Uncle Ezra

UNCLE EZRA ON WASTE OF WOOD

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By JOE CONE.

"I TELL you what it is, fellers,” said Uncle Ezra, peeling off a slender strip of slippery elm and rolling it into a ball, “I think it is high time that we folks here in the country took an active int’rest in this here forest scalpin’ business. They ain’t no sense in leavin’ everything for the politicians to do, because they ain’t a-goin’ to do it if we do. A good share of them have got money invested in steam sawmills an’ pulp factories and what not, an’ they ain’t goin’ to stop cuttin’ off timber till they git their nests feathered an’ the young one hatched out.

“We set round here day after day an’ night after night an’ talk an’ talk, an’ then find fault with the way things are run down there in Washington an’ other places. Most folks think as how a small place ought to be seen an’ not heard, but I have come to the conclusion that it would be better for the country at large if our small towns was heard more an’ seen less.

“Now, wood choppin’ is all right in moderation. It’s one of the things necessary, I s’pose, for the trainin’ of Presidents an’ keepin’ ’em down to fightin’ trim. Still, I believe the required exercise could be provided in some other way than a wanton destruction of lumber. They’s runnin’ an’ jumpin’ an’ playin’ leap frog, to say nothin’ of pushin’ a lawn mower an’ hoein’ out the White House garden.

“For instance, if it took 10 acres of forest per year to keep Mr. Roosevelt  down to fightin’ weight how many acres would it require to do the same for Mr. Taft? That’s the question, fellers, right in a nutshell. The whole thing is a matter of figgers; real figgers, my friends, an’ not figgers of speech. Runnin’ this whole country is a matter of figgers, figgerertively speakin’, an’ while I don’t claim that figgers actually lie, I do contend that sometimes they get unmercifully stretched. An’ the fellers who can stretch ’em the furtherest are the fellers who handle ’em the most. In my humble opinion, fellers, it is a mighty good thing for the forests of Africa that Mr. Roosevelt is goin’ to take along a rifle instead of an axe.

“What is the use of a man buildin’ a house nigh to the aige of a patch of woods so he an’ his family will be protected from the high winds that frisk over our country sometimes if the wood sharks are comin’ along an’ clear off the whole buziness an’ leave him exposed to all the tornaders that want to blow themselves? A man would have to go to work an’ build a high wind-break all round his house an’ where would he git the lumber to do it with?

“Again: If George Washin’ton, the father of our great an’ nearly baldheaded country, ever made a mistake in his life it was when he cut down that cherry tree. He started the style an’ immertaters have been at it ever since. He looked down the long avernues of history an’ saw other things of less importance, but he overdid the wholesale wood-butcherin’ business. For a good President he established a bad precedent.

Uncle Ezra paused to put in his chew of slippery elm and to let his words sink into the minds of his open-mouthed listeners. Chewing slippery elm was his crowning sin, and he was joked about it incessantly. Generally his reply was to put in a fresh chew.

“Well,” queried Hen Billings, who had just sold a tract of lumber to a steam sawmill company, “I ain’t familiar with some of your big words, although they sound all right, but what I’d like to know is how in tarnation kin this country git along with any less lumber?”

“Easy enough, Hen,” replied Uncle Ezra, ramming the ball of slippery elm into his left cheek with his tongue, “easy enough. The country is usin’ lots of wood nowdays, where somethin’ else could be used jest as well. Take tooth picks for instance. Time was when everybody had a quill pick in his pocket. Nowdays you skurcely ever hear one. If quill picks would only come into vogue again it would help out on the lumber business an’ at the same time would make the hen business better.

“I read in my paper that they’re usin’ wooden pavin’ stones in some of the cities. It orter be stopped by legislatur’; it makes lumber skurce an’ we don’t git nothin’ for our crops of stones. They ain’t any of us but could spare a few carloads of stones every year an’ not miss ’em; but if all the cities go to usin’ wooden stones where will we be? We’ll have more stones on our hands than we’ll know what to do with.

“Everybody from Maine to Californy is complainin’ because lumber is so high an’ fearin’ that our paper supply will give out. Abe Crockett wants to build onto his barn, but can’t, he says, ’cus lumber is so all-fired up in the air. So you see we have an example right here in our midst of what this lumber slaughter is bringin’ us to. It hinders progress an’ keeps young folks from gittin’ married because they can’t afford to build houses. Hannah Gibbs has been waitin’ for Lem Hooker to pop the question for seven years, an’ when Lem was asked about it, if he didn’t think he was runnin’ a little overtime in his courtin’ business, he said it warn’t no use to think about anything further at the present price of lumber.

“Hamp Culver wam\nts to shingle his corn house, but says he might as well think of coverin’ it with gold leaf as with shingles. Says it’s cheaper to go out an’ hold an umbrel’ over the roof every time it rains. Old man Bunker out on Willer road got scat for fear the paper supply would give out an’ stopped his local paper. He was all-fired thoughtful, the editor of the Advocate told me later, seein’ as how he hadn’t paid his subscription for seven years.

“They’s a lot of paper wasted unnecessarily, they’s no rubbin’ that out. When two people fall in love, who have no business to, they go to writin’ letters. They seem to take partic’lar delight in usin’ up as much paper stock as they can an’ by an’ by the court has to tell ’em how foolish they’ve been to waste so much good paper. Not can we overlook the question of matches. Think of it: hundreds of acres of good timber laid low every year because people are too stuck up to use lamplighters an’ because three-quarters of the men who smoke insist on usin’ old plug terbacker that Tophet itself couldn’t set fire to. It is a most sinful waste of lumber, an’ the men who invented pocket lighters are bigger guns in my estimation than the fellers who invented noiseless rifles an’ war torpeeders.

“The question of preservin’ our trees is a most prodigious one, an’ if I am fortunate enough to be your unanimous choice for the legislatur’ next fall I intend to put through a measure that will be brim full an’ runnin’ over.

“Another p’int: Without no trees one of our most flourishing industries in New England would be cut off. An institution which has growed up in our midst an’ which has become a part an’ parcel of us. I refer now to that fur-reachin’ an’ persistent body of men known as the brown-tail moth exterminators. Shall we see that useful an’ honorable institution go out of existence because of no material to work with? No; we’ve got to keep it goin’. It’s loss would mean much to a good many of us. I have a nephew, as you all know, who is an active member of it an’ I git my information first hand.

“No, fellers, we can’t afford to take no backward steps. We can’t allow this double crime to be committed, that of scrapin’ the face of Natur’ clean an’ closin’ down flourishin’ industries forever. No, sir; roof have got to be shingled, couples have got to be married an’ houses built. Newspapers have got to be printed an’ letters an’ post cards sent to them who are absent. We can’t do without paper an’ lumber, but we can fix things so they won’t be so much waste, when, as I said afore, I git into the Legislatur’.

“These lumber sharks must be dealt with. They must be forced to set out trees two to one when they begin the George Washington act. Our game must have its needful shelter; our cattle must have a shade to shelter them from the noonday sun an’ our boys an’ girls must have the low, protectin’ branches of our noble trees under which to do their spoonin’. The songbirds have got to have somethin’ to light on, the sweepin’ winds of winter broken an’ the brown-tail moths have got to have some place to congregate.

“The tendency of the times is strongly toward denudation. They may be some excuse for it in the ball room, on the marathong track an’ at the fashionable seaside resorts where folks go in swimmin’, though as to that it ain’t for me to say, but I don’t believe they’s any call for this wholesale ondressin’ of Natur’ an’ leavin’ her bare an’ shiverin’, useless for the purposes of her children, an’ generally ashamed of herself.

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(Not dated, but presumably March, 1909)

UNCLE EZRA ON RUNNING FARMS

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By JOE CONE.

IT’S ALL right to set down in a warm room with a cheerful fire in front of you, a bank-book behind you an’ a stummuck inside of you an’ write books an’ things on how to farm it,” remarked the sage from “Four Corners,” kicking the toes of his great boots against Bill Jones’ stove, and unwinding his long scarf from his neck, “but ask the man who has never had nothin’ but his two hands to work with, who has never had no legacies or side lines what he thinks about becomin’ a monopolist from the products of his farm. If he could manage to find time between doin’ chores an’ goin’ to bed an’ then gittin’ up again to do more chores, he might answer you, but the chances are he’d be so busy in his endeavor to make both ends meet that he wouldn’t even have time to say ‘call again.’ It’s mighty hard to make both ends meet when one end is held down with a mortgage an’ the other is covered up with weeds an’ stuns.

“Successful farmin’ is an easy proposition if you have got enough cash behind you to furnish the success. A farm is jest like a brick machine – it has got to be fed heavy in order to git anythin’ out of it, an’ the best kind of fodder known for a rundown, skinny farm is about 180 pounds of energy per day, mixed with a proportionate quantity of greenbacks. An’ nobody can say that the average farm in New England hain’t got a reasonably good appetite.

“To be a successful farmer in times like these one must have a vast amount of trainin’, but not the old-fashioned sort such as out great-grandfathers knew. That sort of trainin’ an’ that sort of farmin’, like the stage coach and the taller candle, has been snuffed out. The experience necessary today to put you in the front row of the agricultural chorus is gained only in the prizefightin’ ring, on the baseball diamond an’ in the countin’ room. Who are the great an’ successful farmers of today? BE they you an’ me an’ the rest of us here? No. If you read the papers, there’s no need for me to answer the question for you. But some of you don’t read the papers; you don’t even borrow your neighbor’s papers, so how can you expect to keep posted on the vital questions of the day? The best hing a man can have in his pocket now’days is a good, live, up-to-date paper. It don’t make no difference whether it’s Democratic, Republican or Scandinavian, as long as it’s got the news an’ got ’em right. I’d as soon think of goin’ without my slippery ellum as I would without my daily paper, an’, you mark my words, if there was more daily papers lyin’ round on your kitchen tables there would be less buncoin’ done in our midst an’ less deviltry in general kerried on throughout the country.

“I’ll tell you who the greatest farmers are that this country is producin’ today; they are such men a Jim Jeffries, Cy Young an’ Tom Lawson, an’ a hundred others who have made their money every old way except by actually tillin’ the soil.

“Jim Jeffries has found that by knockin’ out all the fellers that have been put up against him that he is if a fit condition, physically an’ financially to go out into the country an’ knock a few dollars out of farmin’. Cy Young, uncle to most of the younger men who play baseball, has found that if he can strike out the greater share of the sharp-eyed batters who stand up before him on the ball field, that he is competent to go out in the country an’ pitch hay successfully.

“Tom Lawson, the successful author of a few unsuccessful books, but oney producer in general, has found that if he can skin a purty good livin’ off from the barren streets of a city that he can go down into the rich an’ fertile country lanes an’ do mighty well at farmin’.

“I could name a hundred other men who have rolled up their experience an’ bank accounts in the cities an’ are now doin’ out in the country at farmin’. They hire a number of men, bring old an’ worthless pastures into use, an’ bring prosperity an’ plenty into the towns where they locate.

“Did you ever notice,” queried Bill Jones, proprietor, manager an’ clerk of “Jones Emorium,” otherwise known as Jones’s grocery store, “How lots of men go to the cities to make their money an’ then come back to the country an’ settle down?”

“Have I ever noticed it?” echoed Uncle Ezra, “It’s sure as fate. You know what o’ Sime Willett said about the Nar’ville boys? Sime said that every boy who ever went out of Nar’ville was bound to come back sooner or later, even if he had to come back in a box. It’s a good sign, this comin’ back bus’ness; not necessarily in Sime Willett’s way; but comin’ back to take up the hoe where they laid it down as boys.

“I don’t know what would become of our back country towns today if it warn’t for the city folks comin’ out an’ takin’ a-hold along with us an’ slickin’ up the landscape. It’s a sad sight to see an abandoned farm with its silent pastures, the winders of the old house stove in an’ bushes an’ briers growin’ up in the front yard, but, on the other hand, if there warn’t no abandoned farms there wouldn’t be no places for the city farmers to buy up an’ fuss on an’ make the long, slopin’ hillsides bloom again.

“At the rate real estate is goin’ today it is safe to predict that in 10 years there won’t be an abandoned farm in New England. An’ it won’t be the boys of our town who will stay here an’ redeem the soil; it will be the boys who have gone out into the world an’ knocked all competition out of the ring, who have struck all the star batters off of the home plate, an’ who have scalped all the bears on Wall Street, who will return an’ throw the belt on the wheel of the old farm an’ start its machinery in motion.

I ain’t no partic’lar friend of the cities an’ city life, as you know, but they’s lots of good things go to the cities an’ they’s lots of good things come back again. We wanter encourage this ‘back to the woods’ movement; they’s more truth than slang in that expression. When a man tells me to go ‘back to the woods’ I callate he’s givin’ me purty good advice; the very best he knows.”

“Ain’t the politicians down in Washington goin’ to do somethin’ for our communerties?” asked Bill Jones, who occasionally read a paper if somebody happened to leave one lying around by mistake, “I understand that Mr. Roosevelt an’ some more on ’em down there was intendin’ to git up a little boom for our country districts which would make things better for the farmers, an’, of course, if the farmers are better off that’s goin’ to help the storekeeper more or less.”

“I believe Mr. Roosevelt did app’int a commission to go into the country districts to find out how much eggs was sellin’ for, an’ whether or not there was any chance of makin’ game more plentiful, so that the museums might be supplied with fresh specimens, but he was so busy the last few months of his administration with gittin’ the proper kinds of guns an’ huntin’ boots made for African snipe shootin’ that he didn’t have time to listen to the report of the commission. The report of a gun allus had more charm for the ex-President anyway than the report of any commission, an’ I believe if it could have been arranged so that the Fourth of July could have been celebrated every day n the year under the winders of the White House that Mr. Roosevelt would have consented to a fourth or fifth term, whichever it was.”

“The colonel would have made a good boss for a b’iler factory,” suggested Hen Billings.

“Without a doubt,” assented Uncle Ezra, “an’ there would have been some big noises there with the Big Stick inside of a b’iler, too. I don’t know whether Africa is a quiet place or not, but if it is it most likely is bound to undego some very striking changes sooner or later. The Chinese used to win their battles by makin’ big noises an’ scarin’ the daylights out of the enemy. I don’t know if the battle of San Juan Hill was won in any such manner, but there’s no doubt that silence played a small part in the overwhelmin’ victory.

“To return again to the farmer commission app’inted by the President that was: About all the things of importance that they discovered was, as I understand it, how exceedin’ly well off the farmers of our country are an’ how poorly off are the farmer’s wives. The commission has made a great hit with the ladies, an’ I venture to say that if Mr. Roosevelt had had a little more time at his disposal before his huntin’ trip come due he would have been advocatin’ woman suffrage from the steps of the White House, an’ would have promised his support of a female candidate for President in 1913.

“If the women in our country districts are so much worse off than the men I hain’t noticed it. I do know that some of ’em jump on their bicycles and ride to their afternoon whist parties, while their husbands are at home choppin’ wood or layin’ new floors out in the stables. I don’t know how that could be improved any unless the husbands should give up cuttin’ wood an’ hitch up an’ drive the women to the whist clubs an’ wait out in the streets until the games are over. Many of the younger mothers have phonygrafts to sing their babies to sleep while they set in the bay winders watcin’ autermobiles goin’ by an’ readin’ the Dutchess or Laura Jean Libby.”

“I hear that Mr. Roosevelt has returned to Oyster Bay,” remarked Bill Jones.

“I so believe,” replied Uncle Ezra, “an’ it has allus puzzled me how the ex-President has been so popular down there.”

“He;s been popular everywhere, ain’t he?” queried Bill.

“Yes, apparently; but you know the oyster, above everything else, prefers extreme quiet. Now it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Mr. Roosevelt, after he returns from Africa, would follow in the footsteps of Mr. Jeffries an’ the rest on ’em an’ open up a big farm somewhere. It is the best way in the world to work off any superfluous flesh one might have hangin’ about him. as well as cash. If he should want to locate here he certainly would be welcome to our city.

“Another proof that land in New England is getting’ scarce an’ high is the fact that Mr. Taft has been lookin’ about for some time for a suitable summer home. Time was when hundreds of acres would have been thrown at him. As it is now nobody comes forward with even a small buildin’ lot. What does it mean? It means that this is a free country; that the trolley car an’ the autermobile has brought the price of land up beyond the means of a man with a $75,000 job; that the average New England farmer who has a hundred acres of land is goin’ to freeze on to it and get a hundred acres more if he can, whether he needs it or not; that he don’t intend to have a Taft autermobile chewin’ up the streets of his home village an’ breakin’ through its bridges, if he can help it, an’ he guesses that he can.

“If the New England farmer ain’t successful in some things, who is? Bill, put me up two pounds of crackers an’ a bottle of bluin’.”

March  (day torn out and missing)  1909.

UNCLE EZRA ON STAGE LIFE

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By JOE CONE.

“I

 ’M heartily in sympathy with the movement for elevatin’ the stage,” observed Uncle Ezra, as he settled himself into the easiest chair that Jones’ store afforded. Most of the sitters were obliged to resort to cracker barrels and nail kegs. The seat of honor was usually reserved for the sage from “Four Corners.”

“This feelin’,” he continued, was brought about mostly from goin’ to the show in the town hall the other night. I never was what you might call a very strong theatregoer, anyway, an’ since the aforesaid performance I’m inclined to be less so.

“The stage seemed to be on a fairly high plane in the ol’ days when ‘East Lynne’ an’ ‘The Banker’s Daughter’ an’ ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ uster come around once a year or oftener, but this here ‘varierty’ or ‘vaudeyville,’ as some people call it, has, in my opinion, knocked several feet off’n the stage elervation.

“Variety is said to be the spice in life, an’ I guess it is in some cases. It sartinly is when it comes to barnstormin’ vaudeyville companies. A mighty little spice of some kind is sufficient. Sometimes I’m afraid spice will be the ruination of the comin’ generations from the fact that there seems to be more spice than solid foods.

“What did you see that was so awful killin’?” asked Abe Crockett, as Uncle Ezra paused to remove a piece of slippery elm that had become lodged between his teeth. “I was there an’ set in the front row all the evenin’, an’ I didn’t see nothin’ that made me wish I had my money back.”

“Well,” replied Uncle Ezra, kindly, “you ain’t been overburdened with theatre goin’ in your day       ”

“Jest the same,” interrupted Abe, “I’ve seen more shows than you know about, an’ I know a good one when I see it. I was over to Langdon once an’ seen the Black Crook Extraverganza Comp’ny, an’, by hock! I liked it so well I stayed over an’ took it in two nights a runnin’.”

Abe elevated his feet and looked the group over with an air of satisfaction.

“Was the Black Crook what-do-you-call-it Company a good show?” queried Uncle Ezra quietly, dryly.

“Good? I should say it was,” replied Abe, warming up. “This here popinjay show we had the other night warn’t a patch to it. Why, why in this show they on’y had one Salomy, an’ in the one over t’ Langdon they had 30 or 40 all in a row. An’ talk about dancin’ an’ sidesteppin’! This here Salomy warn’t toad high. Ev’ry one of them Salomys in the Black Crook Comp’ny was the real thing, an’ they warn’t afraid of hurtin’ their toes on the ceilin’, either. Still. I ain’t findin’ no fault with the show as a hull fur a place like Nar’ville. You don’t expect to git no Barnum’s circuses not grand op’ry troupes like the Black Crook Comp’ny in a place like this, Uncle Ez.”

“Well, no, they don’t come very often Abe, that’s a fact, but the p’int is right here: if we’ve got to have little dinky theatrical troupes in Nar’ville, an’ I guess we have, we want the best we kin git. We don’t want no 44^th rate, dented in an’ patched-up stragglin’ would-be actors comin’ round here an’ puttin’ up any such show as we was witness to the other night. My mottoe has allus been ‘good or nothin,’ an’ that applies to a theatrical company jest as much as to a fam’ly hoss.

“The drama is all right if it is well done, an’ I guess if all reports are true the people of this town was purty well done by the drama. As I understand it, they got their advance notices in the ‘Advercate’ on tick, an’ the bill is up there on the editor’s desk still a tickin’. They got some salt for the snow scene, soap, two boxes of tacks an’ four pounds of crackers to feed the trained dogs with from our worthy storekeeper here, an’ forgot, in their anxiety to git to the next town afore the river froze over, to leave the equiverlent in cold, endurin’ cash. The town hall authorities also are minus three dollars for rent an’ one dollar an’ fifty cents for heat an’ janitor service.

“In the ol’ Uncle Tom and East Lynne days I never heard of anything of this sort. The shows was of a higher moral tone, the actin’ was better an’ they allus paid their bills. It on’y goes to show that the stage needs boostin’ in more ways than one. In the neighborhood of forty-seven dollars was took out of our town in clean cash an’ nothin’ left but a bad taste in its mouth.”

“Well, I don’t see how you’re goin’ to make the shows better,” declared Abe. “If another one come along next month the hall would be jest as full as it was t’other night. Jest as long as they’s shows people are a goin’ to ’em, an’ as long as people will go there’ll be shows.”

“All of which is true,” assented Uncle Ezra. “We’ve got to elevate the people fust, an’ then the stage will foller. Now, in speakin’ of the tall, bony critter who gave us the Salomy dance: That feature alone was wuth the price of stayin’ to home. How she can do an act like that without catchin’ cold an’ gittin’ the law on her shoulders at the same time is beyond my comprehension.

“I see by the papers that the authorities in New York have been gittin’ after the Salomy bus’ness, an’ when New York gits after anything it is purty safe to reckon they’s need of it. If they object to anythin’ in the show line they’s hope for the rest of the country. If I was livin’ there now, as I did once for a hull year, as some of you know, I’d jine the Watch an’ Ward Society. It’s a fine chance to see all the objectionable things fust hand an’ then pass jedgment on ’em afterwards.

“In the case of this here Salomy, if clothes make the man, she, in my estermation, must be a purty poor specimen of the Lord’s creation. I didn’t set very close to the front, but from where I was I should say she didn’t have on enough raiment to make a respectable apron for a rag baby.

“The movin’ picture show bus’ness might have been made a pleasin’ an’ wholesome institution, but lately they have been movin’ so fast along the lines of other theatrical productions that a man naturally looks around to see if any of his acquaintances are in sight afore he dodges in. A feller now’days not only has to see all the bad things there are on the stage itself, but has to see ’em later reproduced in the movin’ picture shows, addin’, as one might say, insult to injury.

“The way these movin’ picture shows are made up now is enough to make a man ashamed of himself for being buncoed. For the most part they are make believe, an’ yit three-quarters of the people swaller ’em down, hook, bob an’ sinker, for the real thing, jest as they do a burlisk show for a real out an’ out Uncle Tom drama.”

“They’s one thing in the stage bus’ness that you ain’t hit on, an’ that’s ‘divorcin’,” suggested Abe Crockett. with the air of one assisting in a great cause. “My wife allows that that is the wust feature in the whole shebang; wuss’n than seein’ a Black Crook Extraverganza Company. She says some of them actress people have been married so many times that they wouldn’t reckernize their fust husbands if they met ’em on the street.”

“I’m afraid there’s more truth than Shakespeare verse in that,” replied Uncle Ezra, sadly, “but that’s one of the things we can’t do much about as long as marriage licenses are so cheap an’ divorce papers can be got at a markdown. The price of liberty is too cheap. A ban should be put on the marriage of two stage people until they solemnly agree to live together long enough to learn each other’s full names an’ addresses.

“I heard once when I was down to New York that a certain actress cut a notch on her fan ev’ry time she got married, an’ that after a few years she had a fan for ev’ry day in the week, an’ ev’ry fan chock full of notches. But gittin’ back to the real kernel of the matter, I believe that the fault lies with the people fust of all. The year I spent down to New York I saw more shows than you could shake a stick at, an’ I must say there warn’t very many of ’em that needed it, but with the growth of our nation in wealth an’ intelligunce, we have arrived at a place where theatrical corporations need a big stick jest as much as any of the others, standard ile of plg terbacker.”

“How in thunder be you goin’ to elervate the people?” broke in Abe. “You could elervate the stage by puttin’ under blockin’, but when you try to elervate the people it’s goin’ to take somethin’ with a purty big lever.”

“The lever will be provided, Abe, providin’      “

“Providin’ what?”

“Providin’ I git to the legislatur’. The lever you speak of will be known as the Theatrical Stuffed Club.”

“Waal, all I have got to say,” drawled Abe, buttoning his coat, “is that it will be a purty darn lucky club if it don’t git its stuffin’ knocked out.”

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April 4, ’09

UNCLE EZRA ON FLYING MACHINES

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It’s Ag’in Nature to Fly, Anyway, or We’d All Be Wearing Sets of Wings.

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I

DON’T believe airships are ever goin’ to fly,” said Uncle Ezra, as he looked up from his copy of the Advocate, which he had been carefully perusing. “I don’t believe they’ll fly any more’n I believe they’ll ever git perpetual motion to turn around.”

“But they do fly already,” spoke up Capt. Joe Peters, whose principal occupation since he had retired from active sea duty was to read a daily paper and whittle out miniature boats from Bill Jones’ grocery box covers. “They do fly now, only it’s a question of makin’ ’em stay up indefinite.”

“I don’t see how you kin call it flyin’; they just make long jumps, that’s about all,” returned Uncle Ezra. “Goin’ up like a rocket out of one lot an’ lettin’ the wind blow you a ways an’ then comin’ down in the next lot ain’t what I call flyin’.”

“Now, what I would actually call flyin’ would be for a man to just spread out his wings an’ sail off in any direction he wanted to go, an’ be just as long as he wanted to about gettin’ there. When I see a man spread out his wings an’ slide up into the air, then take a bee-line in the teeth of a nor’easter an’ hump it right over into Canady without no stopovers, that would be what I would call real flyin’.”

“Waal, nobuddy kin walk afore they kin creep, Uncle Ez; they’ve got to creep fust,” ventured Capt. Joe, timidly.

:Ain’t nobuddy creepin’ round from 10 to 20years afore they find out they kin walk, either,” replied the philosopher from “Four Corners.” “In the fust place I think airship inventors are workin’ right ag’inst natur’, an’ when anybuddy does that they ain’t a-goin’ to git very fur. If the Lord had intended man should fly he would have provided him a pair of wings when he was born an’ saved him all the bother of experimentin’ with artificial wig-wags.

“No, sir-ee, I believe it’s a wrong princerple. We ain’t a-goin’ to be able to git away from the earth by our own methods for any great length of time.

“In my opinion, the autymobile comes the nearest to flyin’ of anything man has invented yit. The way they go through this town, supposedly on four wheels, but more often on two, is about as near flyin’, seems to me, as a man orter git. If they’s anything the matter with the machine, or anything gits in its way, they don’t know any more where they’re goin’ to land than they would ef they was in an airship. One is about as likely to ride the ridgepole of somebuddy’s barn as the other.

“I don’t wanter say anything that would hinder progress, nor throw cold water on anything that might tend for the public good, but I can’t help feelin’ that the airship bus’ness is a waste of energy an’ a sacrifice of human life.

“An’, when all is said an’ done, I guess the governmunt itself is purty nigh to my way of thinkin’. I don’t pretend to be no prophet or no seer of futures or desternies, but if our Uncle Sam, who usuLLY HAS PURTY GOOD JUDGEMENT, An' WHOSE EYESIGHT INTO THE FUTURE IS PURTY KEEN, IS DEAD SURE THAT THE AIRSHIP IS REALLY GOIN’ TO FLY, WHY IS HE SPENDIN’ SO MUCH MONEY FOR BIG BATTLESHIPS? If the airship, or the war balloon, if you chewse to put it that way, is goin’ to be any kind of a success on land an’ sea, as our good friends, the inventors, for instunce, would have us believe, then the big hulk of war iron lyin’ alongside some wharf or anchored off shore to protect a harbor or city would be the helpless Goliath, while the little dinky airship up in the sky would be the David to put it out of bus’ness with his little slingshot.

“Don’t you s’pose Uncle Samuel reckernizes all this? An’ yit he goes right on slingin’ out his orders for Dreadnoughts jest as though there was no sech thing in the air as a flyin’ machine.”

“Why, they’ve got flyin’ machines up for sale already, an’ I’ve heard they’s a skyline or an airline company all formed to take passengers from New York to Boston,” remarked Capt. Joe.

“That’s all right,” replied Uncle Ezra.

“They’ve had minin’ companies formed for years without knowin’ where the mine was located, an’ all the time the company was minin’ it the poor stockholders was comin’ out minus. They’ve built railroads for years in their minds, an’ it wouldn’t be at all surprisin’ if they should start to build flyin’ machine lines up in the air, so high the public can’t see ’em; it would only be another step in our so-called progress. You ain’t heerd of nobuddy buyin’ any tickets yit to take passage from New York to Boston by that route, hev you?

“If I was goin’ to buy a flyin’ machine I shou;d want a guarantee along with it that it would fly a sartin distance an’ not come down straddle of somebody’s lightnin’ rod. I should also insist that the dealer try it fust.”

“I notice that the King of Spain is specially interested in airships,” ventured the ex-seafaring man.

“Yes, young Al is one of the high-flyers of today who wants to fly still higher an’ faster by means of the airship, but, lucky for him, his good wife, who is a more moderate an’ sensible little body says: ‘No, Allie, you stay down on the earth, right close to home, an’ then I’ll know just where you be,’ an’ Al, strange to say, an’ unlike most husbands of today, stays down on the cold old earth accordin’ to directions. He gits into an airship, however, with his friend Wright, an’ works the levers, puts on the emergency brakes, an’ toots the horn, etc., but all the while the skittish craft is tied to the rail fence.

“Count what’s-his-name tried to soar recently, but the sorest part of it was the count himself, although the farmers where the German cavalry chased the shipwrecked count to bring him back, dead or alive, felt purty much that way when they went out and looked at the damage by the Kaiser’s hosses. Airshippin’ ain’t exactly reached a high state of parfection when you’ve got to send out an army of cavalry to bring back what’s left. Do you know why the 400 have took up the airship fad?”

“I suppose it’s becuz they wanter be real high-flyers an’ sort of make good their reputations,” replied Capt. Joe. “Though as fur as that goes, Iguess we’d all like to fly a leetle higher than we kin afford,” he added.

“Doubtless that’s one of the reasons, but I reckon it’s more becuz they wanter look down on the common herd, an’ that seems to be about the on’y way they kin do it. Now, as fur as I am concerned, I would like to take a bird’s-eye-view of my farm, but I’d ruther do it from the ridgepole of my barn than hang over the aige of a wicker basket, expectin’ ev’ry minute that the top of a shad-bone fence was comin’ up to meet me.

Another thing I’d like to know is, how is a feller goin’ to git out an’ crawl under his machine with a monkey-wrench or a hammer to fix the runnin’ gear when she’s come to a full stop half a mile up in the air? An’ if he should drop some of his tools, what then? I tell you, ’tain’t practical.

“They’ve even got a gun for destroyin’ the war airship long afore they’ve got the ship to destroy. Now, somebuddy has got to come forward with somethin’ to destroy the gun afore it can destroy the war airship. I tell you, fellers, it ain’t a case any longer of keepin’ up with the procession, it’s leavin’ the procession miles an’ miles in the rear.

“A man in the city by an’ by will be so doggoned tangled up with the autymobiles ahead of him an’ behind him, an’ tunnels underneath him an’ airships flappin’ their wings over him that he won’t know whether he’s goin’ or comin’, or whether he’s goin’ to be blowed up or down. As I said afore, I don’t wanter hinder progress, but it seems to me there’s about all a man kin didge now an’ go down to the postoffice an’ git back alive. If we’ve got to look overhead as well as fore an’ aft, we’ve got somethin’ to do besides talkin’about our neighbors."

April 18, ‘09

UNCLE EZRA ON

THE AUTOMOBILE

____________

He’d Rather Like to Own One so

       That He Might Swap It for a

       Good Horse.

____________

BY JOE CONE.

I

’M AFRAID the autymobile has come to stay,” said Uncle Ezra, when there appeared to be a decided lull amongst the sitters. Bill Jones was putting up orders, and the remainder of the group appeared to be thinking heavily. “Once I was in hopes autymobilin’ would turn out to be a passin’ fad like tiddle-de-winks an’ lawn tennis,” he continued, “but jedgin’ from the papers, an’ what I pick up here an’ there, I guess they’re goin’ at it harder than ever this summer.”

“It’s a passin’ fad all right,” chimed in Abe Crockett; “that’s the trouble, uncle Ez, they keep passin’, an’ repassin’, I can’t git no work done for seein’ the things go by.”

“I should think you’d git used to ’em after a while, Abe, an’ not pay any attention to ’em. It looks as though your work mind wasn’t very strong on your work.”

“Git used to ’em? I guess not. You never knew anybody to git used to a brass band, did you? Waal, it’s the same thing; allus got to stop an’ look an’ listen till they git out of sight an’ hearin’. Counts up by the end of the week, too, if a feller values his time anything.”

“Yes,” resumed Uncle Ezra, “they’re expensive for them as has ’em an’ them as hasn’t. They’s only now an’ then one that goes out by the ‘Corners,’ but when it does it ’pears to take the hull road right along with it, an’ everybosy’s filled with excitement an’ curiosity from the head farmer down to the old Plymouth Rock ruster, who ’pears to be doin’ his best to git run over.

“I suppose it’s an easy an’ quick way of gittin’ along, but it ain’t allus what you might call reliable. Doc Bradford got stuck goin’ over to Langdon in his’n, an’ besides usin’ up eight hours in the transition, it cost him $5 to git towed back home. He could have walked it in four hours, an’ still had his $5 for a rainy day.”

“Waal, you see, the rainy day come ahead of time,” grinned Abe.

“Yes,” replied Uncle Ezra, “an’ as fur as the Doc an’ his autymobile are concerned, he has more rainy days to contend with than pleasant ones, an’ the question is, is they goin’ to be sickness enough in this town so’s he’ll be able to keep up the expense? We’re purty healthy round here, as a rule, which ain’t, of course, the Doc’s fault. Now, if Nar’ville was like some towns, there’s be enough people knocked down an’ run over so’s the Doc would have his hands full lookin’ after ’em, but up to the present time we ain’t gittin’ our full share of accidents.”

“Waal, that ain’t the fault of the autymobile people,” broke in Bill Jones, who had side-stepped one a few days previous. “No, it’s the fault of our townspeople mostly; they ain’t enough of us to make a credible showin’ on the accident lists. For my part, I never could see where the enjoyment of autymobiling comes in. People tell about the delights of travellin’, the joys of seein’ the country through whick they are passin’, and so on. Now, I have never had but a few rides in them autymobiles, but as for seein’ anything of the country through which I was passin’, or enjoyin’ the scenery as I went along, I must say I felt about like a man would feel who had jumped from the top of Bunker Hill monument an’ was tryin’ to take in the scenery on his way down. To me it was a case of hangin’ on for dear life with life growin’ dearer every minute. Every time I went out, I got to the end of my journey long ’fore I had time to think anything about the scenery.

“I once knew a man who took an accommodation train from New York to Boston, so that he could take in more of the scenery an’ git his money’s worth in moderate an’ safe travelin’. I don’t want to be looked upon as bein’ an old fogy, but at the same time I’d ruther be a little behind the times than jest ahead of the cowketcher.

“Life fire, or water, or takin’ ’em jointly, ‘fire-water,’ the autymobile is a good servant an’ a bad master. It should never be allowed to be on top. It has a way of takin’ matters into its own hands sometimes which is aggravatin’ as well as dangerous. It like freedom an’ unrestraint, inclinin’ towards a fast life, an’ seems to want to attract attention by doin’ the most unheard of things. It appears to want to go the hoss one better. It ain’t satidfied with jumpin’ fences an’ stun walls, but wants to climb telegraft poles an’ occasionally flop upside down like a pancake. It likes to canter up hill an’ down dale jest to show the hoss how superior it is in both speed an’ distance. But the old hoss ain’t a bit cut up over the antics of the autymobile any more. The hoss knows that he was on the earth ages afore the autymobile happened, an’ he knows he’ll be on earth ages after his gasoline rival has been throwed onto the junk pile. He quietly munches his grass over in the lot while his mechanical competitor grinds up the road coughin’ its life out. He kicks up his heels now an’ then an’ feeds on the good things of life an’ bides his time.

The amateur autoist will tell you that it is cheaper to keep a machine than a hoss because it don’t eat nothin’ when it ain’t workin’. Experience proves, however, that in a great many cases when it ain’t workin’is when it eats the most. Doc Bradford had his’n restin’ up in a repair shop for two weeks this spring an’ it cost him $80 for fodder. I kin keep a hoss ’restin’ purty nigh a year for that sum. The autymobiledon’t eat the same kind of fodder as the hoss does, but what fodder it does eat, comes, as one might say, on the half shell.

Now it ain’t my intention to run down the autymobile; also it ain’t my intention to let the same run me down. I shall allus give it a wide berth. It can have cards an’ spades as fur as I am concerned. When I hear it comin’ I give it the hull road willin’ly, an’ would let it have the hull lot adjoinin’ if I could. I have no quarrel with it. It is a good thing in its place, no doubt. Probably it is a necessity or it wouldn’t be here. It is the same with dymernite. Both affairs want the proper handlin’. Both a re full of great possibilities.

“Jest the same, Uncle Ez, I bet you’d take an autymobile quicker’n ‘scat’ if somebody would come along an’ offer you one,” ventured Abe Crockett.

“Sartin sure I would, if they’s guarantee it weren’t ludded,” returned the old man cheerily. “I really would like an autymobile; I don’t deny it, Abe.”

“Jest what I thought all the time, an’ you stand there an’ sort of run ’em down. That’s a good deal like Jim Badger. He won’t git married ’cuz won’t nobody have him.”

The sage from “Four Corners” pretended not to notice the bit of sarcasm which Abe sprinkled into his humor.

“I would like an autymobile very much, but not to ride in, Abe,” continued Uncle Ezra.

“Well, what in tarnation would you want it for?” queried the other.

“I would like an autymobile so’s I could swap it for a good hoss,” concluded the old man, turning once more to the columns of the Narrowville Advocate.     JOE CONE.

______________________

May 16, ’09.