And what happened to JumboJim? The last word I had on him, he was sitting tall in his saddle as he rode his gray mare off into the sunset.
Telling time: 10–12 minutes
Audience: Because of this story’s subtle humor, which is not understood or appreciated by most children, adults are the best audience for this story.
Mastodon Hunt
In the 1800s there were still numerous fossil remains on the surface of the ground throughout the center of the state. Most of them were easy to identify, but the mastodon bones, retrieved from at least two different springs in Florida, gave everyone’s imagination room to speculate, for no one then living had ever seen this colossal animal. From the bones, a person could get an idea of its size, and thoughtful people figured if his voice was proportionate to his body, he must have made the earth tremble, not only with his body weight but also with his voice vibrations. When they considered how much food an animal of that size would devour, they were truly thankful that it no longer stalked their homeland. At least, they hoped none of them were still lurking around, but much of Florida was still unexplored.
It was when commercial passenger boats first navigated the Ocklawaha River that, early one morning, the inhabitants of the Ocali Forests were aroused from their slumbers by a loud, strange noise. An old hunter named Matt Driggers, whose ear was trained to discern the scream of the panther, the howl of the wolf, or the growl of the bear, rushed out, exclaiming, “What on airth is that?”
The sound was heard again and Matt grabbed his hunting horn and blew a blast that brought his faithful hounds whining at his feet. After taking his rifle, Dead Shot, from its hooks, he saddled and mounted his horse and took off at a gallop. He soon arrived at the home of his nearest neighbor, Pat Kennedy.
“Hullow, Pat! Ere you in thar asleep? How can ya be when the devil hisself is unchained outten in this here swamp? Didn’t ya hear ’im?”
“Oh, Matt, that’s nothin’ but one of ’em old masterdons!” Pat said as he sauntered out onto his porch with his rifle cradled in his arm. “Ya know we dun seed his bones where he was drowned in the spring.”
“I dunno. Maybe so,” Matt said thoughtfully while he scratched his head. “But one thing’s sartin: he’s a mighty big varmint an’ his voice is curoser than anything I ever heard afore in my time.”
Pat thought about the situation a minute or two and then said, “Well, one thing for sartin: there’s nothin’ rangin’ these here parts that my dogs and Kill Quick here can’t bring ’im down.” He stroked his rifle and called all his dogs, and he and Matt were soon on their way to the house of the next frontiersman.
The baying of hounds and the blowing of horns created an excitement that ran like wildfire throughout the woods until all the settlers were collected. After reviewing his comrades and counting the dogs, Matt Driggers was satisfied that the full force of the country was mustered. He took the lead, riding bravely through bushes and swamps, fording creeks, and swimming lagoons in pursuit of the great “varmint.” When he figured that they were close enough, he gave orders to put the dogs on the trail. Each man called his dogs, but as they were coaxing the dogs to pick up the trail, the huge monster trumpeted again. The echo not only sent the dogs cowering back to their masters, but the masters back to their mounts. The horses stood frozen in their tracks.
Matt, bolder than the rest, regained his courage. Leading his horse, he stepped forward and said, “Come on, boys. If the dogs are scared, we’ll follow the sound!”
With much misgivings, they cautiously followed Matt in the direction of the sound until they reached the basin of Silver Springs. There they found a number of strangers and a strange-looking boat being unloaded. The hunters started questioning the people who were milling around about the great monster. When the folks seemed ignorant of what they were talking about, the hunters tried to imitate the sounds they had heard. After much bedlam, the captain asked Matt to quiet the hunters. He then stepped up on a wooden box on the deck and said, “I think I know what you are so excited about, and I am glad to tell you that you need to have no fear, for you are standing on the deck of the monster. What you heard was only a steamboat whistle.” But, having never heard one, they were not convinced that he spoke the truth. In defense of his honor, the captain built up a good head of steam, opened the throttle, and let them hear, at close proximity, the steam whistle.
The whistle startled them and they jumped (as some of you just did), but soon they were laughing and they laughed all the way home.
Telling time: 8–10 minutes
Audience: 4th grade–adult
Since some of today’s audiences may not be familiar with the sound of a steam whistle, a good reproduction of the sound makes a great finale to this story.
Marooning on the Matanzas
It was 1880, and the War Between the States was an ordeal of the past. The South, while not restored to its former splendor, offered many business opportunities to young men. Len, Frank, and Dell, diplomas in hand, stood outside the Bishop Business Institute, rehashing their plans to go south.
Frank and Dell soon shared an office overlooking the riverfront at the cotton exchange, and Len found his niche with the Rice Growers Co-op in the busy town of Savannah. As the season offered the men leisure, they spent the time exploring their latest fascination, Southern culture.
“You know, I really like those grits they eat every morning for breakfast,” Dell said. “But I’m sure, with just a little effort, a more savory name could be given to the dish.”
Frank agreed and added, “There’s nothing more distasteful to me than grit in my food. But have you noticed the expression these Southerners use for a camping trip?”
“Yes, but ‘marooned’ suggests adventure, and I like it.” There was silence for a few minutes as both men stared at the sweltering mist rising from the river. Then Dell suddenly exclaimed, “I’ve a capital idea! Let’s go marooning! Business is slow and it’s too hot to work, so let’s find Len and the three of us go marooning on the Matanzas.”
“Why the Matanzas? That is south of San Augustin.”
“I’ve heard that the Tybee and other marooning spots around here are so crowded that it is hard to find a spot to pitch your tent.”
“Then Matanzas it is!”
Before the sun was up the next morning, Dell, Frank, and Len loaded their camping equipment and supplies on the Florida Cannonball Express and climbed aboard. After eight hours of whirling through fragrant pine forests and whitening cotton fields, they arrived at the gates of San Augustin.
Covered with dust and cinders but full of enthusiastic anticipation, the three men trudged up the narrow shell road while the sun was still beating down in a glare of white heat. When they reached the hotel Sea View, they not only rented a room for the night but arranged with their host for a ten-day lease of his new cat boat, the Eloise.
The natty little craft was soon hauled alongside the hotel landing stairs and the camp supplies stowed away under the half deck. When the supper bell sounded, they had everything in readiness to take advantage of the early morning tide. After supper they strolled up the broad sea-walk to old Fort San Marcos, where young Minorcans were dancing. Before returning to the Sea View, they filled their water containers at the Fountain of Youth.
The next morning they were awakened by the porter’s soft knock and voice saying, “Daylight, sah!” As the Eloise made her way to meet the sunrise, the only living thing her occupants could see was a sleepy looking sentinel pacing up and down in front of the old U.S. barracks.
As the city sank from view behind the salt marshes, the wind freshened, and the Eloise soon was moving swimmingly along a straight stretch of the Matanzas River. The kettle, under Len’s skillful manipulation, sang merrily on the little oil stove, and they enjoyed coffee, hot and strong, with chicken sandwiches.
Soon, white sand dunes appeared on the port side, and the hoarse roaring of the surf was heard on the wind. They passed the remains of old Fort Matanza
s and glided out in full view of the ocean, but they stayed close-reefed across the inlet and came to anchor in the mouth of a deep creek. They decided to pitch camp on the south bank.
They pitched a nine-by-nine wall tent to sleep in and a small tent-fly to shelter the cook from sun and rain on the hard sand just above the high-water mark. They happily donned their marooning togs, which consisted of palmetto sombreros, sleeveless cotton knit shirts, and lightweight denim overalls. Dell and Frank went in search of a well that was marked on a rough chart that Dell had picked up in San Augustin. When they returned, they found Len cleaning his morning catch. So for dinner they had fried mullet, roasted sweet potatoes, corn dodgers, and indigestion.
A strong onshore wind blew away their plans to spend the afternoon surf fishing. They rolled their overalls up to their knees and ran barefoot races up and down the shore, slid and rolled down the steep sand dunes, and pushed each other into the combing surf. All this horseplay by three dignified businessmen, whose aggregate age exceeded seven decades, might have convinced even a skeptic that there were magical properties in the water from the Fountain of Youth. Before the afternoon was spent, the indigestion was forgotten and the evening meal was welcomed.
Seated around the mush pot that evening, they planned a seven-day program of sports that sounded like a chapter from Robinson Crusoe. The wind departed with the sun, and a host of mosquitoes swooped down on the camp, driving the campers under the mosquito bar. There they lay awake for hours, listening to the skipping and flopping of the small fry in the shallows.
About midnight, a school of riotous porpoises sailed up the creek to a point opposite the camp. There they proceeded to have a party! Grunting and snorting like a drove of wild hogs, they bumped into the Eloise and churned the water into foam around her. They ran the alligators ashore, picked quarrels with the sharks, and finally got into a free-for-all running fight among themselves that carried them out into the deep water.
As the sun peeped over the peaceful ocean, the three campers were snoozing like healthy infants, and a clear soprano voice fell upon the drowsy stillness, singing an old song of the sea.
Oh! A long, long pull, and a strong, strong pull;
Cheerily, my lads, heave-ho!
The “lads” were awake in an instant.
“Mermaids,” said Frank, pulling on his overalls.
“Sirens!” cried Len, who had glued his right eye to a little peephole in the tent door.
In a desperate struggle for first place at the peephole, Frank and Dell tumbled over Len and landed outside the tent. They sat up just in time to see a white skiff glide into the mouth of the creek, with a pretty young lady in the bow. In the stern, a fine-looking old gentleman, dressed in white, held a large sun umbrella over a dignified lady in black. In the rower’s seat, two pretty girls smiled and rested on their oars as the boat swung around broadside to the shore.
“I trust,” said the gentleman with a gracious wave of his hand, “that you will pardon this intrusion.” Then he went on to explain that they had been camping at Moultrie Creek during the past week and had just dropped down with the ebb tide on the way to their last summer’s camping ground, located about four miles up the creek. They had hoped to reach their destination in time for a late breakfast but found the current so strong that they must wait for the tide to turn.
Frank, with a rueful glance at his sunburned, sprawling feet, walked to the water’s edge and stammered something about being most happy. As the old gentleman stepped ashore, he introduced himself as Mr. Perkins of Montgomery, Alabama, and the ladies as his wife and daughters.
The flood tide rippled around the prow of the Eloise, the kettle of dishwater boiled itself dry, and the fire went out while they chatted over their empty coffee cups. At last, Mr. Perkins, consulting his watch and a tide table, announced that the hour for departure had arrived. He arose and extended to his hosts a cordial invitation to visit him in camp and in city.
As the skiff drifted away from the shore, a sleepy-looking, young black man thrust his head over the gunwale of a little baggage punt that the skiff was towing. He gazed back wistfully toward a plateful of fried mush, the surface of which the sun had baked to the consistency of a firebrick.
Dell grabbed the plate, dumped its contents into an old newspaper, rolled the paper into a ball, and threw it with all his might toward the boy. The missile passed high over the intended receiver. It hit the back of Mr. Perkins’ head, knocked off his hat, burst open and scattered fried mush in every direction.
The ladies screamed in chorus. As for Mr. Perkins, he simply passed his handkerchief across the back of his head, replaced his hat in the most deliberate manner, and, opening the big umbrella, brought it around so as to hide the occupants of the boat from view. The former hosts could only stand and gaze helplessly at the receding umbrella. At last Dell found his tongue and, as usual in such a crisis, succeeded in making himself misunderstood.
“Sir!” he cried. “Believe me, I did not mean to hit you!”
Slowly the big umbrella went up, until Mr. Perkins’ striking countenance came into view. As he shot an indignant glance backward, he said, with impressive dignity. “So you were only trying to see how close you could come to me without hitting me, eh? Gentlemen, when you have framed a suitable apology for this outrage, you will find me willing to take its acceptance under consideration. Again I wish you good day.”
Then the big umbrella dropped into place, like the falling of the curtain on the last act of a doleful tragedy. The polished oars flashed swiftly in the sunlight and the white skiff was soon out of sight beyond a sharp bend of the creek.
“What are we going to do about it?” Frank asked, as the boat disappeared.
“Do? Why, we are going to cut across the bend, head them off, and demand an immediate audience! That’s what we are going to do,” Dell said.
Hastily, they pulled on their knee boots and struck out across country, with Dell in the lead. They trudged through swamps where the mud was knee-deep and water moccasins were plentiful, cut their way through a tangle of scrub oaks and wild grapevines, and struggled through clumps of palmettos. They arrived at the creek just in time to hear a sweet, coaxing voice say, “Now, dear Papa, please don’t scold us for laughing, for we really can’t help it.”
When the boat came into view they could see Mamma Perkins drying her eyes with a pretty handkerchief, and still she laughed. Papa Perkins was now failing miserably in his efforts to look stern and dignified. Suddenly the old gentleman leaned back in his seat and joined heartily in the laughter.
The young black man sat up in the punt and regarded Mr. Perkins apprehensively. “Say, Mars Perkin! All de time, I spec’ dat ’ere passel of frie’ mush was tended fo’ me ’cause dat man, he look so at me w’en he frowed hit.”
“Now or never!” Dell said, as Mr. Perkins again burst out with laughter.
The three bedraggled men stepped out onto the narrow margin of sand just as the skiff came opposite them.
Dell started in at once, “Mr. Perkins, allow me to detain you while I explain this unfortunate affair.”
“Glad to see you, gentlemen. Glad to see you, indeed!” Mr. Perkins cordially extended his hand as the boat was laid alongside. “Explanations are quite unnecessary—quite! I see it all plainly now. It is all right, sirs, all right. Again, we will bid you good day, for the tide slackens. Remember, we desire your further acquaintances.”
Once more the sun was shining, the fish jumping, and the birds singing. The marooners followed the creek back to their campsite. As they went, they skimmed sand dollars across the water and made the old woods ring with shouts of youthful laughter.
Telling time: 15–18 minutes
Audience: middle school–adult
The length of this story and its cast of characters make it a difficult one to tell to children, even though they do enjoy this type of humor. An older male teller might shorten the story by telling it in first person (as Dell) and make an audience
of fourth graders listen spellbound. Remember, much of the appeal of this story is its timeframe. Don’t cut the historical nuggets.
The Indian Legend of Silver Springs in Florida
Along time ago, when Okahumkee was king over the tribes of Indians who roamed and hunted around the Southwestern lakes, an event occurred which filled many hearts with sorrow. The king had a daughter named Weenonah, whose rare beauty was the pride of the old man’s life. Weenonah was exceedingly graceful and symmetrical in figure. Her face was of an olive complexion, tinged with light brown, her skin finely transparent, exquisitely clear. It was easy to see the red blood beneath the surface, and often it blushed in response to the impulses of a warm and generous nature. Her eye was the crystal of the soul—clear and liquid, or flashing and defiant, according to her mood. But the hair was the glory of the woman. Dark as the raven’s plume, but shot with gleams of sacred arrows, the large masses, when free, rolled in tresses of rich abundance. The silken drapery of that splendid hair fell about her ‘like some royal cloak dropped from the cloud-land’s rare and radiant loom.’ Weenonah was, in truth, a forest-belle—an idol of the braves—and many were the eloquent things said of her by the red men, when they rested at noon, or smoked around the evening fires. She was a coveted prize, while chiefs and warriors vied with each other as to who should present the most valuable gift when her hand was sought from the king, her father. But the daughter had already seen and loved Chuleotah, the renowned chief of a tribe which dwelt among the wild groves near Silver Springs.
The personal appearance of Chuleotah, as described by the hieroglyphics of that day, could be no other than prepossessing. He was arrayed in a style suitable to the dignity of a chief. Bold, handsome, well-developed, he was to an Indian maiden the very ideal of manly vigor. But it was a sad truth that between the old chief and the young, and their tribes, there had long been a deadly feud. They were enemies. When Okahumkee learned that Chuleotah had gained the affections of his beloved child, he at once declared his purpose of revenge. A war of passion was soon opened and carried on without much regard to international amenities; nor had many weeks passed away before the noble Chuleotah was slain—slain, too, by the father of Weenonah.
More Tellable Cracker Tales Page 3
