CHAPTER II.

PIONEER JOKES AND ANECDOTES.

In early days, the preachers came in for some rather severe criticisms, although the roughest of the frontiersmen had a genuine reverence for their calling.

Ministers of the Gospel, as well as others, were obliged to turn the hand to toil with ax and saw. Now these tools require frequent recourse to sharpening processes and the minister with ax on shoulder, requesting the privilege of grinding that useful article on one of the few grindstones in the settlement occasioned no surprise, but when he prepared to grind by putting the handle on "wrong side to," gave it a brisk turn and snapped it off short, the disgust of the owner found vent in the caustic comment, "Well, if you're such a blame fool as that, I'll never go to hear you preach in the world!"

James G. Swan tells of an amusing experience with a Neah Bay Indian chief, in these words:

"I had a lively time with old Kobetsi, the war chief, whose name was Kobetsi-bis, which in the Makah language means frost. I had been directed by Agent Webster to make a survey of the reservation as far south as the Tsoess river, where Kobetsi lived, and claimed exclusive ownership to the cranberry meadows along the bank of that river. He was then at his summer residence on Tatoosh Island. The Makah Indians had seen and understood something of the mariner's compass, but a surveyor's compass was a riddle to them.

"A slave of Kobetsi, who had seen me at work on the cranberry meadows, hurried to Tatoosh Island and reported that I was working a tamanuse, or magic, by which I could collect all the cranberries in one pile, and that Peter had sold me the land. This enraged the old ruffian, and he came up to Neah Bay with sixteen braves, with their faces painted black, their long hair tied in a knot on top of their heads with spruce twigs, their regular war paint, and all whooping and yelling. The old fellow declared he would have my head. Peter and the others laughed at him, and I explained to him what I had been about. He was pacified with me, but on his return to Tatoosh Island he shot the slave dead for making a fool of his chief."

The same writer is responsible for this account of a somewhat harsh practical joke; the time was November, 1859, the place Port Angeles Bay, in a log cabin where Captain Rufus Holmes resided:

"Uncle Rufus had a chum, a jolly, fat butcher named Jones, who lived in Port Townsend, and a great wag. He often visited Uncle Rufus for a few days' hunt and always took along some grub. On one occasion he procured an eagle, which he boiled for two days and then managed to disjoint. When it was cold he carefully wrapped the pieces in a cabbage leaf and took it to Uncle Rufus as a wild swan, but somewhat tough. The captain chopped it up with onions and savory herbs and made a fine soup, of which he partook heartily, Jones contenting himself with some clam fritters and fried salmon, remarking that it was his off day on soup. After dinner the wretched wag informed him that he had been eating an eagle, and produced the head and claws as proof. This piece of news operated on Uncle Rufus like an emetic, and after he had earnestly expressed his gastronomic regrets, Jones asked with feigned anxiety, 'Did the soup make you sick, Uncle Rufus?'

"Not to be outdone, the captain made reply, 'No, not the soup, but the thought I had been eating one of the emblems of my country.'"

A young man of lively disposition and consequently popular, was the victim of an April fool joke in the "auld lang syne." Very fond he was of playing tricks on others but some of the hapless worms turned and planned a sweet and neat revenge, well knowing it was hard to get ahead of the shrewd and witty youth. A "two-bit" piece, which had likely adorned the neck or ear of an Indian belle, as it had a hole pierced in it, was nailed securely to the floor of the postoffice in the village of Seattle, and a group of loungers waited to see the result. Early on the first, the young man before indicated walked briskly and confidently in. Observing the coin he stooped airily and essayed to pick it up, remarking, "It isn't everybody that can pick up two bits so early in the morning!" "April Fool!" and howls of laughter greeted his failure to pocket the coin. With burning face he sheepishly called for his mail and hurried out with the derisive shout of "It isn't everybody that can pick up two bits so early in the morning, Ha! ha! ha!" ringing in his ears.

Such fragments of early history as the following are frequently afloat in the literature of the Sound country:

"THEY VOTED THEMSELVES GUNS.

"How Pioneer Legislators Equipped Themselves to Fight the Indians.

"If the state legislature should vote to each member of both houses a first-class rifle, a sensation indeed would be created. But few are aware that such a precedent has been established by a legislature of Washington Territory. It has been so long ago, though, that the incident has almost faded from memory, and there are but few of the members to relate the circumstances.

"It was in 1855, when I was a member of the council, that we passed a law giving each legislator a rifle," said Hon. R. S. Robinson, a wealthy old pioneer farmer living near Chimacum in Jefferson County, while going to Port Townsend the other night on the steamer Rosalie. Being in a reminiscent humor, he told about the exciting times the pioneers experienced in both dodging Indians and navigating the waters of Puget Sound in frail canoes.

"It was just preceding the Indian outbreak of 1855-6, the settlers were apprehensive of a sudden onslaught," continued Mr. Robinson. "Gov. Stevens had secured from the war department several stands of small arms and ammunition, which were intended for general distribution, and we thought one feasible plan was to provide each legislator with a rifle and ammunition. Many times since I have thought of the incident, and how ridiculous it would seem if our present legislature adopted our course as a precedent, and armed each member at the state's expense. Things have changed considerably. In those days guns and ammunition were perquisites. Now it is stationery, lead pencils and waste baskets."

Among other incidents related by a speaker whose subject was "Primitive Justice," was heard this story at a picnic of the pioneers:

"An instance in which I was particularly interested being connected with the administration of the sheriff's office occurred in what is now Shoshone County, Idaho, but was then a part of Washington Territory. A man was brought into the town charged with a crime; he was taken before the justice at once, but the trial was adjourned because the man was drunk. The sheriff took the prisoner down the trail, but before he had gone far the man fell down in a drunken sleep. A wagon bed lay handy and this was turned over the man and weighted down with stones to prevent his escape. The next morning he was again brought before the justice, who, finding him guilty, sentenced him to thirty days confinement _in the jail from whence he had come_ and to be fed on bread and water."

No doubt this was a heavy punishment, especially the water diet.

An incident occurred in that historic building, the Yesler cook house, never before published.

A big, powerful man named Emmick, generally known as "Californy," was engaged one morning in a game of fisticuffs of more or less seriousness, when Bill Carr, a small man, stepped up and struck Emmick, who was too busy with his opponent just then to pay any attention to the impertinent meddler. Nevertheless he bided his time, although "Bill" made himself quite scarce and was nowhere to be seen when "Californy's" bulky form cast a shadow on the sawdust. After a while, however, he grew more confident and returned to a favorite position in front of the fire in the old cook house. He was just comfortably settled when in came "Californy," who pounced on him like a wildcat on a rabbit, stood him on his head and holding him by the heels "chucked" him up and down like a dasher on an old-fashioned churn, until Carr was much subdued, then left him to such reflections as were possible to an all but cracked cranium. It is safe to say he did not soon again meddle with strife.

This mode of punishment offers tempting possibilities in cases where the self-conceit of small people is offensively thrust upon their superiors.

The village of Seattle crept up the hill from the shore of Elliott Bay, by the laborious removal of the heavy forest, cutting, burning and grubbing of trees and stumps, grading and building of neat residences.

In the clearing of a certain piece of property between Fourth and Fifth streets, on Columbia, Seattle, now in the heart of the city, three pioneers participated in a somewhat unique experience. One of them, the irrepressible "Gard" or Gardner Kellogg, now well known as the very popular chief of the fire department of Seattle, has often told the story, which runs somewhat like this:

Mr. and Mrs. Gardner Kellogg were dining on a Sunday, with the latter's sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. O. C. Shorey, as they often did, at their home on Third Avenue. It was a cold, drizzly day, but in spite of that "Gard" and Mr. Shorey walked out to the edge of the clearing, where the dense young fir trees still held the ground, and the former was soon pushing up a stump fire on his lots.

As he poked the fire a bright thought occurred to him and he observed to his companion that he believed it "would save a lot of hard work, digging out the roots, to bring up that old shell and put it under the stump."

The "old shell" was one that had been thrown from the sloop-of-war "Decatur" during the Indian war, and had buried itself in the earth without exploding. In excavating for the Kellogg's wood house it had been unearthed.

Mr. Shorey thought it might not be safe if some one should pass by: "O, nobody will come out this way this miserable day; it may not go off anyway," was the answer.

So the shell was brought up and they dug under the roots of the stump, put it in and returned to the Shorey residence.

When they told what they had done, it was, agreed that it was extremely unlikely that anyone would take a pleasure walk in that direction on so gloomy a day.

Meanwhile a worthy citizen of the little burgh had gone roaming in search of his stray cow. As before stated, it was a chilly, damp day, and the man who was looking for his cow, Mr. Dexter Horton, for it was none other than he, seeing the fire, was moved to comfort himself with its genial warmth.

He advanced toward it and spread his hands benignantly as though blessing the man that invented fire, rubbed his palms together in a mute ecstasy of mellow satisfaction and then reversed his position, lifted his coat-tails and set his feet wide apart, even as a man doth at his own peaceful hearthstone. The radiant energy had not time to reach the marrow when a terrific explosion took place. It threw earth, roots and splinters, firebrands and coals, yards away, hurled the whilom fire-worshiper a considerable distance, cautioned him with a piece of hot iron that just missed his face, covered him with the debris, mystified and stupefied him, but fortunately did not inflict any permanent injury.

As he recovered the use of his faculties the idea gained upon him that it was a mean, low-down trick anyhow to blow up stumps that way. He was very much disgusted and refused very naturally to see anything funny about it; but as time passed by and he recovered from the shock, the ludicrous side appeared and he was content to let it be regarded as a pioneer pleasantry.

The innocent perpetrator of this amazing joke has no doubt laughed long and loud many times as he has pictured to himself the vast astonishment of his fellow townsman, and tells the story often, with the keenest relish, to appreciative listeners.

Yes, to be blown up by an old bomb-shell on a quiet Sunday afternoon, while resting beside a benevolent looking stump-fire that not even remotely suggested warlike demonstrations, was rather tough.

HOW BEAN'S POINT WAS NAMED.

Opposite Alki Point was a fine prairie of about forty acres to which C. C. Terry at first laid claim. Some of the earliest settlers of the first mentioned locality crossed the water, taking their cattle, ploughed and planted potatoes on this prairie. Terry subsequently settled elsewhere and the place was settled on by a large man of about sixty years, a Nova Scotian, it was supposed, who bore the name of _Bean_. This lonely settler was a sort of spiritualist; in Fort Decatur, while one of a group around a stove, he leaned his arm on the wall and when a natural tremor resulted, insisted that the "spirits" did it. After the war he returned to his cabin and while in his bed, probably asleep, was shot and killed by an Indian. Since then the place has been known as Bean's Point.

Dr. H. A. Smith, the happiest story-teller of pioneer days, relates in his "Early Reminiscences" how "Dick Atkins played the dickens with poor old Beaty's appetite for cheese" in this engaging manner:

"One day when he (Dick Atkins) was merchandising on Commercial Street, Seattle, as successor to Horton & Denny, he laid a piece of cheese on the stove to fry for his dinner. A dozen loafers were around the stove and among them Mr. Beaty, remarkable principally for his appetite, big feet and good nature. And he on this occasion good-naturedly took the cheese from the stove and cooled and swallowed it without waiting to say grace, while Dick was in the back room, waiting on a customer. When the cheese was fairly out of sight, Beaty grew uneasy and skedadled up the street. When Atkins returned and found his cheese missing, and was told what became of it, he rushed to the door just in time to catch sight of Beaty's coat-tail going into Dr. Williamson's store. Without returning for his coat or hat, off he darted at full speed. Beaty had fairly got seated, when Dick stood before him and fairly screamed:

"'Did you eat that cheese?'

"'Wal--yes--but I didn't think you'd care much.'

"'Care! Care! good thunder, no! but I thought _you_ might care, as I had just put a DOUBLE DOSE OF ARSENIC in it to kill rats.'

"'Don't say!' exclaimed Beaty, jumping to his feet, 'thought it tasted mighty queer; what can I do?'

"'Come right along with me; there is only one thing that can save you.'

"And down the street they flew as fast as their feet would carry them. As soon as they had arrived at the store, Atkins drew off a pint of rancid fish-oil and handed it to Beaty saying, 'Swallow it quick! Your life depends upon it!'

"Poor Beaty was too badly frightened to hesitate, and after a few gags, pauses and wry faces he handed back the cup, drained to the bitter dregs. 'There now,' said Dick, 'go home and to bed, and if you are alive in the morning come around and report yourself.'

"After he was gone one of the spectators asked if the cheese was really poisoned.

"'No,' replied Dick, 'and I intended telling the gormand it was not, but when I saw that look of gratitude come into his face as he handed back the empty cup, my heart failed me, and my revenge became my defeat.' 'No, gentlemen, Beaty is decidedly ahead in this little game. I never before was beaten at a game of cold bluff after having stacked the cards myself. I beg you to keep the matter quiet, gentlemen.' But it was always hard for a dozen men to keep a secret."

These same "Early Reminiscences" contain many a merry tale, some "thrice told" to the writer of this work, of the people who were familiar figures on the streets of Seattle and other settlements, in the long ago, among them two of the Rev. J. F. DeVore, with whom I was acquainted.

"When he lived in Steilacoom, at a time when that city was even smaller than it is now, a certain would-be bully declared, with an oath, that if it were not for the respect he had for the 'cloth,' he would let daylight through his portly ministerial carcass. Thereupon the 'cloth' was instantly stripped off and dashed upon the ground, accompanied with the remark, 'The "cloth" never stands in the way of a good cause. I am in a condition, now sir, to be enlightened.' But instead of attempting to shed any light into this luminary of the pulpit, whose eyes fairly blazed with a light not altogether of this world, the blustering bully lit out down the street at the top of his speed."

The following has a perennial freshness, although I have heard it a number of times:

"When Olympia was a struggling village and much in need of a church, this portly, industrious man of many talents took upon himself the not overly pleasant task of raising subscriptions for the enterprise, and in his rounds called on Mr. Crosby, owner of the sawmill at Tumwater, and asked how much lumber he would contribute to the church. Mr. Crosby eyed the 'cloth' a moment and sarcastically replied, 'As much as _you_, sir, will raft and take away between this and sundown.' 'Show me the pile!' was the unexpected rejoinder. Then laying off his coat and beaver tile he waded in with an alacrity that fairly made Mr. Crosby's hair bristle. All day, without stopping a moment, even for dinner, his tall, stalwart form bent under large loads of shingles, sheeting, siding, scantling, studding and lath, and even large sills and plates were rolled and tumbled into the bay with the agility of a giant, and before sundown Mr. Crosby had the proud satisfaction of seeing the 'cloth' triumphantly poling a raft toward Olympia containing lumber enough for a handsome church and a splendid parsonage besides.

"Mr. Crosby was heard to say a few days afterward that no ten men in his employ could, or would, have done that day's work. Meeting the divine shortly afterwards, Mr. Crosby said, 'Well, parson, you can handle more lumber between sunrise and dark than any man I ever saw.'

"'Oh,' said the parson, 'I was working that day for my Maker.'

"Moral: Never trust pioneer preachers with your lumber pile, simply because they wear broadcloth coats, for most of them know how to take them off, and then they can work as well as pray."

This conjuror with the pen has called up another well known personality of the earliest times in the following sketch and anecdote:

"Dr. Maynard was of medium size. He had blue eyes, a square forehead, a strong face and straight black hair, when worn short, but when worn long, as it was when whitened by the snows of many winters, it was quite curly and fell in ringlets over his shoulders. Add to this description, a long, gray beard, and you will see him as he appeared on our streets when on his last legs. When 'half seas over,' he overflowed with generous impulses, would give away anything within reach and was full of extravagant promises, many of which were out of his power to fulfill. He once owned Alki Point and sometimes would move there in order to 'reform,' but seldom remained longer than a month or six weeks. Alki Point was covered with huge logs and stumps, excepting a little cleared ground near the bay where the house stood. But when the doctor saw it through his telescopic wine-glasses it was transformed into a beautiful farm with broad meadows covered with lowing herds and prancing steeds whose 'necks were clothed with thunder.'

"One day, in the fall of 1860, while viewing his farm through his favorite glasses, David Stanley, the venerable Salmon Bay hermit, happened along, when Maynard gave him a glowing description of his Alki Point farm as he himself beheld it just then, and wound up by proposing to take the old man in partnership, and offered him half of the fruit and farm stock for simply looking after it and keeping the fences in repair. The temptation to gain sudden riches was too much for even his unworldliness of mind, and he made no delay in embarking for Alki Point with all his worldly effects. His object in living alone, was, he said, to comply with the injunction to keep one's self 'unspotted from the world,' but the doctor assured him that the change would not seriously interfere with his meditations, inasmuch as few people landed at Alki Point, notwithstanding its many attractions.

"The day of his departure for the Mecca of all his earthly hopes turned out very stormy. It was after dark before he reached the point, and on trying to land his boat filled with water. He lost many of his fowls and came near losing his life in the boiling surf. After getting himself and his 'traps' ashore, he built a fire, dried his blankets, fried some bacon, ate a hearty supper and turned in.

"The excitement of the day, however, prevented sleep, and he got up and sat by the fire till morning. As soon as it was light he strolled out to look at the stock, but to his surprise, only a bewildering maze of logs and interminable stumps were to be seen where he expected to behold broad fields and green pastures. The only thing he could find resembling stock were--to use his own language--'an old white horse, stiff in all his joints and blind in one eye, and a little, runty, scrubby, ornery, steer calf.' After wandering about over and under logs till noon, he concluded he had missed the doctor's farm, and returned to the beach with the intention of pulling further around, but seeing some men in a boat a short distance from shore, he hailed it and inquired for Dr. Maynard's farm. Charley Plummer was one of the party and he told the old man that he had the honor of being already upon it. Stanley explained his object in being there, and after a fit of rib-breaking laughter, Mr. Plummer advised him to return to Salmon Bay as soon as possible, which he did the very next day.

"The old man had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and joined heartily in the laugh, saying he had been taken in a great many times in his life, but never in so laughable manner as on this occasion. A few days afterward as Charley Plummer was sitting in Dr. Maynard's office the hermit put in an appearance. 'Good afternoon, doctor,' said he, with an air of profound respect. 'Why, how do you do, Uncle Stanley, glad to see you--how does the poultry ranch prosper? By the way, have you moved to Alki Point yet?' 'O, yes, I took my traps, poultry and all, over there several days ago, and had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Plummer there. Did he mention the circumstances?' 'No,' said the doctor, 'he just came in. How did you find things?'

"'To tell the truth, doctor, I couldn't rest until I could see you and thank you from the bottom of my heart for the inestimable blessing you have conferred upon me.'

"At this demonstration of satisfaction uttered with an air of profound gratitude, the doctor leaned back complacently in his easy chair, while an expression of benignant self-approval illuminated his benevolent face.

"'Yes,' continued he, 'I can never be sufficiently grateful for the benefit your generosity has already been to me individually, besides it bids fair to prove a signal triumph for religion and morality, and it may turn out to be a priceless contribution to science.'

"At the utterance of this unexpected 'rhapsody' the doctor turned with unalloyed delight, and seeing that the old man hesitated, he encouraged him by saying, 'Go on, Uncle, go right along and tell all about it, although I can't understand exactly how it can prove a triumph for religion or science.'

"'Well,' continued the old man with solemn countenance, 'my orthodoxy has been a little shaky of late, in fact I have seriously doubted the heavenly origin of various forms of inspiration, but when I got to Alki Point and looked around my skepticism fell from my eyes as did the scales from the eyes of Saul of old.'

"'Yes,' interrupted the doctor, 'the scenery over there is really grand and I have often felt devotional myself while contemplating the grand mountain scenery----'

"'Scenery? Well--yes, I suppose there is some scenery scattered around over there, but it isn't that.'

"'No, well what was it, uncle?'

"'Why, sir, as I was saying, when I get a chance to fairly look around I was thoroughly satisfied that nothing but a miracle, in fact, nothing short of the ingenuity and power of the Almighty could possibly have piled up so many logs and stumps to the acre as I found on your _farm_.'

"Here the doctor's face perceptibly lengthened and a very dry laugh, a sort of hysterical cross between a chuckle and a suppressed oath, escaped him, but before he had time to speak the old man went on:

"'So much for the triumph of religion, but science, sir, will be under much weightier obligations to us when you and I succeed in making an honest living from the progeny of an old blind horse and a little, miserable runty steer calf.'

"This was too much for the doctor and springing to his feet he fairly shouted, 'There, there, old man, not another word! come right along and I will stand treat for the whole town and we will never mention Alki Point again.'

"'No, thank you,' said the hermit, dryly, 'I never indulge, and since you have been the means of my conversion you ought to be the last man in the world to lead me into temptation, besides our income from the blind horse and runty steer calf will hardly justify such extravagance.'

"Hat and cane in hand he got as far as the door, when Maynard called to him saying, 'Look here, old man, I hope you're not offended, and if you will say nothing about this little matter, I'll doctor you the rest of your life for nothing.'

"After scratching his head a moment the hermit looked up and naively answered, 'No, I'm not mad, only astonished, and as for your free medicine, if it is all as bitter as the free dose you have just given me, I don't want any more of it,' and he bowed himself out and was soon lost to the doctor's longing gaze. With eyes still fixed on the door he exclaimed, 'Blast my head if I thought the old crackling had so much dry humor in him. Come, Charley, let's have something to brave our nerves.'"

Among the unfortunate victims of the drink habit in an early day was poor old Tom Jones. Nature had endowed him with a splendid physique, but he wrecked himself, traveling downward, until he barely lived from hand to mouth. He made a house on the old Conkling place, up the bay toward the Duwampsh River, his tarrying place. Having been absent from his customary haunts for a considerable time, it was reported that he was dead. In the village of Seattle, some marauder had been robbing henroosts and Tom Jones was accused of being the guilty party. Grandfather John Denny told one of his characteristic stories about being awakened by a great commotion in his henhouse, the lusty cocks crowing "Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead! Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead!" rejoicing greatly that they were henceforth safe.

D. T. Denny gathered up seven men and went to investigate the truth of the report of his demise. They found him rolled up in his blankets, in his bunk, not dead but helplessly sick. When they told him what they had come for--to hold an inquest over his dead body, the tears rolled down his withered face. They had him moved nearer town and cared for, but he finally went the way of all the earth.

Another of the army of the wretched was having an attack of the "devil's trimmings," as Grandfather John Denny called them, in front of a saloon one day and a group stood around waiting for him to "come to"; upon his showing signs of returning consciousness, _all but one_ filed into the saloon to get a nerve bracer. D. T. Denny, who relates the incident, turned away, he being the only temperance man in the group.