by Wilson Rawls
“Oh, it’s not that far, Grandpa,” I said, as I took off on a game trail. “It’s just a little way.”
As we walked along the trail, I noticed that Rowdy kept looking up into the trees. I grinned and said, “Look, Grandpa, Rowdy’s looking for those monkeys.”
“I am, too,” Grandpa said. “I’d sure like to see that hundred dollar monkey. Do you think he could be around here somewhere?”
“If he’s around here, Grandpa,” I said, “we won’t see him unless he wants us to. He could be sitting in the top of a big sycamore right now, watching every move we make. He’s smart, I tell you.”
“I don’t care how smart he is,” Grandpa said, looking up into the trees, “if we ever get him in that pen, and I can get a rope on him, his smart days will be over.”
Grandpa was so serious I couldn’t help laughing at him. When we arrived at the spring, Grandpa and I got down on our bellies and had a good drink. Grandpa had a terrible time getting down. He wheezed and he groaned and he grunted, but he finally made it.
As Grandpa got back to his knees, he took his handkerchief and wiped the water from his chin. “Boy,” he said, “that sure is good water. How did you ever find this spring?”
As I lay back in the cool green grass, I said, “Oh, Rowdy and I found it. There are springs all through these bottoms, but this has always been my most favorite. I named it ‘Jay Berry’s Spring.’ ”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Grandpa said. “Who knows, maybe a hundred years from now, another old man and a boy will stop here and have a good cool drink from Jay Berry’s Spring. You can’t ever tell; might even be a highway come by here.”
“Aw, Grandpa,” I said, “nothing like that will ever happen to me. I’d be lucky if I had a grasshopper named after me.”
Grandpa chuckled and said, “That’s not a bad idea either. If you could find a purple grasshopper and hang a name on it—like ‘Jay Berry’s Hopper’—it might stick. You can’t ever tell.”
I laughed and said, “Grandpa, we sure have a lot of fun together, don’t we?”
Grandpa smiled and said, “We surely do. You know, an old man like me can teach a young boy like you all the good things in life. But it takes a young boy like you to teach an old man like me to appreciate all the good things in life. I guess that’s what life’s all about.”
I didn’t quite understand what Grandpa was talking about, but it sounded pretty good to me anyway. Just then Grandpa’s mares started snorting and stomping their hoofs. We could hear their trace chains jingling.
Grandpa cocked his ear and said, “It sounds like something has scared my mares.”
“It’s probably an old hog or a deer,” I said. “The bottoms are full of them. We could have spooked one up when we came to the spring; and it ran by the team and scared them.”
The mares quieted down.
As Grandpa got to his feet, he said, “I guess that’s what it was. It sounds like everything is all right now, though. Let’s have one more drink of this spring water, and then we’d better be going. It’s getting along in the day.”
When Grandpa and I got back to the buckboard, I said, “Grandpa, look at Rowdy. Something’s been prowling around here.”
Rowdy was sniffing around the buckboard. He was walking stiff-legged, and every hair on his back was standing straight up.
Watching Rowdy, Grandpa said, “It sure looks that way. I wonder what it was.”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but whatever it was, Rowdy doesn’t like the smell of it at all.”
Grandpa stepped over to the buckboard and looked in it. In a loud voice, he said, “Hey, our coconuts are gone! The basket is empty!”
“Gone!” I said, as I hurried over and looked into the basket. “By golly, they are gone! But there’s something else in the basket.”
Grandpa grunted as he reached down into the basket. He lifted out the dirtiest, most ragged pair of britches I had ever seen in my life. Holding them up in front of him, Grandpa said, “I could be wrong, but it looks like a pair of britches to me.”
I would never have recognized the britches if I hadn’t seen the patch on the seat of the pants. “Sufferin’ bullfrogs, Grandpa,” I said, “those are my britches. They’re the ones I lost the day those monkeys got me drunk. I recognize that patch on them. Mama sewed it on.”
Grandpa tossed the britches into the underbrush. “Phew!” he said, wrinkling his nose. “By the way they smell, those monkeys must have been taking turnabout wearing them.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it, Grandpa,” I said. “Those monkeys are liable to do anything.”
Looking into the basket, Grandpa said, “It looks like we have something else here.” He reached in and lifted out a wet, soggy, nasty-looking gunny sack. I could hear the jingling of metal when he picked it up.
Wide-eyed, I said, “Holy smokes, Grandpa, that’s my gunny sack and traps. I didn’t think I’d ever see them again.”
Dropping the gunny sack in the buckboard, Grandpa reached in the basket again and said, “Well, what do you know!” He lifted out my beanshooter.
“That’s my beanshooter, Grandpa,” I said, all excited. “I lost it the day I shot that hundred dollar monkey in the belly.”
Grandpa started looking in the underbrush. He said, “Something’s going on. I think someone is playing a trick on us. I bet it’s your dad.”
“I don’t think it’s Papa, Grandpa,” I said, as I looked up into the trees. “I think I know who did this. It’s those monkeys—that’s who did it.”
“Naw,” Grandpa said. “Monkeys couldn’t do anything like that. I still think it’s your dad playing a trick on us.”
Just then I saw a sight that took me several seconds to figure out what I was seeing. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even swallow. I couldn’t do anything but stand there with my mouth open and stare. I had seen a lot of sycamore trees in my life, but I had never seen one as beautiful as the one I was looking at. Strung from limb to limb, all through the top of the tree, were the pink and blue ribbons I had gotten for Daisy.
Sitting on limbs, here and there, were the monkeys. Each one of them that I could see was holding a coconut in his paws. They were just sitting there looking at Grandpa and me, with no expression at all on their cute little faces. A gentle breeze was stirring the top of the big sycamore. The ribbons were waving and fluttering. Brilliant flashes of pink and blue gleamed and shimmered in the sun’s bright rays. It was an unbelievably beautiful sight.
As if from far away, I heard Grandpa say, “What’s the matter? Do you see something?”
“Look, Grandpa!” I cried, pointing at the sycamore. “Look at that! I bet you’ve never seen anything that pretty.”
Grandpa looked where I was pointing. I saw him reach and take hold of the buckboard with one hand as if he were steadying himself. He looked down at the ground, shook his head, and looked again at the sycamore. He took off his hat and scratched the top of his bald head. He cleared his throat and said, “What in the name of heaven is that?”
“It’s those monkeys, Grandpa,” I said. “They didn’t only steal our coconuts, they stole Daisy’s ribbons, too. They decorated that sycamore tree with them. Isn’t it pretty?”
Grandpa never said a word. He just grunted and kept staring at that beautiful sycamore tree. Just then Jimbo walked out onto a big limb. He was carrying a coconut in one of his paws.
Grandpa threw his head back and said, “What in the world is that thing?”
Grandpa,” I said, “you’ve been wanting to see that hundred dollar monkey. Well, you’re looking at him. That’s Jimbo.”
Grandpa said, “Why, that’s no monkey. It’s too big to be a monkey. It looks more like an ape to me.”
“I don’t care what he looks like, Grandpa,” I said, “that’s Jimbo; and he’s the smartest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.”
Jimbo must have realized that we were talking about him, and he decided to show off a little. Wavi
ng the coconut in the air, he started hopping up and down on the limb and uttering those deep grunts.
In a surprised voice, Grandpa, said, “What’s that monkey doing now?”
“He’s talking to you, Grandpa,” I said. “That’s monkey talk.”
I saw when Rowdy took off down the road with his tail between his legs. “Rowdy!” I yelled. “You come back here!” Rowdy acted like he hadn’t even heard me. He just put on a little more speed and disappeared around a bend in the road.
“Where’s that hound going?” Grandpa asked.
“He’s going home, Grandpa,” I said. “He’s afraid those monkeys might get ahold of him.”
Jimbo had seen Rowdy take off for home, and it pleased him. He opened his big mouth and made the bottoms ring with his shrill cries.
Watching Jimbo, Grandpa said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that monkey was laughing at us.”
“He is laughing at us, Grandpa,” I said. “He gets a big kick out of anything like this. If he were down on the ground, he’d turn a few somersaults for us.”
Mumbling something that I couldn’t understand, Grandpa reached down and picked up a good-size stick.
“What are you going to do with that stick, Grandpa?” I asked.
“I’m going to see if I can’t wrap it around that monkey’s neck,” Grandpa said. “I don’t like to have people laugh at me—much less a silly monkey.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” I said, “don’t do that. Don’t ever throw anything at those monkeys. They’ll come down from the tree and jump on us, and eat us up.”
“Aw,” Grandpa said, looking at me. “They wouldn’t do anything like that, would they?”
“Oh, yes, they would, Grandpa,” I said. “I know. No one knows what those monkeys would do any better than I do. If you hit Jimbo with that stick, he’ll sick those little monkeys on us, and they’ll eat us up.”
Grandpa must have believed what I was telling him. He dropped the stick and looked at the sycamore again. “They’re gone!” he said, in a loud voice. “Where did they go?”
I looked, and sure enough, the monkeys had disappeared. I felt like bawling. “They’re gone, all right,” I said. “So are our coconuts and my pony and .22. Doggone it—just when it looks like I have a cinch on getting my pony and .22, something like this happens every time. What are we going to do now?”
“We’re still going to catch those monkeys,” Grandpa said, as he untied the halter ropes from the gum tree. “I’m mad now. Just because we lost those coconuts doesn’t mean that we have to give up. No, sir-e-e. We’re still going to catch those monkeys.”
“How are we going to catch them, Grandpa?” I asked. “We don’t have any coconuts for bait.”
“We’re going to build that pen just like we planned,” Grandpa said. “We’ll use apples for bait. We’ll use everything I have in my store if we have to. We’re still going to catch those monkeys.”
Before Grandpa and I got into the buckboard, we took another look at that beautiful sycamore tree. Grandpa chuckled and said, “You know, when you think about it, those monkeys didn’t exactly steal our coconuts. They made a trade with us. They traded us your old britches, gunny sack, traps, and beanshooter for the coconuts. It’s as simple as that.”
“Grandpa,” I said, “now do you believe those monkeys are smart?”
“Yes,” Grandpa said, as he climbed into the buckboard, “they’re smart, all right. But they’re not smart enough. I still believe there never was an animal that couldn’t be caught. We’ll see. We’ll see.”
When Grandpa and I came in sight of our house, we saw Mama, Papa, Daisy, and Rowdy standing on the porch.
As we drove up, Papa said, “Is everything all right? When I saw Rowdy coming home alone, I was kind of worried.”
Grandpa didn’t get out of the buckboard. He just sat there, holding the reins in his hand, and looked at Papa. He shifted a little on the seat and said, “I’ve never deliberately told a lie in my life; but if I thought I could tell one and get out of this, I would. I’m going to tell you what happened to us, but I don’t think you’re going to believe it. I saw it happen, and I don’t believe it.”
Taking his time, Grandpa told Papa everything that had happened to us down in the bottoms.
Papa started laughing. I had never seen him laugh so hard. He stood up and laughed. He bent over and laughed. Then he sat down on the porch, buried his face in his arms, and laughed. Mama started laughing, too. Rowdy got all excited and started bawling. With all of that laughter going on, I laughed a little, too.
Everyone was laughing, but Daisy. She didn’t crack a smile. With an angry look in her eyes, she just stood there looking at me.
Grandpa either got mad or disgusted. Anyway, he looked at me and said, “Give me a few days to get things straightened out at the store, and then we’ll build that pen. We’re going to catch those monkeys and stop some of this laughing.” He took off down the road, with the buckboard bouncing, and the dust a-boiling.
Grandpa wasn’t out of sight when Daisy said, “Jay Berry, do you mean to tell me that you lost my ribbons?”
“I didn’t lose them, Daisy,” I said. “Those monkeys stole them. The ribbons are down there in the bottoms, strung all over the top of a sycamore tree.”
Daisy said, “You’re always bragging what a good tree climber you are. Why didn’t you climb the tree and get the ribbons back for me?”
“Climb the tree!” I exclaimed. “Aw, Daisy, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I couldn’t climb that sycamore. It’s the biggest one in those bottoms. Why, it’s a hundred and fifty feet to the first limb.”
With fire flashing from her blue eyes, Daisy said, “Jay Berry Lee, I don’t care if it’s five hundred and fifty feet to the first limb, you could get yourself down there and get my ribbons. That’s the least you could do.”
Mama said, “I think we had better forget about the ribbons. I don’t want him climbing any sycamore trees. I’m going to order some things from Sears and Roebuck, and I’ll get you three spools of ribbons.”
That helped to calm Daisy’s feelings a little, but not very much. She was still upset about those stupid ribbons.
“Jay Berry,” she said, “I’m not going to speak to you for six months. I’m not even going to pass anything at the table to you. I needed those ribbons. I have five doll dresses completely finished and I wanted ribbons for trim.”
Daisy had put me through the silent treatment several times in my life, and I didn’t like it at all. I could put up with it for a few days and then it would get on my nerves.
It seemed that while I was going through the silent treatment, Daisy would stay as close to me as she could. She wouldn’t say a word; just stare at me with her mouth clamped shut as tight as a snapping turtle.
The only way I could break the spell was by giving her something, or by promising her something.
“Daisy,” I said, “if you won’t be mad at me for losing your ribbons, I’ll let you have Sally Gooden’s next calf.”
Daisy’s eyes lit up and she said, “You will!”
I nodded my head.
“All right,” Daisy said. “I’m going to hold you to that. Let’s shake hands on it.”
I shook hands with her and watched as she hobbled into the house, as happy as a lark.
Daisy and I took turn-about claiming Sally Gooden’s calves. Even in that deal, I always came out on the short end. Every time it was Daisy’s turn, Sally Gooden had a heifer calf. Every time it was my turn, she had a bull calf. Bull calves weren’t worth fifteen cents.
I wasn’t feeling too good when I went to bed that night. It had been a terrible day for me. Along with losing the coconuts, I had given up my calf, and I wasn’t any closer to having my pony and .22 than I was the day Rowdy treed the first monkey.
I hadn’t completely given up on catching the monkeys. I still had a lot of confidence in my old grandpa. With his help, I figured that, in the long run, I’d come out all ri
ght. I always did.
thirteen
That night, not long after I had gone to bed, a storm blew in. Br-r-rother, was it ever a storm. As I had often heard my grandpa say, it was a “ringtail wampus cat.” I was sound asleep when the storm broke and I was awakened by an earth-jarring clap of thunder that all but turned my bed over. I was lying there, watching the flashes of lightning through my window and listening to the raging storm when the door of my room creaked open.
It was Daisy. She always was scared of storms.
“Jay Berry,” she whispered, “I’m scared. Can I come in for a while—just till this crazy old storm blows over?”
I was scared, too, but I wasn’t going to let Daisy know it. I figured that boys didn’t ever let girls know that they were scared.
“Aw, Daisy,” I said, as I sat up in the bed, “I don’t know what you’re scared of. It’s just a little old storm.”
“A little old storm!” Daisy said, as she came in and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I think it’s going to blow the whole country away. I bet my playhouse is a mess, and I had it looking so pretty.”
For several minutes, Daisy and I sat in silence, listening to the storm. Lightning was cracking and thunder was rolling. Every time it thundered, our old log house trembled and the windows rattled. Strong gusts of wind slammed the rain against the window so hard I thought it would surely break the glass. I could hear the big red oaks around our home fighting back at the storm. Limbs were squeaking and snapping, and leaves were rattling.
Right after a loud clap of thunder that all but shook the house down, Daisy said, “Boy, Old Thor must really be mad tonight.”
“Thor?” I said, surprised. “What are you talking about? I never heard that name before.”
“Surely, Jay Berry,” Daisy said, “you’ve heard of Thor, the thunder god. Everybody knows about him.”
“Well, I didn’t know about him,” I said. “I’ve never heard of a thunder god with a name like Thor. Where do you hear things like that anyway?”
