IN MY BOYHOOD we did not have to depend entirely upon
imported talent for entertainment; some of it was home-grown and of the
best; Caleb Pennypacker for instance. Caleb was the son of Jonas
Pennypacker, a hard working man who never smiled. Caleb was nothing that
his father was and everything that his father was not; he never worked and
he always grinned; in fact, his face was wreathed in grins from morning
until night and his grin begot grins on the faces of others. He enjoyed
the distinction of being the "grinniest" and the naughtiest boy in town.
There was little room for melancholy in Wallingford as long as Caleb lived
there. He viewed the world as a huge joke and all he had to do was to
unleash it and that duty he gladly performed.
To us younger fry perhaps the most conspicuous of
Caleb's varied skills and accomplishments was the knack he had of
converting himself into a sore-eyed old man through the simple expedient
of turning the upper lids of his eyes inside out where they would remain
until he willed it otherwise. This amazing transformation, he could
accomplish in a twinkling and folks who saw it for the first time never
knew whether to laugh or to cry. The exercise of this remarkable faculty
was an excellent way of relieving the tedium of school life. Whenever the
teacher became too serious, Caleb could relieve the tension by turning his
upper eyelids inside out. For this voluntary contribution, he was
frequently ferruled but he was never cured of it. Naturally all of the
boys envied him and did their best to follow his noble example but none
succeeded. When Caleb left school turning eyelids inside out became a lost
art.
Naturally there were other boys who made contributions
of an extra curricular nature to school life. George Marsh could make his
ears wag as a horse wags his ears in fly time. It was a grand
accomplishment and always brought down the house. "Inky" Ballou could make
his knuckles crack like a pistol shot. Such contributions are entitled to
honorable mention but the only one to really shed lustre on the
Wallingford school was Caleb in his inimitable performance of turning his
upper eyelids inside out.
When school was in session, some of the trustees made
unexpected calls in order to inform themselves of the progress being made.
When Trustee Charles Congdon called, he was generally expected to make a
speech and he always lived up to expectations. He invariably closed his
remarks with a poem which he considered appropriate. I heard it so often,
I remember it now:
"As I walked by myself I
talked to myself, and myself said unto me:
'Beware of thyself, take
care of thyself, for no one will care for thee'."
Whenever I saw him coming into the room I had
difficulty in restraining myself from arising and greeting him with the
words of this poem.
Mr. Congdon was, however, a fine old gentleman. Among
other things, he rented saddle horses at twenty-five cents per hour to
those who could afford that luxury. I enjoyed the inestimable privilege of
hiring a saddle horse from Mr. Congdon once upon a time. Where I got the
necessary twenty-five cents, I do not remember, though so important an
event should have stamped itself upon my memory as did the experience of
finding a silver ten cent piece in a pile of rubbish back of Ben Crapo's
store. The fact that I found the ten-cent piece was not the wonder; the
wonder was that some Vermonter must have lost it without publicizing his
calamity; he may, of course, have gotten it dishonestly. Sometimes boys
served as temporary hitching posts for farmers with business to transact
at the grocery stores; it was easier to throw the reins to a boy than to
hitch and unhitch. On taking up the reins again, he would say, "Thank you,
boy; some day I'll give you a quarter, the first one I find rolling up
hill." That was the nearest I ever came to earning a quarter as a hitching
post.
On the first day of May it was customary for the school
teachers to take their charges into the woods to gather May flowers and
trailing arbutus and to welcome the migratory birds to their northern
homes. Once a Maypole was erected in the school yard and we danced and
frolicked around it in the manner of another age.
Decoration Day was another celebration which took place
at end of May. We decorated the graves of the soldiers, who had died in
the Civil War, with spring flowers and we placed a small flag upon each
grave. Civil War Veterans dressed in full regalia, led the procession to
the cemetery where patriotic speeches were made. Our veterans made a very
brave showing; Harlon Strong, our Sunday School Superintendent, Martin
Williams, the cheese-maker, Mr. Thomas, the paper-hanger, all looked
particularly well in their uniforms and our hearts swelled nearly to the
bursting point when the Congregational church quartette sang, "We deck
their graves alike to-day with springtime's fairest flowers," and again
when the Hartsboro drum corps played. "John Brown's body lies mouldering
in the grave "Yankee Doodle" and other patriotic airs. Deaf as I have
become to many shallow forms of emotional appeal, my toes have tingled and
tears have come welling into my eyes when our few remaining Civil War
Veterans came limping by in recent years.
Joy bells surely rang in our hearts in the springtime;
like frisky lambs we cavorted and, like tumblebugs, we turned somersaults
and handsprings without regard for life or limb. One day Fay's father, who
had been watching us from a distance, shouted, "Remember, Boy, your neck
isn't long enough to splice."
Early in June came the long awaited "last day of
school." The air in the school house is heavy with the perfume of gorgeous
red, pink and white peonies. The girls are arrayed in new summer finery;
the boys stiff and uncomfortable in their best Sunday clothes. Grand
orations have been carefully committed to memory during long evening hours
at home and nothing except the dread bugaboo, "old man stagefright," is
likely to interfere with their delivery. There is no getting away from the
fact that "old man stagefright" is a factor to be reckoned with. He begins
his work early; long before the great occasion. During the quiet hours of
the night he is on hand to prod his helpless victim. Can anyone imagine
worse fortune than waiting for his name to be called on the program of the
'last day of school?" One after the other, earlier victims have been
called upon; they have taken their place on the platform, tremblingly
waged battle with the "old man," and returned to their respective seats
either in victory or defeat.
Then comes the last name on the program. There is
nothing to sustain the victim except the thought that it will be over
soon, and the glorious long vacation that appears like a beacon-light
ahead. A cold sweat stands in beads upon his brow; from somewhere in the
distance a voice is heard. What is it that it says? "Paul Harris will now
recite 'The Polish Boy'." I arise and step forward, "old man" close by my
side. Soon another voice is heard, loud and brave- whose is it? Great
Scott, my own! I have a vague feeling that the three of us, "The Polish
Boy," "old man stagefright" and I are making quite a job of it but I am
not sure of that fact. A lady in the front seat is having considerable
trouble with her new hat and seems little concerned with the stirring
events taking place on the platform; Thank God, she doesn't have to be
reckoned with! I wish they all had new hats to fuss with; anything to take
their minds off me.
Eventually the last word rings through the packed
schoolroom and Paul Harris returns to his desk amidst salvos of applause.
The Polish boy is forgotten and the "old man" buried, not to be
resurrected until one year hence, when in due course of events there will
be another 'last day of school."
The professor closes proceedings with appropriate
remarks; touches his desk bell for the last time, and I slither away
through the jam of mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers, out of the
suffocating atmosphere of the peony-scented room, out, out, where I can
get a breath of uncontaminated air; and hasten to the swimming hole; oh,
the swimming hole; glorious, carefree vacation time has begun.
Oh, for boyhood's time of
June
Crowding years in one brief
moon
When all things I heard or
saw
Me, their master, waited
for.
-John Greenleaf Whittier.
Vacation days were anxious days for grandfather. One
day he asked me to go with him to the barn. Arriving there we seated
ourselves, he in the wheelbarrow and I in the swing and then he said:
"Paul, I want to talk with you about your future. It is
a matter of great concern to me. I wonder at times if I am doing right by
you. It is my observation that growing boys should have daily work to do
and I feel that boys who are taught to work have a great advantage over
boys who have nothing to do except play. You do nothing but race from
morning till night, Paul. Now there is not much work about this place
except what I do myself but what I want you to do is to study a part of
each vacation day and the best time to begin is right now."
He drew from his pocket an ancient spelling book,
yellow with age, and began to pronounce words for me to spell. This
experience was repeated several times during the summer and upon such
occasions it was my custom to dawdle lazily in the swing, which had been
dedicated to other purposes, and to spell as best I could, although I fear
I did so with unconcealed resentment. The swimming hole cried out its
invitation to a plunge and my mind was tortured with fears lest the gang
break up before I could report for business. If such a thing happened, my
day would be ruined; nothing could compensate; nothing perhaps except a
fight, a flood, a fire or a circus. I did not, however, forget
grandfather's words.
The thirst for learning is a New England
characteristic. From New England it was extended throughout the United
States. Senator Justin S. Morrill, the father of the land grant bill, was
a Vermonter. By virtue of his efforts agricultural colleges were
established in every state in the Union.
I had no objection to reading assuming that the reading
be something sensible; I did not consider Pilgrim's Progress nor
Plutarch's Lives in that category. Indian Pete and similar stories in the
Youths Companion fired my imagination and let to further explorations in
the field of literature. However explanations in nature's great
out-of-doors were more attractive.
Living among mountains as I did, most naturally
mountain climbing was in my line. White Rocks, near Wallingford and
Killington Peak not far from Rutland challenged my attention. My
experience in climbing these two heights inspired me in later years to
greater undertakings in the Rockies.
The ascent of White Rocks began over boulders which had
been wrested by storm, frost and perhaps earthquakes, from the
perpendicular face of the mountain above them. Some of the lichen-covered
rocks were fifteen or more feet in diameter and the surfaces of many of
them bore the graven initials of generations of visitors, some of them
distinguished in business or the professions. J. T. Trowbridge, the
writer of boys' stories, once lived in Walling-ford and his initials
appeared among others.
After the boulder region had been passed, the climb up
the precipitous face of the mountain began. It would not be considered
even worthy of mention by an Alpine climber, but to the tyro it was a
climb. I know of but few who have undertaken it but to me it was one of
the things that had to be done. I think that I experienced more
satisfaction the first time I climbed White Rocks than I did from climbing
Pike's Peak years later. I had looked forward to it since the day
grandmother decided that I was too young to accompany a certain old
gentleman on an expedition to White Rocks which he intended to make for
the purpose of gathering rare specimens of lichen. Some day, I hoped, I
would be big enough and strong enough to do the job. The top of White
Rocks had a romantic interest not shared by other spots of the Green
Mountains and one reason why I wanted to climb to the top was because it
was there that Captain Kidd was supposed to have buried his chest of gold.
How Captain Kidd happened to be in the vicinity of White Rocks calls for
more explanation than I am able to make.
Still another reason why I was anxious to make the
climb was to obtain the unsurpassed view of my valley. In the summer time,
nothing was to be seen of the houses in the village from the top of White
Rocks as they were hidden in the foliage, nor could more than a brief
glimpse be had of the winding creek. However, beyond the village and
nestling at the foot of West Mountain, Fox Pond (excuse me, Elfin Lake)
could be seen sparkling in the sun. Hot and perspiring as I was, it seemed
to cry out to me. I never failed to resolve to go to the lake for a
refreshing plunge immediately upon my return to the village but I do not
recall ever having carried out this resolution; by the time I arrived home
the coolness of the evening made the water seem less attractive and
besides I was tired and I had a lot of miscellaneous business to attend to
when the gang gathered for the evening's tryst.
How inviting the swimming hole was on hot afternoons as
we got our first glimpse of it through the woods. Some unregenerate
youngster yells, "Last one in is a... [[ etc., etc.," and off we start at
high speed, stripping our clothes off as we run and into the water we
plunge like so many bull frogs. Happy Days! Happy Days!
There are many other spring-fed ponds set like gems in
the hills and mountains surrounding Wallingford; Shrewsbury Pond, Tinmouth
Pond, and the two Sugar Hill Ponds, sometimes called Spectacle Pond
because of their resemblance to a pair of gigantic spectacles. Griffin
Pond was high up in the mountains east of Danby and its waters were cold
enough to be inviting to brook trout which, because of the depth of the
water, were of a high color ranging from pale pink to salmon.
There were also the much larger lakes, Bomoseen, St.
Catherine and Dunmore, and, in a longer radius Lake Champlain and
beautiful Lake George. No one objected to the term 'Lake" being applied to
these larger bodies of water except a few die-hards who continued to speak
of Lake Bomoseen as "Castleton Pond."
Anyone desiring a broad view of the surrounding
mountains and hills, lakes and ponds, would do well to climb Rattlesnake
Mountain near Lake Dunmore, select the highest tree and from its topmost
branches survey the county as far north as the Canadian border.
