The Hoosier Schoolmaster

As a pebble cast upon a great cairn, this edition is inscribed to the memory of James Russell Lowell, whose cordial encouragement to my early studies of American dialect is gratefully remembered.

Preface

I may as well confess, what it would be affectation to conceal, that I am more than pleased with the generous reception accorded to this story as a serial in the columns of Hearth and Home. It has been in my mind since I was a Hoosier boy to do something toward describing life in the back-country districts of the Western States. It used to be a matter of no little jealousy with us, I remember, that the manners, customs, thoughts, and feelings of New England country people filled so large a place in books, while our life, not less interesting, not less romantic, and certainly not less filled with humorous and grotesque material, had no place in literature. It was as though we were shut out of good society. And, with the single exception of Alice Cary, perhaps, our Western writers did not dare speak of the West otherwise than as the unreal world to which Cooper’s lively imagination had given birth.

I had some anxiety lest Western readers should take offence at my selecting what must always seem an exceptional phase of life to those who have grown up in the more refined regions of the West. But nowhere has the Schoolmaster been received more kindly than in his own country and among his own people.

Some of those who have spoken generous words of the Schoolmaster and his friends have suggested that the story is an autobiography. But it is not, save in the sense in which every work of art is an autobiography: in that it is the result of the experience and observation of the writer. Readers will therefore bear in mind that not Ralph nor Bud nor Brother Sodom nor Dr. Small represents the writer, nor do I appear, as Talleyrand said of Madame de Staël, “disguised as a woman,” in the person of Hannah or Mirandy. Some of the incidents have been drawn from life; none of them, I believe, from my own. I should like to be considered a member of the Church of the Best Licks, however.

It has been in my mind to append some remarks, philological and otherwise, upon the dialect, but Professor Lowell’s admirable and erudite preface to the Biglow Papers must be the despair of everyone who aspires to write on Americanisms. To Mr. Lowell belongs the distinction of being the only one of our most eminent authors and the only one of our most eminent scholars who has given careful attention to American dialects. But while I have not ventured to discuss the provincialisms of the Indiana backwoods, I have been careful to preserve the true usus loquendi of each locution, and I trust my little story may afford material for someone better qualified than I to criticise the dialect.

I wish to dedicate this book to Rev. Williamson Terrell, D.D. of Columbus, Indiana, the Hoosier that I know best, and the best Hoosier that I know. This is not the place to express the reverence and filial affection I feel for him, but I am glad of the opportunity of saying that there is no one to whom Southern Indiana owes a larger debt. Perhaps my dedication to so orthdox a man may atone for any heresies in the book.

I

A Private Lesson from a Bulldog

“Want to be a schoolmaster, do you? You? Well, what would you do in Flat Crick deestrick, I’d like to know? Why, the boys have driv off the last two, and licked the one afore them like blazes. You might teach a summer school, when nothin’ but children come. But I ’low it takes a right smart man to be schoolmaster in Flat Crick in the winter. They’d pitch you out of doors, sonny, neck and heels, afore Christmas.”

The young man, who had walked ten miles to get the school in this district, and who had been mentally reviewing his learning at every step he took, trembling lest the committee should find that he did not know enough, was not a little taken aback at this greeting from “old Jack Means,” who was the first trustee that he lighted on. The impression made by these ominous remarks was emphasized by the glances which he received from Jack Means’s two sons. The older one eyed him from the top of his brawny shoulders with that amiable look which a big dog turns on a little one before shaking him. Ralph Hartsook had never thought of being measured by the standard of muscle. This notion of beating education into young savages in spite of themselves dashed his ardor.

He had walked right to where Jack Means was at work shaving shingles in his own front yard. While Mr. Means was making the speech which we have set down above, and punctuating it with expectorations, a large brindle bulldog had been sniffing at Ralph’s heels, and a girl in a new linsey-woolsey dress, standing by the door, had nearly giggled her head off at the delightful prospect of seeing a new schoolteacher eaten up by the ferocious brute.

The disheartening words of the old man, the immense muscles of the young man who was to be his rebellious pupil, the jaws of the ugly bulldog, and the heartless giggle of the girl, gave Ralph a delightful sense of having precipitated himself into a den of wild beasts. Faint with weariness and discouragement, and shivering with fear, he sat down on a wheelbarrow.

“You, Bull!” said the old man to the dog, which was showing more and more a disposition to make a meal of the incipient pedagogue, “you, Bull! git aout,1 you pup!” The dog walked sullenly off, but not until he had given Ralph a look full of promise of what he meant to do when he got a good chance. Ralph wished himself back in the village of Lewisburg, whence he had come.

“You see,” continued Mr. Means, spitting in a meditative sort of a way, “you see, we a’n’t none of your saft sort in these diggin’s. It takes a man to boss this deestrick. Howsumdever, ef you think you kin trust your hide in Flat Crick schoolhouse I ha’n’t got no ’bjection. But ef you git licked, don’t come on us. Flat Crick don’t pay no ’nsurance, you bet! Any other trustees? Wal, yes. But as I pay the most taxes, t’others jist let me run the thing. You can begin right off a Monday. They a’n’t been no other applications. You see, it takes grit to apply for this school. The last master had a black eye for a month. But, as I wuz sayin’, you can jist roll up and wade in. I ’low you’ve got spunk, maybe, and that goes for a heap sight more’n sinnoo with boys. Walk in, and stay over Sunday with me. You’ll hev’ to board roun’, and I guess you better begin here.”

Ralph did not go in, but sat out on the wheelbarrow, watching the old man shave shingles, while the boys split the blocks and chopped wood. Bull smelled of the newcomer again in an ugly way, and got a good kick from the older son for his pains. But out of one of his red eyes the dog warned the young schoolmaster that he should yet suffer for all kicks received on his account.

“Ef Bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth can’t make him let go,” said the older son to Ralph, by way of comfort.

It was well for Ralph that he began to “board roun’ ” by stopping at Mr. Means’s. Ralph felt that Flat Creek was what he needed. He had lived a bookish life; but here was his lesson in the art of managing people, for he who can manage the untamed and strapping youths of a winter school in Hoopole County has gone far toward learning one of the hardest of lessons. And in Ralph’s time, things were worse than they are now. The older son of Mr. Means was called Bud Means. What his real name was, Ralph could not find out, for in many of these families the nickname of “Bud” given to the oldest boy, and that of “Sis,” which is the birthright of the oldest girl, completely bury the proper Christian name. Ralph saw his first strategic point, which was to capture Bud Means.

After supper, the boys began to get ready for something. Bull stuck up his ears in a dignified way, and the three or four yellow curs who were Bull’s satellites yelped delightedly and discordantly.

“Bill,” said Bud Means to his brother, “ax the master ef he’d like to hunt coons. I’d like to take the starch out uv the stuck-up feller.”

“ ’Nough said,”2 was Bill’s reply.

“You durn’t3 do it,” said Bud.

“I don’t take no sech a dare,”4 returned Bill, and walked down to the gate, by which Ralph stood watching the stars come out, and half wishing he had never seen Flat Creek.

“I say, mister,” began Bill, “mister, they’s a coon what’s been a eatin’ our chickens lately, and we’re goin’ to try to ketch5 the varmint. You wouldn’t like to take a coon hunt nor nothin’, would you?”

“Why, yes,” said Ralph, “there’s nothing I should like better, if I could only be sure Bull wouldn’t mistake me for the coon.”

And so, as a matter of policy, Ralph dragged his tired legs eight or ten miles, on hill and in hollow, after Bud, and Bill, and Bull, and the coon. But the raccoon6 climbed a tree. The boys got into a quarrel about whose business it was to have brought the axe, and who was to blame that the tree could not be felled. Now, if there was anything Ralph’s muscles were good for, it was climbing. So, asking Bud to give him a start, he soon reached the limb above the one on which the raccoon was. Ralph did not know how ugly a customer a raccoon can be, and so got credit for more courage than he had. With much peril to his legs from the raccoon’s teeth, he succeeded in shaking the poor creature off among the yelping brutes and yelling boys. Ralph could not help sympathizing with the hunted animal, which sold its life as dearly as possible, giving the dogs many a scratch and bite. It seemed to him that he was like the raccoon, precipitated into the midst of a party of dogs who would rejoice in worrying his life out, as Bull and his crowd were destroying the poor raccoon. When Bull at last seized the raccoon and put an end to it, Ralph could not but admire the decided way in which he did it, calling to mind Bud’s comment, “Ef Bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth7 can’t make him let go.”

But as they walked home, Bud carrying the raccoon by the tail, Ralph felt that his hunt had not been in vain. He fancied that even red-eyed Bull, walking uncomfortably close to his heels, respected him more since he had climbed that tree.

“Purty peart kind of a master,” remarked the old man to Bud, after Ralph had gone to bed. “Guess you better be a little easy on him. Hey?”

But Bud deigned no reply. Perhaps because he knew that Ralph heard the conversation through the thin partition.

Ralph woke delighted to find it raining. He did not want to hunt or fish on Sunday, and this steady rain would enable him to make friends with Bud. I do not know how he got started, but after breakfast he began to tell stories. Out of all the books he had ever read he told story after story. And “old man Means,” and “old Miss Means,” and Bud Means, and Bill Means, and Sis Means listened with great eyes while he told of Sinbad’s adventures, of the Old Man of the Sea, of Robinson Crusoe, of Captain Gulliver’s experiences in Liliput, and of Baron Munchausen’s exploits.

Ralph had caught his fish. The hungry minds of these backwoods people were refreshed with the new life that came to their imaginations in these stories. For there was but one book in the Means library, and that, a well-thumbed copy of Captain Riley’s Narrative, had long since lost all freshness.

“I’ll be dog-on’d,”8 said Bill, emphatically, “ef I hadn’t ’ruther hear the master tell them whoppin’ yarns than to go to a circus the best day I ever seed!” Bill could pay no higher compliment.