Alpena weekly argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1871-1893, 1885-04-22

my head
He used to keep a livery-stable,
David's father did, an made u great
reputation as householder. Farmers
who came in to town meetin' or to
trade used to put up at his stable an
paid him four shillin's for a mess of
oats for their horses. A shoe factory
down to Beverly failed one summer, an
the assets was sold at public vendoo
Well, the old man, David's father, you
know, he bought wagon-load o. shoe
pegs for the price of a knittin' needle,
an put them in the oat-bin in the barn.
The barn was dark, an no one couldn' t
tell the oats from shoe-pegs without
tastin'. So when critter was left TO
be fed the old man'd give him four
quarts o. shoe-pegs, an charge four
shillin's for the feed.
Naturally the critter wouldn' { eat any
thing, and the farmer he'd worry be-
cause he'd lost his appetite. The old
man had sort o. mixture, made o.
thistle tops, stewed up, which was war
ranted to restore the appetite of horse
in twenty-four hours. 1t was harmless
stuff, an never hurt nobody, but it had
a great reputation, for the horse that
WOuluu CaJ blO SuOt-DtRo hOulu DC
hungry enough to eat his own head off
after he'd got dose or two of it an
had been driven six or eight miles
home.
OF course the medicine got the credit
o. curin' him, an gave the old man a
great reputation as horse-doctor He
made mite o. money sellin' his thistle
top stew for four shillin's bottle, until
the shoe-peg business was discovered
one day. Then he quit the livery, and
took up drivin' stage.
He made money that way, too, an
didn't lose but twenty-five cents all the
years he was at it. That was the time u
stranger had fit, an died in the stage
before he'd paid his fare. There want
no money an no marks on him, to tell
who he was by, an the county had to
bury him. The Commissioners refused
to pay his stage fare, though the old
man worried EN- good deal about it,
an he had to give it up. 1t was the
first an only money he was ever beat
out of, an it was lesson to him, for he
never failed thereafter to collect fares in
advance.
Nothin' but death over got the start
of David's father.
The way he died was awful an while
David owed the old man nothin' he
hadn't paid twice over, he couldn't but
feel sorry when they brought the body
home. He was so graspin' an mean
that he had but few friends, but what
there was of 'em gave him decent
burial.
1t was down on Turkey-foot Spit that
it came about. The old man was haul
in sea-weed for manure, an suthn'
about the gearin' o. the team gave way
| while he was a-crossin' the beach He
was alters timid, but he ovcrdid it this
| time when he onhitched the team to
keep 'em from startin' while he was
under the wagon. He must "a been
a-tinkerin' as he lay upon his back on
the sand, for the reach slipped out, an
fallin' across his stomach, pinned him
| down.
There's no tellin' what he did, an
| there's no tcllin' what he thought; he
must a yelled, but he was mile or so
| from anywhere, an the breakers were
| so heavy that he couldn't a been
heard forty feet away. There he was,
pinned down, dead sot, an no use a
stirrin' under a load o. sea-weed till the
tide come in an covered him over an
the wagon, too.
The team they wandered home, an
found the barn, an when the old man
didn't show up, David, he an the neigh
bors, they went to huntin' an it was
sun-up the next mornin' before they
found him, after the tide went out
WAL, when the old man was buried,
/ ~ IL, II L
the old woman mebbe, for she'd sort o.
got used to him, an missed him, don't
you know, David, he come into the
property an begun to fix up about the
place. He raised the old house story
higher and shingled the roof; painted
the barn an fences, an made everything
as neat and snowy as a new harness.
Some one asked him what he was
doing so much fixing up for, as there
was plenty of room in the old house for
him an mother, but David, he sort o.
smiled, rs he does, an said as how it
was the first time in his life he'd been
allowed to du as he was min tn, he
thought he'd go the hull figger But
sence then he's never spent copper on
the place, though he's alters KEEP it
tidy.
Woodbury., you know, who lives in
that flat-toppcd house down the road a
piece yonder, is David's full brother,
but he amt mite like David. 1t ain {
fair to David to speak on 'em both in
the same breath. Woodbury. took all
the old mans cranks and meanness, an
he's shattered too, SOS faint safe t.
have him around; leastways L don't
want him near me. He's an odd critter,
Woodbury. is, an is up to all sorts o.
capers, but there's good deal of Gus
sedness into him, too. He was born
and raised here, an everybody knows
him, but that don't help him bit.
He's eternally cuttin' up didos, an
scarin' the women folks, an most every
body wishes he was somewhere else.
Two years ago he ripped out the hull
insides of his house, maxim one room
upstairs an one room down, an not
oven buttry or partition anywhere, an
he chopped up the doors for firewood.
He says he done it because he wanted
more air within, an as long as it is his
own house / 'spose he could do as he
was min to; but the trick didn't give
him very good name.
Then again he hauled lot o. brush
an piled IL up in the road, an sot it on
fire at midnight, an scared folks most
out o. their wits. Everybody run out to
see what the fuss was, an there sat
Woodbury., smokin' his pipe by the
roadside, an askin' each one that came
up If he thought it Id be fair weather
come day time.
He's widower, Woodbury. is, an he
has a boy suthin' like twelve years old,
who's as big loon as he is, an goin'
to be more so. Las winter he stripped
the boy stark naked-there want a
rag on him--an' put him in bar'l o.
the strongest brine you ever see.
Tho boy yelled like fury when the salt
began to. eat into his hide, an the
ncighbors all run in to sec what Wood
bury was up ter, an twas well they