Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1904-05-10
A Bushel of
Potatoes
By Harriet
Whitney Durbin
Copyright, 1908. by 4. c. Mcclure
Copyright, 1908. bv 4. c. Mcclure

. Asal.us Biglo owned poorly chink-
ell c;.i \ on windy hillside, banjo
and voice.
Siias Weatherbec's possessions en-
braced fair farm. Il good wife ana a
darcEter just eighteen years of age.
I.ocksena Wca,herbec looked like
peach grown on the sunny side of the
tree. Her father had n dim iGea-when
he thought anything about the girl
that .;be lad barely discarded bibs. He
WAS Il thrifty man. leaning to the side
of siincincss. OF the minor diversions
of life. Silas loved Il good song well
sung. Agabus Biglo had supplied the
song on many in occasion.
Silas was sitting one evening upon
the upper rail of his dooryard fence
All about the yard patch focks or
white petunias shimmered and hawk
moths made quivering blots over them
Out of the elder thicket iJmed Agabus
Biglo with his banjo.
Hi. there. Ag" shouted Silas.
"Come long an give us Il chune."
Instead of complying. Agabus fell
into argument.
"Sce ere. Sile." lie said in mild dis
sent. I'm pore, pore as black eyed
peas, and low ef Il good square chune
is wuth listenin' to it oughtta be wuth
slnlckin' out tritle fer. Whutll you
gimme. Sile! I'll sing reasonable"
"Wul. I'll swear. Ag. You reckon
I'm goin' to pay out money to set yere
an listen ut yer little old pie pan ban
Ter an yer old Kentucky Homer
Tree frogs an crickets don't charge
nothin'. Reckon they'll do me-"
Hold OH. Sile; don't fly up creek.
wasn't tiggerin' on plunks." reasoned
Agabns persuasively. Gimme beans.
er sGiawshcs. er taters-gimme taters
now; you got 'em an amt. How
many taters II you give fer batch or
good old songs
Silas smoked and considered for five
silent minutes.
"I'll give you u tater a song he then
announced-"not peelin' more. Them
Island Pearls o. mines wuth money.
MY. paid Sd fer Il dishpan full
seed ones i'm the spring, an the OLD wo'
man like to eat every pottered one;
she lowed they was better than ice
cream. They're new invented. You
don't git but tater Il song
Agabus scrambled upon the fence,
twirled his banjo into position. and
that old song that seems always to
drip soft southern fragrance and to
ripple out the melody Of tranquil wal
ters flowed into the damp. soft gloam-
ing:
"way down upon the suwanee river.
Far. far away
Old Silas smoked. with closed eyes;
his wife rocked placidly in the shadow
of the porch. and Rocksena. sitting
upon the step, clasped her tanned
hands and inhaled the music.
Garry Me Back to Ole Virginny'
thrilled and ebbed, and blithe Nellie
Bly," followed, bringing her broom
along. Then Silas slid stiflly from the
fence and shook his pipe ash into
tuft of wet clover. "Sena, he called
to his daughter. "git Ag three taters.
I'm goin' to bed"
Rocksena brought the three largest
potatoes she could find, and Agabus
slowed them into his pockets.
When Agabus had sung away
bushel Of potatoes from Silas Weather
bee he asked the old man to throw in
his daughter Rocksena for good meas
ure
"Agabus Biglo," directed Silas, "you
shoulder yer rotten old banjer an cut
sticks"
But, Uncle Silas, She
"Cut sticks" repeated Silas sternly,
"an' never pint yer toes down this ho.-
ler ag'in or I'll thow you in the crick.
When the hunters moon piled silver
shcaves under the trees Silas Weather
bee and his wife sat alone on their hop
grown porch.> Agabus. the banjo ana
the potatOcs were gone-and Rocksena.
Silus smoked grimly. He missed the
"Old Kentucky Home" and the "Su-
vance River" His wife knit spirit
lessly. She missed the girl.
In the spring came the great freshet,
when Goose creek arose with slow,
vicious hissings and plunged, foaming,
over its banks. Its high tide mark II
flouted and, like hungry beast, pill
aged cornfield, truck garden and po'
tato patch. The sluggish bloOded old
farmers set to work. with matter OF
fact patience, replanting. Silas Wealth
erbee ragged like Goose creek. Every
darned Pearl tater In the county lick.
ed up by that pottered crick" he roar.
ed. 81 gotta plant any old kind OF
taters this time"
And once again Goose creek arose
with destructive appetite. A June flood
came and the replanted fields were as
bare as a desert.
A drought followed in the latter part
Of summer, and autumn found scanty
ingathering Of crops. One late au.
tumn day Silas Weatherbee drove over
to see his brother Simeon ut Crab HOl'
low. Simeon was cutting sorghum
cane. Gotta live mostly on sorghum
'lasses this winter. One thing-they're
good an film" he philosophical.
"Got any taters?" asked Silas.
"Not tater; Goose creek eat 'em
all. Amt yOu?"
"Naw. My ole woman's plum pinin'
away fer taters-gittin' CANT an pore
es a herrin'"
Look ere, Sile. you ole mule" said
Simeon: cant YOU see whut the whole