58
H
Little Outdoor Stories
IT air too drouthy,” said Wash,
with a sigh, seeing that his last
cast had been also without result. “Ther river air as blue as ther sky,
an’ ther noise uv hit as hit drools along
ther shallers soun’s jes like them treefrogs does when they is a cryin’ fer rain.
Le’s gie the thing up, ’Squire, an’ go out
thar in ther shade an’ res’.”
“But I’m not tired,” I objected.
“Naw?” replied my companion. “Hit
may be that yer air not, an’ yit yer will
be some time an’ then yer’ll ’buse yerse’f
fer a missin’ uv this here chanst.” He
sighed and looked at me with compassion.
“But,” he continued “‘taint ever’ man
whut knows how ter res’.”
Now to rest and to fish are terms synonymous, and the ability to abstain from
effort is the hallmark of a fisherman.
Moreover, there is a subtle philosophy
in the rejoinder of my friend. There are
men who are awkward in idleness—but
we must not blame them; the good God,
perhaps, has made them so.
So I yielded to Wash. “Come,” said
I, motioning with my hand toward a
cluster of “sweet-gum” trees that stood
near the foot of the hill and at the farther
edge of the “bottom.” There is a spring
under those trees, and there also Wash has
hidden a gourd.
In truth, it was a time of drought. For
six weeks there had been no rain, and the
“thunder heads” on the horizon seemed
full of mockery. The cotton plants, too,
had, shriveled and the corn blades had
twisted themselves into little rolls which
were parched at the ends and yellow.
Moreover, the tree-frogs were calling:
“Rain, rain, rain!” The middle of the
summer had come, and it was dry.
At the spring I took the gourd—how
much that man has missed who, in the
heat of July, has never quaffed water from
agourd!—and I dipped it deep and lifted
it full to the brim. The color of the
gourd was that of mahogany, the water
was crystalline. I thought of the folk
back in town who had only water coolers
and ice, and I laughed. Then I drank
and rested, and rose up and drank again.
Afterward, we sat down to lunch.
“What air this here, ’Squire?” Wash
had picked up my bottled olives, and was
regarding them curiously.
“Try one”’ I suggested.
He took out an olive, bit it, and threw
it away.
“’Simmons!” he remarked in disgust.
“’Simmons done up in brine. Say,
’Squire, air hit a joke o’ yourn or air them
things r’aly made ter eat?”
It seemed to me that Wash was becoming sarcastic, and I replied with due severity.
“They are olives,” I said. “There are
people who eat them—sometimes I eat
them myself.”
Wash sighed with an air of patient resignation. “Wa-al,” he remarked, “thar
is no accountin’ fer tastes, ez ther ole
’oman said when’ she kissed ther cow;
an’ time passes an’ we all does fade ez a
Little Outdoor Stories
leaf. Hit ’pears ter me ’at you is a fadin’,
’Squire. Hit r’aly do—not yer nose, fer
that is jes’ red like hit allers wuz, but yer
appertite, I mean. I shorely has knowed
ther time when yer wuddent ha’ tetched
them roun’ things in that thar bottle.
Yer usen ter eat green watermillions—
stoled ’em mostly—an’ half-ripe peaches,
an’ sour-grass; an’ yer’d go a fishin’ uv
a Sunday—”
I am a member of the church and I do
not fish on Sundays. It may be that by
accident, on the Sabbath day, while idly
trailing a hook in the water—but Wash
gave me no opportunity to explain all this.
“—but,” he continued, without hesitation, “yer shore wud ha’ balked at them
green ’simmons.”
I had no disposition to argue the question. I dislike arguments anyway, for
although they are often long drawn out,
yet it is easier to reach a conclusion than
it is to arrive at the truth—besides, Wash
usually gets the better of me.
So I did not reply immediately. I finished my lunch and looked out across the
fields into the gray distance where the
heat waves rose and shimmered above
the dry, sun-hardened soil.
“How thirsty the world is!” I presently
remarked. “The very earth seems to
pant.”
“I dunno,” replied Wash. “I dunno
whe’er ther groun’ is a pantin’ er not, but
I is, anyhow.”
“Hard on the farmers for the drought
to come just now,” I added.
“Yas,” returned Wash. “Hit air, but
this here drouth aint nuthin’ ter ther
drouth whut we had out here along about
eighty-two. ’Squire, hit wuz ackshally
so hot in ther sun ’at I could smell my hat
a scorchin’.”
“There wasn’t any crop made then,” I
remarked with conviction in my tones.
“Naw,” replied Wash, “thar wuzzent.
Nobody, ’ceptin’ me, made skacely any
crap at all.”
I opened my eyes wide. “You?” I
asked.
Wash nodded his head lazily. “Yas,”
he continued, “I wuz a farmin’ a little that
ye’er, an’ when ther drouth come an’ I
seed that ther cotton an’ ther co’n wuz
gone, I jes’ sot my wits ter work. Sciunce
’ull do mos’ ever’thing, ’Squire, sciunce
an’ reasonin’. So I tuk a res’ an’ studied
59
the thing. How does they raise craps
whar thar ain’t no rain, I axes myse’f.
They errigates, wuz ther answer. Thar
wuz ther secret, ’Squire. Hit war errigation whut ’cashuned me ter win.”
“Oh, yes,” I interpolated. “You watered your crop and it grew—that was
simple enough.”
My companion eyed me pityingly. “Hit
warn’t so derned simple ez you has heerd
hit wuz,” he retorted.
“Why, you brought the water from the
river, I imagine,” I explained, soothingly.
Wash looked disgusted. “Any fool
could ha’ done that,” he replied, “but
bein’ as I has a head on my shoulders I
never done no sich a thing. Naw, sir; I
jes’ planted two crops ’mongst one ernother.”
“Two crops?” I scoffed. “What two
crops?”
“‘Taters an’ inguns,” he replied, imperturbably.
“Now, what have potatoes and onions
to do with irrigation?” I asked.
“’Squire,” inquired Wash, earnestly,
“did yer ever have an ingun right clost
ter yer eyes? Ef yer has, then yer knows
that hit fetches ther water thar—yas, sir,
streams uv hit right out’n them eyes.
Now, ’taters has eyes, an’ I knowed hit; so
I jes’ planted inguns in ’mongst my
’taters, an’ I’ll be blamed, ’Squire, ef ther
water from them ’taters’ eyes didn’t errigate my whole crop.”
“Did you make a good yield?” I asked
with a certain reverence.
“Yas, oh, yas,” assented Wash cordially. “I made sich a fine lot o’ ’taters
’at they nigh crowded ther inguns out.”
“But,” he added after a pause, “I didn’
git much fer ’em atter all.”
“You didn’t?” I ejaculated. “Why?”
“Wa-al, ’Squire, hit wuz this er way:
Buck Wilson—you know Buck—he lived
up ter Keowee then an’ he wuz a runnin’
of a little sto’. ‘Wash,’ he sez ter me,
‘le’s go inter a partnership an’ supply this
here markit.’ Yer see, ’Squire, Buck he
put in his espeerunce an’ I put in my
’taters.”
“And?” I interrupted.
“An’,” added Wash, with a sigh,
“when we quit, hit wuz t’other way—I had
a lot of espeerunce an’ Buck he had ther
’taters.”
E. Crayton McCants.