Gov. Bob. Taylor's Tales Part 2

THE CANDY PULLING

The sugar was boiling in the kettles, and while it boiled the boys and girls played "snap," and "eleven hand," and "thimble," and "blindfold,"

and another old play which some of our older people will remember:

"Oh! Sister Phoebe, how merry were we, When we sat under the juniper tree-- The juniper tree-I-O."

And when the sugar had boiled down into candy they emptied it into greased saucers, or as the mountain folks called them, "greased sa.s.sers," and set it out to cool; and when it had cooled each boy and girl took a saucer; and they pulled the taffy out and patted it and rolled it till it hung well together; and then they pulled it out a foot long; they pulled it out a yard long; and they doubled it back, and pulled it out; and when it began to look like gold the sweethearts paired off and consolidated their taffy and pulled against each other.

They pulled it out and doubled it back, and looped it over, and pulled it out; and sometimes a peachblow cheek touched a bronzed one; and sometimes a sweet little voice spluttered out; "you Jack;" and there was a suspicious smack like a cow pulling her foot out of stiff mud. They pulled the candy and laughed and frolicked; the girls got taffy on their hair--the boys got taffy on their chins; the girls got taffy on their waists--the boys got taffy on their coat sleeves. They pulled it till it was as bright as a moonbeam, and then they platted it and coiled it into fantastic shapes and set it out in the crisp air to cool. Then the courting in earnest began. They did not court then as the young folks court now. The young man led his sweetheart back into a dark corner and sat down by her, and held her hand for an hour, and never said a word. But it resulted next year in more cabins on the hillsides and in the hollows; and in the years that followed the cabins were full of candy-haired children who grew up into a race of the best, the bravest, and the n.o.blest people the sun in heaven ever shone upon.

In the bright, bright hereafter, when all the joys of all the ages are gathered up and condensed into globules of transcendent ecstacy, I doubt whether there will be anything half so sweet as were the candy-smeared, ruby lips of the country maidens to the jeans-jacketed swains who tasted them at the candy-pulling in the happy long ago.

(Sung by Gov. Taylor to air of "Down on the Farm.")

In the happy long ago, When I used to draw the bow, At the old log cabin hearthstone all aglow, Oh! the fiddle laughed and sung, And the puncheons fairly rung, With the clatter of the shoe soles long ago.

Oh! the merry swings and whirls Of the happy boys and girls, In the good old time cotillion long ago!

Oh! they danced the highland fling, And they cut the pigeon wing, To the music of the fiddle and the bow.

But the mischief and the mirth, And the frolics 'round the hearth, And the flitting of the shadows to and fro, Like a dream have pa.s.sed away-- Now I'm growing old and gray, And I'll soon hang up the fiddle and the bow.

When a few more notes I've made, When a few more tunes I've played, I'll be sleeping where the snowy daises grow.

But my griefs will all be o'er When I reach the happy sh.o.r.e, Where I'll greet the friends who loved me long ago.

Oh! how sweet, how precious to us all are the memories of the happy long ago!

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE OLD VIRGINIA REEL.]

THE BANQUET.

Let us leave the "egg flip" of the country dance, and take a bowl of egg-nog at the banquet. It was a modern banquet for men only. Music flowed; wine sparkled; the night was far spent--it was in the wee sma'

hours. The banquet was given by Col. Punk who was the promoter of a town boom, and who had persuaded the banqueters that "there were millions in it." He had purchased some old sedge fields on the outskirts of creation, from an old squatter on the domain of Dixie, at three dollars an acre; and had stocked them at three hundred dollars an acre. The old squatter was a partner with the Colonel, and with his part of the boodle nicely done up in his wallet, was present with bouyant hopes and feelings high. Countless yarns were spun; numberless jokes pa.s.sed 'round the table until, in the ecstacy of their joy, the banqueters rose from the table and clinked their gla.s.ses together, and sang to chorus:

"Landlord, fill the flowing bowl Until it doth run over; Landlord fill the flowing bowl Until it doth run over; For to-night we'll merry merry be, For to-night we'll merry merry be, For to-night we'll merry merry be; And to-morrow we'll get sober."

The whole banquet was drunk (as banquets usually are), and the princ.i.p.al stockholders finally succ.u.mbed to the music of "Old Kentucky Bourbon,"

and sank to sleep under the table. The last toast on the programme was announced. It was a wonderful toast--"Our mineral resources:" The old squatter rose in his glory, about three o'clock in the morning, to respond to this toast, and thus he responded:

"Mizzer Churman and Gent-tul-men of the Banquet: I have never made mineralogy a study, nor zoology, nor any other kind of 'ology,' but if there haint m-i-n-e-r-l in the deestrick which you gent-tul-men have jist purchased from me at sitch magnifercent figers, then the imagernation of man is a deception an' a snare. But gent-tul-men, you caint expect to find m-i-n-e-r-l without plenty uv diggin'. I have been diggin' thar for the past forty year fur it, an' haint never struck it yit, I hope you gen-tul-men will strike it some time endurin' the next forty year." Here, with winks and blinks and clinched teeth, the old Colonel pulled his coat tail; he was spoiling the town boom. But he would not down. He continued in the same eloquent strain: "Gent-tul-men, you caint expect to find m-i-n-e-r-l without plenty uv diggin.' You caint expect to find nothin' in this world without plenty uv diggin'.

There is no excellence without labor gent-tul-men. If old Vanderbilt hadn't a-been persevering in his pertickler kind uv dig-gin', whar would he be to-day? He wouldn't now be a rich man, a-ridin' the billers of old ocean in his magnifercent 'yatchet.' If I hadn't a-been perseverin', an' hadn't a-kep on a-dig-gin' an' a-diggin, whar would I have been to-day? I mout have been seated like you gent-tul-men, at this stupenduous banquet, with my pockets full of watered stock, and some other old American citizen mout have been deliverin' this eulogy on our m-i-n-e-r-l resources. Gent-tul-men, my injunction to you is never to stop diggin'. And while you're a-diggin', cultivate a love for the beautiful, the true and the good. Speakin' of the beautiful, the true, and the good, gent-tul-men, let us not forgit woman at this magnifercent banquet--Oh! woman, woman, woman! when the mornin' stars sung together for joy--an' woman--G.o.d bless 'er----Great G.o.d, feller citerzens, caint you understand!!!!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BANQUET.]

At the close of this great speech the curtain fell to slow music, and there was a panic in land stocks.

THERE IS MUSIC ALL AROUND US.

There is music all around us, there is music everywhere. There is no music so sweet to the American ear as the music of politics. There is nothing that kindles the zeal of a modern patriot to a whiter heat than the prospect of an office; there is nothing that cools it off so quickly as the fading out of that prospect.

I stood on the stump in Tennessee as a candidate for Governor, and thus I cut my eagle loose: "Fellow Citizens, we live in the grandest country in the world. It stretches

From Maine's dark pines and crags of snow To where magnolia breezes blow;

It stretches from the Atlantic Ocean on the east, to the Pacific Ocean on the west"--and an old fellow jumped up in my crowd and threw his hat in the air and shouted: "Let 'er stretch, durn 'er--hurrah for the Dimocrat Party."

An old Dutchman had a beautiful boy of whom he was very proud; and he decided to find out the bent of his mind. He adopted a very novel method by which to test him. He slipped into the little fellow's room one morning and placed on his table a Bible, a bottle of whiskey, and a silver dollar. "Now," said he, "Ven dot boy comes in, ef he dakes dot dollar, he's goin' to be a beeznis man; ef he dakes dot Bible he'll be a breacher; ef he dakes dot vwiskey, he's no goot--he's goin' to be a druenkart." and he hid behind the door to see which his son would choose. In came the boy whistling. He ran up to the table and picked up the dollar and put it in his pocket; he picked up the Bible and put it under his arm; then he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the bottle of whiskey and took two or three drinks, and went out smacking his lips. The old Dutchman poked his head out from behind the door and exclaimed: "Mine Got--he's goin' to be a bolitician."

There is no music like the music of political discussion. I have heard almost a thousand political discussions. I heard the great debate between Blaine and Ben Hill; I heard the angry coloquies between Roscoe Conkling and Lamar; I have heard them on down to the humblest in the land. But I prefer to give you a sc.r.a.p of one which occurred in my own native mountains. It was a race for the Legislature in a mountain county, between a straight Democrat and a straight Republican. The mountaineers had gathered at the county site to witness the great debate. The Republican spoke first. He was about six feet two in his socks, as slim as a bean pole, with a head about the size of an ordinary tin cup and very bald, and he lisped. Webster in all his glory in the United States Senate never appeared half so great or half so wise. Thus he opened the debate:

"F-e-l-l-o-w T-h-i-t-i-t-h-e-n-s: I come befo' you to-day ath a Republikin candidate, fer to reprethent you in the lower branch uv the Legithlachah. And, fellow thit.i.thens, ef I thould thay thumpthin conthernin' my own carreckter, I hope you will excuthe me. I sprung frum one of the humbletht cabins in all thith lovely land uv thweet liberty; and many a mornin' I have jumped out uv my little trundle bed onto the puncheon floor, and pulled the splinterth and the bark off uv the wall of our 'umble cabin, for to make a fire for my weakley parenth. Fellow thit.i.thenth, I never had no chanthe. All that I am to-day I owe to my own egtherthionth!! and that aint all. When the cloud of war thwept like a bethom of destructhion over this land uv thweet liberty, me and my connecthion thouldered our musketh and marched forth on the b.l.o.o.d.y battlefield to fight for your thweet liberty! Fellow thit.i.thenth, if you can trust me in the capathity uv a tholjer, caint you trust me in the capathity uv the Legithlature? I ask my old Dimocrat compet.i.tor for to tell you whar he wath when war shook thith continent from its thenter to its circ.u.mputh! I have put thith quethtion to him on every stump, and he's ath thilent ath an oysthter. Fellow cit.i.thenth, I am a Republikin from printhiple. I believe in every thing the Republikin Party has ever done, and every thing the Republikin Party ever expecthts to do.

Fellow thit.i.thenth, I am in favor of a high protective tarriff for the protecthion of our infant induthtreth which are only a hundred yearth old; and fellow thit.i.thenth, I am in favor of paying of a penthun to every tholjer that fit in the Federal army, while he lives, and after hethe dead, I'm in favor of paying uv it to hith Exthecutor or hith Adminithtrator."

He took his seat amid great applause on the Republican side of the house, and the old Democrat who was a much older man, came forward like a roaring lion, to join issue in the great debate, and thus he "joined:"

"Feller Citerzuns, I come afore you as a Dimocrat canderdate, fur to ripresent you in the lower branch of the house of the Ligislator. And fust and fomust, hit becomes my duty fer to tell you whar I stand on the great queshtuns which is now a-agitatin' of the public mind! Fust an'

fomust, feller citerzuns, I am a Dimocrat inside an' out, up one side an' down tother, independent defatigly. My compet.i.tor axes me whar I wuz endurin' the war--Hit's none uv his bizness whar I wuz. He says he wuz a-fightin' fer yore sweet liberty. Ef he didn't have no more sense than to stand before them-thar drotted bung-sh.e.l.ls an' cannon, that's his bizness, an' hit's my bizness whar I wuz. I think I have answered him on that pint.

"Now, feller citerzuns, I'll tell you what I'm fur. I am in favor uv payin' off this-here drotted tariff an' stoppin' of it; an' I'm in favor of collectin' jist enuf of rivenue fur to run the Government ekernomical administered, accordin' to Andy Jackson an' the Dimocrat flatform. My compet.i.tor never told you that he got wounded endurin' the war. Whar did he git hit at? That's the pint in this canva.s.s. He got it in the back, a-leadin' of the revance guard on the retreat--that's whar he got it."

This charge precipitated a personal encounter between the candidates, and the meeting broke up in a general battle, with brickbats and tan bark flying in the air.

It would be difficult, for those reared amid the elegancies and refinements of life in city and town, to appreciate the enjoyments of the gatherings and merry-makings of the great ma.s.ses of the people who live in the rural districts of our country. The historian records the deeds of the great; he consigns to fame the favored few; but leaves unwritten the short and simple annals of the poor--the lives and actions of the millions.

The modern millionaire, as he sweeps through our valleys and around our hills in his palace car, ought not to look with derision on the cabins of America, for from their thresholds have come more brains and courage and true greatness than ever eminated from all the palaces of this world.

The fiddle, the rifle, the axe, and the Bible, symbolizing music, prowess, labor, and free religion, the four grand forces of our civilization, were the trusty friends and faithful allies of our pioneer ancestry in subduing the wilderness and erecting the great Commonwealths of the Republic. Wherever a son of freedom pushed his perilous way into the savage wilds and erected his log cabin, these were the cherished penates of his humble domicile--the rifle in the rack above the door, the axe in the corner, the Bible on the table, and the fiddle with its streamers of ribbon, hanging on the wall. Did he need the charm of music, to cheer his heart, to scatter sunshine, and drive away melancholy thoughts, he touched the responsive strings of his fiddle and it burst into laughter. Was he beset by skulking savages, or prowling beasts of prey, he rushed to his deadly rifle for protection and relief. Had he the forest to fell, and the fields to clear, his trusty axe was in his stalwart grasp. Did he need the consolation, the promises and precepts of religion to strengthen his faith, to brighten his hope, and to anchor his soul to G.o.d and heaven, he held sweet communion with the dear old Bible.

The glory and strength of the Republic today are its plain working people.

"Princes and Lords may flourish and may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But an honest yeomanry--a Country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied;"

Long live the common people of America! Long live the fiddle and the bow, the symbols of their mirth and merriment!