The Puddleford Papers: or, Humors of the West

"This woke me. Story and the decision by Longbow, knocked my dream out-er sight."

Bates pulled off his boots, and handing them to Ike, informed him that they were his, by the custom of Puddlefordians, and the meeting adjourned.

CHAPTER XVII

Ike Turtle in his Office. – The Author consults him on Point of Law. – Taxes of Non-Residents. – Law in Puddleford. – Mr. Bridget's Case. – Legal Discussion. – The Case settled.

We very often get an idea of a community by fathoming its leading men. We stick our stakes at that point, and reason, by comparison, downward; not that prominent individuals make the community, any more than the community makes them; but both act and react upon each other, until a standard is formed – and that standard is just high enough for the occasion – the necessities of the present. Water never rises above its level.

You have, respected reader, already seen much – perhaps too much – of Ike Turtle. You must recollect, however, as I have before declared, that he was an embodiment of the spirit of his time. He was the presiding genius of Puddleford, and had been as much moulded by it as he had moulded Puddleford.

Turtle, as we have seen, was a host in law – that is, he was a host in Puddleford law. He was just as useful and mighty in his sphere as Webster ever was in his. It must in candor be admitted that there was a difference in spheres; but that in no way affects the principle – and principle is what we are contending for.

I have thus far exhibited to you Turtle under excitement, as an advocate in the case of Filkins vs. Beadle, defending his country against what he called an "abolition lecter," struggling in the cause of education; but we cannot always probe a great man to the bottom, and disinter the latent jewels of mind, unless we know and observe him unruffled by passion, and unswayed by feeling. The line and lead must be cast into still waters to sound the depths of the ocean.

I had occasion to consult Turtle on a point of law. The question was, whether a certain woman who claimed dower in my land could probably show a state of facts that would legally entitle her to recover.

Mr. Turtle's office was in one of the upper rooms of a tumble-down tailor's shop in the village. Outside his sign swung to and fro: "I. Turtle, 'Torney in all Courts." Inside, it was garnished with three chairs without backs, a pine table, whittled into pieces by the loungers, a number of loose papers lying in an old flour-barrel, an ink-bottle with a yellow string around its nose, a copy of the statutes, a stub of a pen, volume two of Blackstone, and no law-book beside, all of which were enveloped in dirt and cobwebs. Mr. Turtle himself, when I entered, sat in one chair, his two feet stretched wide apart, each in another, like the two extremities of a letter A; and Ike himself was very philosophically smoking a pipe, and blowing the whiffs out of the window.

"Is this Mr. Turtle's office?" inquired I.

"I should rayther think it was," answered Ike, drawing out his pipe, and pointing to a chair.

"I have a little business," said I.

"Most people do have," said he. "I'm chuck full on't myself."

"Suppose," said I, "a man dies, and leaves a widow, and that widow should claim – "

"Hold on, right there!" exclaimed Ike, laying down his pipe. "Hold on, old fellow; this s'posin' don't do in this 'ere office. I never gives opinions on fancy cases. Time's little too precious. I want the raal facts on the matter, jest as they happened; and, besides, Mr. – , fust thing I know I shall give an opinion right butt agin one of my clients – (I have reg'lar clients, you see, that I've got ter stand up for, if it busts me), – and this wheelin' round and taking a back track spiles one's reputation, and tears his conscience, awful to behold!"

"Well," I continued, "as I was goin' to say – "

"No, sir-ee! you ain't goin' to say. Who died? who's the widow? Them are the startin' pints in a new country."

"But," continued I, "that will not affect the principle."

"Won't it, though?" answered Ike. "What are principles to folks in a new country? What are residents to non-residents? Why, you take a resident widow, a little good-lookin', and she can hold all the land she claims agin a non-resident. Juries have feelin's, and are human like other people."

"O, I see!" said I.

"Jest so," said he.

"Well, then," I continued, "the widow is a resident of Puddleford, and so am I; and the widow claims a life interest in one third of my land."

Ike pondered, and rubbed his head, and looked for a long time steadily at the toes of his boots. At last a thought struck him.

"Has she any children?" inquired he.

"She has."

"Young?"

"Twelve and fourteen."

"Bad age for you," said Ike; "worse than two positive witnesses swearin' straight inter yer favor."

"But what have children to do with a principle of law?" I exclaimed, somewhat animated.

"You're green," exclaimed Ike; "you'll sprout if you get catched in a shower. What has law got ter do with a widder and two children out here? Don't you know the widder and the two children will be put right straight to the jury, and that they'll swamp you and your case, and all the la' you can bring agin 'em?"

"Very likely," said I; "but is Puddleford law all made for widows, babies, and residents?" inquired I.

"You see," continued Ike; "you hain't lived long here. A new country is a kind of self-sustainin' machine. We've all got-ter go in for ourselves. When folks take the brunt of settlin' wild land, somebody's got-ter and ought-ter suffer. Non-residents have ter pay all taxes. They have to pay onto the value, and onto our takin' care of their lands. We can't afford to scare off the animals and bring their property into market for nothin'. Why, old Sykes, who lives away down to the east'ard, pays half the taxes of Puddleford, and don't own more than four sections of land. The 'sessors kind-er look at the spirit of the law when they lay taxes, and the spirit of our tax-law stretches 'cordin' to circumstances. India-rubber ain't nothin' to it. Jest so in la' matters. The la' is favorable to Puddlefordians; our courts lean that way – it's kind-er second nater to 'em – a kind-er law of self-preservation – primary law of natur', you know – a duty; and therefore I was particular to know who the person was who claimed your land."

"Mine's a case," said I, after Ike concluded his digression, "of Puddleford against Puddleford."

"Puddleford against itself, both residents – a woman and two children against a man?"

"That's the case," said I.

"Well!" said Ike.

"The widow claims a life interest, and yet she signed the deed with her husband."

"Did sign it?" inquired Ike again. "What is she growlin' about, then?"

"She claims she was deranged."

"And didn't know nothin', ha?"

"And she says she can prove it."

"That is, Sile Bates can for her, I s'pose."

Squire Longbow dropped in at this point of the conversation. Ike arose, walked several times swiftly across the floor, turning each time with a jerk, and finally wheeling up in front of me, said his fee for opinions was one dollar.

The fee was paid.

"Now," exclaimed Ike, pushing his fee in his vest pocket, "who's the woman?"

"Old Mrs. Bridget," said I.

"There are just half a dozen defences," exclaimed Ike; "and each one will blow the case sky-high. Nobody can't set up insanity in a new country, because there ain't nothin' here to make anybody insane; and if there was, our judges and juries think a leetle too much of themselves, thick as the bushes are, to 'low a Puddlefordian to prove herself a fool in open court. There is a pride that won't permit it. Yes, sir!" Here Ike slapped the table hard by way of emphasis. "Ain't that la', Squire Longbow?" continued Ike, turning round to the Squire, who was almost magnetized by intense thought.

The Squire gave two or three ahems to clear his throat, and his voice seemed a long time on its way. "That," said the Squire, "is just what the 'mortal Story said; he never would permit a man to make a fool of himself; he went agin all such kind-er things. The 'mortal Story said, if a man don't know nothin', he oughten-ter say nothin', or do nothin'. He very specially said it warn't a safe rule to let crazy folks rip up things, 'cause how do we know, or anybody know, but they are jist as crazy when they rip 'em up, and then they'll have to be ripped over agin; that's the 'thority, sir – page – let me see – but no matter 'bout pages – "

"And, secondly," continued Ike, breaking into the Squire, "it's a rule of law that everybody's stopped by their deed; and if the woman knowed enough to sign and seal it, that 'ere seal is an everlasting and eternal bar to provin' anything agin it. That'll stop a crazy woman; that's laid down in all the books since King Richard got possession of England, and the staterts are full on it, too."

The Squire said "that looked reasonable. How do we know that Andrew Jackson warn't crazy when he signed off the patents for Puddleford. That's an open question yet. And if it warn't for the broad seal – if it warn't for that 'ere spread eagle – some whig President (and the whigs allers did say 'Old Hickory' was crazy) would set it all aside, and throw all the land titles into hotch-potch, kick me out-er house and home, and ruin all Puddleford!"

"Certainly," said I.

"And agin," said Ike, "the woman warn't crazy; I can prove that."

"That will do," said I. "How?"

"When was the deed executed?"

I stated.

"That's jest the time," said Ike, "that old covy, her brother-in-law, used her as a witness to recover his farm."

The Squire said that "the woman was under oath then, and she might tell the truth, if she was a little shattered."

"Th-u-n-der!" exclaimed Ike.

"Witnesses are sworn to tell the truth," said the Squire.

The Squire was evidently getting quizzical. Mr. Turtle begged "he would not interrupt him agin. The case was one of great importance, and it required a power of thought and research to look inter it.

"And now," continued Ike, "there are three more p'ints of la' in your case. You've got the fee of this 'ere land – that is, you've got a deed, and got inter possession; that makes a fee. And as to that, the deed don't matter so much; possession out here is jest as good. I never see a sheriff who could get a man off. 'Tain't pop'lar – won't pay – it costs votes – men don't vote for officers who push 'em; possession is more'n nine p'ints of the la' in Puddleford; it's ninety-nine – it's 'most as good as a patent."

"But that would be a resistance of process, if the widow succeeded," said I.

"There won't be nothin' to resist," answered Ike. "You'll never feel the process; it will always be defective – there'll be a flaw in it somewhere. Settlers on the sile must be protected."

"That," chimed in the Squire, "is la'. That was settled in the constitution. There was blood shed for that."

"But there ain't no use," continued Ike, "in goin' into particulars, and puttin' down every p'int of la'. I can scatter a thousand such cases to the four winds – have done it – can do it agin. Give me Kent and the staterts, and I'll cut my way to daylight in no time."

If there is any one who believes that such an opinion was not given for one dollar, or that hundreds have not been given in the very far West just as absurd, let them inquire further of those persons who have experienced a frontier life. Yet, Mr. Turtle lives and flourishes, gains reputation, and will die as much respected and lamented as any one.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Wilderness around Puddleford. – The Rivers and the Forests – Suggestions of Old Times. – Footprints of the Jesuits. – Vine-covered Mounds. – Visit to the Forest. – The Early Frost. – The Forest Clock. – The Woodland Harvest. – The Last Flowers. – Nature sowing her Seed. – The Squirrel in the Hickory. – Pigeons, their Ways and their Haunts. – The Butterflies and the Bullfrog. – Nature and her Sermons. – Her Temple still open, but the High-priest gone.

Puddleford was a mere spot in the wilderness. Its region abounded with patches of improved land, and patches partly improved, and fields of stumps that the pioneer had just passed over with his axe. The great sweep of land around it, however, was a wilderness – not a thicket – not a dense mass of timber, nor a swamp – but a rolling plain of upland prairie, and heavily-wooded flats along the rivers; and it extended no one knew where, and was covered with lakes and rivers that shone, and roared, and babbled, day and night, through the great solitude. The surface of the upland was as smooth and shaven as an English park. No undergrowth obstructed the eye, and the outline of a deer might be discerned two miles distant. Trees upon the distant ground-swells, amid their quivering shadows, appeared to be riding upon waves. In this gigantic park, which overreached degrees of longitude, flowers of every form and hue budded, blossomed, faded, and died, from May until November. The prairies were so many blooming seas; and when the soft south-west stirred up their depths, they shed a gorgeous light, as if they were breathing out rainbow colors.

The rivers that watered this waste were large, and flowed from still deeper solitudes towards the great lakes. The sun, as ancient as they, rose and set upon them now as it did centuries ago. The forests upon their banks sprang up, flourished, waxed old, and died; and still the river ran, and new forests rose upon the ruins of the old, and the glory of the new stood implanted in the grave of the old. The bison, moose, and bear drank from the sources of these rivers, driven upward by the noise of civilization. But they had an interest to me beyond all this: they were the inlets to Christian missionaries more than a century ago. It was up these streams that the French Jesuit,3 with his eye aloft, and the cross erect, paddled his solitary canoe among the aborigines. Here he built his camp-fire beneath the stars, and told his rosary in the awful presence of his God – how awful, indeed, in such a spot, at such a time! We can almost see the venerable man, and hear the dip of his oar; the water-fowl scream, scared, and dive along before him, and the Indian stands upon the bank in his presence, like a monument in wonder.

The footprints of the Jesuits are still found upon the bluffs of these rivers. Mounds, which were thrown by them into square and circular forms, now roofless and silent, and matted all over with vines, still bear witness to their devotion. Yet how little is thought of them now! Because the Jesuits did not till the earth, and sow, and reap, and swell the commerce of the world: but didn't they sow? They sowed the seeds of everlasting life among the simple children of the forest; and they have sown from age to age since, and many an Indian still offers the prayer which was taught his forefathers so long ago.

Such, reader, were the woods around Puddleford, and such the associations. I was in the habit of going down into their depths, and scraping acquaintance with the inhabitants. It was a relief to me. I sometimes even went so far as to set myself up as a sportsman. I made a special visit, just after the first frost, for the purpose of spying out the game. The morning was still and bright, and the dash of a distant rivulet, which I could step across, filled the "long drawn aisles" with its echoes. I had been down often during the summer, but every object looked strangely different now. The first frost had given Nature a shock – a kind of palsy; she looked serene, almost sad. Its inmates had gadded about during the summer in a very reckless way; they looked more sober after the first frost – more thoughtful – more anxious about something.

It was late in September, and yet "the storms of the wild Equinox, with all its wet," had not come. It was due and over-due. Amid the more hardy foliage the first frost had drawn his brush in the most delicate way possible – a mere tinge, and no more – a kind of autumnal hint. There was one limb of an oak just changing, and the balance of the tree stood up as bravely and defiant as ever; the soft maple was completely dipped – it blazed; the aspen trembled and glowed; the hickory was only touched, and still hesitated about her full suit of yellow; while the dog-wood and spice bush had entirely given up the ghost.

It was just after the first frost, so I went down to the banks of the rivulet that had so long been singing its woodland psalm. It came from away off somewhere, and strayed, and dove over precipices, and spread into miniature lakes; but, where I stood, it tumbled through a gorge with green, sloping banks. As I gazed, the sun waxed higher and warmer. Day wore its way up the gorge, and literally struck a sisterhood of frosted sumachs, and they turned blood-red; I thought I saw them shift their summer dress.

Near by, a vine circled a tree, and swung out from its top. I had noticed it many times before during the season. It was then hung with large-mouthed flowers, which opened with the morning. Was it a summer chime of bells that tolled the sunlight into the temple? – the forest clock, that opened and shut the hours? The bells were broken now; the first frost had cracked them. I saw a bird, dressed in blue, run up the vine, and hitch along in a very deliberate way, and peer into this bell and into that, as if he wondered why they did not spread; but this might have been an odd fancy of mine.

The first frost seemed to have passed through the tree-tops that rolled over the gorge in a hurry. The prominent points of the foliage were tufted with russet, but its hollows and dells were as green as ever.

The woodland harvest was nigh – the Creator's own harvest, sown and reaped without the aid of man. The pawpaw began to shed its fruit; mandrakes stood up all over the forest, like umbrellas loaded with apples of gold; the wild cucumber was bending under its own weight; the bark of the hickory and beech nut was broken, and the fruit peeped out; acorns were loosening in their cups; the grape was purple and fragrant, and ready to gush with richness; and away down below me I noticed a crabbed, sour-looking plum tree, holding on to the hill-side with all its energy, and covered with its rosy-cheeked children.

A few flowers yet lingered on the upland, breathing their last. The pink, violet, lupine, and a thousand nameless ones, had shed and buried their seeds long before; but the flaming, cardinal-fringed gentian, the yellow moccasin, and troops of lilies, still crowded the swales and watercourses, braving out the first frost. Insects were singing a melancholy dirge around me; a bee droned past in great haste, with a consequential hum; the year was passing and dying, like a vibration over the earth.

The air was filled with winged seeds, sailing away off here and away off there, and going I do not know where. The wild cotton burst its pod, and furred out at a great rate; a large company of thistle balloons rolled up lazily into the sky, and went out of sight (to the stars, probably), directed by some invisible hand to the place of their destination. Birds were picking and carrying clusters of grapes and s'coke far and wide. How beautifully Nature sows her solemn wastes! The winds and the birds are her husbandmen, and the work goes on with a song.

There was a bustle in a hickory – a black squirrel was flirting about, and making an examination of the crop. He had come early into the harvest-field. He ran up and down the branches, nipped the nuts, jumped upon his haunches, thought a while, chattered to himself, and said – or I thought he said – "Little too soon" – "Little too soon" – "Come again" – "Come again." At a distance, a male partridge, with his tail curved like a fan, and his feathers erect, was blustering and strutting around with great pomp, as consequential as a Broadway fop – a rabbit, crouched in a heap, sat off timidly under an upturned root, eating a pawpaw – a lonely snipe came tetering up the rivulet – a robin lit upon a scoke-bush, picked a berry or two, whistled, took a kind of last look, and departed; a little bird, as rich as sunset, next startled me with a stream of fire, which he wove through the green foliage, as if he were tying it up with a blazing cord; a sanctimonious crow floated in circles in the air, and screamed very savagely to things below him, like a preacher in a passion; and I heard turkeys clucking and calling to each other in every direction.

Suddenly, a flock of pigeons broke the few bars of light that were struggling down, and wheeled to a dry limb, at a respectful distance; they ranged themselves in rows like platoons of soldiers, and bowed forwards and sideways, in a very polite, diplomatic way. A few words passed between them – (pigeons don't talk much) – exchanging, no doubt, opinions of me and my whereabouts. By and by, one spread his wings and fluttered to the ground, and began feeding – then another, and another, until the whole flock descended, except three sentinels, who remained posted to watch and guard. I knew them well. There was a "roost" in a tamarack swamp, some miles distant. Not long before, I had visited their noisy metropolis. It was at the close of day, and its evergreen canopy was half-dipped in light. I recollected what hosts came thronging in, on all sides, roaring like a tempest, and how they piled themselves upon the top of each other upon the boughs like swarming bees – and how all night the trees bent and cracked with the crowded population, who seemed continually treading upon each other's toes, and tumbling each other's beds – and how, when the day dawned, they all dissolved, and winged their way to the plains, and the troubled city was as silent as fallen Babylon.

I like the pigeon. He has a business-way, and a way of minding his own business. He is always doing something. Who ever saw a pigeon trifle or frolic, or put on airs? He is the clipper of the skies' air-line. Eight hundred miles a day, few stoppages, and no bursting of boilers. He is a practical bird – no such dreamy, twilight sort of a thing as the whippoorwill, who is forever complaining about nothing, like a miserable rhymester – whir – whir – whir. "Ah! you are going. Pay my respects to the alligators among the rice swamps of Florida," said I, "when you see them next winter."

The pigeons were started by the bay of hounds. By their voice, the hounds had probably been on the chase during most of the night – (it was a weary voice and almost painful) – and I soon discovered that they were approaching. Soon a drove of deer, led forward by a noble buck, carrying antlers like tree-branches, came crashing by, leaped the ravine, and were soon followed by their pursuers, and I watched them afar over the plain until they were lost. I knew the dogs. They belonged to Venison Styles. But where was Venison? I could see the old hunter, in my imagination, standing away off on some "run-way," listening to the strife around him, and watching for his victims.

Perhaps you know, and perhaps you don't know, reader, that deer, at certain seasons of the year, have "run-ways" – that they have great highways – thoroughfares that follow mountains, thread morasses, cross lakes and streams, up and down which they travel. I cannot say who first laid them out. It may be they can tell. If I ever find out, I will let you know.

I was next overhauled by a fleet of white butterflies, who came winding down the brook in a very loitering sort of a way. They anchored in front of me, near the water's edge, and amused themselves by opening and shutting their huge sails – huge for butterflies. Their wings were all bedropped with gold, and powdered with silver dust. Then another fleet, arrayed in chocolate velvet, came up the stream. They were large and showy. Their chocolate wings were ribbed with lines of blue and green; and a few plain, yellow plebeians followed on after, train-bearers, probably, to their lordly superiors. What brush touched those rich and delicate wings? What alchemist wrought those magical colors? Who put on those gorgeous uniforms? Were they equipped for the beauty and glory of the world, or their own? For what purpose was this winged mystery sent upon the earth? Just here a large frog, who had been sitting on a stone near the water, wrapped up to his eyes in his green surtout, looking as taciturn and gloomy as the Pope, went down with a "jug-a-ro," and spoiled my reflections.