The Soloist of Center Pond.

Dominion, Volume 6, Issue 1629, 21 December 1912, Page 14

The Soloist of Center Pond.

Tho thomo of thiß humorous taJo. which wo roprint irom "Hampton'n, 1 is similar to that of tho tliuo-worn quostion, What will hnppon when an ii-roaietiulo force cncountera nn immovable body? At last tho Question is answered. I'olopideß Star was tho lrrosiotiblo force in tlilo caso, anil Orim-Blio-w was tho immovable body. And tho result is heroin Bet. forth by Irvinji llacholler. His name was Star —Folopides Star —and ho was overloaded with momories and had a list to starboard, as ono might say. We called him Uncle Pool. You oould always hoar him ooming. Chunks of conversation to fall around you, and when ho had arrived ha took possession of a square railo of silence and spread his voico all ovor it. Ho was a . perpetual tulkor. Often in the lonely trails ho was : both orator anil audionco, and, judged by ! it 3 effect, his talk was then most con- I vincing. ■ . • "' | Hia voioo llowod liko a spring brook down a mountain sido, laughing 1 over psbblcs, roaring over falls, turning this way and that. It had boon dammed variously, but never adequately—never so as to produce more than n moment's pauso in tho genial flood of his conversation. That voice had certain notes of tho wild wood in it, notably those of tho crow, tho owl, and the bittern. It hod, too, a penetration and impartiality which reminded one of an old-time musket. i Edirion onoe told me that while oiperi- i menting 'with the phonograph he dis- i covered that the samo phrasos of music, j repeated day after day,. seemed to weary | certain bars in his oar and produce I nausea. That helps one to understand tho singular cfloct of tho unending solo of Pelopides. Wo had gone over to his camp for a few days of shooting. His .talk wearied us and wearied him, but he didn't mind. Everything about him had a worn and wfrary aspect. His dog had run away, his wife was half gone, his clothes wcro trying to desert their post, his potatoes were hiding in tho woeus, his cabin woro a God-have-inorcy-look, and conversation hud done it all and done it thoroughly. Yet he never raid anythinsrpthis kindly old woodsman—nover had tinie-4wcausn ho had so much to say-. .'. His walk was liko his conversation. Ho flowed along swiftly, reeling from one foot to tho other—all looso from hoar! to licol—and weariwl any \vho tried to follow him. His diairt-l wns unique, unclassified, ; inhuman, I had almost said. It had coino of much aimless communion with his own singular, simple self in lonely situations— a.rough corduroy runniug into swamps of reeolloction and curiously bound togoth-sr with w'nichcs and side remarks. When we arrived he was smoking n potato which he had hollowed out with his knife, having punched the "pcth". froni a pioce of witch hopple for a stem. He bopn'his long solo at onosi—, "0, I toll j'*, they's tome ways where tha ol* man feats the world I Ono day I

started to go to my traps with ol' Susy, which, ye know, I had two houn s, Susy and Tigo. Susy, ye know, ,why she d lock jawß with a lion if I give ; her the word — ay uh! I see they was a bear in the trapj an' I says to Susy 'Biclc 'im,' says 1, an Susy—say she was a dandy, which they ain t no mistake. Got her from Adron-. d&ck Murray—why—ay uh! didnt you know'at • I knew him 1 Why, one day me an' him was a-fishin' on Surnac, which was a Friday—no 'twant—''twas a Thurs-. day—ay uh! 'twas a Thursday—when 'long come Bill Dobson an' his wife in a canoe—kind o' foolln' with one 'nother, an 'all't once they upsot an' in thoy went. I see she was goin' t' drownd, so in I jumped. I'd knowed her ever since she was that high—ay uh! Why, one day I carried her on my back more'n twenty mile with, a pack heavlor'u she was, ay uh! We-was a stout fara'ly. Why, my mother'd think nathin' o doih' her mornin's work, which she'd ten cows t' milk, an' hippm' a baby off five_ mile for a visit an' bo back in time f git supper ready. She was' married when sbo was fifteen—my mother was—an' had fourteen children, an' mv wife had 'leven an' when Susy, the second child, was born,, ye know —named her after my houn'—l was over to Surnac, which the child was born Tuesday night—the same as Monday—an' I got t' worryin' an' put her through the woods forty-five mile an', say, comm' up the Mud River that night I fieam a panther kind o' purrin' in the brush—ay uh! .they will—an' say, did yon know a Sianther can't run more'n half a dozen umps? Why, their lungs-ye knowhey ain't bigger'n yer two fists, their lungs ain't. They got no pump for innd; but, say, can't they grab a deer? Why, one night I was a-floatin an I Knocked a hole in a'deer, an' when I was _adraggin' of him out I hearn a noiso kind o' like that (here he imitated the; purring of a panther). Tow, I want scairt— not reely. I slit the deer open an was a-dressin' of him off an' say: did; you know a deer ain't got no gall on their livers? Why, that's the reason they can eat pizen. Once when Senator Brown was over to my camp—say, did I:ever tell vou 'bout the time I went down to see the Senator? Ay uh! I did. Got up at daylight, went out t' Short Hill fer a load o' provisions an' fetched up at Beaver Crick in time for the noon train. An' sav—they was a man lay drunk on tho railroad, kind o' quottorfn' Tight by the switch, ye know, an' the train acomin' like a buck deer when ye've ripped his pants a loetle, an' I got onto' the track ahead o' that 'ere train an' worked my j'ints supple, I can toll- yo, an ke'tcheld holt o' the man right by the switch, an' say—did I ever toll you that Fd invented a switch fer the railroad an' they say it'll beat the world? It works this way—same as this is the track ' This wild stampede of old memories continued until my friend got a oase of the hiccoughs and I felt as if I had been shot in the abdomen., The monotonous, penetrating voice, tho kaleidoscopic shifts and suspenses had begun to wear upon me. Wo picked up our rifles and reNext morning wo were awakened before daylight by the beginning of the day's solo. Soon lie blew a tin horn. Wo dozed a few minutes, and again tho horn sounded. Star was saying, soon,, that if "them dod dinged sports dm'nt git up t.hey wouldn't git no breakfast." We got up and faced the music and "the jerk" and "the griddlers" and the deadly coffee. ; The food had an effect like flint of a sinker on a. line. It produced inertia and reflection. We were as helpless as live bait. The hurricane of conversation fell upon us. Wo wcro, dragged from one climax to another, and

„c A STORY . . .

each 6tory ran into the noit with a loud bang, and both were shattered, ilia way was strowu with wrocks, and we broke nway as soon as possiblo and wont oil' in tho woods and liiy iloivu to rost, "loci's sond for Grimshaw," iny friend proposed. "llo'U break tho old man down." Now Grimshaw wbb almost aa deaf as a rook and fond of "social oonvcrsu," to quoto his own phr<iso. As an absorber and reoeiver of oonvorsation ho was unrivalled—absolutely unrivalled. His curiosity was greater cvon than the difficulty ho found in satisfying it. Ho wished to hoar everything that was said, and took offenco if ho didn't. Ho was a vacuum cleaner, n mammoth cavo, an extinct orator. Ho was often saying: "Would you mind speaking a littlo louder, please —a little bit loudor ?" Wo sent our guide for Grimshniv' wjth a note of Invitation which promised a rare treat. Ho camo and. saw and conquered. With great joy -we led them face to face. As wo. expected,"'each embracod tho other as a golden opportunity —a long-felt need. Star got his voico in action. Grimshaw halted him at once. "Would you mind speaking a littlo louder?" he asked. Star began again with tho loud pedal opon, but had to raise his voice another notch, and Grimshaw held him there, Star had started the tale of Susy and the boar. His voice rang through the valley, and wo could hear Hb echo in tho distant hills. At his first turn Qrimshaiv halted him—politely, but firmly. Ho wanted to know what happened to tho boar. Star went on loudor than ever. ■ "There—that's good!" said Grimshaw. "Keep yer voico right there—if. you don't mind." Uncle Peel didn't mind. He opened, his throttlo and let her go with joyful recklessness. Wo picked up our rifles and set out for tho hunting grounds. That strident voice pursued us for a milp or more. When we retnrnea at sundown a deep silence brooded over the camp of Star. We could hear pleasant sounds that were new to us in that:, vicinity—the'low songs of the tea-kettle and of Mrs,-Star as she movp.d about getting suppsr ready. - "Whera is Uncle Peel?" I asked. "Got a sore throat an' gone to bed," said she. "Can't speak above a whisper." "And where is Mr. Grimshaw t" "Gone to bed, too. Said he was sick to his stuminiclc." ' We wont into tho dining tent, full of suppressed emotion. They've floored each other," said my friend as we sat down at the table. Peel nigh killed himself talkin;" said the old lady as she poured the ten. "Suys he spraint his neck trying' to makp that mail hear him;" • Undo Peel camo"'in' 1 presently: and sat down near us with a whispered-greeting.

He wore a bandage on his throat. He looked wistfully into our faces, and shook bis head. "He's awful desf," Uncle Peel whispered. "I don't want to talk no more to him—no more. Once I stood on one side o' Long Lake an' tried to talke with a man on t'other side an' spraint my neck doin' it, but he's farther away 'n that—a good deal." His eyes grew moist. He shook his head mournfully. "I had suthin' tf tell ye, but I can't. I'm all dammed up, here. I've got to lay down." .

In a minute Grimshaw appeared, and, seeing Uncle Peel, backed out, and retired, hastily, as if he had forgotton Bomething. "I've had enough*'of him," he said to mo in confidence after supper. "He kept dodging around. ' I couldn't understand him. By and by I couldn't make him speak loud enough. Then he got mad and shook his first in my face.'' They say that Uncle Peel always had a weak voice after that, which was good for his wife and garden I doubt not. When I saw him again ho was different. There was a now note in his voice—a note of tenderness—and he hadn't so much to say. Slowly he came out of the potato patch and sat down beside mo ana told me of the loss of his wife. "Never ketched her breath, ner guggled, ner nahthin," lie explained. 'It was jes like goin' f sleep—ay uh!" I tried.to think of some word of comfort, but he got up'and went into the kitchen. . By and by I tried to rally him. "Undo Peel, you don't have much to Bay these days," I remarked. "My crick has sunk—kind o' flows underground lately," he said. "Don't lie ner swear any more —not no more at^all.' "Unole Peel, you never told a ,110 in your life—not a real, finished lie," I said. "You may have meant well, but I don't believe the Recording Angel was over able to get a line oh you." "I'm so thinkin' seems, so'-I don't have no time t* talk these days," he said as he returned to his task.