Chapter 1

Aunt Merty we kept in a shed, out behind the ol’ barn, you know, the one up by Rockfish Creek. It weren’t that we didn’t want her around, oh no, but that it used to scare the daylights out of folks when she’d pop up out of nowheres. Not that many folks ever come to visit us, up there on the mountain, partly ‘cause of ol’ Merty, but probably mostly from fear of them cats.

You see, Uncle Ed raised them cats, all of ‘em, from kittens, an’ he weren’t goin’ to be told, no how, that they wasn’t no ordinary barn cats. Of course, Uncle Ed wasn’t no ordinary farmer, but then none of us was, up there on Mount Misty. That weren’t really the name of the place, but folks there abouts (that’s the same folks that wouldn’t pay us a social call, mind you) called it Mount Misty on account of the fog. It were foggy jest about ever’ single night up there, an’ not jest ‘cause of Granny. But Granny was a Pfister from the old country, an’ her sense of propriety demanded that certain things needed a good foggin’, an’ she was jest the gal to do it. So she used to go out, of an evenin’, with her tin bucket, an’ come back later trailin’ wisps of fog into the house with a self satisfied look on her face. I never knew, as a child, where she found the stuff, but she promised that when I was old enough she’d take me out with her one night. Uncle Ed wasn’t sure that was sech a good idea, but Mama overruled him. Which was odd, ‘cause Mama had married into the family (at least she always said she did, some of the kin from down by Madison County way said as how they weren’t never sure how she come by the name Pfister no how) but she looked more like Granny Pfister than Ed did. It may have been ‘cause he had inherited Grampaw Pfister’s unfortunate tendency to fade away in direct sunlight, or it may have been the beard (Granny’s, that is, Ed’s great shame was that he could never raise one) but poor ol’ Ed always reminded Granny of that Thornstem bunch out by Beaver’s Falls.

“Shoulda never let ‘em marry into the family,” she’d complain, an’ no amount of protestin’ how there hadn’t been a Thornstem-Pfister marriage since Great-Great Aunt Sissy had run off with Bubba Thornstem an’ founded the town of Lizard Junction off in the next state could calm Granny down.

Ed did redeem himself by marryin’ Merty, though, an’ their three kids, Maybell, Joe-Joe an’ Cousin Bert was the apples in Granny’s eye. Cousin Bert we always called Cousin Bert, even to his face, even Maybell an’ Joe-Joe did it, even though ever’body could plainly see he was a natural born Pfister, mostly from his stoplight eyes (one of ‘em was green an’ the other was red). When Grampaw Pfister was alive (an’ even after he died) he used to bounce Cousin Bert on his knee an’ remark on how much Cousin Bert reminded Grampaw of his own father. Which was funny, too, ‘cause I don’t recall him ever explainin’ why, or ever sayin’ anythin’ else about Great Grandfather Pfister. It wasn’t till years later that Mama tol’ me his shameful story, which I won’t repeat in mixed company, but suffice it to say I agree with Granny that the part about the fire engine was an out an’ out lie; when I was big enough I went down to Smith Corners an’ looked at it myself, so I know.

But I was tellin’ you about Aunt Merty. Aunt Merty always looked like a bush, but that were mostly ‘cause she didn’t want to be outdone by her sister Ermine who had writ her a letter years afore an’ had gone on about her “lavender hair rinse.” No amount of talkin’ could convince Merty that Ermine meant the color, not the plant, an’ as a result Merty went through most of her adult life (till she went completely bald, which was quite a relief fer ol’ Ed) with her hair dyed green an’ full of bits of twig. As a result she looked enough like a topiary that Cousin Bert took after her with the hedge clippers one day an’ he had to be knocked into the well afore we could convince him that it weren’t no man eatin’ shrub, it were his own mother. On second thought, I can sort of see the resemblance to Great Grandfather Pfister after all. That were when Granny decided that enough was enough, Cousin Bert needed some eyeglasses. Granny herself was the only other Pfister with eyeglasses (although personally we thought, after seein’ a picture of Bubba Thornstem, that Great Aunt Sissy could have used a pair) an’ she had got ‘em from Dr. Chisolm in Beaver’s Falls (Smith Corners bein’ too small fer an optometrist of its own) an’ she “wouldn’t trust them eyes to nobody else,” So a trip was planned fer the family to go to Beaver’s Falls.

That was the summer of ‘38, an’ a wet summer is was, too. Merty’s shed had been flooded a couple of times when Rockfish Creek had overflowed its banks an’ we had lost half of our zinnia crop when a storm dropped about four tons of hail in early July. Mama were purty upset, ‘cause zinnia juice was the main ingredient in her “World Famous Pfister All Purpose Tonic, Horse Liniment An’ Silver Polish” which she used to ship down to Smith Corners in exchange fer pistachio nuts, which she purely loved but Uncle Ed jest couldn’t git to grow up there on Mount Misty. Not but what he tried, an’ with some purty strange results. Granny made a pie with some of them nuts, an’ much to all our relief, it seemed to have gotten up an’ walked off by itself afore we finished dinner. ‘Course Joe-Joe still thinks his sister Maybell fed it to them cats, which may be true, except I ain’t never seen them cats eat anythin’ that they didn’t catch their selves, which is what we think happened to the mailman. Mama was so mad about them zinnias that she decided it was time to do somethin’.
Now when Mama decided to do somethin’, you knew it was time to git outta the way. Several years afore that, Mama had decided to “do somethin’” about the barn which Uncle Ed was promisin’ to paint, an’ to this day ducks still won’t fly over Mount Misty. Even geese are wary, although Joe-Joe swears he heared somewhere that geese don’t have no sense of smell. Uncle Ed maintains that Joe-Joe jest don’t have no sense period, but that there’s another story. So Mama decided to do somethin’ about all that water.
But first she needed The Book. This weren’t no ordinary book, no how. This was The Book. The Book had been handed down from generation to generation of Pfister an’ had jest about ever’thin’ in it. Granny was always tellin’ me how one day The Book would be mine. The Book was our biggest family treasure, an’ as sech, it was kept buried in the back yard.

Now you might think that puttin’ a book underground durin’ a summer as wet as ‘38 was is a foolish idea, but you’d be wrong, cause Grampaw Pfister’s Great-Great-Great-Great Uncle Pernod Pfister had built fer The Book a special box, out of the wood of the ol’ peach tree. This irritated his mother, Googy Pfister, who was a Pfister of the North Swamp Pfisters, ‘cause she always used to use peach switches on Pernod’s backside when he misbehaved (which wasn’t much, as Googy stood six foot six inches high an’ had put the fear of the devil into Pernod (who never grew an inch above four foot three) at an early age) but she got along usin’ willow switches once she saw the box. Not purty, in fact it was downright ugly, with splinters an’ uneven corners, an’ the lid didn’t fit right, not to mention the fact that the only paint Pernod could lay his hands on were a sort of a greenish pink. But he had checked in The Book about how to make a box waterproof, an’ that box was dry. Googy knew ‘xactly how dry ‘cause the thing scared her so much that afore Pernod could git a word in, she let out sech a shriek that the mule fainted, then Googy grabbed that there ugly ol’ box an’ threw it right down the well, where, unlike anythin’ she’d ever seen afore, it sank straight to the bottom. Pernod was real upset till he looked down that well an’ noticed that the water level in the well was fallin’ mighty quick. Purty soon there was no water in the well at all, jest that ugly ol’ box sittin’ high an dry, so to speak. As a matter of fact, even after Pernod climbed down an’ got that box out, the well stayed dry fer five or six weeks, durin’ which time Googy made good use of them willow switches, chasin’ Pernod to the creek an’ back with buckets of water. Pernod later went on to become the inventor of the jelly donut, which endeared him to millions, but we Pfisters still agree that the best thing he ever did was to make that box. Even Googy, once she got over her fright, allowed as how that were a mighty fine, if mighty repulsive lookin’, box. She used to dry whole sides of beef in it whenever they dug it up to consult The Book. Rumor has it that she even dried ol’ Sheriff Walters in it when he come to collect the back taxes. Least ways nobody never seen him agin, an’ that was the year that the skeleton first appeared in our family closet. The good part of all that was that the Pfisters ain’t never since been bothered fer taxes, an’ we is all set fer Halloween decorations.

But this were afore Halloween, when Mama got her back up about the zinnias. It couldn’t have been much past mid-August. Now you may ask, if the hail storm killed the zinnias in early July, why didn’t Mama git mad till mid-August? Well, of course, it was ‘cause we’d gone down to Beaver’s Falls back in May to git Cousin Bert his eyeglasses an’ we was jest gittin’ back. A long trip, you might say, jest to go cross the valley an’ all, but Granny’s idea of a family outin’ was usually more like the invasion of a small to mid-sized country. I recall like it were yesterday all of us Pfisters sittin’ down to dinner, Cousin Bert still drippin’ wet an’ Aunt Merty missin’ most of the hair (an’ a little of the ear) from the left side of her head.

“Pass the greens.” said Grampaw Pfister, but we mostly ignored him ‘cause he’d been dead fer six or seven years.

“I found a snake today,” said Maybell “so I fed it to them cats.”

Joe-Joe snickered, it were a thing he’d been practicin’.

I jest picked up the bowl of stew an’ passed it to Aunt Merty. We usually let Merty taste Granny’s recipes first ‘cause Granny had a heavy hand with the spices an’ Merty, though a swell ol’ gal, was not so good on short term memory an’ was the only one we could fool into bein’ the taste tester. She served herself a big helpin’ an’ took a bite, then proceeded to spend the next three minutes hoppin’ up an’ down on one foot, after which she calmed down so we figgered it must be fairly safe an’ dug in.

“Salt!” said Grampaw, so Granny threw a bread roll at him. Her aim, as usual, was purty lousy an’ the roll knocked over the gravy boat on its way to the floor. A very large paw snaked out an’ grabbed it; one of them cats who probably thought it were alive after seein’ it move. Them cats was always attackin’ anythin’ that moved, much to the dismay of Granny who liked to play horseshoes, ‘cause after she threw one an’ them cats got it, that horseshoe weren’t much good fer nothin’. On second thought, maybe them cats needed glasses too. Gravy dripped all over the table cloth, not the good one with the rose embroidery, but the ever’day one that Granny’d made fer her hope chest afore she were married. I don’t know what ‘xactly she was hopin’ fer, but what she got was Grampaw an’ that seemed to have worked out okay ‘cause while she tried to kill him eight or ten times a week, she didn’t actually succeed till he was ninety-five, an’ even then we wasn’t sure if it were her or them cats what did it.

Mama poured herself a glass of lemonade an’ used a roll to soak up some gravy off the table (she always was the most practical Pfister) an’ said “Merty, how’s yer ear?”
Now Merty, as I said, was a swell ol’ gal, but in addition to a profound lack of short term memory an’ the tendency to dress like shrubbery, she also had a slight hearin’ loss which amused us kids to no end, ‘specially when you’d ask her stuff like what time is it an’ she’d go out an’ bake you a cookie. Well, when Mama asked about her ear, Merty shot back with “Cain’t say that I seen one in a while.”

“Seen one what?” asked Granny.

“Vacuum cleaner.”

“Oh,” said Granny. “I don’t hold with new fangled stuff like that. Woulda been tough to beat Ed with a vacuum cleaner. Always preferred my ol’ rug beater fer that.”

“Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Aunt Googy used to use a willow switch, Ma” chimed in Ed.

“An’ that’s why the willow tree ain’t go no branches.” cackled Grampaw.

“Now Percevil Owen Pfister, you keep out’n this,” said Granny. “Anyhoo, yer dead, so we don’t have to listen to you, no how.”

Grampaw humphed an’ sat back down. I felt sorry fer him so I scooped some gravy off the table an’ poured it on his plate.

“Thanks,” he said. “At least someone in this family still cares.”

“I care, honey,” said Granny, “but you are dead, ya know.”

“I know,” he said, “but is that a reason to keep me out’n the conversation? Dead sure is borin’.”

“Cousin Bert, please pass the ‘taters.” said Maybell. He passed ‘em an’ she put some on Merty’s plate.

“Try these Momma.” she said. Merty did, an’ promptly fell over in a dead faint. Probably the only thing that saved her from dismemberment was the fact that she was lyin’ so still that them cats didn’t pay her no nevermind. Maybell put down the ‘taters an’ had some more stew. Cousin Bert, not noticin’ his mother’s sudden absence, picked up the ‘taters an’ dished some out. He took one bite an’ let out sech a yell that even them cats pelted fer cover. Granny reached over an’ socked him in the jaw, which made him quit yellin’ an’ commence to moanin’.

“Cain’t stand all this here racket,” she said. “That’s it. We is goin’ over to Beaver’s Falls to see Dr. Chisolm about some eyeglasses fer Cousin Bert here. They ain’t no cause fer all this fussin’ an’ hollerin’.”

Now I wasn’t the one to suggest to Granny that a cookbook woulda solved the problem quicker’n eyeglasses, ‘specially ‘cause I’d never been to Beaver’s Falls an’ was itchin’ to go. So Granny got down the ol’ inkwell an’ her best writin’ pen an’ proceeded to make a list, right there on the table cloth. ‘Course first she had to wring a lot of gravy out’n it, but she squoze it into the bowl of ‘taters, which made ‘em almost edible, an’ she made herself a list. Fer three whole days she sat there writin’ on the table cloth, not the best one, mind you, an’ when she was finished she had listed jest about ever’thing we owned, an’ a whole bunch of stuff we didn’t. When Maybell asked her why she was doin’ all that list makin’, Granny jest sort of looked at her funny like an’ then tol’ us about Second Cousin Finkle Pfister an’ his trip to the dentist.

Finkle Pfister was a Birddog-Pfister, his ma Daisy Lou Birddog had married Jinx Pfister on a new moon but against the wishes of her pa, Binky Birddog. As a result, Binky disowned Daisy Lou, which was fortunate fer her ‘cause it meant she weren’t no longer eligible to inherit the family curse. Now the Birddog family curse was a closely held secret, an’ all we Pfister’s knew about it was that you dasn’t wear red around a cursed Birddog, but Jinx decided he could handle that, an’ swept Daisy Lou off’n her feet, no mean trick as even then the gal weighed over six hundred pounds, but accordin’ to Granny he had the help of three or four of his brothers in cartin’ Daisy Lou off to Mount Misty. Like I said, Binky disinherited Daisy Lou, but after Finkle was born, Binky decided that since he didn’t have no other grandchildern no how, he would re-inherit Finkle, which put poor Finkle right back in line fer the curse. That was fine till a long lost Birddog, who went by the name of Jasper, come back an’ discovered that his Grand Uncle Binky had left the curse to Finkle an’ took him to court to have the will overturned. Judge Stark, who hated the Pfister’s ever since Sid Pfister set the judge’s barn afire during his weddin’ celebration, thereby burnin’ his newly wed an’ hard won (the judge was uglier’n Bubba Thornstem) bride right to the ground, ruled in favor of Jasper Birddog, but we Pfister’s think that Jasper’s promisin’ of his sister Eliza Mae to marry the judge had somethin’ to do with it. ‘Course Eliza Mae was no great prize neither, bein’ uglier’n that box that Pernod Pfister built, so maybe the judge got what he deserved. Then agin, maybe the judge coulda stood a visit to Dr. Chisolm, too. The upshot was that Finkle lost custody of the Birddog family curse an’ was real upset there fer a while, till his ma, Daisy Lou, decided that the Pfister family was jest as good as any ol’ Birddog an’ could jest as well have a curse of their own. So she dug up The Book an’ set to readin’ the section on family curses. Ol’ Jinx decided, an’ rightly, to Granny’s way of thinkin’, that if the Pfister family were gonna have a curse, all the Pfisters should have a word on what it should be, so he called a Pfister Family Meetin’.

There was quite some excitement there on Mount Misty as the Pfister family converged from ever’wheres. Pfisters come from all over the place, North Swamp Pfisters, who slept out in the shed back by Rockfish Creek (some of ‘em slept right in Rockfish Creek), Beaver’s Falls Pfisters, who mostly didn’t sleep anywheres at all, ‘cept fer little Izod Pfister who could usually be found sleepin’ in the stove, Skunk Lake Pfisters who arrived early an’ grabbed the cellar right away. Finkle gave up his favorite spot, behind the woodpile, to a crowd of Ginko’s Ferry Pfisters, while the Hangin’ Gulch branch of the family bedded down right in the maple tree out front. That worked out fine till one night Great Grand Uncle Fenton Pfister mistook the ol’ spotted owl fer his wife, Siesta Pfister (she was one of them exotic Tamale-Pfisters from down south) which raised quite a ruckus, but the maple sugar crop sure was sweet the followin’ spring. Great-Great Aunt Sissy even brung Bubba Thornstem an’ half the town of Lizard Junction, that bunch were the only Thornstems admitted. But the honored guest of the whole event was Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia Pfister, who flew all the way over from the old country (this was afore airplanes, mind you) with her kids, Boris the Masher Pfister an’ Little Zack, but nobody saw much of him ‘cause he spent the entire time under the sink with Finkle’s pet muskrat.
Now there was way to many of ‘em to eat in the house, so a couple of ‘em (from that Thornstem bunch, I think) got et out behind the barn. Like all Pfister family gatherin’s, this one started two or three months afore any business could git done, durin’ which time Finkle led a little raidin’ party down to Judge Stark’s new weddin’ an’ burned down his new barn, an’ his new bride, Eliza Mae Birddog, too. Things bein’ what they was, she weren’t any worse fer the wear, an’ the judge was actually glad it happened ‘cause his brand new eyeglasses was lost in the fire, so he forgave the Pfisters an’ even sent them a present of an ol’ hog, which provided the family with no end of amusement when the nearsighted (an’ very short) Boris the Masher Pfister proposed to it. Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia said she had no objections an’ as I recollect, Boris the Masher Pfister an’ that ol’ hog went out west an’ later formed the Death Valley branch of the Pfisters. An’ at that, he done better ’n Judge Stark.

So there they was, the entire Pfister clan, an’ the time had come to settle on a family curse. Daisy Lou brung out The Book, an’ read to all of ‘em the part about cursin’. The Book said, plain as day, that to have a really effective family curse, the whole family had to agree, so they all set down to hash out a compromise. Sanford Pfister, who wasn’t a proper Pfister at all, he’d went down to Leadville an’ gone to college an’ was workin’ as a C.P.A., said it should have somethin’ to do with warts. Sigrid Pfister Middlethorp, who had married an’ then divorced Arlan Middlethorp (which was a major scandel, she were the first Pfister ever to git a divorce, usually we found more quieter ways of disposin’ of unwanted spouses, like Krooth Pfister whose third wife Burbie Strumforth Pfister is still to this very day up in the attic) suggested that the curse include dry rot. This was Sigrid’s worst fear, since Arlan had given her his drapery cleanin’ business as part of the divorce settlement. Tanzi Pfister, who was odd even fer a Pfister, wanted daffodils in it. When ol’ Doc Manfred Pfister pointed out that daffodils wasn’t much of no curse, Tanzi said darkly “That’s what you think.” an’ no one was inclined to argue with her.

Somebody said somethin’ about a two headed curse, but Gyles/Ira Pfister got sore about it. Well, Gyles did, anyhoo, Ira kept tryin’ to keep things calm but it turned into a real screamin’ match until somebody apologized fer bringin’ it up. Gyles/Ira said as how it were okay, he didn’t really mind, an’ ever’body could git back down to business. Well, they talked an’ they argued, (only once did it come down to blows with axes) but by midnight of the third day, the entire Pfister family agreed on a formula fer the new Pfister Family curse. So Daisy Lou got out The Book an’ figgered out what ingredients they would need an’ then sent all them Pfister kids out ahuntin’ fer ‘em. Brandon Pfister brung back worms from the garden of a spinster, Zippy Pfister got a pair of socks from the Mayor of Smith Corners (extra potent, he’d been wearin’ ‘em since his wife died the year afore; we always thought that Mayor Harper was really an illegitimate Pfister hisself) an’ some paint left over from Pernod Pfister’s box. Gerlaine Pfister got to dig around in the mud up where Rockfish Creek cut through the ol’ Pfister graveyard, (no fear of disturbin’ all of them dead Pfisters, they was all at the meetin’) an’ come back with... well, somethin’, nobody wanted to try an’ figure out what in the heck it actually was. Toomy an’ Jake Pfister, the twins, brung back a complete set of bowlin’ pins, an’ don’t nobody know where they got ‘em, there weren’t no bowlin’ alley fer miles an’ miles. The standard stuff, eye of newt an’ sech, Daisy Lou got from her stock in the kitchen an’ it turned out real lucky that Riz Pfister come, ‘cause he always carried his own jar of pickled zebra tongue with him, jest in case. A baby piglet they got from the Hickey farm down the mountain an’ there weren’t never no lack of frog juice whenever the Pfisters was around, an’ soon they was all set.
Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia presided, (Boris the Masher held The Book fer her) an’ the family brung the stuff. First they built a fire, usin’ wood gathered special fer the job by Zamfir an’ Whizzle, two of the dead Pfisters, an’ then they hauled out the pot. It had been in the family almost as long as The Book had, an’ were purty well used at that point, but it had held generations of Pfister family recipes an’ could practically recite the formulas itself. As a matter of fact, it could fer a while, back when Auntie Yingo Pfister had substituted anchovies fer nightshade while mixin’ up a batch of her well known catalepsy remedy, but Curtis Pfister of the South Bend Pfisters had taken care of that by threatenin’ to melt the thing down fer scrap iff’n it didn’t shet up. So they filled the pot half way up with the milk of a red rooster, an’ commenced to throwin’ stuff in. They dropped in pieces of squid an’ some ol’ horseshoe nails. They added the shells of a pound of chestnuts, picked by the light of the full moon. In went the bones of a dead cat, an’ the skin of a live one. The piglet got tossed in whole, but fished right out agin when further readin’ revealed that all that were needed was the tail. They even dipped little Izod Pfister in there a couple of times to stir the stuff up a bit, an’ then they was ready fer the final step. Very careful like they poured the whole mess, boilin’ hot, into Pernod Pfister’s box while Izod’s mother, Mazie Pfister held the strainer to catch little Izod as he come tumblin’ out’n the pot. Gallons an’ gallons of juice drained out’n that pot, an’ dribbled into the box, an’ true to it’s promise, that box jest dried it all out. After they poured all that goop into the box, they was left with nothin’ but a single little lump of stuff, about the size of a pistachio nut (an’ lookin’ like one of the ones that Uncle Ed had raised). This was the Pfister family curse, which Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia took out’n the box, an’ with great ceremony, presented to Finkle Pfister. He thanked her kindly an’ swallered it right down. That were a mistake, cause it tasted kind of like Granny’s chili, which is a food not meant to be eaten by mortal man, Pfister or otherwise, but after they revived him, Finkle allowed as how he was now one of the four happiest men alive (the other three bein’ his three younger brothers, Ponce, Artie an’ Bigglesford Pfister who didn’t have to swaller the thing themselves). He promised to live a good life, be good to his mother an’ to always uphold the Pfister family motto, which was “Fer Heaven’s Sake, Don’t Let ‘Em Catch You.” Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia said that that were all anybody could reasonably hope fer, an’ that she’d like it if he’d write her once in a while to let her know how the curse was progressin’ but that the business now bein’ concluded, she declared that the Pfister Family Meetin’ was officially adjourned.

So the Pfister family took its leave, all of ‘em headin’ back to wherever they come from, takin’ most ever’thin’ they brung with ‘em (an’ quite a bit that they hadn’t) although no one realized till the followin’ winter that Little Zack had been left under the sink, so they shipped him back to Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia Pfister in a crate, postage due.

Finkle Pfister then settled down to wait an’ see what would develop of the Pfister Family Curse. He was real patient like, too, ‘cause didn’t nothin’ happen fer the next sixteen years. Then one spring Daisy Lou was out’n her garden when she discovered somethin’ she didn’t never plant there. Sure enough, it were some of them daffodils that Tanzi Pfister had warned ever’body about. Now Daisy Lou ain’t never seen no daffodils afore, an’ she sure as heck couldn’t figure out noways why they was growin’ in her stinkweed patch, so she pulled ‘em up an’ took ‘em with her into the house to ask Jinx if’n he knew what they was. Ol’ Jinx said he’d be hanged if he had any idea, but they looked mighty dangerous an’ she better git rid of ‘em right away, so she tossed ‘em into the mess o’ greens she was cookin’ up on the stove. That woulda been fine ‘cept Finkle Pfister come home that night (he’d taken to eatin’ all his meals out behind the barn) an’ Finkle purely loved Daisy Lou’s greens (her secret was to add jest a pinch of powdered cement) an’ so he ate the whole durned mess. Well all of a sudden he realized that there were somethin’ strange goin’ on, so he sat down under the table to see what was up. He didn’t have to wait too long, when suddenly he felt purty odd, so he hollered fer Daisy Lou to come see if’n she couldn’t do somethin’. She come arunnin’ an’ was mighty surprised to see ol’ Finkle settin’ there, an awful strange sight, but then she remembered the curse an’ figgered out what musta happened. So Finkle set down an’ wrote a note to Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia to tell her the news. He tol’ her about the tufts of purple hair, suggested by Gnaster Pfister, the earlobes which hung down jest about to his knees, thrown in by Lexi Pfister, the extra hand given by Georgette Tinglebury Pfister, the smell (a present from Chow Pfister), the boils from Hazel Pfister (who was always a bit stuffy) an’ the dry rot from Sigrid. He even tol’ her how the whole mess was triggered by them daffodils of Tanzi. He was jest tickled pink by the whole thing, (or that might have been Benno Pfister’s contribution). What he did notice, to his dismay, was that one part o’ the curse seemed to be missin’, that bein’ good ol’ Sanford Pfister’s warts. But that were okay, cause he did git the runnin’ sores, the itchies an’ the cravin’ fer cod liver oil that them Ginko’s Ferry Pfisters wanted included, an’ the green spots from Fenton Pfister, so he figgered that maybe there jest weren’t no room fer them warts. He closed the letter tellin’ Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia that he were well satisfied, that he were still tryin’ to lead a good life (havin’ given up bank robbin’ as a profession), he were bein’ good to his ma (he didn’t belt her more’n four times a day) an’ he ain’t been caught yet. He sent that there letter off to the old country, an’ was purty upset when it come back marked “Occupant Deceased - No Forwarding Address”, but by that time he was real busy hisself, havin’ jest found hisself a bride. She were Arabella Bricklehill, of the Snarksville Bricklehills, an’ she was a real beauty, ‘specially when the moon was full, an’ they had their selves a fine weddin’, with plenty o’ singin’, dancin’ an’ carryin’s on (them Bricklehills was mighty fun folks) an’ only three people passed away durin’ the celebrations, but one of ‘em was ol’ Grandad Bricklehill who was over one hundred an’ three an he didn’t hold with parties no how, so it were jest as well.

As a result, it weren’t till they got back from their honeymoon, which they spent over by the North Swamp Pfisters in their guest hut, that Finkle actually opened that there returned letter. Inside he found the letter he’d sent an’ a note from the dearly departed Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia (now removed) remindin’ him he’d also forgot Shelley Pfister’s curse of the teeth, but he shouldn’t worry none, they’d probably turn up somewheres. He were much relieved to know that Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia were doin’ fine even though she were dead, an’ that them missin’ parts of the curse were not really lost, jest misplaced. So he weren’t too surprised a bit later when he discovered that he had developed warts on his teeth. While he were happy to have it all settled, Arabella said it were kind of like kissin’ a sack full of kitty litter, an’ kept after him (sometimes with the ax) to do somethin’ about it.

Now in them days Smith Corners were jest this little bitty ol’ place, without no diner even, jest a basic crossroads with a general store an’ a post office, but Finkle had heared that Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine Show was comin’ to town, so he figgered he’d go on down an’ see if’n that there dentist they had couldn’t maybe fix him up a bit. So he packed hisself a sack lunch an’ slipped off one night through the fog, down Mount Misty an’ over to Smith Corners. When he go there, he found a quiet, damp corner to curl up in an’ wait till mornin’ so’s he could see Dr. Peabody.

Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine Show used to be one of the biggest events of the year in these parts. Folks would plan fer months to git down to the nearest town when Dr. Peabody was around. Dr. Peabody travelled in style. He had hisself four wagons, them circus wagons what doubled as sleepin’ quarters fer him an’ his troop, painted in the brightest colors you ever seen, an’ pulled by four teams of horses all got up in bells an’ ribbons, jest like the notions department of the general store had gone an’ blowed up on ‘em. When they come into town, they had flags an’ banners what they unrolled an’ stuck on them wagons to purty ‘em up even more. Dr. Peabody’s assistant, Ivan, used to ride up in front, on the first wagon, playin’ his accordian an’ hollerin’ to announce their arrival, while them two nurses what travelled with the Doctor (an’ right purty gals they was, too) would walk along side the wagons givin’ out handbills what read “Iff’n you gots troubles, come on down to Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine Show. Dr. Peabody has a cure fer whatever ails you. Pills an’ tonics 15¢, patent nostrums 25¢, surgery $1.50, teeth extracted free with the purchase of a poultice fer 50¢.”

When Dr. Peabody arrived in downtown wherever, he always set up right there, smack in the middle of things. One of them wagons had a sort of stage attached that he’d fold out an’ then he’d commence to talkin’. An’ that man could talk up a blue streak. The story goes that once he started to talkin’ on a Wednesday an’ they couldn’t git him to shet up till the followin’ Sunday, an’ even then it were only ‘cause they dipped his head in a bucket of his own tonic. Dr. Peabody would git up on that there stage, rain or shine, an’ he’d start ahealin’ folks. I heared that once he brung an ol’ crippled dwarf with him to Smith Corners, jest to show the folks what his medicine could do. He gave that little feller a pill an’ afore you could spit, he were up an’ dancin’ around, doin’ handstands an’ sech. Well, folks thought it were jest about a miracle, an’ they bought ever’ single pill, poultice an’ tonic that Dr. Peabody had with him, an’ were demandin’ more, so Dr. Peabody was kept up nights fer a week, mixin’ cures till jest about ever’body in Smith Corners an’ thereabouts was feelin’ better than a skeeter in a marsh.

Dr. Peabody also had a ol’ Gypsy womern what travelled with him, an’ she’d set up in one of them wagons an’ tell folks their fortunes. Once, when Granny was younger, she an’ Grampaw went down to see ol’ Dr. Peabody an’ she let that ol’ Gypsy tell her fortune. She got purty upset, though, when that Gypsy started to read her tea leaves an’ tell her about her true love bein’ tall, dark an’ handsome, mostly ‘cause Grampaw Pfister was only 4’9”, was an albino an’, even at age 22, had hair growin’ out’n his ears, so Granny started readin’ that ol’ Gypsy’s tea leaves an’ tol’ her that she weren‘t no kind of Gypsy Granny’d ever heared of, ‘less Gypsies was now comin’ from New Jersey, an’ that she was goin’ to marry somebody short, dark an’ ugly, which was true ‘cause the followin’ day that Gypsy womern run off with the dwarf what Dr. Peabody had cured.

So, there were Finkle Pfister hold up around behind the general store when Dr. Peabody come into Smith Corners that day. Finkle heared the ruckus an’ got hisself up to see the goin’s on. Dr. Peabody had jest arrived an’ was settin’ up, so Finkle stood there back behind that ol’ oak tree an’ watched the crowd formin’. Finkle ain’t never seen nothin’ like it afore, so he figgered on waitin’ fer a bit afore he talked to Dr. Peabody, so he got out his sack lunch (pickled goats feet, dried cabbage, blood puddin’ an’ a raw onion) an’ had hisself a little snack. By this time things was really cookin’ at Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine Show. People was gittin’ cured left an’ right. Sybil Thornstem got Dr. Peabody to remove a bunion from her twelfth toe an’ had declared herself to be good as new. Dr. Peabody gave them Herbert kids some cough syrup, an’ they was gulpin’ it down an’ runnin’ around tellin’ ever’body how good it were, but that coulda been ‘cause his formula included about two gallons of corn likker. Ol’ Man Bailey, who run the general store with his wife, Bridget, an’ their daughter, Pearl (till she left Smith Corners an’ went down to Florida to become a game warden in an alligator swamp) said that Dr. Peabody’s poultice had took the crick right out’n his neck an’ that he wanted a whole case of ‘em to sell at the store. Joe Sackett, who were mostly a share cropper, but sometimes did some bootmakin’ on the side, gave Dr. Peabody a new pair of yellow striped shoes in exchange fer a pill to help cure his wife, Nancy Lee, of her vapors, an’ she felt so much better she dragged Joe off into the bushes right then an’ there. Most folks was generous enough not to mention that she dragged Bernie Edwards an’ the Miller twins into the bushes when she was done with ol’ Joe, nor that Joe didn’t pay her no nevermind since he had gotten another of them pills from Dr. Peabody an’ headed off in his wagon with the Widow Griffin, who was only seventeen at the time (she had married Senator Griffin when she were thirteen an’ he were eighty-seven, an’ inherited his propity when he died six months later).

Well, Finkle figgered with all these goin’s on that Dr. Peabody surely must have somethin’ he could do about Finkle’s tooth warts, so he come out from behind that there tree an’ headed fer Dr. Peabody’s wagon an’ that’s when the riot commenced. Now Finkle Pfister was a sight to see, even afore the Pfister curse. He were over seven feet tall an’ his ears sort of stuck out from his head. He were thin as a fence post an’ had to have his size nineteen shoes made special. His nose were awful big, even fer a Pfister, in fact his younger brother Bigglesford used to use Finkle as an umbrella on rainy days, but what really stood out about Finkle (an’ made him so special to us Pfisters) was his thumbs. He had four of ‘em, two on each hand. He always said they was real useful, mainly ‘cause he could hitch a ride in all four directions at once, but them thumbs did tend to startle folks what had never seen ‘em afore. All of that combined with the curse, purple tufts of hair, boils, the three left feet, the earlobes, the tail, them funny noises comin’ out’n his elbows, the stripes an’ sech, gave folks a bit of a shock, an’ when poor Finkle opened his mouth to ask Dr. Peabody about a cure fer his teeth warts, accidentally sprayin’ the crowd with bits of his lunch, well, that pushed ‘em right over the edge. Don’t nobody know who ‘xactly started it, but Finkle recalled later how he heared Murphy Thornstem (of the Possum Hollow Thornstems) holler somethin’ about stabbin’ Finkle with his salad fork (Murphy Thornstem had delusions of grandeur, an’ were always talkin’ about his plans to open up an internet café/English tea shop), which was when Finkle figgered it were time to git out’n there afore things got ugly. So Finkle hiked up his britches, grabbed the leftovers from his lunch, whistled fer his ol’ hound dog (sprayin’ the crowd a second time, which made ‘em all hang back a minute, givin’ Finkle a chance to git away) an’ run off, down the road, back towards Mount Misty. Well, that crowd was purty upset, so they set about gittin’ their selves a couple of shotguns, some torches, an’ a few pointy farm implements, an’ took off down the road after him. They chased poor ol’ Finkle all the way back up Mount Misty, an’ they woulda caught him too, ‘cept that a fog rolled in (some say Daisy Lou had somethin’ to do with that) an’ they lost sight of him. They searched up an’ down, but couldn’t find even one wart of ol’ Finkle, so they settled fer burnin’ down the Pfister family house, barns, that ol’ shed, the well, a couple of trees, all the goats an’ even ol’ Binky Birddog, who had to be dug up first. Daisy Lou an’ Jinx escaped by hidin’ in Rockfish Creek, Arabella an’ Finkle’s kids had been out pickin’ sumac an’ Finkle’s younger brothers, Ponce, Artie an’ Bigglesford hid in the root cellar, but ever’ single thing that Finkle owned was burned to a crisp. Then the crowd left, goin’ back down Mount Misty. Daisy Lou was purty mad, an’ ever’ one of them folks got a terminal case of hives mailed to ‘em the followin’ Christmas, but in the meantime, Finkle Pfister dug up The Book to see what he should do. Well, The Book told about how the Pfister family was insured by the firm of Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern against loss due to earthquakes, meteors, plague, icebergs or riots, so Finkle sent a letter to Mr. Fern explainin’ what had happened. Mr. Fern wrote back that he was sendin’ a claims adjuster by the name of Ruben P. Lynch out to look at the place. Ruben P. Lynch was a little feller, about five feet tall, wearin’ a checkered suit made out’n alpaca hair, a hat in the style o’ Winston Churchill (not the Winston Churchill who run England, but the other one who lived down in Ginkos Ferry an’ had a collection of little round hats, mostly with fur on ‘em an’ some with little feathers in the band) an’ them little half moon glasses. He had a briefcase near about as big as he was an’ he drove a pale pink Edsel. He come up to Mount Misty, but after lookin’ around fer a bit, he said that the firm of Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern couldn’t pay the claim, that there weren’t nothin’ he could do, since Finkle didn’t have no list of stuff what was there afore the riot. Finkle were upset, an’ Ruben P. Lynch got a case of them hives fer Christmas, too, but Finkle didn’t never git nothin’ from that there insurance company.

“Which is why,” Granny said, puttin’ away her inkpot, “whenever a Pfister leaves Mount Misty, they always makes a complete list first.”

So, with list in hand, Granny set in to packin’ fer the family trip to Beaver’s Falls. First she had Cousin Bert bring the wagon ‘round front with the ol’ three legged mule hitched on. Then she proceeded to load most of the stuff from her list on to the wagon. I weren’t sure why we needed all that stuff fer, but Granny explained that we was goin’ to visit with Uncle Ferdy Pfister an’ his kin while we was in Beaver’s Falls, an’ a good guest brings all the stuff they is gonna need. How that covered things like the butter churn, an ol’ broken rake an’ a box full of Grampaw Pfister’s clothes I don’t rightly know, but Granny had decided we was takin’ ‘em an’ there weren’t no arguin’ with Granny; the only one who ever argued with Granny were Grampaw, an’ look where it got him. Granny had us all ahoppin’, runnin’ back an’ forth with loads of stuff to be packed. Maybell an’ me she tol’ to git up to the attic an’ see if’n Burbie Strumforth Pfister was of a mind to go with us. She said she were, so Granny had us git a crate from the barn an’ pack Burbie in it, then sling it on the wagon. Cousin Bert had to round up them cats, with a little help from Ed (an’ a large scythe) an’ put ‘em in the back. Mama were in charge of gatherin’ up all the rocks an’ twigs we was goin’ to need, an’ Joe-Joe got sent to the barn lookin’ fer Granny’s false eye what she had left out there. Merty was jest responsible fer gittin’ herself on the wagon, which were almost too much fer her; we discovered when we was halfway down Mount Misty that Merty had tied herself to the underside of the wagon. Granny sent Grampaw out fer the tea set what she kept out in Merty’s shed, but Grampaw said he couldn’t find it no how. Granny threw a fit an’ Grampaw said if’n she was goin’ to be that away, he jest weren’t goin’ to go. They hollered fer a bit, an’ Grampaw chased Granny ‘round the barn a few times, but eventually they found them teacups an’ things quieted down.

Chapter 2

So the Mount Misty Pfisters set out fer Beaver’s Falls. It were a perfect night fer it too, full moon shinin’ down like an ol’ lantern so ever’body could see jest fine, ever’body ‘cept Cousin Bert, anyways. Granny figgered as how we’d make purty good time that night, an’ probably be down in Smith Corners by mornin’. We was fixin’ to spend the day restin’ up in them caves, she said, you know, them ones jest the other side of Smith Corners, where Second Cousin Mooky Pfister had holed up when the Moldavian Army were after her. Mooky were a caution, she were, as Granny always said. She were from the old country, an’ she lived with her Uncle Jules Pfister an’ his third wife Babette Pfister ever since Mooky’s folks had been lost in that there freak tidal wave while they was enjoyin’ a second honeymoon in the Black Forest. Mooky was mostly a good girl, an’ didn’t nobody get on with Jules’ goats the way Mooky did, but her one weakness was fer uniforms. She loved fireman uniforms an’ milkman uniforms an’ brass band uniforms, but she especially loved them spiffy uniforms they had got in the Moldavian Army. She’d seen ‘em when Moldavia had invaded the Pfister Family Fortress, an’ didn’t nobody thought to save her one when the entire invadin’ battalion dissapeared into the cranberry bog (thanks to a little quick thinkin’ from Blister Pfister, a couple of handy “you pick ‘em yerself” signs an’ a few of the residents of Hygless Pfister’s crocodile farm). Third Step Aunt Babette was real indulgent about the whole thing, an’ she give Mooky a whole bunch of swell uniforms, but Babette purely didn’t have no Moldavian Army uniform. Well, Mooky moaned an’ Mooky whined an’ in the end, Mooky packed up an’ run away from hone to join the Moldavian Army an’ git a uniform fer herself. She would have got away with it too, if’n it weren’t fer a few things. While it were true that Mooky were only eight years old at the time, an’ that the Moldavian Army were only lettin’ men join up, Mooky managed to get in, mostly cause she were six foot four an’ weighed 250 pounds (all muscle) an’ cause she had a beard that were as thick as ol’ Hyatt Pfister, who used to raise colonies of marmosets in his. She passed the physical exam by liftin’ the doctor an’ his assistant over her head an’ holdin’ ‘em there till they signed her papers. She got swore in by a Sergeant who didn’t notice that she didn’t speak no Moldavian (instead of the oath, she mumbled the words to Skip to My Lou) an’ she got assigned to a unit on the front (which, considerin’ the size of Moldavia is also purty much the back as well) an’ sent off to the supply sergeant to git her uniform. The supply sergeant said as he didn’t have no uniform that were goin’ to fit Mooky no how, an’ that she should git around to comin’ back in a week or two an’ he’d see what he could do.

Well, by now, Mooky was purty irritated, not jest cause of the uniform, but also cause she had missed both lunch an’ her afternoon nap. She stomped out of there an’ was headin’ fer her new barracks when she saw this feller in a very nice uniform, an’ jest her size, too. She followed him around fer a bit, meanin’ to ask him where he had got his uniform, when he turned an’ went into a house. They were a sign out front, but since Mooky ain’t learned how to read yet, she ignored it. She went up into the house an’ called out fer this feller, but he didn’t answer none so she went up the stairs an’ into his closet an’ found a whole bunch of uniforms, an’ she took one, a real purty one with lots of shiny buttons an’ stars on it. It fit her purty good, so she jest put it on an' walked on out o' there. Well, the thing about Moldavia is that it can git purty darn hot of an afternoon. So hot, in fact, that the cooks of the Moldavian army (Bobba an’ Edgar) used to save on cookin' fuel by puttin' the next day's breakfast out on the front steps of the General's house so's it could bake in the sun. Mooky, as it turns out, had been followin' the Moldavian Army General (they was such a small army, they only had but one
General, an’ on Tuesdays when the Captain was off visitin' his sister, the General used to fill in fer him) an' what with this being Tuesday an' all, he was wearin' the Captain's uniform, so Mooky'd got his. While she were gettin' dressed, them cooks had broke about four dozen eggs, left 'em on the General's front porch, an' wandered off in search of shade. So Mooky came out, saw them eggs an’ since she'd missed her lunch, figgered that an afternoon snack was in order an' durned if she didn't eat ever' last one of 'em.

Jest as she were finishin' up, there came the Moldavian Army on parade around the corner, all sixteen of 'em, (there was twenty three of 'em, but after the rout they suffered at the Battle of the Cranberry Bog, recruitment had fallen way off an’ desertions was up quite a bit) they seen Mooky eatin' their breakfast an’ was mighty put out. Well, they lit out after Mooky an' since she had more sense'n Finkle, she figgered that runnin' home would be a bad thing, so she took off a'runnin' over hill an' dale. She purty near lost 'em in the swamp, but that there General was mighty fond of the uniform what Mooky had taken (the Captain's uniform tended to pinch an’ smelt like peppermint) an' he rounded up his troops (all eleven of 'em what was left since one private had to go home fer dinner, two corporals got lost somewheres along the way, Bobba the cook, who doubled as a gunnery sergeant when the army was on maneuvers, had stubbed his toe and, since it were Tuesday, the Captain had the day off) an' outflanked Mooky on the fur side of the swamp. Well, Mooky threw a couple o' rocks at 'em an' ducked into them caves, you know, the ones jest the other side of Smith Corners.

What with the Moldavian Army invading the county without a permit, ever’body got kind o' stirred up in Smith Corners an' Mayor Harper got wind o' things. He figgered that Mooky could use some help, so he chased his wife off up to Mount Misty to warn us Pfisters about what were up. She run all the way, partly cause Mayor Harper had tole her that it were an emergency, but probably mostly cause them cats was chasin' her, an' she durn near passed away when Merty poked her head out from the well, but bein' married to Mayor Harper, she were somewhat used to such goin's on, so she recovered herself an tol’ us the news.

Merty said "I'll go an’ git her, you all wait here." an’ she went off down the mountain. Well, we don't rightly know what happened after that, but some years later, two spelunkers come across a man livin' deep in them caves, an' all they could git him to say was "The trees! They's alive! Oh horrors!"

So Merty brought Mooky up to Mount Misty. Jules an’ Babette come an' took her home, but Babette made Mooky give back that uniform what she stole from the General, since Mooky had broke the Pfister family code by gettin’ caught. Mooky gave it back, an’ she figgered but that she were purty tired of uniforms anyway, an’ that she were thinkin’ of joinin’ one of them monastaries in Tibet, which Babette an’ Jules guessed was ok, considerin’ she already had the bald head after that there haircut what she had got from the Moldavian Army barber (Bobba, the cook, who was a purty busy guy) so off Mooky went, an' she still sends us a postcard from time to time. Usually with a picture of a yak.

So the Pfister family set off fer Beaver’s Falls. Maybell sat up front with Granny an’ Mama, I rode on top with Joe Joe an’ Cousin Bert, Aunt Merty was slung underneath an’ Uncle Ed rode in back with them cats, tryin’ to keep ‘em out of trouble (an’ out of the chickens) without much success. We’d only got as fer as the maple grove down the mountain when them cats got into the linens an’ purty near shredded the tablecloth, not the ever’day one with the list on it, but the good one with the rose embroidery. They tore it into strips, which were a good thing fer Uncle Ed cause he needed somethin’ to stop the bleedin’, an’ we jest tol’ Granny that it must have got lost when the wagon rolled over an’ slid into the water down by where the Johnsons built that little bridge over Rockfish Creek, jest back of their mill. Well, we got the wagon righted an’ drug Aunt Merty out’n the creek, an’ Uncle Ed figgered that he’d rather ride on top with Joe Joe an’ Cousin Bert so I got moved up front with Maybell, Granny an’ Mama.

Granny an’ Mama was jawin’ about some recipe that Mama had found in The Book that were guaranteed to remove warts, with Granny sayin’ as how she couldn’t see no earthly reason fer doin’ it, so Maybell an’ me crawled under the seat an’ commenced to playin' a game of mumbley peg, usin' Grampaw's ole huntin' knife. Maybell were purty good, an' she usually won, but that were mostly cause she had that magnetic plate in her head. She almost scalped herself when we hit a bump, an’ purty soon we got tired of playin' so's we climbed back up agin an' asked Granny if'n we was there yet. She allowed as how if we didn't quit pesterin' her she were gonna throw us right off'n that wagon an' make us walk. Uncle Ed suggested that we throw them cats off too, an' jest about then we come over the ridge an' there was Smith Corners.

Them shopkeepers was so delighted to see us as we come into town that they had mostly shut all their shops down (in fact some had boarded 'em up an' one ol' feller, Sam Perkins, the one what run the pawn shop, had even gone so fur as to pack up an' leave town) an' they was waitin' on their front porches to show us their shotgun collections an’ watch us pass by. Granny nodded real friendly like at all of 'em, an Merty muttered at 'em from under the wagon. Maybell an' Cousin Bert wanted to stay an’ visit with some of ‘em, but Granny insisted that we push on till we got to Mayor Harper's where we was stoppin' fer a spell. Well, Mayor Harper’s place were just on the other side of town, so it weren’t too long afore we came to it.

Mayor Harper an’ his current wife (Mayor Harper went through wives faster than them cats went through mailmen) was thrilled to see us, an’ set down a nice lunch fer us too. There was pickled pigs feet an’ yam paste an’ liverwurst an’ caper sandwiches on raisin bread, sardine flavored lemonade an’ fresh pinecones in cream fer dessert. Mayor Harper said that they didn’t much eat that fancy ever’ day, but since we was special company, they was happy to lay on a spread. Granny recollected that the last time Mayor Harper had come up to visit us there on Mount Misty that she had served up grape jelly an’ oyster sausages, boiled arrowroot fillets an’ curried rattlesnake with a side of marbles, so it were fit an’ proper that he treat us jest as good when we came to call.
Granny got out the family photos, an’ Mayor Harper’s current wife decided to show us one o’ her world famous lasso tricks, as she had come from circus folk. The story goes that she had been found by them circus folk one night when the moon were full, out in that there field where they was pitchin’ camp fer the show the very next day. They weren’t no one there abouts who would lay claim to her, so them circus people up an’ kept her. They done taught her rope tricks, an’ how to rassle a mad hippo, an’ all sorts of balancin’ tricks. The balancing didn’t seem to take, no how, since she couldn’t walk across the room without trippin’ over Mayor Harper, their dog Boopie LaRue (who were part coyote, part poodle, part mongoose an’ madder than that Smith Corners crowd after they got covered with bits o’ Finkle Pfister’s lunch) or practically any pattern on the carpet, but she were a wizard with a lasso. Joe Joe’s favorite part were when she wrangled the neighbor’s kids an’ drug ‘em over the fence into the briar patch, an’ Cousin Bert were especially fond of trick where she set the rope on fire, an’ then the rope set her hair on fire. It were pretty apparent from the scars an’ from Mayor Harper insistin’ that she go outside first, that she had spent plenty o’ time rehearsin’ that one.

It were happy meal, an’ we all had a good time jawin’ an’ reminiscin’ til jest afore sunset, when them cats decided they was hungry. Well, Mayor Harper were none to pleased to lose the services of his best mule, an’ more than a little irritated that his oldest son Biff weren’t nowhere to be found when all the fuss died down, so, what with one thing an’ another, Granny figgered that we would be best to continue on our way.
We packed up an’ after a few minutes chasin’ Merty around the yard, Ed managed to get her back on the wagon an’ we went set out. Granny gave over the reins to Joe Joe who was itchin’ to drive, an’ she sat up in back with Burbie Strumforth Pfister who were afraid of yams an’ had hid under the remains of Granny’s tablecloth (not the ever’day one with the list on it, but the good one with the rose embroidery) durin’ lunch. We was out of town, an’ headin’ towards them caves when a ruckus broke out underneath them two an’ disturbed their jawin’. Cousin Bert (who was known fer bein’ light fingered) had stashed Mayor Harper’s dog, Boopie LaRue, in the back of our wagon, an’ Boopie was settin’ fer to give them cats a run fer their money. Maybell an’ Granpaw was laughin’ so hard they both fell off the back an’ we had to stop again to chase ‘em as they rolled down a little hill. While Cousin Bert an’ me was runnin’ after ‘em, Cousin Bert tripped over a stone what had a plaque o’ some sort set into it. Leavin’ Maybell an’ Grampaw to fend fer their selves, we set to tryin’ to read what were writ on the stone.

Mama clambered down off’n the wagon to see why fer we ain’t captured them rollin’ Pfisters yet, an’ she saw Cousin Bert an’ me diggin’ through the weeds what had grown up around that there rock. Granny an’ Burbie come down to join us, an’ Maybell come up the hill carryin’ Grampaw who, since it was after sunset, were somewhat heavier than usual, while Ed untied them ropes we had used to strap Merty to the side of the wagon, an’ usin’ her as a shield between Boopie LaRue an’ them cats, snuck down as well. Mama read the inscription an’ declared that we was not gonna go to them caves, no how, since we had come across somethin’ much more important an’ even educational. Grampaw weren’t sure he needed no more educatin’, since he were dead an’ it were bound to be wasted on him, so he volunteered to get dinner, an’ since the only other person in the family who could cook was Granny, we all said as how we figgered that would be purty fine. He hauled out the cook pot an’ discovered Joe Joe, who had fallen in it an’ gotten stuck there when them cats had tried to take over the drivin’ to get away from Boopie LaRue. Joe Joe voted fer boiled cat, an’ Ed said Grampaw was welcome to try, but he figgered them cats wasn’t gonna take to it.

Meanwhile, Mama was fixin’ fer to tell us the story of that there plaque. After we’d all settled down around the campfire what Granny had started (usin’ strips of fabric what had been draped over Burbie), Mama proceeded.
“On this here spot was the very place where the Pfisters first set foot on the soil of this here country,” she read. “Signed, Brangren Zankleston Pfister.” We was all purty impressed, ‘specially since the nearest border were some 700 miles away, an’ Mama tole us how Brangren got here, from the old country. Back when Great Great Great Great Great Great Aunt Googy Pfister weren’t nothin’ but a gleam in her father’s (Gloock Afrunian, who himself were an immigrant from somewheres purty cold, since he had showed up on Great Great Great Great Great Great Aunt Googy’s mother’s doorstep one frigid winter night wearin’ only a baldin’ coonskin cap an’ a confused smile but without a bit o’ frostbite on him) eye, it were the usual thing fer a young Pfister when he reached a certain age to go out an’ seek his fortune. Many a Pfister had found happiness by headin’ out with nothin’ but his good looks an’ a lunch to rival Finkle’s, an makin’ their way in the world as best they could. Mama tole us about Rutherfurd Pfister, one o’ our prouder kin, who stole out from home one night, leavin’ his poor widowed father, Dinsmore Pfister alone to take care of Rutherfurd’s 17 sisters (ranging in age from 2 to 56, an’ most folks was purty certain that their mother, Rinita Gottesfeld Pfister died happy to be goin’) an went on to become the King of Siam. Of course that was afore Siam got rid o’ their kings an’ then stopped bein’ Siam, but no one ever could tie that to King Ruthie (as he were affectionately called) anyhow, ‘cause he had purty much left before the coup an’ had taken all the royal treasure with him fer safe keepin’. Leastways that’s what he always said when he showed up fer dinner at Mount Misty wearin’ a tiara. Which really didn’t explain the dress, no how, but Granny said to hesh up an’ she’d explain it all when we was older. Apparently she meant older’n her, since we couldn’t never get the story out o’ her no ways.

At any rate, Mama tole us, Great Great Great Great Great Great Aunt Googy’s mother’s name were Henrietta, an’ her mother’s name were Dorinda. Now Dorinda had herself two childern, which were unusual in the ol’ country, family sizes there tendin’ to run closer to at least the size of the Moldavian Army (on Thursday, early in the day, that is, when Bobba were not out at the market an’ the Captain was on duty an’ the General was wearin’ his own uniform, this was afore Mookie come along, cause after she give it back, the General was heared to complain that it didn’t never fit right again). Henrietta’s sibling were named Andover, an’ no one, not even Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia herself could say fer sure if he were a she or she were a he. But when Andover came of age (a tricky concept in our family, fer sure, since most Pfisters is born in dark places (like under the floor of the jail or down in that sorta warm spot behind the family crypt (which didn’t see much other use, truth to tell)) an’ are left there till they decide to come out by their selves, so we is never really sure which one is who, nor how old they really is, neither) his or her momma Dorinda took a long look at the situation an’ decided that since Henrietta were duller than a dead frog conversationally an’ looked like Eliza Mae Birddog Stark, the none too attractive bride of Judge Stark, who were so ugly, she could make a train take a dirt road, it weren’t likely that she were gonna find herself married any time soon, so it were up to Andover to git out there an’ continue the family name. Andover weren’t too displeased at the thought, since there weren’t nobody around the homestead any more fit fer marryin’ than Henrietta (an’ after the unfortunate incident with Fourth Cousin once removed (well, twice, but the second time didn’t happen till after he’d died) Vanity Pfister an’ his sister Durgella, we Pfister’s tended to shy away from that sort o’ thing, although not entirely, which is how we think the Dizzy Dell Pfisters’ went astray) Andover figgered that seekin’ a fortune weren’t a bad idea at all. So off he or she went of a Tuesday, an’ didn’t nobody never hear from her or him from that day to this.

Wednesday of that same week, however, Gloock Afrunian showed up. Dorinda figgered him fer a Thornstem an’ was about to send him packin’ when she noticed his tattoo. Since he weren’t wearin’ pants (an’ in fact, never put on a pair from that day till the day he died) it were hard to see how she didn’t notice a full color map of Norway runnin’ the length of his body, back an’ front afore seein’ most anything else about Gloock, but maybe Dorinda should’a been with us on this here pilgrimage we was makin’ to Beaver’s Falls too. Except, of course, fer her notorious fear o’ poodles, an’ what with Boopie La Rue takin’ over the whole wagon fer hisself, perhaps it were just as well that Dorinda stayed home.

Anyhoo, once’t she took a good long look at Gloock an’ realized he were like to be the only man what was gonna come along that hadn’t never met Henrietta, an’ since he didn’t seem to be to bright, no how, Dorinda decided that were good enough qualifications fer her, an’ she got Henrietta an’ Gloock betrothed on the spot. That spot has since become a sort o’ landmark, an’ often times in the late afternoon, even in this day an’ age, a couple o’ anthropologists are like as not to come drivin’ by an stop up on the porch. An’ if they remember to bring some fried pickles with ‘em, why then nearly half the time Hitzburn Pfister (who we figger is probably the nephew of Gloock an’ Henrietta’s ninth great granddaughter Adrippa Pfister, an’ currently living in the ol’ homestead) don’t shoot ‘em but once or twice afore he lets ‘em look around the place.

Dorinda were right smart about things, an’ by Friday Gloock were purty much thawed out, warmed both by the stories Dorinda (who had been the county champion tall tale teller there abouts fer thirty six years runnin’) spun fer him about Henrietta, (who she wisely didn’t let him meet till some four years or so after the weddin’) an’ by Dorinda’s home brewed cold remedy, which can be found on page 612 o’ The Book an’ can take paint off’n stolen mules at twenty two paces. Gloock, who were usually so lost he couldn’t find his way home from his own livin’ room (which, as it later turned out, was the reason fer his tattoos… but unfortunately he hadn’t never lived in Norway; the tattoo artist, a fella by the name o’ Warburton Stone were a man with a peculiar sense o’ humor, an’ that, as it turned out, were the reason Gloock had landed up on Dorinda’s doorstep) decided that this were a purty good deal, specially since Dorinda assured him that Henrietta had a nose like a ol’ hound dog (she meant that it looked like one) an’ Gloock figgered he wouldn’t never get lost no more.
Henrietta wanted to wait fer Andover to fetch his or herself home afore the weddin’, but Dorinda wisely suggested that waitin’ would only increase the likelihood that Gloock might actually end up in Norway an’ there weren’t no way they’d ever git him back from there, the Norwegian government’s extradition treaties being what they was, so heavily veiled an’ intensely perfumed, Henrietta married Gloock on the very next new moon, a traditional weddin’ day fer us Pfisters mostly cause on a new moon they was enough light to see where to sign the weddin’ license, but not really enough to make a quick getaway. They was reasonably happy, after a honeymoon in the Panama Canal an’ stayed happy cause Dorinda made sure that Henrietta never took off that veil. Eventually, after a good number o’ years spent whippin’ Gloock into shape, Dorinda, like all good mothers in law, fell ill to a wastin’ disease (which no one never managed to trace back to Gloock) an’ left them. Mama said she were of the opinion that Dorinda had figgered she done all she could fer Henrietta, an’ finally set out to see what had become of Andover, but Granny said that didn’t make no sense, an’ she figgered that ol’ Dorinda were probably buried down in the cemetery with the rest of them San Sebastian Pfisters, an’ Grampaw allowed as how they might both be right, but it were time to quit jawin’ an’ have some dinner.

We all set down to a big helpin’ of Grampaw’s Thistle an’ Mockin’ Bird Chowder, which were always a family favorite. Burbie sung us a couple o’ campfire songs, mostly ones about usin’ campfires to burn witches (cautionary tales fer us Pfisters) an’ Boopie entertained us with a few tricks he’d learned from Mayor Harper’s wife (our favorite were when he got them cats all to line up an’ play dead). Merty were still sulkin’ cause Granny had said earlier she couldn’t pull up Mayor Harper’s rose bushes to aid in her tonsorial splendor, but Cousin Bert found her a nice cactus in full bloom, which soothed her down some. Joe Joe started snickerin’ fer no particular reason, but Maybell wasn’t gonna rise to the bait an’ ignored him an’ begged Mama to continue her story.

By this time the moon were startin’ to set sort of lazy like over the horizon, an’ the shadows from the campfire were dancin’ long an’ spooky, an’ we was all feelin’ real homelike an cozy, so Mama chucked a rock at Merty to git her to settle down an’ she went on.

Gloock an’ Henrietta had their selves a whole bunch o’ kids, Brighton, Edwisina, Sulkie, Barhoovian, Pinella, Googy, Tit an’ Renaldo an’ Hanklin (the triplets), Torgold an’ o’ course Brangren Zankleston Pfister. Most of ‘em settled down an’ worked the farm with Gloock, but Brangen was always a curious child, even after he heared that curiosity killed them cats. Of course no one never proved it, an’ not jest because there weren’t no witnesses left, but that jest peaked Brangen’s interest. One evenin’ after finishin’ his chores (he were responsible fer milkin’ the antelope, gatherin’ all the mushrooms in fer the night an’ waterin’ Cousin Alfrince Pfister, who were from the Black Sea Pfisters an’ ever’one thought had some mermaid blood in him), Brangen was down in the cellar havin’ hisself a snack of acorns an’ mole jerky when he come upon a ol’ box what had been left there since the second time a tornado took the roof off the house an’ Dorinda figgered it were time to stop storin’ all the valuables in the attic. Brangen opened the box an’ he found something that he hadn’t never seen afore. It were his aunt or uncle Andover’s secret diary. Now Andover weren’t much of a writer, in fact most of them pages were just covered with pictures of Andover’s socks, what he or she drew cause there weren’t nothing else much worth talking about there abouts. There was a couple o’ pages where Andover debated stayin’ home an’ risking what happened to the Dizzy Dell Pfisters, an’ then Brangren come upon the last page in the diary.

“Here,” Mama said, “is what Andover writ.”

Ahem. Cough cough. Errr… is this here thing on? All right, ok. Here we go. I, Andover Pfister, bein’ of sound mind as fur as anyone can prove, an’ sound body of a sort, do hereby write my last will an’ testament. I leave this here box o’ dried frogs to my sister Henrietta, all my collection of goats teeth to my invisible friend Cecilia, an’ my favorite shoehorn to Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia. If’n anyone kin find it, I leave that mule what we traded Uncle Parsnip fer to my Ma, Dorinda, an’ all my salami too. Please set free my pet goldfish, you kin find him in a paper bag what I keep behind the stove since last winter so he’d kin stay warm. An’ finally, I leave my footloose an’ fancy free travellin’ ways to whoever reads this first. Signed Mr. or Ms. Andover Q. Pfister.

Well, Brangen, bein’ the youngest child an’ always in ever’body elses hand me downs (which were fine till he had to wear his sister Pinella’s weddin’ dress to his senior prom, an’ even that woulda been all right, as it were a mighty purty dress, but Brangen was mortified that he couldn’t never find a pair o’ hand me down army boots to go with it, an’ Mooky weren’t lending hers to nobody after all the trouble she had to go through to git ‘em) an’ so he weren’t never the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. So when he got that travellin’ spirit, he lit out on the road without so much as a second thought.

Winters in them days was hard, Granny said, takin up the story so Mama could go see what all the ruckus was with the wagon catchin’ on fire. So cold that yer nose (iff’n you had one) might jest fall righ off in the snow. Winds that could skin a mule, which mighta been what happened to the one Andover lost. Why, some nights, it were so cold that the doors an’ windows froze shut an’ nobody couldn’t git outt’n the house till spring, or till somebody set the place on fire. Which weren’t what was goin’ on with the wagon, as this were a warm Indian spring (Indian spring were just like Indian summer, you jest didn’t have to wait so long fer it) when we was headed to Beaver’s Falls. Granny went on to tell us that in those cold winters, many a man got lost in the woods an’ froze his self solid on the path leadin’ up to the house, steps away from the porch what he couldn’t see it in the blizzard cause Tit an Hanklin would turn off all the lights an’ make ever’body hide under the sofa whenever they seen a stranger headed their way. This provided no end o’ entertainment (not to mention lawn ornaments) fer the triplets, till one winter when Renaldo fell in love with one o’ them frozen statues an’ insisted on keepin’ it in the house all through the followin’ summer until Thanksgiving when Henrietta had an unfortunate baking accident, but that there is a tale fer another day.

Anyway, it were winter, an’ it were cold when Brangen set out to see the world, jest like his Aunt or Uncle Andover. He didn’t even stop to take his mittens what Henrietta had knitted fer him, which were a shame cause it is often quite difficult to find three mittens what match. But off Brangen went, into the snow. Fer the first sixty miles or so, he found it purty easy, since he knew all the trees in those parts, havin’ spent the previous couple of summers wanderin’ around talkin’ to them, but once he got past sixty miles, an’ found his self further from home than he had ever been, Brangen started to think that maybe he shoulda stopped fer his mittens after all. But he decided that havin’ come this far, he weren’t going’ back now, so he plowed on through the snow.

“Now, I don’t know if you remember that winter,” said Granny to Grampaw, who had finished with the dishes an’ were perched up in the crook o’ the cactus listenin’. “I was jest a girl then, an’ what I remember most was that the snow were so deep, we lost track o’ the outhouse fer about six weeks. Well, it were a purty uncomfortable month an’ a half till we found it. An’ Brangen was out there, wanderin’ alone through drifts so high he couldn’t even see over ‘em, even though at nine feet seven an’ three quarter inches he were the tallest Pfister of his generation. Why his sister Googy, who were six foot six inches were practically a midget next to Brangen. Well he didn’t have no idea about where he were headed, nor where he’d been, so fer about a week an’ a half, Brangen walked in a big ol’ circle. Twice he come to his own back door, an’ once he even tripped over Tit who were sleepin’ in the back yard, but Brangen was determined, so he kept on sloggin’ through. He were still sloggin’ along when all of a sudden an’ with no warnin’ spring sprung. The snow melted, washin’ away most o’ them frozen statues from the front lawn, and Brangen too. He were swept along with them frozen fellers fer about seventeen days through valleys, past lakes, down gullys, over petite sized mountains (or perhaps they was rather large mole hills), an’ even across what seemed to be a small ocean. When he finally managed to drag his self out o’ the raging torrent o’ spring meltwater, he sat down an’ took stock. He counted up how many fingers he had after the frostbite an’ figgered he could get by with the eleven he had left, then took a look around to see where he had landed.

“It were right here,” said Mama, comin’ back from putting out the fire (which Maybell an me figgered Boopie had set when he were tryin’ to rope them cats). “Brangen looked round, saw this here barren landscape with all them caves in the distance, an’ the cactus an’ all, an’ he thought to his self, this’ll do,”

The wanderin’ spirit had been washed clean outtn’ him by all that water, so Brangen found his self a bride (Bisby Sentilla Thornstem, from the Crooked Canyon Thornstems, a lovely girl who was lookin’ fer a man to marry her or a rock to hide under when she come upon Brangen still drippin’ from his journey) an’ decided to stay right here. He put down roots in Smith Corners (which annoyed all the folks what had to try an’ dig them up again) an’ invited some of the folks from the old country to come an’ join him. Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia declined the offer, though she did send a nice gift basket fer his wedding, but Googy (who were pregnant with Pernod at the time an’ bein’ mighty closed mouthed about how that’d happened) figgered she’d come on an’ see what Brangen had found. She brung a couple of other relatives with her in her luggage, an’ they all chipped in an bought a nice plaque to commemorate Brangen’s arrival.

“An’ that,” Mama said, “is how we Pfister’s ended up in this part o’ the world. We found the place up on Mount Misty, took care of the volcano, an’ have lived there from that day to this. An’ now, I think, it is time you all got some sleep. The sun is set to come up any minute, them cats is all tucked away, an’ it is time fer you to hit the sack”

Maybell, Joe Joe an’ I was purty tired, so we all joined Grampaw in the cactus an’ soon was asleep. Cousin Bert had fallen asleep half way through the story, an’ Ed figgered he were ok where he was, so Ed left Cousin Bert curled up in the ashes of the fire. He an Merty went back to sleep on the wagon, Granny grabbed her bucket an’ headed off to see about findin’ some fog, an’ I drifted off to sleep with Mama’s voice singin’ a song about axe sharpenin’. Them coyotes we was hearin’ through the night didn’t bother us none, possibly cause Mama’s singin’ voice was often compared to the sound of full grown hippos bein’ ripped apart by arthritic crocodiles, but most likely from fear of them cats as organized by Boopie La Rue.

We slept through the heat o’ the day, then next evenin’ we packed up what were left o’ the wagon and trundled off towards Beaver’s Falls. It were startin’ to rain, so we moved Merty to the top o’ the wagon so she could git some waterin’ (her hair were startin’ to grow back an’ it were in need of some fertilizin’) an’ moved Burbie down underneath where the rain couldn’t git at her so much (she were afeared that she might melt). Since we was travellin’ at sech a slow pace (the mule weren’t doin’ so well, he’d been lost, jest about killed them cats, practically skinned, an’ was lookin’ kind o’ peaked) Maybell an’ me decided we was gonna walk up ahead. We hopped down an’ set out to see what trouble we could round up. Granny called out that we should take Cousin Bert with us, which is when we realized we’d left him back in the fire pit, so Joe Joe run back an’ got him, but Cousin Bert allowed as how he’d rather ride under the wagon with Burbie.

Maybell an’ me set off, an’ Joe Joe trailed after us fer a bit, but when we spotted some rattlesnakes an’ tried to sneak up on ‘em an Joe Joe’s snickerin’ scared ‘em off, we dunked him in the river an’ threw rocks at him till he went back to the wagon. We saw him conferrin’ with Boopie an’ figgered that would keep him busy, so we left him there an’ (followin’ the buffalo tracks that Granny said were leadin’ us to Beaver’s Falls) took out to explore. Maybell were a whiz when it come to spottin’ wild animals, an’ I were pretty good at avoidin’ rockslides, so we was havin’ a lot of fun an’ makin’ purty good time too when we come up on The Hermit. Now we all knowed about The Hermit, cause it were one of our favorite bedtime stories, when Mama were tuckin’ us all into the coal bin at night. I liked it alright, but Maybell used to complain a fair piece cause Cousin Bert (who slept better’n most of the dead Pfisters) would roll over an’ kick her in the gizzard in his sleep. She weren’t none too fond o’ that, an’ she always asked iff’n we couldn’t jest throw Cousin Bert off’n a cliff an’ be done with it, but Granny wouldn’t hear o’ no sech thing. Eventually Cousin Bert would git a job workin’ fer the state diggin’ subway lines (strangely, no subway trains was ever put into them tunnels what Cousin Bert dug) which kept him away from Mount Misty most o’ the time, an’ Maybell would git some sleep, but this were afore all that, an’ she ain’t had but six hours o’ sleep in four or five years. What she did have, though, were eidetic memory an’ she remembered ever’ word Mama ever tol’ us about The Hermit, so when he popped up from behind a rock an’ threatened to scalp us with his stone knife, we was all terrible excited to see him.

The Hermit was a scrawny feller, about 113 lbs. soakin’ wet (which he were right then, cause he’d been followin’ us downstream hidin’ underwater an’ only comin’ up fer air when we wasn’t lookin’ so he were a little out o’ breath since we’d been skippin’ stones on the river fer the last three miles) wearin’ a diaper made from a llama skin (imported, after the Great Scootling Disaster they weren’t no more llamas native to them parts) an a fetching blue hat with a little veil an’ a feather who were bald in front with dreadlocks in the back an’ had skin the color of old kiwi fruit. He were carryin’ a pair o’ skis (“Jest in case,” he said an that were that), a bag full o’ Mallomars an’ a clay pipe. He didn’t never smoke (he were a rabid anti tobbacconist after his Grandma had died o’ chokin’ to death durin’ a tobacco spittin’ contest at the local church fair) but the pipe were a gift from his Pappy so he treasured it. Rumor had it that The Hermit’s Great Grandfather (on his Mammy’s side) had been a Pfister (possibly one of the disowned Bald Bay Bridge Pfisters what had moved east, got etiquette an’ changed their name to Narhoodle) but another rumor claimed that he’d been Governor o’ Iowa, an’ ever’body knew they weren’t never no Pfister born what would set foot (nor any other body part) in Iowa. Iowa seemed not to mind the slight, so the armed truce looked to hold.

I were purty startled to see that The Hermit had green argyle socks on, cause Mama didn’t never mention that in her stories, but later he tol’ us that he found ‘em sittin’ on a rock one day an’ had figgered that the gods was either tryin’ to reward him fer his hermittin’ or they was annoyed by his stinky feet (to Maybell’s way o’ thinkin’ them socks weren’t much help with that problem) an’ had sent him some Holy Footcoverin’s. Not wantin’ to affront the gods either way, The Hermit had worn them socks until they started to resemble Mayor Harper’s personals an’ were so crusted with dirt that they had their own ecosystem. The Hermit figgered that hidin’ in the river might be good fer that problem, but unfortunately all it did was water the roots of some o’ them weeds what had started to spring outt’n the top o’ them socks, an’ killed the entire breedin’ stock of fish in the river. O’ course, while the general population o’ Smith Corners (who was downstream about fifteen miles from where The Hermit resided, both cause he liked the privacy, an’ cause the last time he tried to move closer they set his diaper on fire, chased his pet chicken off a cliff an’ sued him fer conspiracy to cause nausea) were mighty upset that the river were toxic fer at least a week ever’ time he did that, they were somewhat mollified at havin’ fish fer dinner with so little effort, as the fish were jumpin’ ashore to get outt’n that there water.

By this time the rest o’ the family had caught up with us, an’ after we talked The Hermit outt’n the tree he’d skittered up when he caught site o’ Boopie marchin’ them cats up the trail and convinced Merty that The Hermit weren’t her sister Ermine, Granny figgered we might just set a spell an’ have some lunch. She unpacked the picnic basket what Mayor Harper’s wife had insisted we take with the leftovers in it an’ passed around the plates. Mama was all fer makin’ some lemonade, but when Grampaw fainted while dippin’ some o’ that river water, she said we might as well just have plain lemon juice instead. Maybell an’ Cousin Bert found some crabapples which we was savin’ fer dessert, an’ The Hermit had a bottle o’ wine that he’d been given as a bar mitzvah present, so all in all, we had ourselves a nice spread. After lunch, Burbie asked The Hermit iff’n he wouldn’t tell us his tale, an’ he seemed amenable to it, so we all pulled up a rock to sit on an’ paid attention.

“I was,” he said “destined fer a life of greatness. What I got, however, was a life of being grating, which is not, I assure you, the same thing.”

He went on to tell us about his life prior to hermitude. He was born of a Tuesday in a small town south of Beaver’s Falls by about 300 miles. It were a nice town, with flower baskets hangin’ off’n the lamp posts in the spring an’ a fall festival ever’ year to which the farmers would bring their prize winnin’ pumpkins an’ extra fat geese. They had a little red schoolhouse, a little white church, a little blue post office an’ a little rainbow colored paint store what did a boomin’ business ever’ spring when the townfolk felt like sprucin’ the place up after a long winter. There were a sewin’ circle what met at Missus Kelp’s house on Thursday afternoons. The men o’ the town all liked to fish, an’ they’d get together early of a Saturday mornin’ an’ head down to the lake, rain or shine, an’ though they hardly never caught no fish, ever’body figgered it were ok, an’ not jest cause o’ Bobby Dorminster’s still what were out behind the ol’ boathouse neither, but also cause while the men were all out fishin’ the women could get in a game of hai lai. Growin’ up The Hermit had been treated with kindness when he deserved it, an’ a switch when he didn’t, but that weren’t too often, as he were purty much like any kid in those days, cowlicked (them were mighty friendly cows, mind you) an’ dimpled an’ with plenty o’ freckles; traits which all lent their selves to havin’ a mild disposition. Joe Joe snickered at the idea that freckles caused wimpiness, (an’ when he gestured to Cousin Bert who were the reignin’ All County Jailhouse Fisticuffs Champ an’ whose face looked sort o’ like a red polka dot map o’ the Milky Way we sorta had to concede his point) but Grampaw tol’ him to hesh up so The Hermit could hurry up an’ finish his story, cause Grampaw needed to go find a convenient bush, that there lunch weren’t settin’ well with him. Granny whacked Grampaw in the head with the fryin’ pan an said he should git iff’n he must, but he didn’t have no call to bother live folks with his digestive problems.

We set Burbie (who’d fallen off’n her rock durin’ the fray) back up an’ The Hermit continued. In those days he were called Franklin. It weren’t his name, mind you; his Mammy had christened him Alton Morningstar Peabody (over the objection of her husband, whose last name were not Peabody but rather Grebs) but had allowed as it were all right with her if ever’body called him Franklin after her pet marmoset when she were growin’ up. Other than a mammy who had her quirks, Franklin had an idyllic childhood. He done well in school an’ seemed all set to join his Pappy’s business an’ eventually take over the livery stable when his Mammy set him down on the porch one day an’ tol’ him her deep dark secret.

“Pappy,” said Mammy Grebs “ain’t really yore pappy.”

Frankin had to admit that considerin’ the fact that he weren’t named Grebs an’ that Dr. Peabody had been through them parts some nine months afore he were born, he’d sorta figgered that maybe this were the case, but being a good and kind son he didn’t want to bring it up. Mammy allowed as how this were mighty polite an’ she were glad that she had raised such a well mannered child. She then begun to reminisce about how he’d always been a good boy, an’ she were proud of him, an’ started in to tellin’ stories about how he’d always helped little old lady (they was only the one, by the name o’ Mrs. Frinkle, it were a very small town) to cross the street (they was only the one, it was a very, very small town). When she started in on his Sunday School projects an’ his first grade record of perfect attendance, Franklin grabbed her by the ears an’ shook her a bit to git her back to her point.

Mammy went on to say that she’d gone to Dr. Peabody fer some help because she were not havin’ any luck havin’ a baby with Pappy, an’ what she wanted, more than anythin’ in the world were a child to love an hold an keep fer her very own. So when Dr. Peabody helped her out, she were so grateful that she’d named Franklin after him.

“So Dr. Peabody is my real pappy?” asked Franklin.

“Oh good heavens no!” said Mammy.

Franklin admitted to bein’ a bit confused at this, an’ asked Mammy what ever did she mean. Mammy went on to say that Dr. Peabody had mixed her up a potion an tol’ her that she needed to take it on the next full moon, then sleep with six cloves o’ garlic under her pillow fer the next two weeks. Mammy took the potion home an’ followed Dr. Peabody’s advice to the letter. She only had to wait two days, then she drank the potion on the night o’ the full moon an’ put that garlic under her pillow an’ was preparin’ to go to sleep when Pappy came in.

Now Pappy, as it happened, were deathly allergic to garlic. So the minute he got a whiff o’ what was in the bed, he begun to sneeze an’ wheeze like he were some sort o’ train engine tryin’ to get over a mountain. It were so bad that eventually he run outt’n the house an’ went to dunk his head in the horse trough. Well after he done that, they wasn’t no way Mammy was gonna let him come back to bed, so she sent him out to sleep in the barn. This went on fer two weeks, an’ then Mammy went back to Dr. Peabody to tell him what had happened. Dr. Peabody said she weren’t to worry none, that he figgered that even with Pappy sleepin’ in the barn, his potion were so good it were purty sure Mammy were pregnant now anyways, but to be sure, she should go see that ol’ Gypsy womern what traveled with him. Mammy set down an’ that ol’ Gypsy tol’ Mammy she were with child, an’ that this child were gonna be special, an’ that he were destined fer greatness. He would, she said, be able to see beyond the veil, have the second sight, know the unknowable, unscrew the inscrutable.

Franklin allowed as how this were fine, an’ he were pleased to know that his future were so bright, but would Mammy please tell him who his Pappy really were?

Mammy said “Well, I thought you understood. You ain’t got one.”

She went on to explain that after Franklin were conceived with no help at all from Pappy (who still slept in the barn to that day) nor nobody else, neither, it become clear to her that he were a special child, destined fer more important things than livery stables an’ small town Boy Scoutiness. She durn well expected him to become someone important. An’ so she had signed him up fer a correspondence course from Evangeline Honoria’s School of Prognostication an’ Pronouncements.

Now in them days, ever’body who were anybody in the world o’ the supernatural had a certificate o’ achievement from Evangeline Honoria. At least, that were what her advertisement on the back o’ the Sears Roebuck mail order catalogue said. Ever’ famous seer an’ sage on the east coast, an’ all the best fortune tellers in the west were graduates of Evangeline’s correspondence school program. Her teachin’ methods (the ad claimed, an if it were in print, that were truth enough fer Mammy) were passed down from master to apprentice, from prophet to clairvoyant down the ages stretchin’ all the way back to the temple priestesses durin’ the reign of Cleopatra.

Evangeline taught the President’s Astrologer an’ the Queen’s Tarot Card Reader. She even had trained that ol’ Gyspy womern what went around with Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine show. Franklin’s Mammy were very impressed by both the promises in the advertisement an’ the 17 point Garamond Bold Italic font, so she had sent away fer the six week course.

Franklin, not wantin’ to disappoint his Mammy applied his self to his studies. He learned to cast a horoscope, to tell fortunes usin’ ordinary playin’ cards an’ to heal diseases rangin’ from gout to Tourette’s Syndrome with the use of herbs and layin’ on of hands. In week three Franklin read his Pappy’s I Ching (which said “when the albatross is mellow, people will sit by the tree and all will be mauve”, which accordin’ to Evangeline Honoria’s Big Book of Interpretation meant that it were likely he were dead but nobody hadn’t noticed yet, which annoyed Pappy who figgered iff’n he were dead, it would be nice if somebody at least sent petunias which were his favorite flower), an’ then he tossed the rune stones fer his Mammy an’ found out that she were really a Oriental Potentate, but since when he were eleven years old he had used loquacious through sarsaparilla in his Webster’s International Dictionary to make a paper mache model of the solar system he couldn’t look up “potentate” an’ so Franklin threw them rune stones outt’n the window because his Mammy weren’t no kind of potato no how. Week five of the course were dedicated to the study of telekinesis, but Franklin had his Mammy write a note to Ms. Evangeline excusin’ him because ever since Pappy had been struck by lightening, he didn’t hold with electricity, so he wouldn’t allow no televisions in the house.

Now, the thing about Franklin were that he really weren’t the studious type. When he were in school, he usually sat in the back o’ the room an avoided Miss Myrtlebaum (the schoolmarm, who were also the town postmistress, dental assistant an’ proprietress of the local house o’ ill repute, which twice a month also hosted the Ladies Aid Society of the Presbyterian/Lutheran/Unholy Order of Satanist Church (they was only the one church, you may recall it was a very, very, very small town)) by the simple expedient o’ duckin’ behind Norton “The Tank” Simpson (who later went on to become president o’ the seamstress’ union an’ a patron o’ the ballet, but at age 11 weighed well over 300 pounds was approximately the size (an’ color) o’ Great Grandfather Pfister’s Fire Engine) whenever she were lookin’ fer a volunteer. So, despite his Mammy beltin’ him regular while he were studyin’ Evangeline Honoria’s correspondence course, they wasn’t nothin’ that took. He managed to pass the course by means o’ mailin’ all his answers in on tissue paper post cards durin’ rainstorms, an’ cause Ms. Evangeline figgered mostly anyone who sent in their answers with $3.97 a week had done the minimum work needed to be a certified, if not good, Prognosticator, but mostly because Mammy Grebs had writ a letter to that there Academy an’ tol’ ‘em that if Franklin didn’t graduate, she were prepared to send him along to their address fer some extra curricular studies. The picture she included sealed the deal, Franklin were graduated.

So, after six weeks, Franklin were the proud recipient of a brand new Certificate of Achievement in Future Demystifyin’ an’ Fortune Revealing signed by Ms. Evangeline Honoria her very self. This permitted him to call his self a graduate of Evangeline Honoria’s School of Prognostication an’ Pronouncements an’ also allowed him a fifteen percent discount on all mystic supplies from her Emporium o’ The Beyond, (money back guarantee offer not valid in some states, twenty dollar fee fer returned checks, shipping and handling extra). As noted, Franklin weren’t much of a student, so he weren’t never really sure beyond what, but that didn’t hamper him none as he prepared to set up his Parlor o’ the Past, Present an’ Future.

Pappy were so proud o’ Franklin that he were fit to bust, so he did. After the funeral (ever’one agreed they wasn’t never such a happy lookin’ corpse what they had ever seen an’ them petunias were an awful nice touch) Franklin changed his name (as required on page 46 o’ Evangeline Honoria’s Handbook o’ Lookin’ Into the Fog, in chapter three, which were all about the magical energies surrounding bein’ a mysterious figger, an’ how to be ready to skip town, jest in case) to Ickwiddle the Fetid, rented his self a second floor room (over the bowlin’ alley) an’ a stuffed owl an’ opened fer business.

He weren’t very good. As a matter o’ fact, he weren’t no good at all. In his entire career, Ickwiddle didn’t never make one correct prediction, nor never removed even the simplest o’ curses. Folks what brung their children to him fer a blessing often returned to visit him with their remains, an’ whenever he read someone’s tea leaves, they was like as not to choke to death on the dregs. Ickwiddle predicted that Arthur Hickmeister (who were the local chimney sweep/butter churn repairman) would be elected President o’ the United States of America, despite his fear o’ both handshakin’ an’ whistlestops. He predicted that the World’s Fair o’ ’93 would end in a giant cotton candy poisonin’ fiasco even though cotton candy weren’t invented till ‘97. He tol’ farmers there abouts that the future were purty clear; they should all plow under their soybean crops an’ plant nothin’ but zucchini. He cast a horoscope fer a local boy, an aspirin’ writer by the name o’ Samuel Clemmens an’ tol’ him that he should change his name to Hilton Prodvark. Icwiddle’s predictions was so fur wrong that folks what got warnin’s about their barns burnin’ down started to run out an’ git flood insurance. Unfortunately, this didn’t work neither, since one farmer what done that got run down by a rabid buffalo the very next day, an’ another lost his mother in law to an unfortunate combination of too much hairspray, a tragically misplaced jelly sandwich, an’ a low flyin’ Frisbee, so people soon begun to think that the problem might not be Ickwiddle’s predictin’, but rather Ickwiddle his self. Afore Ickwiddle set up shop, they figgered, no one knew when nothin’ was gonna happen, but now that they did, even though they never knew what were comin’, ever’body were tense an’ worried all the time. So obviously the thing were to get rid o’ Ickwiddle.

Ickwiddle his self were none too fond o’ this plan, an’ stood up at the town meetin’ where it were bein’ proposed an’ said so. He were eloquent about his dreams, his hopes, his goals, an’ his desire to jest help the good folk there abouts, an’ he waxed poetical about how all he ever wanted in this world was the chance to do somethin’ important an’ useful. He went on fer near two hours, an’ at the end, ever’body were in tears an they all allowed as how that there speech were the most movin’ thing they ever heared, an’ then they voted on the plan.

Fifteen minutes later, Ickwiddle were well outside o’ town an’ makin’ good time. Fortuately he’d remembered to bring his rented owl to the meetin’ with him, so he didn’t have to stop home fer it, an’ the townsfolk was a little slowed up by the fact that Harold Lynch (no relation to Ruben P. Lynch), who owned the hardware store/ library/ beauty parlor (very, very, very, very small… well, you get the point) couldn’t find his key to open up shop so’s people could purchase tiki torches an’ pitchforks fer the chase, so they had to wait until Mrs. Lynch (neé Fern, as it happened) run back home to get the spare. Eventually they got their selves sorted out an’ they lit their torches an’ then lit out after Ickwiddle. It weren’t really that they wanted to set him on fire, you understand, it were just that they wanted to be clear about how much they was very sure they didn’t never want to see him around there again, an’ if a little singein’ were required to drive the message home, well, they was prepared fer it.

By the time the folks set out, though, Ickwiddle had gotten a purty good head start. He weren’t particularly headed nowheres, so he jest took the first road he saw an’ commenced to runnin’. He come to a fork an’ headed left, then a turn off an’ took a right. Them folks after him had a dickens of a time tryin’ to figger which way he run, but after a good long chase they finally cornered him (“Right about on this very spot here,” he said.) Ickwiddle apologized fer all the trouble he done caused an’ agreed it were better iff’n he stopped callin’ his self Ickwiddle the Fetid (a dissentin’ minority suggested that he might as well hang on to ‘the Fetid’), but seein’ as how his Mammy was standin’ at the front of the crowd wavin’ a mighty sharp lookin scythe at him, he hoped they’d all understand how he were reluctant to go back to either Franklin or Anton Morningstar Peabody an’ that he figgered maybe he’d just go by The Hermit fer a while till he maybe picked a better name. With that, an’ his agreein’ to stay outt’n town, them folks said if it were ok with The Hermit, they wasn’t gonna burn him down, no how. The Hermit said that were plenty fine with him, so ever’body went home satisfied with a hard days work.

“I ain’t never come up with a better name, so here I am to this day,” concluded The Hermit.

Granny mumbled somethin’ about that ol’ Gypsy womern an’ what she were gonna do the next time she caught up with her. The Hermit assured Granny that he didn’t figger it were really her fault, an’ besides, he were satisfied with things the way they was. The folks of Smith Corners were mighty nice, if somewhat distant, an’ they only once come to blows over him livin’ there, so that were a blessin’, an’ he also guessed that he were pleased to have had the opportunity to see some of the world. The Hermit then glanced at his wristwatch, gave a huge shriek that knocked Burbie right off’n her rock agin, an’ skittered away off into the brush without another word. Boopie looked like he was set to go find out what were goin’ on, but Grampaw called him off an’ said that it were probably important hermittin’ business an’ we should be gittin’ back on the road anyhoo.

We picked up Burbie, gathered up the picnic an’ them cats, an’ got underway. The wagon what we was all ridin’ in was the one what Not So Great Uncle Hazeworth Pfister had built. Hazeworth weren’t much of a carpenter, so ever’ dozen miles or so one or another o’ the wheels was like to fall off. Most times Granny, who were doin’ most o’ the drivin’, would give us a shout jest afore one popped off so’s we could all grab onto somethin’ near an’ dear to us afore the wagon fell over. But fer some reason (maybe she were still upset about that ol’ Gyspy womern) jest then a wheel flew right off, beanin’ that brown mule right in the back o’ the head, then ricochetin’ straight into Mama’s lap. The mule had already had a tough day, an’ was purty annoyed by this treatment, so he took off down the trail like the devil were after him, haulin’ the wagon a’bumpin’ an’ a’bouncin’ along behind him. Come to think of it, all the excitement had stirred up them cats, so maybe the devil were after him.

Granny (who had such good upper arm strength she could bench press Ed) yanked on them reins so hard the leather started to smoke an’ did her best to slow down that mule, but the mule weren’t havin’ none of it. He kicked his three legs up an’ drug us along behind him down that windin’ path. It were quite a ride, Cousin Bert up top wavin’ his arms an whoopin’, Mama hangin’ on to Granny to keep her from flyin’ right off’n the seat ever’ time we rebounded off some rock, Maybell grabbin’ at my ankles, me hangin’ off’n the side o’ the wagon to see what were goin’ on, an’ Merty singin ‘ “Oh Suzanna” at the top o’ her lungs. The scarf what Uncle Ed were knittin’ begun to unravel all over the place, Boopie started throwin’ random things overboard, and Burbie had grabbed a ol’ umbrella an were usin’ it to fend off them cats (who, it seemed, were lookin’ fer someone to cuddle with, then possibly disembowel). What none of us knowed at that point were that we was bearin’ right down on the north western edge o’ the Great Dry River Canyon.

The Great Dry River used to be an ol’ empty streambed what had dried up sometime in the late Jurassic period, or at least that were what Professor Tunabloom used to tell us. The Professor were a scientist, one what studied archeo geology, or the science o’ how ancient cultures was so stupid that they had rocks in their heads. He were out by Mount Misty lookin’ fer clues as to what’d happened to the folks what lived in that area afore the Great Scootling Disaster, an’ one day while he were pokin’ around he come upon Merty, who had decided to spend the afternoon buried in the quicksand pit. Needless to say she were mighty put out when the Professor clonked her in the head with a ol’ dead branch an’ started yellin’ at her. He tol’ her later that he were only tryin’ to help, an he had been afeared that she were fixin’ to sink into that there pit (an’ that the snake what had crawled into her hair might git her), but Merty, who had a kind heart (an’ a large concussion), assured him that she weren’t too mad about him bashin’ her skull, an’ while she did appreciate the thought, perhaps he might ask first next time, cause maybe the person he was assaultin’ with dessicated tree limbs might jest prefer to drown in quicksand. The Professor allowed as how that might be true, an’ Merty invited him up fer dinner.

Now Granny, as has been mentioned, weren’t much of a cook, least ways not as fur as anyone who were fond o’ their stomach linin’ were concerned, and that night she outdid herself. To hear her tell it, Granny were so tickled that Merty’d made a friend that she figgered she might as well go all out fer him. She whipped up a broiled horse filet in avocado an’ jelly bean gravy, steamed oak leaves in a goats milk sauce, an’ pureed possum brains on toast points with blackberries an’ crushed walnut shells. For dessert she made a batch o’ Famous Fried Cheeze Brownies, a favorite amongst us Pfisters, from a recipe what she brung back from her visit to Alaska. She tol’ Ed to set the table with the real silver (jest in case the Professor were a werewolf) an’ to use the good table cloth, you know, the one with the rose embroidery, not the ever’day one. Granny chased Joe Joe out to the orchard to git her a bird’s nest fer her hair, an’ she even made me an Maybell take baths, even though it weren’t September.

When we all sit down to dinner that night, the table looked might purty. Mama had found some candles an’ we turned off the lamp, which helped to hide the fact that Grampaw were goin’ through one o’ his translucent phases, an’ even Cousin Bert were behavin’ his self, cause Granny’d threatened to take away his dynamite collection iff’n he didn’t. Uncle Ed sat at the head o’ the table and proceeded to dish out food fer ever’body, an’ once we was all served, we dug in.

Four days later, when the Professor regained consciousness, he noticed that he had lost his trousers somewheres. Mama said he had ‘em when he run outt’n the house, but when we found him the next afternoon curled up around a termite mound down by the Great Dry River an’ drug him back home, he didn’t have no pants on then, so he musta lost ‘em somewheres there abouts. She figgered they might still be out there, so we all set out to find ‘em, the Professor wearin’ a fetchin’ skirt o’ Maybell’s (which he’d found in Joe Joe’s closet, mind you) an’ a sunny smile. Granny’s meals often took visitin’ folks that way.

When we got to the Great Dry River Canyon, we rappelled down to the bottom usin’ Ed’s suspenders. The Professor stood there all amazed an’ sech, cause he didn’t understand how that river come to have water in it, no how. He’d been studyin’ the dry bed to the north an’ it were all flat an didn’t have no canyon, an this canyon were, as fur as he could tell, purty recent. When Ed asked him what he meant by recent, the Professor said that he were purty sure based on erosion patterns an’ the number o’ beer cans floatin’ in it, that this river didn’t date back much further than 25 PGSD (or Post Great Scootling Disaster).

“3 AGSD (Ante Great Scootling Disaster), actually,” chimed Merty. “We learned about it in school.”

Mama nodded in agreement and opened her mouth to tell the story, but Granny, who were bein’ unusually polite that day, tromped on her foot to git her to hesh up so Merty, who couldn’t often be persuaded to respond to a direct question, never mind tellin’ a whole story on her own, could do it. Now most times, iff’n Granny stomped on Mama’s foot, this would end in us havin’ to reglue all the furniture, repaint most o’ the house, an’ often times replace the livestock, but Mama wanted Merty to do well with her new friend too, so she got the message and heshed up, although she did throw a glare Granny’s way as if to say this weren’t over an’ they’d discuss it later, probably with pistols at ten paces.

“I was only allowed to go to school from the ages o’ seven to ten,” Merty began “so I didn’t never learn much, but I do remember the bit about how the Great Dry River Canyon come to be.”

It’d all started on a dare. One fine day Jurick Pfister an’ Densworth Thornstem were down by the Great Dry River diggin’ fer potatoes. They wasn’t havin’ much luck (the potato havin’ not yet been invented) but they was enjoyin’ the day, which were hot enough to fry potatoes, (iff’n they’d been invented yet) an’ clear an’ dry an’ without a cloud in the sky. Both Jurick an’ Densworth were sure that their was a good chance that they wasn’t gonna find nothin’, but they was havin’ fun, wanderin’ around the dry sream bed, findin’ rocks an’ snakes an’ sech, an’ not bein’ home where Jurick’s mother, Larissa, woulda drafted them boys to help her reupholster the barn. Now Densworth were a couple o’ years older’n Jurrick, but seein’ as they was the only two boys in town what was old enough to drink, but not too old to take their sisters to the prom, they tended to do stuff together.

That day Densworth was feelin’ bored. He an’ Jurick had spent the mornin’ getting’ the Widow Griffin’s cat outt’n a tree, an’ she had rewarded them with a pair o’ boxin’ gloves her late husband, Senator Griffin, had won in college when he was featherweight champion o’ Brewster county. Jurick were wearin’ the right glove an’ Densworth were wearin’ the other right one (Senator Griffin’s campaign slogan were “Always right!” a sentiment he carried through his life, which occasionally caused some trouble, fer instance when he were givin’ directions or when he were in the army an’ had the rank of Sergeant an’ were put in charge o’ marching cadences) an’ them two had been punchin’ each other all afternoon an’ they was both fairly black an’ blue (Densworth was, anyhoo, Jurick had skin the color o’ an eggplant to start with, so he mostly turned green when bruisin’). When they got tired o’ that, they started in to collectin’ scorpions in their gloves, fixin’ to take ‘em home fer Larissa, who used to fry ‘em up with a bit o chocolate sauce an’ some rutabaga greens fer breakfast.

What them boys didn’t know was that over the ridge Mademoiselle Michelle’s School fer Proper Young Women was havin’ it’s annual picnic/field day/skeet shoot, an’ among the Proper Young Women with shot guns were a certain Miss Suzanne Farthington Porternull. Now Miss (since all them girls was called Miss, all the time, an’ they ain’t never heard her name without the Miss, the boys thought Miss were her first name) was, as fur as Jurick an’ Densworth were concerned, the purtiest girl in the whole town, maybe even the whole world. She were purtier than Dr. Peabody’s nurses, she were even purtier than Jurick’s Great Aunt Phantasia Pfister, who had won the Miss America contest some years afore even though she weren’t a citizen, an’ hadn’t even entered. An’ since Miss were so purty, an’ also cause she didn’t chase them off with her gold plated, engraved shotgun (made special fer her by the Izmuth company at the request o’ her daddy, Lord Farthington Porternull) more than half the times what they climbed into her tree to watch her organize her shoe collection (at that time she had over 800 pairs, by the time she died she were in possession o’ so many shoes that her daddy had built her a extra house jest fer her shoes) they both had a big ol’ crush on her. This were quite the bone o’ contention between ‘em, but since Densworth figgered that he were 6 inches shorter than her so it wasn’t gonna work out no how, an’ Jurick wasn’t entirely sure he could live with the smell, it didn’t never come down to lethal blows.

On this particular outin’ the Proper Young Women was all wearin’ their school uniform, what consisted o’ a pale purple petticoat under a sea foam green taffeta skirt, a white poplin blouse with ruffles around the neck an cuffs, an a hat. Them hats was a wonder to see, as they was approximately four feet wide an’ covered in enough flowers an’ ribbons to dress up a three legged mule. Often times the Proper Young Women would tuck their extra school supplies in amongst the gewgaws; on any given day Miss could extract three pounds o’ lined notebook paper, five sharpened pencils, two boxes o’ crayons, a six inch protractor, four gum erasers an’ a bottle o’ India ink from her headwear an’ no on would be the wiser. This were especially convenient because Mademoiselle Michelle (whose real name were Bertha Smarkleblat, but who wisely realized that this were not gonna bring in top prices in the education an’ etiquette game) didn’t hold with women carryin’ purses no how (she felt that iff’n you couldn’t find somewhere’s to hide it on yer person, you didn’t need it anyway. This worked fine fer Mademoiselle Michelle (neé Smarkleblat) since she had what was euphemistically referred to in the men’s magazines as an ample balcony an’ could store an entire orchestra in her corset, but since the Proper Young Women were mostly o’ the pre (or just recently post) pubescent sort, they had to make due with extended bonnetry an’ tuckin’ things in their socks.

So, as the boys come over the hill with the sun in their eyes, they saw what looked fer all the world like a field o’ snow capped grassy hillocks topped with ornate an’ exotic flower bushes. Now ever’body knows that scorpions like exotic flowers, so Jurick an’ Densworth figgered they’d run down there an’ grab some scorpions afore they all skittered away. Fortunately fer the Proper Young Women (who had jest all set down on the ground to reload their shot guns)