declare, Mr. Morris,” Handsome said, “I ain’t never wanted rubber boots in all my life! That’s one thing I never thought about!”
Handsome tried to give them to Pa, but my old man shoved them back at Handsome. Handsome stood trembling and trying to say something.
“Stop arguing and do like I tell you,” Pa said. “I’d hate to see you go to jail on a fine day like this.”
He handed Handsome the reins and pushed him up into the cart. Then he picked up the boots and threw them inside.
After that he slapped Ida on the back with his hand, and she trotted out of the yard and turned down the street. Handsome went on out of sight and holding to the seat with both hands and moaning so loud we could hear him until he got all the way downtown.
My old man walked over to where the can of worms was and looked at it for a while. Then he picked up the can and told me to get the spade. We went around behind the shed where Handsome had dug them that morning and emptied the can on the ground.
The worms started crawling off in every direction, but my old man got a stick and pushed them down into the hole that Handsome had dug.
“Cover them up good, son,” he said. “Help them make themselves feel at home. It’s too late to go fishing today, but the next time your Ma goes off to visit your Aunt Bessie, we’ll do our best to make the most of it.”
I covered up the hole while my old man patted the earth down tight so it would stay damp down where the worms lived until the next time we had a chance to use them.
VI. Handsome Brown and the Shirt-tail Woodpeckers
T HE SHIRT-TAIL WOODPECKERS had been bothering us for a long time. There were not so many of them to begin with, but they raised several nests in the spring, and by the time the young ones were old enough to peck on wood they made such a racket early in the morning that nobody could sleep. The ’peckers lived in the old dead sycamore tree in our yard, and Ma said the sensible thing to do was to chop it down. My old man said he would rather see the Republicans win every election in the country for the rest of time than to lose the sycamore. He had been nursing it along ever since I could remember, pruning back the dead limbs and daubing paint around the ’pecker holes. After it had been dead for several years, there was not a single limb left on it, and the trunk jutted straight into the air like a telephone pole.
Up near the top of the sycamore was where the shirt-tail woodpeckers lived. They had pecked at it until they had made more holes than I could count. Handsome Brown said once he had counted them, and he thought there were between forty and fifty. At that time of the year, in early summer, after the young ones had come out of the holes and started pecking, there were always a dozen or more of them around the tree. But early in the morning was the worst time. The ’peckers always got up together at the crack of dawn and started pecking on the dead wood, and my old man said he thought there were about twenty or thirty of them always working from then until six or seven o’clock.
“Mr. Morris,” Handsome told Pa, “I could get me a .22 and get shed of them in no time.”
“If you shoot one of them woodpeckers,” Pa said, “it would be just like you shooting the sheriff of the county. I’d haul off and put you on the chain gang for the rest of your life!”
“Please don’t do that to me, Mr. Morris,” Handsome said. “That’s one thing I won’t stand for.”
The rat-tat-tat in the sycamore got worse and worse all the time. The days were growing longer, and that meant that the ’peckers generally started pecking earlier every morning. My old man said they were coming out and starting to peck at three-thirty.
“If them was my peckerwoods,” Handsome said, “I’d chase them off and chop down the tree. Then they couldn’t do no more pecking.”
“You’d better mind how you talk, Handsome Brown,” Pa told him. “If anything ever
Handsome tried to give them to Pa, but my old man shoved them back at Handsome. Handsome stood trembling and trying to say something.
“Stop arguing and do like I tell you,” Pa said. “I’d hate to see you go to jail on a fine day like this.”
He handed Handsome the reins and pushed him up into the cart. Then he picked up the boots and threw them inside.
After that he slapped Ida on the back with his hand, and she trotted out of the yard and turned down the street. Handsome went on out of sight and holding to the seat with both hands and moaning so loud we could hear him until he got all the way downtown.
My old man walked over to where the can of worms was and looked at it for a while. Then he picked up the can and told me to get the spade. We went around behind the shed where Handsome had dug them that morning and emptied the can on the ground.
The worms started crawling off in every direction, but my old man got a stick and pushed them down into the hole that Handsome had dug.
“Cover them up good, son,” he said. “Help them make themselves feel at home. It’s too late to go fishing today, but the next time your Ma goes off to visit your Aunt Bessie, we’ll do our best to make the most of it.”
I covered up the hole while my old man patted the earth down tight so it would stay damp down where the worms lived until the next time we had a chance to use them.
VI. Handsome Brown and the Shirt-tail Woodpeckers
T HE SHIRT-TAIL WOODPECKERS had been bothering us for a long time. There were not so many of them to begin with, but they raised several nests in the spring, and by the time the young ones were old enough to peck on wood they made such a racket early in the morning that nobody could sleep. The ’peckers lived in the old dead sycamore tree in our yard, and Ma said the sensible thing to do was to chop it down. My old man said he would rather see the Republicans win every election in the country for the rest of time than to lose the sycamore. He had been nursing it along ever since I could remember, pruning back the dead limbs and daubing paint around the ’pecker holes. After it had been dead for several years, there was not a single limb left on it, and the trunk jutted straight into the air like a telephone pole.
Up near the top of the sycamore was where the shirt-tail woodpeckers lived. They had pecked at it until they had made more holes than I could count. Handsome Brown said once he had counted them, and he thought there were between forty and fifty. At that time of the year, in early summer, after the young ones had come out of the holes and started pecking, there were always a dozen or more of them around the tree. But early in the morning was the worst time. The ’peckers always got up together at the crack of dawn and started pecking on the dead wood, and my old man said he thought there were about twenty or thirty of them always working from then until six or seven o’clock.
“Mr. Morris,” Handsome told Pa, “I could get me a .22 and get shed of them in no time.”
“If you shoot one of them woodpeckers,” Pa said, “it would be just like you shooting the sheriff of the county. I’d haul off and put you on the chain gang for the rest of your life!”
“Please don’t do that to me, Mr. Morris,” Handsome said. “That’s one thing I won’t stand for.”
The rat-tat-tat in the sycamore got worse and worse all the time. The days were growing longer, and that meant that the ’peckers generally started pecking earlier every morning. My old man said they were coming out and starting to peck at three-thirty.
“If them was my peckerwoods,” Handsome said, “I’d chase them off and chop down the tree. Then they couldn’t do no more pecking.”
“You’d better mind how you talk, Handsome Brown,” Pa told him. “If anything ever
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