Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 January 1914 — DEACON AND THE OXEN [ARTICLE]

DEACON AND THE OXEN

By M. QUAD.

De&oon Bbortwell and the Widow Harris, whose farms adjoined, were Hot exactly engaged to be married When a certain April morning was ■oshered in with the songs of happy robins and the squeals of hungry frigs, bat" they had been "leaning that way” for the last year. They had, •’beenwtdow and widower for upwards wf three years. For a year or more ■the deacon had been in the habit of dropping in two or three times —a"week and exhibiting something more than neighborly Interest, and It was noticeable that the widow used a bit more hair dye than formerly, and was more solicitous about the freckles on her face. The neighbors had it that the thing was all settled,, but they were a little too previous. The deacon was a man who never bought a Cow, signed a note, traded off a horse or got a new pump for the well without careful deliberation, and on her part the Widow was willing to wait and study him a bit. Therefore, while there was a tacit and mutual understanding that In due time the deacon would boss both farms, and the widow to boot, and that she would darn his socks and make his bread in a housewifely way, he hadn’t asked her straight from the shoulder if she would be his. On that certain April morning referred to as a date to start from, the deacon dropped in to borrow a hoe, and the widow incidentally observed that her garden ought to be plowed. He agreed, bat as his team of horses was busy, and as the widow’s hired man was preparing a field for corn with her own, he decided to go over and borrow neighbor Johnson’s yoke “of oxen to do the work. Farmer Johnson was willing to lend his oxen, his plow or anything else around the farm that was portable, but before yoking the bo vines up he rather cautiously observed: "Deacon, I don’t remember that you ever owned a yoke of oxen yourself.” "No. I never have,” was the reply, “And mebbe you never used anybody Oise’s to plow with?” — "I can’t say that I ever did.” “Wall, oxen ain’t exactly like horses, you know—not exactly. They sometimes get streaky and act up, and you’ve got to humor ’em. Coaxin’ will sometimes do the bizness, and then, again, you’ll have to put on the gad. If you was only in the habit of usin’ a few cuss words I’d feel purty sure you would . come out all right, but mebbe you will, anyhow. We’ll yoke ’em up and start you off in no time.” It was only half a mile from Farmer Johnson’s to the Widow Harris’, but the deacon was a long time in making the trip back with the oxen, and he arrived with the look of a man who had been in trouble. The widow noticed his perturbation and solicitously inquired: “Did you stub your toe or lose your hat or anything?” “Of course not. What makes you" ask?” “Because you look so flustered. Mebbe you are going to break out with the hives. If I was yOu I would take the plowing kind o’ easy.” The deacon muttered some reply under his breath, and after a brief rest the work of plowing the garden began. That is, he thought it had, but lie was mistaken. The plow point had scarcely entered the rich soil of the old tomato bed when the oxen turned to the left with a rush and would have gone clear across the garden had they not been stopped by a plum tree. “By hen, but did anybody ever see the likes of that!” exclaimed the deacon, as he held on to the plow han--dles and followed along on the jump. “What’s the matter, deacon? - ’ asked the widow, from the open kitchen window. “Nuthin’ —nuthin’ ’tall,” was the really. “The oxen Jest come over here to see whether this was a peach or a plum tree.” “Oh, they did, eh? ’Pear to be a pretty smart yoke of oxen.” Farmer Johnson, had said that coaxing would sometimes do the business, and Deacon Shortwell proceeded to •coax. After he had made use of about i 6,000 of the most honeyed words in .■the English language he got the oxen back to the starting point, and then plowed a furrow almost ten feet long before making their next rush. This itlme they turned to the right and fled over the spot where cucumbers used to grow aud brought up against the fence with a bang. "Now, by gum, but what they nped Is to have their horns knocked off with a club!” muttered the deacon. “Hey, but was that thunder?” asked the widow, as she thrust her head out again. "I didn't hear no thunder,” the plowman replied, knowing that she referred to the crash against the fence. "Well, this is the month for thunder storms, and I didn't know but one was coming up. What are the oxen doing over there?” “Looking over the fence.” "Well, let ’em look. I suppose that oxen want to look around and see what’s going on ub well as other folks. I'd take It easy if I was you; your face Is as red as paint, and you are breathing as If a cider barrel had rolled over you.” ■ The deacon thought of shotguns and towte knives and rawhides as he Earned to the oxen again; but he got .« grip on himself and suavely and jblamHly argued the case until “Buck” and "Bright” concluded to lengthen put that furrow. Their attitude was

all humility as they dragged the plow to the spot and nothing indicated a strike for shorter hours as they started off. They had wandered along for a distance of 16 feet and three or four Inches, and the deacon was saying to himself that be who controlled Jrif owfl temper was greater than the jawbone of an ass, when there was a third rush. This time it was straight ahead and the full length of the garden, and as the plowman sought to keep fast hold he was flung this way and that, and finally found himself tangled up with an old strawberry bed. “Now, by the horn spoon of the horned jackass, but this is too much —too much!” he shouted as he scramTiled up and tound a Club. “Is it thunder after all, deacon?” sweetly inquired the widow, as she appeared in the kitchen door. “Yes, it’s thunder and lightning, too! ” he almost shouted, as he moistened his hands to get a grip on the club. “What is it —what are you -going to do?” ~ The deacon didn't answer. He wanted all his Breath for what was about to happen. He gripped the club and made for the oxen, and for ten minutes there was a circus in town with free admission. He pounded and swatted and batted, and as the club rose and fell he brought out a reserve stock of the English language to take the cake over anything Farmer Johnson had ever thought of. “Deacon Shortwell, I wouldn't abelieved it, not if the minister had told me so himself.” “I don't care a durn whether you would or not!” lie hoarsely replied. “Oh, you don’t, eh? Well, you’ve let the cat out of the bag at last. Deacon, you are a cruel-hearted man, and you swear like a pirate. I can never, never marry such a man." “Nobody has asked you to. Durn their hides, but I’d like to murder ’em!” “More cruelty! More cussing! T thought there might be something hidden under that soft, sleek way of yours. Oxen ain’t exactly women, and wives ain’t exactly oxen, but a man who will cuss and pound his oxen will naturally—” “Mebbe you’d like to try ’em your self?" interrupted the deacon, as a brilliant thought came to him. “I would. I have never driven oxen in my life, but I know I can do better’n you. Gimme the gad. Now, then, haw Buck—gee Bright. See there! As soon as they find out that nobody is going to break their ribs or cuss them blind they are as docile as cats. You hold the plow and I’ll drive.” Five minutes later the furrow had been extended four feet more, and the plow point was getting ready to rip up the soil In the good old way when the oxen flourished their tails and bolted. The deacon went whirling at the first twist of the plow, but the widow was game, and she raced along with the bolters and put the whip over their noses. She might possibly have stopped them before they got over the county line but for an accident. Oxen and woman struck and overturned a bee j hlve la their mad career, and the 10,000 bees loafing around came up to the scratch in the promptest and most cheerful manner. The deacon witnessed the beginning of the scrap, and even waited until a stray bee had lifted his heels off the ground for humanity’s sake, but then he fled, and it was two days later that he knew that the widow had 61 lumps on her body and was doing as well as could be expected, and that 'the oxen had been heard of 40 miles away and still on the run. “Deacon," began the widow, as be made his appearance in response to her message, “I believe you cussed them oxen the other day.” “I —I guess I did,” he rather sheepishly replied. “But it was for yourself, deacon. I now wish you to cuss ’em for me. You also clubbed ’em until you was tired out. Can’t you club ’em some more ?” “And you ain’t —ain’t mad at me?" he asked, as a look of relief came to his face. “La. no —not a mite.” “And I ain’t cruel-hearted nor a hypocrite and a pirate?" “No, deacon. On the contrary, you are one of the best men on earth, or will be after you have bought them oxen - and peeled their pesky hides off.’" “And about —about—?” stammered the deacon. "Ahput our getting married? Well, Samuel, you can fix the date to suit yourself, and I will be there.” (Copyright, 1913. by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.) Political Opinions Never Change. Not once in the 15 years of political discussion that I have witnessed in my club have I seen a political opinion removed from one member by another, yet not a day haß passed without some one’s trying It In some corner of this building, I believe there has always been a tall gentleman towering over a little one and exclaiming: "What are the facts 7” or two stout members, like embattled chickens, revolving beak to beak in simultaneous refutation, or one of those strange colloquies going -on, which seem so hopeless to the bystander wherein the two minds move obviously in parallels never to meet, how far so ever prolonged. I have had a man tug for five years at ohe of my political opinions, and it never budged. I have tugged for five years at one df his, and despite my harsh laugh of verbal victory 1 knew It was In him still. As I look back on Lt, it seems a mad sort of dentistry, and not only barren of results, but cruel In intention.— Century Magazine.