Grandfather said. “Might shave the boot fifty cents—seeing’s she ain’t fleshed up much since the calf come. All-fired nice easy cow for Miz Swale to milk.”
Mr. Swale stood back with his arms folded and teetered up onto his toes two or three times. “Hain’t worth it. Nope! Nope! Don’t cal’late my missus would cotton to this here one, Tom. How ’bout that brindle critter?”
Grandfather’s face looked almost frightened. “Gorry sakes, no! Couldn’t let you . . . ’Bijah, I don’t cal’late that brindle’d be the right one for Miz Swale. You being an old neighbor, I be a-going to let you have this spotted one for nine dollars boot. You’ll always be sorry if you don’t take her.”
I was so mad I wanted to yell at Grandfather, but there wasn’t a thing I could do or say. Mr. Swale wagged his head back and forth as he walked over in front of the cow. He stood a foot or two behind Grandfather, just above me on the little hill that ran up to the barn foundation. Then, as he teetered, he looked over my head toward the lane.
The brindle was reaching for clover through the fence. The afternoon sun struck along her back and side so that her color looked like weathered bronze. And, in the long grass, her round, bulging bag almost seemed to reach the ground. “Nope, Tom, nope,” Mr. Swale said as he teetered. “Can’t make you no trade on this here one, but I’ll give you nine dollars and take the brindle.”
“Great thunderation, no!” Grandfather shouted. “Butter’s twenty-eight cents, and Ralphie can’t get all she gives at a milking into a sixteen quart pail. Gorry sakes, no!”
A hot flash went all over me, and I thought I knew what Grandfather was doing. I could hardly help grinning when I said, “Not by at least three quarts.”
It didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to make the trade after that. Mr. Swale just walked around the brindle once, looked at her bag from both sides and the back, and talked Grandfather down from twenty to fifteen dollars boot.
We turned the red cow loose in the barnyard, and tied the brindle to Mr. Swale’s dumpcart. After he’d driven away, Grandfather folded the bills and stuffed them into his wallet. “There you be, Ralphie!” he said. “Wan’n’t that all right? Never told him a tarnal word ’twa’n’t gospel truth. Just sort of cal’lated ’Bijah’d do his own trading; wouldn’t trust t’other man not to lie about a critter. Let me see. Let me see. Not a-counting what the twin calves fetched, I cal’late this breechy red cow stands me eighteen dollars and a quarter.”
The red cow was standing at the far side of the barnyard. Her tail was turned our way, but she had her head twisted just enough so she could watch us. Grandfather picked up a stick and flung it toward her. Before it was hardly in the air, she dashed for the lane bars and sailed over them like a frightened deer. “Just so! Just so!” Grandfather said. “Did you mark how she jumped with her head up like a hoss? Two, three days, we’ll cure her of that, and with a little provender morning and night, I wouldn’t doubt she’ll make a pretty good cow. Mostly scairt; that’s all. ’Bijah, he don’t treat his critters gentle.”
I was glad Grandfather had traded off the brindle, but I worried quite a little about it while I was doing the chores. The new red cow surprised me. I gave her a quart of meal just before I started to milk her, and was careful not to do anything to frighten her. But I still remembered how quick she was when she kicked Mr. Swale and I kept one knee between her hocks. When I’d seen her tied to the dumpcart, I hadn’t thought she’d give two quarts at a milking, but she gave more than six, and she was easy to milk.
Grandfather had built a fire and put potatoes on to boil, but he was in his room when I took the milk to the house. Instead of scalding the pans and setting it right away, I scrubbed my hands and made a pan of biscuits. They didn’t come out as well as the ones I made when Annie was there to tell me just what to do, but they were a lot better than Grandfather’s. And then I mashed the potatoes with cream in them, while the pork was frying.
When I called Grandfather to supper, he was still excited about his good trade. “By fire, Ralphie,” he told me, “soon’s ever we get this breechy one cured of jumping fences and get a little meat under her hide, I cal’late she’ll make awful good trading stock. I been a-turning over in my mind just who I ought to swap her off to.”
“Maybe you won’t want to trade her off,” I said. “She gave at least six quarts of milk tonight, and she didn’t kick once.”
“Six quarts! Gorry sakes! Didn’t cal’late she’d give six cupfuls. Great thunderation! I certainly did even up with ’Bijah for beating me out of them four cords of wood.”
“Being sick, and with rheumatism in her hands, I’m kind of worried about Mrs. Swale,” I said.
“Gossiping old battle-axe!” Grandfather exploded. “Meaner’n ’Bijah with critters! Seen her bust a milking stool acrost a fresh heifer’s back. Ain’t nothing more the matter with her hands than there be with your’n. Seen her a-picking blueb’ries side the road t’other day, nimble fingered as a fiddler.”
As he talked, Grandfather had been sitting with a piece of fried pork balanced on his knife. All at once, he began laughing, bumped the heel of the knife down on the table, and sent the pork flying. “By fire!” he laughed, “Did you mark the kick the breechy one fetched ’Bijah? Quicker’n scat, wa’n’t she? Heap up her measures of provender, Ralphie. I cal’late that one kick was worth five dollars in meal.”
“Whew!” I said, “I was afraid for a little while you were going to trade the spotted cow off to him. I’d have hated to see people like that get her.”
“You needn’t to have worried none, Ralphie. I know ’Bijah, and I knowed his father, and my father knowed his grandfather. Crooked as a rail fence, all three of ’em and alike as crows a-setting on
it. Wa’n’t one of ’em would tell the truth if a lie would do, and always cal’lated everybody else done the same. Gorry sakes! Them three men has lawed and been lawed more than ary three men this side of Kingdom-come. Did ever I tell you ’bout the white oaks?”
“The one great-grandfather climbed?” I asked him.
“No. No. No.” he said, as his knife chased a scrap of pork around his plate. “You recollect a stump field east’ard of the county road as you come up toward Cowen’s Tavern?”
“The one that’s in even rows?”
“Did you mark how the brook runs ’twixt it and the road?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, ’twa’n’t always there. In the year 1800, Sam Starboard bought the land joining Father on the east. His deed run from Father’s wall to the brook, and follering south’ard to a tarnal great beaver dam. Four, five years later, ’Bednego Swale—he was ’Bijah’s grandfather—come in and bought up a piece of land t’other side the brook.
“Well, Sam Starboard—next to Father—he was the best farmer hereabouts. Crack of dawn till twilight he’d be a-chopping and a-burning till he’d cleared him a ten-acre potato field in the valley. Virgin soil’t was then, Ralphie. Black, and didn’t need no dressing. Wa’n’t no roads in them days, but Sam, he had an all-fired great wide-horned ox. Come fall, he’d histe two hundredweight of potatoes onto the back of the ox, and lead him off down to Bath two, three times a week. Shipmasters was a-paying high for potatoes, and Sam, he commenced to prosper.
“Winter of 1812–13 was an all-fired hard one. Come spring thaw, water riz in the valley till ’twas higher’n a tall man’s head. When it run off, the brook had changed its course, followed the nigh edge of Sam’s potato field ’stead of the far one, and ripped out the beaver dam. Didn’t bother Sam none. Just throwed a log bridge acrost, come planting time, and went on about his business of growing potatoes.
“All enduring the spring and summer, he’d hear ’Bednego a-swearing at his oxen and a-working in the woods along the old stream bed. ’Twa’n’t none of Sam’s business, and him and ’Bednego wa’n’t on the best of terms noways, so he didn’t pay it no heed.
“Come the spring of 1814, and Sam finds his log bridge chopped out and hauled off. When he sot about building him a new one, old ’Bednego come a-running down through the woods a-hollering, ‘Get off my prop’ty! My deed reads to the east side of the brook.’
“Well, sir, Ralphie, there wa’n’t nothing for Sam to do but law him. And he lost. ’Bednego had sot out seven- and eight-year-old trees in the old water course and sowed grass ’twixt ’em. To look at it, ary man would have swore on a Bible the brook hadn’t a-run there in half a score of years.”
“Didn’t Mr. Starboard ever get it back?” I asked.
“No. No. But there’s more to it. You might fetch the pie, Ralphie. There’s a couple pieces left, ain’t there?
“Well, as I was a-saying, Sam, he lost out in the lawing, even after he’d showed the squire where ’Bednego had rolled three, four tarnal great boulders into the stream bed to turn its course.
“Wa’n’t many folks ’roundabout these parts in them days. Father, he was off with the militia—the British had fetched in soldiers—and there wa’n’t nobody else to swear ’bout when the water course had changed over. ’Course, ’Bednego swore ’twas afore ever he bought the land.
“Well, sir, when the lawing was all over, Sam, he went to ’Bednego, and he says, ‘’Bednego, when a man’s beat, he’s beat, and there ain’t no sense a-squabbling over that little parcel of land. I come to you to let you know I still want to be neighborly. I been a-farming that bottom land so long I know the quirks of it, and I cal’late I can raise more on it than ary other man. It’ll take me a year to clear another potato field, and I’m a-hankering to raise one more crop on that bottom land. ’Bednego, I come here to make you a cash offer of twenty-five dollars rent in advance if you’ll let me raise just one more crop on that ground. ’Course, I’ll expect you to pay the taxes and keep the fences good, and not get rid of the land till my crop is harvested. And I’ll want a writing on it sot down in the squire’s book. After I’ve paid you, I don’t cal’late to have no more water courses changed on me, and I want everything shipshape and legal.’
“You know what he done, don’t you, Ralphie?”
“Did it have something to do with the stumps?” I asked.
“That was it, Ralphie. Twenty-five dollars was a lot of money in them days—still is a lot of money. Well, soon’s ever the writing was all writ, and the money was all paid, Sam, he planted him one crop of white oak on that ten acres. You know how long it takes a crop of white to grow?”
I shook my head.
“Hundred years. Sam Starboard’s grandchildren took them oak off the land less’n five years agone. Made ’em wealthy. The taxes and fences has kept ’Bednego’s offspring poor all their lives, and there ain’t been nothing they could do about it. Sometimes, Ralphie, ’tain’t the part of wisdom to think you’re smarter’n your fellow man. Gorry, I’m a-getting sleepy. Cal’late your old grampa’ll crawl off to bed.”
27
Butter Making
TAKING care of the milk after I got it to the house was about as much work as milking. After supper every night, I had to scald crocks and pans, strain the milk, and set it in the cellar to rise. Then I had to bring up the batch from the day before, skim it, wash the pans and bowls, and put the cream in covered crocks.
The night Grandfather made the trade with ’Bijah Swale, I noticed that mold was growing on the cream in one of the crocks. At first, I was going to skim it off, and then I got an idea. If I showed it to Grandfather, he’d see that the cream would spoil unless it was churned into butter right away, and he might let Annie come up to help me.
It was nearly ten o’clock when I found the cream, but there was still a light under Grandfather’s door, so I knocked, and told him about it. “Gorry sakes! Gorry sakes alive!” he said in a wide-awake voice. “By fire, I and you’ll have to do a churning afore we go to the field in the morning. Did ever you make butter, Ralphie?”
I told him I’d worked the dasher for Mother, but that was all I knew about churning. “Ain’t nothing to it! Ain’t nothing to it, at all, Ralphie!” he called back through the door. “Come morning, and your old grampa’ll learn you all you’ll need to know. By gorry, I’m a-getting a far piece ahead of you on raking up them rocks. Cal’late I might fetch the butter off to Lewiston soon’s ever we’re done with the churning.”
At supper, we’d eaten the last scrap of food Annie had cooked for us. In the morning, Grandfather was so anxious to get started on the butter that he wouldn’t let me stop to make biscuits. He cooked the breakfast and got the churning ready while I did the chores, but he didn’t have very good luck. He usually forgot to salt the oatmeal, but that morning he must have salted it at least three times, and he spilled cream all over the floor when he filled the churn.
“Gorry sakes alive! Salter’n Lot’s wife!” Grandfather spluttered when he tasted the oatmeal. “What in time and tarnation did you go and put extra salt into it for? I salted the water afore ever I stirred in the oats!”
I had to remind him that the kettle wasn’t even on the stove when I went to the barn, and that he had the oatmeal all dished up before I came back into the kitchen. “What’s the odds? What’s the odds? Salt never hurt no man,” he snapped. “Put plenty sugar on and you won’t never taste the salt.”
A pound of sugar wouldn’t have covered up the salt in a bowl of that oatmeal. Grandfather tried two or three more spoonfuls, but it nearly gagged him, and there wasn’t another thing in the house to eat, except salt pork and raw potatoes. “Gorry! Gorry sakes!” he sort of gasped, and looked out toward the pantry. “Ain’t a stray piece of pie or one of them little cupcakes a-laying roundabouts, is there, Ralphie? Gorry! This stuff would turn a man’s in’ards into tripe.”
“No, there isn’t a bite of anything left,” I told him, “b
ut I think I could get Annie to . . . ”
“Nothing of the kind! Nothing of the kind!” Grandfather half shouted. “Don’t need no neighbor women folks a-snooping ’round here. Ain’t nothing a man can’t do for hisself if he’s a-mind to. You go to fetching that churn of cream to butter. whilst I cook up another mess of porridge. There ain’t no time for dawdling. I cal’late there’s two more churnfuls of cream in the cellar.”
The churn was a tall wooden cylinder, a little wider at the bottom than at the top. It had a loose lid, with a round hole in the middle. A dasher handle, with crossed paddles at the bottom, stuck through the hole, and the churning was done by thumping the dasher up and down. Grandfather had filled the churn so full that cream pumped out of the hole and around the lid when I started thumping. “Take care! Take care!” he snapped at me from the stove. “Butter’s twenty-eight cents! Don’t go to heaving it all over Kingdom-come!”
I cut down the length of the stroke and the speed of the dasher, but kept it going up and down, up and down. When one arm ached, I changed to the other, but there was no change in the feel of the cream. Every time I shifted the dasher from one hand to the other, Grandfather would ask, “Ain’t it come? Ain’t it come yet, Ralphie?” Then he’d leave the oatmeal, come over, and peek under the lid of the churn.
After the fourth or fifth peek, he snapped, “Stand back! Stand back! Leave your old grampa have a-holt of that stick. He’ll fetch it ’round in a jiffy!”
Grandfather fetched it all right. He grabbed the dasher out of my hand, and started it going like a triphammer. Cream spurted from the top of the churn, spread like an open umbrella, and went all over us and the floor. “Wastin’! Wastin’!” Grandfather shouted. “Why in thunderation didn’t you tell me ’twas brimming full? Oh, well, what’s done is done. Scoop it up, Ralphie! ’Twill all make good hog’s victuals.”
