by Van Reid
“Some sort of broken pipe, says Duddley,” informed a gentleman by the door. Duddley, Sundry guessed, might be the engineer, quizzed on his way to the telegraph office two or three doors down the street. “A drive pipe, he says,” added the gentleman. “They have pipes on those trains, I guess. It’s why they smoke, I bet.” He was a moderate-shaped fellow with a thin, serious face that had been shaved a week or so ago. He had a sleepy eye that drew attention to itself. “I told Duddley they might carry a spare or two, and he allowed how they might.”
Sundry nodded at this sage discourse.
“I told Duddley how I had a pipe or two I might lend out, and he allowed how he’d see what was needed and come by if I could help.”
Sundry continued to nod. He was attempting to ascertain the degree of humor in the man. Mister Walton, in the meantime, was pondering the many wares in Jonas Fink’s General Store and Post Office—canned goods and patent medicines, bins of penny candy and brightly wrapped saltwater taffy, bags of flour and salt and sugar, and small household contraptions. By the near corner he maneuvered around two old fellows, who were comfortably established in a pair of ladder-backed chairs and contentedly squabbling about one of a series of contentious subjects.
Beamus Caterwood and Ernst Feldspar had been enjoying their later years (on the porch of Fink’s General Store and Post Office when the weather was clement, and by the stove when it wasn’t) for as many years as most people in Bowdoinham could, or cared, to remember, and nothing gave either Beamus or Ernst very much more enjoyment than the other’s irritation, for other than their place of rendezvous they agreed about nothing in life or philosophy.
Ernst had regulated the course of their present dialogue by declaiming his lack of use for the “forty-odd or however many other states there were in the country,” as he hadn’t ever visited any of them, and wasn’t entirely sure, in any case, that he had ever benefited by their existence. Beamus got off a salvo by suggesting that the “forty-odd or however many other states in the country” had themselves benefited by Ernst having stayed put.
“Now, what do they do in Colorado that I should be thankful for?” wondered Ernst after his initial burst of outrage.
Beamus wasn’t sure but felt justified in praising the people of Colorado for keeping their distance from Ernst. “They’ve put the Mississippi and half the country between you and themselves, and I admire them for it! Besides, they have more gold in their mountains than anybody!”
Debate continued along these lines—a ramble through American geography that was neither alphabetical nor maplike in its progress—and when Mister Walton approached the two dusty combatants, he was summarily snatched into the clutches of their disputation. As it happened, he was attempting to explain the rationale behind the State of Iowa when Jonas Fink came up to see if he might help the portly fellow by rescuing him from Beamus’s and Ernst’s truculent eddy.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing!” Ernst was declaring.
“I was just saying,” said Mister Walton to Jonas as the proprietor approached, “that Iowa’s an important pig producer.”
Unaware of the present topic of debate (and perhaps due in part to a contracted verb in the bespectacled man’s sentence) Jonas was under the misconception that Mister Walton had said “I was just saying that I was an important pig producer.”
“You don’t say!” said Jonas, his interest up. The subject of pigs, as it would soon be revealed, was something of a preoccupation for the local community. “Where is that?” asked Jonas, wanting to know where Mister Walton had produced all these swine.
Mister Walton was unaware of the misunderstanding, and his knowledge of Iowa’s agriculture was not specific. “All over the state, I guess,” he replied.
This seemed tentative to Jonas but he pressed on. “What sort of pigs?” he wondered aloud.
Mister Walton had to think about this. His brow knit while he considered the various breeds of pigs that farmers in Iowa might deem worthy of their industry. An amiable expression crossed his face, but to Jonas it indicated a surprising lack of certainty. “I don’t know,” said Mister Walton, throwing his hands out to signify monstrous creatures. “Great big ones!”
So far, for a man who had produced pigs in important numbers, this affable gentleman had shown to Jonas a wonderful lack of cognizance regarding the where and the what sort.
“I never ate one of them!” insisted Ernst.
“You don’t know as much as a goose knows about God!” said Beamus
Mister Walton had his hat in hand, but he raised it in salute and excused himself from the immediate vicinity before Ernst began to explain just what he did know about the Almighty.
“I have coffee boiling on the stove out back,” said Jonas Fink. “Let me get you a cup.”
“That would serve nicely on a rainy day,” said Mister Walton.
Jonas ambled back behind the counter, stopped beside the man in the red shirt with whom he had been conversing, and spoke a word or two before disappearing into the back room. The red-shined fellow turned his gaze to Mister Walton and considered the portly man, then he gave a nod to the farmer’s wife and spoke to her, whereupon one of the other locals hovered beside them and these three discoursed for some moments.
Mister Walton wandered about the store, greeting the locals and his fellow stranded passengers, till Jonas and his wife came out with a tall pot of coffee and a dozen cups, along with a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar. People gathered at the counter, and Sundry and Mister Walton found themselves the center of pleasant conversation. Sundry bought some cinnamon buttons.
“You should meet Vergil Fern, sir,” said the man with the red shirt
“Oh, yes,” said the farmer’s wife. “If you have a moment, you should ride over to Vergil’s and say hello.”
“Should I?” said Mister Walton, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. The young blacksmith appeared to take as much interest in this suggestion as Sundry did, and they both moved closer to the conversation.
“He’s all in about that pig of his,” said a second fellow.
“All in?”
“He’s morose, sir.”
“I am certainly sorry to hear it,” said Mister Walton with great feeling. “What is wrong with the poor pig?”
“It’s the pig that’s morose,” explained the man with the red shirt.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mister Walton.
“You’ve never seen a pig so blue in all your life, sir,” said the second man. “I was over to Vergil’s the other day, and it quite cut me up.”
“My goodness,” said Mister Walton. He turned to Sundry.
“I never could endure a sad pig,” said Sundry.
“You should go up and take look,” said the second fellow.
“That’s a prize animal,” said Jonas Fink.
“Oh, yes,” said the farmer’s wife.
Mister Walton might have inquired why they thought that he in particular should view this specimen, but large matters often turn upon small and the small matter at that moment arrived in the aspect of the train conductor, who announced that a new drive pipe was not to be had at short notice and that they were waiting for the next train to come up the line and take them with it. Another forty or fifty minutes wait was in the offing.
Sundry was interested that these people were so keen on Mister Walton seeing this pitiable pig, and he saw that others also wondered. A quick whisper in the ear of the curious from one of those in the know occasioned an assenting nod; Sundry watched this form of communication make the rounds of the store. “Where does Mr. Fern live?” he asked when the conductor was gone.
“A mile or so out of town,” said Jonas Fink.
Mister Walton was about to say “Perhaps another day—” when Sundry suggested that they find a rig and drive out to view this melancholy creature.
“Do you think?” said Mister Walton. “I wouldn’t want to miss our connections.”
“There’ll be trains all d
ay,” said Sundry. He wanted to see this celebrated pig. “I’ll go over and have our bags held at the station in case we miss the next one.”
Several sensations visited Mister Walton. He was a man of great empathy, to begin with, and the thought of a sad pig was enough to arouse his kinder inclinations; he was, to be sure, quite taken with the eccentric notion that a chance visitor must inspect such a creature; lastly, he had the peculiar feeling that he had experienced something like this before. “Will Mr. Fern mind our coming by unannounced?”
“Goodness, no!” declared several people, and, “Nothing he’d want more!” and, “You’d do us all a favor.”
“Then by all means,” said Mister Walton, greatly amused, “let us see this disconsolate creature. Perhaps the company will do him good.”
“I’ll drive you there,” said the blacksmith.
“Johnny would just as soon get a look at Vergil’s pretty daughter,” said the man in the red shirt.
The blacksmith ignored this but there was a laugh or two as he led Mister Walton and Sundry out into the rain. “Come over the shop with me and I’ll get the rig up.”
“What’s this pig’s name?” asked Sundry.
“Hercules,” said Johnny the blacksmith.
“I think the rain might be letting up,” said Sundry, who may have been more intrigued by the notion of visiting Fern Farm for the mention of a pretty daughter. When he said this, however, something rumbled out of the west.
14. The Family Fern
Vergilius Fern was the embodiment of several contradictions, it seemed, and the more Mister Walton and Sundry heard about him from Johnny Poulter the blacksmith, the more eager they were to meet the man. Mr. Fern was the local schoolteacher who had (some years before, and unexpectedly) come into a moderate inheritance, which fortune seemed out of keeping with the common perception of his livelihood, but he used a good portion of his newfound estate to improve the local school and continued to teach there. He had become interested in husbandry in recent years, and, then, so interested in the animals he husbanded that he lost all interest in marketing them, or using more than the milk from his cows, the eggs from his chickens, or the natural consequence of feeding them for the embellishment of his fields and gardens. At first the agricultural circles at Bowdoinham were disdainful of his pet cows and hens and sheep, but soon the neighborhood became familiar with these long-lived creatures and proportionately concerned with their well-being.
Johnny Poulter explained all this while Sundry helped him harness the little mare that would take them out of town. The blacksmith’s rig had a short canopy, but they were glad that the rain had slowed; Mister Walton and Sundry got damp, nonetheless, and Johnny was altogether wet, though the young man’s spirits grew brighter as they went. “Mr. Fern will be home for lunch with his own children soon enough,” he said, “but Ruth will be glad to entertain you in the meanwhile.”
“I hope we won’t be imposing,” said Mister Walton.
“Not if you’ve come to see his pig,” assured the blacksmith.
“This must be an uncommon creature.”
“You’d let him in the house, if he could fit through the door.” The blacksmith drove the rig up on a bank, above a place in the road where the recent rain had formed a muddy pool. They could see where another wagon or carriage had been stuck. “He’s a rare teetotaler,” said the blacksmith. “Mr. Fern,” he amended, to be sure they understood that he wasn’t speaking of the pig.
“Are teetotalers so rare in these parts?” wondered Mister Walton
“Not at all,” said Johnny. “It’s simply a matter of degree.”
Mister Walton was amused. “I didn’t realize the philosophy came in increments,” he said.
“There are all sorts of teetotalers.”
“I am amazed.”
Johnny Poulter smiled. “Let’s see—there’s the teetotaler who won’t drink on Sundays, and the one who won’t drink before the preacher—”
“And, of course, the one who won’t drink before the preacher does,” suggested Sundry.
“Good heavens!” chortled Mister Walton.
Johnny was easing the horse and rig back down to the road. “There’s the one who won’t drink before a woman.”
The two young men were able to name an extraordinary range of teetotalers, but it was more in the way of a game than anything like cynicism. Mr. Fern, according to Johnny Poulter, was a great temperance man and a despiser of anything spirituous beyond the soul itself.
They passed through a small grove of birch and oak and mounted a short hill, from which lookout they had their first view of Vergilius Fern’s farm.
This collection of buildings appeared at variance with itself. Tucked against the southern side of a green knoll and beside an ancient stand of lilacs, the original house—little more than a hut—had been appended to in grand, if haphazard, fashion, so that the whole enterprise had the look of an immense body with a tiny head. The spacious barn, too (an oddly proportioned construct), lived in something less than visual harmony with its predecessor—a humble shed, that held a conspicuous position upon the property.
The small buildings beside the large gave rise to some peculiar yards and corners, and everything was surrounded by handsome wooden fences, which, in turn, were occupied by diverse species of contented farm creatures. As the carriage descended the hill, Mister Walton could believe that these animals lived in complete confidence of their continued well-being; everything appeared to hang from placid moment to placid moment, and he imagined that even the rain should not distress a soul (human or otherwise) at Fern Farm.
“Hercules will be over there, I believe,” said Johnny. He pointed to the tiny shed.
“In the little building?” asked Mister Walton.
“No, behind it,” came the reply. “Or thereabouts.”
“But there’s no fence around it.”
“Hercules has the run of the place. He was something of a watchdog before he fell into this gloom of his.” Johnny was pulling them into the farmyard, and the door to the little portion of the house opened to reveal a young woman (the pretty daughter, as it happened) who waved and smiled.
“Good morning, Johnny,” she called sweetly. She had auburn hair and freckles across an upturned nose, and all three of the visitors were better off for her smile.
The blacksmith gave a surprisingly tentative wave in return before jumping clown. Cheerful and talkative on the journey out, he now appeared diffident. Mister Walton felt a little stiff riding in the damp and he groaned and laughed ruefully as he climbed out after Sundry. They didn’t hear the first of Johnny’s conversation with Miss Fern, but, as they approached the door they saw that an older woman—short and round and pleasant—stood behind the daughter, and the blacksmith said, “Mrs. Fern, Madeline, this is Mister Walton and Mr. Moss. Mister Walton, Mr. Moss, may I introduce Mrs. Ruth Fern and her daughter Madeline.”
Mrs. Fern was a bright cherub of a woman, with shining button blue eyes and hair a little redder than her daughter’s. Her cheeks were red, her nose was tiny, and she had, besides, every appearance of vigor and health. “How nice of you to come look at Hercules, Mister Walton,” she said.
“Father and the children are so worried,” said Madeline.
Mister Walton blushed, the more so since he could not for the life of him understand how his looking at Hercules could be such a boon. The blush endeared him to his hosts, and Mrs. Fern insisted that their guests first come in from the rain.
Mister Walton and Sundry stood in a little hall while Johnny hung back. “Come in, come in,” Mrs. Fern insisted several times over. “Get out of the damp, Johnny. Vergil will be home presently for his lunch—and the children with him.”
“Mr. Fern teaches school?” said Mister Walton.
“Yes, up the road. He can’t bear to let it go, and I dare say the children can’t bear to let him.”
“Come in, come in,” she said again. This phrase had got them into the hall and taken the
ir coats off, and now it drew them through the narrow precincts of the original house, where they found a kitchen and pantry, into the newer wards and a handsome, spacious parlor.
The furnishings were a pleasing miscellany of the rustic and the elegant—a rough old rocking chair that might have predated the original house sat beside the chintz-covered love seat, and a hand-carved bootjack peeked out from beneath the overstuffed hassock. But Mister Walton was straightaway taken by a large portrait of a very large white pig and an old-fashioned country squire that hung above the fireplace.
The long-faced man in the painting (thin as the pig was wide) was dressed in such outmoded clothing that Mister Walton might have thought the picture a hundred years old if a banner across the pig’s middle hadn’t declared the creature to be “Hercules.” Man and pig alike looked as placid and amiable as two such specimens could be; the man stood, hat in hand, and looked ready to fall asleep and the pig grinned like a dog. Mister Walton admired them both and didn’t like to think of either of them as troubled.
“Make yourselves at home,” said the farm wife, her eyes disappearing behind plump red cheeks when she smiled. Mister Walton and Sundry gladly acquiesced, but Johnny Poulter stood by an overstuffed chair and looked uncertain. The women scurried back to the kitchen for refreshments against the weather, and they had not returned with these remedies before a good deal of noise and discussion was heard from the front of the house and the guests surmised that “Mr. Fern, and the children with him,” had arrived for lunch.
Two little boys charged into the parlor, then two young girls, and the guests rose as a tall and narrow man with a tall, narrow face strode in behind. He was dressed in fairly fashionable, if well-worn, clothes, but they hung on him as on a drying rack. “Good day, good day,” said he who was so obviously the squire in the portrait above the mantle. He did not look as placid, today, but he took his each guest by the hand and said, “How extremely kind of you to come by,” and, “Johnny, how are you?” His eyes were great, sad things and his nose occupied an extraordinary amount of his face.
