Uncle Ethan Ripley





"Like the Main-Travelled Road of Life, it is traversed by many

classes of people."



UNCLE ETHAN had a theory that a man's character could be told

by the way he sat in a wagon seat.



"A mean man sets right plumb in the middle o' the seat, as much as

to say, 'Walk, goldarn yeh, who cares!' But a man that sets in the

corner o' the seat, much as to say, 'Jump in-cheaper t' ride 'n to

walk,' you can jest tie to."



Uncle Ripley was prejudiced in favor of the stranger, therefore,

before he came opposite the potato patch, where the old man was

"bugging his vines." The stranger drove a jaded-looking pair of

calico ponies, hitched to a clattering democrat wagon, and he sat

on the extreme end of the seat, with the lines in his right hand,

while his left rested on his thigh, with his little finger gracefully

crooked and his elbows akimbo. He wore a blue shirt, with

gay-colored armlets just above the elbows, and his vest hung

unbuttoned down his lank ribs. It was plain he was well pleased

with himself.



As he pulled up and threw one leg over the end of the seat, Uncle

Ethan observed that the left spring was much more worn than the

other, which proved that it was not accidental, but that it was the

driver's habit to sit on that end of the seat.



"Good afternoon," said the stranger pleasantly.



"Good afternoon, sir."



"Bugs purty plenty?"



"Plenty enough, I gol! I don't see where they all come fum."



"Early Rose?" inquired the man, as if referring to the bugs.



"No; Peachblows an' Carter Reds. My Early Rose is over near the

house. The old woman wants 'em near. See the darned things!" he

pursued, rapping savagely on the edge of the pan to rattle the bugs

back.



"How do yeh kill 'em-scald 'em?"



"Mostly. Sornetimcs I



"Good piece of oats," yawned the stranger listessly.



"That's barley."



"So 'tis. Didn't notice."



Uncle Ethan was wondering who the man was. He had some pots

of black paint in the wagon and two or three square boxes.



"What do yeh think o' Cleveland's chances for a second term?"

continued the man, as if they had been talking politics all the

while.



Uncle Ripley scratched his head. "Waal-I dunn~ bein' a

Republican-I think-"



"That's so-it's a purty scaly outlook. I don't believe in second terms

myself," the man hastened to say.



"Is that your new barn acrosst there?" be asked, point-ing with his

whip.



"Yes, sir, it is," replied the old man proudly. After years of

planning and hard work he had managed to erect a little wooden

barn, costing possibly three hundred dollars. It was plain to be seen

he took a childish pride in the fact of its newness.



The stranger mused. "A lovely place for a sign," he said as his eyes

wandered across its shining yellow broadside.



Uncle Ethan stared, unmindful of the bugs crawling over the edge

of his pan. His interest in the pots of paint deepened.



"Couldn't think o' lettin' me paint a sign on that barn?" the stranger

continued, putting his locked hands around one knee and gaining

away across the pigpen at the building.



"What kind of a sign? Goldarn your skins!" Uncle Ethan pounded

the pan with his paddle and scraped two or three crawling

abominations off his leathery wrist.



It was a beautiful day, and the man in the wagon seemed unusually

loath to attend to business. The tired ponies slept in the shade of

the lombardies. The plain was draped in a warm mist and

shadowed by vast, vaguely defined masses of clouds-a lazy June

day.



"Dodd's Family Bitters," said the man, waking out of his

abstraction with a start and resuming his working manner. "The

best bitter in the market." He alluded to it in the singular. "Like to

look at it? No trouble to show goods, as the fellah says," he went

on hastily, seeing Uncle Ethan's hesitation.



He produced a large bottle of triangular shape, like a bottle for

pickled onions. It had a red seal on top and a strenuous caution in

red letters on the neck, "None genuine unless 'Dodd's Family

Bittem' is blown in the bottom."



"Here's what it cures," pursued the agent, pointing at the side,

where; in an inverted pyramid, the names of several hundred

diseases were arranged, running from "gout" to "pulmonary

complaints," etc.



"I gol! She cuts a wide swath, don't she?" exclaimed Uncle Ethan,

profoundly impressed with the list.



"They ain't no better bitter in the world," said the agent with a

conclusive inflection.



"What's its speshy-ality? Most of 'em have some speshy-ality."



"Well-summer complaints-an'-an'-spring an' fall troubles-tones ye

up, sort of."



Uncle Ethan's forgotten pan was empty of his gathered bugs. He

was deeply interested in this man. There was something he liked

about him.



"What does it sell fur?" he asked after a pause.



"Same price as them cheap medicines-dollar a bottle-big bottles,

too. Want one?"



"Wal, mother ain't to home, an' I don't know as she'd like this kind.

We ain't been sick fr years. Still, they's no tellln'," he added,

seeing the answer to his objection in the agent's eyes. "Times is

purty close too, with us, y' see;; we've just built that stable-"



'Say I'll tell yeh what I'll do," said the stranger, waking up and

speaking in a warnily generous tone. "I'll give you ten bottles of the

bitter if you'll let me paint a sign on that barn. It won't hurt the

barn a bit, and if you want 'o you can paint it Out a year from date.

Come, what d'ye say?"



"I guess I hadn't better."



The agent thought that Uncle Ethan was after more pay, but in

reality he was thinking of what his little old wife would say.



"It simply puts a family bitter in your home that may save you fifty

dollars this comin' fall. You can't tell."



Just what the man said after that Uncle Ethan didn't follow. His

voice had a confidential purring sound as he stretched across the

wagon seat and talked on, eyes half shut. He straightened up at last

and concluded in the tone of one who has carried his point:



"So! If you didn't want to use the whole twenty five bottles y'rself,

why! sell it to your neighbors. You can get twenty dollars out of it

easy, and still have five bottles of the best family bitter that ever

went into a bottle."



It was the thought of this opportunity to get a buffalo skin coat that

consoled Uncle Ethan as he saw the hideous black letters

appearing under the agent's lazy brush.



It was the hot side of the barn, and painting was no light work. The

agent was forced to mop his forehead with his sleeve.



"Say, hain't got a cookie or anything, and a cup o' milk, handy?" he

said at the end of the first enormous word, which ran the whole

length of the barn.



Uncle Ethan got him the milk and oookie, which he ate with an

exaggeratedly dainty action of his fingers, seated meanwhile on the

staging which Uncle Ripley had helped him to build. This lunch

infused new energy into him, and in a short time "DODD'S

FAMILY BITTERS, Best in the Market," disfigured the

sweet-smelling pine boards.



Ethan was eating his self-obtained supper of bread and milk when

his wife came home.



"Who's been a-paintin' on that barn?" she demanded, her beadlike

eyes flashing, her withered little face set in an ominous frown.

"Ethan Ripley, what you been doin'?"



"Nawthin'," he replied feebly.



"Who painted that sign on there?"



"A man come along an' he wanted to paint that on there, and I let

'im; and it's my barn anyway. I guess I can do what I'm a min' to

with it," he ended defiantly; but his eyes wavered.



Mrs. Ripley ignored the defiance. "What under the sun p'sessed

you to do such a thing as that, Ethan Ripley? I declare I don't see!

You git fooler an' fooler cv'ry day you live, I do believe."



Uncle Ethan attempted a defense.



"Wal, he paid me twenty-five dollars f'r it, anyway."



"Did 'e?" She was visibly affected by this news.



"Wal, anyhow, it amounts to that; he give me twenty-five bottles-"



Mrs. Ripley sank back in her chair. "Wal, I swan to Bungay! Ethan

Ripley-wal, you beat all I ever see!" she added in despair of

expression. "I thought you had some sense left; but you hain't, not

one blessed scimpton. Where is the stuff?"



"Down cellar, an' you needn't take on no airs, ol' woman. I've

known you to buy things you didn't need time an' time an' agin-tins

an' things, an' I guess you wish you had back that ten dollars you

paid for that illustrated Bible,"



"Go 'long an' bring that stuff up here. I never see such a man in my

life. It's a wonder he didn't do it f'r two bottles." She glared out at

the 'sign, which faced directly upon the kitchen window.



Uncle Ethan tugged the two cases up and set them down on the

floor of the kitchen. Mrs. Ripley opened a bottle and smelled of it

like a cautious cat.



"Ugh! Merciful sakes, what stuff! It ain't fit f'r a hog to take.

What'd you think you was goin' to do with it?" she asked in

poignant disgust.



"I expected to take it-if I was sick. Whaddy ye s'pose?" He

defiantly stood his ground, towering above her like a leaning

tower.



"The hull cartload of it?"



"No. I'm goin' to sell part of it an' git me an overcoat-"



"Sell it!" she shouted. "Nobuddy'il buy that sick'nin' stuff but an

old numskull like you. Take that slop out o' the house this 'minute!

Take it right down to the sinkhole an' smash every bottle on the

stones."



Uncle Ethan and the cases of medicine disappeared, and the old

woman addressed her concluding remarks to little Tewksbury, her

grandson, who stood timidly on one leg in the doorway, like an

intruding pullet.



"Everything around this place 'ud go to rack an' ruin if I didn't

keep a watch on that soft-pated old dummy. I thought that

lightnin'-rod man had glve him a lesson he'd remember; but no, he

must go an' make a reg'lar-"



She subsided in a tumult of banging pans, which helped her out in

the matter of expression and reduced her to a grim sort of quiet.

Uncle Ethan went about the house like a convict on shipboard.

Once she caught him looking out of the window.



"I should think you'd feel proud o' that."



Uncle Ethan had never been sick a day in his life. He was bent and

bruised with never-ending toil, but he had nothing especial the

matter with him.



He did not smash the medicine, as Mrs. Ripley commanded,

because he had determined to sell it. The next Sunday morning,

after his chores were done, he put on his best coat of faded

diagonal, and was brushing his hair into a ridge across the center

of his high, narrow head when Mrs. Ripley carne in from feeding

the calves.



"Where you goin' now?"



"None o' your business," he replied. "It's darn funny if I can't stir

without you wantin' to know all about it. Where's Tukey?"



"Feedin' the chickens. You ain't goin' to take him off this mornin'

now! I don't care where you go."



"Who's a-goin' to take him off? I ain't said nothin' about takin' him

off."



"Wal, take y'rseif off, an' if y' ain't here f'r dinner, I ain't goin' to get

no supper."



Ripley took a water pail, and put four bottles of "the bitter mto it,

and trudged away up the road with it in a pleasant glow of hope.

All nature seemed to declare the day a time of rest and invited men

to disassoeiate ideas of toil from the rustling green wheat, shining

grass, and tossing blooms. Something of the sweetness and

buoyancy of all nature permeated the old man's work-calloused

body, and he whistled little snatches of the dance tunes he

played on his fiddle.



But he found neighbor Johnson to be supplied with another variety

of bitter, which was all he needed for the present. He qualified his

refusal to buy with a cordial invitation to go out and see his shoats,

in which he took infinite pride. But Uncle Ripley said: "I guess I'll

haf t' be gom'; I want 'o git up to Jennings' before dimier."



He couldn't help feeling a little depressed when he found Jennings

away. The next house along the pleasant lane was inhabited by a

"newcomer." He was sitting on the horse trough, holding a horse's

halter, while his hired man dashed cold water upon the galled spot

on the animal's shoulder.



After some preliminary talk Ripley presented his medicine.



"Hell, no! What do I want of such stuff? When they's anything the

matter with me, I take a lunkin' ol' swig of popple bark and

bourbon! That fixes me."



Uncle Ethan moved off up the lane. He hardly felt like whistling

now. At the next house he set his pail down in the weeds beside

the fence and went in without it. Doudney came to the door in his

bare feet, buttoning his suspenders over a clean boiled shirt. He

was dressing to go out.



"Hello, Ripley. I was just goin' down your way. Jest wait a minute,

an' I'll be out."



When he came out, fully dressed, Uncle Ethan grappled him.



"Say, what d' you think o' paytent med-"



"Some of 'em are boss. But y' want 'o know what y're gittin'."



"What d' ye think o, Dodd's-"



"Best in the market."



Uncle Ethan straightened up and his face lighted. Doudney went

on:



"Yes, sir; best bitter that ever went into a bottle. I know, I've tried

it. I don't go much on patent medicines, but when I get a good-"



"Don't want 'o buy a bottle?"



Doudney turned and faced him.



"Buy! No. I've got nineteen bottles I want 'o sell" Ripley glanced

up at Doudney's new granary and there read "Dodd's Family

Bitters." He was stricken dumb. Doudney saw it all and roared.



"Wal, that's a good one! We two tryin' to sell each other bitters.

Ho-ho-ho-har, whoop! wal, this is rich! How many bottles did you

git?"



"None o' your business," said Uncle Ethan as he turned and made

off, while Doudney screamed with merriment.



On his way home Uncle Ethan grew ashamed of his burden.

Doudney had canvassed the whole neighborhood, and he

practically gave up the struggle. Everybody he met seemed

determined to find out what he had been doing, and at last he

began lying about it.



"Hello, Uncle Ripley, what y' got there in that pail?"



"Goose eggs fr settin'."



He disposed of one bottle to old Gus Peterson. Gus never paid his

debts, and he would oniy promise fifty cents "on tick" for the

bottle, and yet so desperate was Ripley that this questionable sale

cheered him up not a little.



As he came down the road, tired, dusty, and hungry, he climbed

over the fence in order to avoid seeing that sign on the barn and

slunk into the house without looking back.



He couldn't have felt meaner about it if he had allowed a

Democratic poster to be pasted there.



The evening passed in grim silence, and in sleep he saw that sign

wriggling across the side of the barn like boa constrictors hung on

rails. He tried to paint them out, but every time he tried it the man

seemed to come back with a sheriff and savagely warned him to let

it stay till the year was up. In some mysterious way the agent

seemed to know every time he brought out the paint pot, and he

was no longer the pleasant-voiced individual who drove the calico

ponies.



As he stepped out into the yard next morning that abominable,

sickening, scrawling advertisement was the first thing that claimed

his glance-it blotted out the beauty of the morning.



Mrs. Ripley came to the window, buttoning her dress at the throat,

a wisp of her hair sticking assertively from the little knob at the

back of her head.



"Lovely, ain't it! An' J've got to see it all day long. I can't look out

the winder, but that thing's right in my face." It seemed to make

her savage. She hadn't been in such a temper since her visit to New

York. "I hope you feel satisfied with it."



Ripley walked off to the barn. His pride in its clean sweet newness

was gone. He slyly tried the paint to see if it couldn't be scraped

off, but it was dried in thoroughly. Whereas before he had taken

delight in having his neighbors turn and look at the building, now

he kept out of sight whenever he saw a team coming. He hoed corn

away in the back of the field, when he should have been bugging

potatoes by the roadside.



Mrs. Ripley was in a frightful mood about it, but she held herself

in check for several days. At last she burst forth:



"Ethan Ripley, I can't stand that thing any longer, and I ain't goin'

to, that's all! You've got to go and paint that thing out, or I will. I'm

just about crazy with it."



"But, Mother, I promised-"



"I don't care what you promised, it's got to be painted out. I've got

the nightmare now, seein' it. I'm goin' to send for a pail o' red paint,

and I'm goin' to paint that out if it takes the last breath I've got to

do it."



"I'll tend to it, Mother, if you won't hurry me-"



"I can't stand it another day. It makes me boil every time I look out

the winder."



Uncle Ethan hitched up his team and drove gloomily off to town,

where he tried to find the agent. He lived in some other part of the

county, however, and so the old man gave up and bought a pot of

red paint, not daring to go back to his desperate wife without it.



"Goin' to paint y'r new barn?" inquired the merchant with friendly

interest.



Uncle Ethan turned with guilty sharpness; but the merchant's face

was grave and kindly.



"Yes, I thought I'd tech it up a little-don't cost much."



"It pays-always," the merchant said emphatically.



"Will it-stick jest as well put on evenings?" inquired Uncle Ethan

hesitatingly.



"Yes-won't make any difference. Why? Ain't goin' to have-"



"Wal-I kind o' thought I'd do it odd times night an' mornin'-kind o'

odd times---"



He seemed oddly confused about it, and the merchant looked after

him anxiously as he drove away.



After supper that night he went out to the barn, and Mrs. Ripley

heard him sawing and hammering. Then the noise ceased, and he

came in and sat down in his usual place.



"What y' be'n makin'?" she inquired. Tewksbury had gone to bed.

She sat darning a stocking.



"I jest thought I'd git the stagin' ready f'r paintin'," he said

evasively.



"Wal! I'll be glad when it's covered up." When she got ready for

bed, he was still seated in his chair, and after she had dozed off

two or three times she began to wonder why he didn't come When

the clock struck ten, and she realized that he had not stirred, she

began to get impatient. "Come, are y' goin' to sit there all night?"

There was no reply. She rose up in bed and looked about the

room. The broad moon flooded it with light, so that she could see

he was not asleep in his chair, as she had supposed. There was

something ominous in his disappearance.



"Ethan! Ethan Ripley, where are yeh?" There was no reply to her

sharp call. She rose and distractedly looked about among the

furniture, as if he inight somehow be a cat and be hiding in a

corner somewhere. Then she went upstairs where the boy slept, her

hard little heels making a curious tunking noise on the bare boards.

The moon fell across the sleeping hoy like a robe of silver. He was

alone.



She began to be alarmed. Her eyes widened in fear. An sorts of

vague horrors sprang unbidden into her brain. She still had the

mist of sleep in her brain.



She hurried down the stairs and out into the fragrant night. The

katydids were singing in infinite peace under the solemn splendor

of the moon. The cattle sniffed and sighed, jangling their bells now

and then, and the chickens in the coop stirred uneasily as if

overheated. The old woman stood there in her bare feet and long

nightgown, horror-stricken. The ghastly story of a man who had

hung himseif in his barn because his wife deserted him came into

her mind and stayed there with frightful persistency. Her throat

filled chokingly.



She felt a wild rush of loneliness. She had a sudden realization of

how dear that gaunt old figure was, with its grizzled face and ready

smile. Her breath came quick and quicker, and she was at the point

of bursting into a wild cry to Tewksbury when she heard a strange

noise. It came from the barn, a creaking noise. She looked that way

and saw in the shadowed side a deeper shadow moving to and fro.

A revulsion to astonishment and anger took place in her.



"Land o' Bungay! If he ain't paintin' that barn, like a perfect old

idiot, in the night."



Uncle Ethan, working desperately, did not hear her feet pattering

down the path, and was startled by her shrill voice.



"Well, Ethan Ripley, whaddy y' think you're doin' now?"



He made two or three slapping passes with the brush and then

snapped out, "I'm a-paintin' this barn-whaddy ye s'pose? II ye had

eyes y' wouldn't ask."



"Well, you come right straight to bed. What d'you mean by actin'

so?"



"You go back into the house an' let me be. I know what I'm a-doin'.

You've pestered me about this sign jest about enough." He dabbed

his brush to and fro as he spoke. His gaunt figure towered above

her in shadow. His slapping brush had a vicious sound.



Neither spoke for some time. At length she said more gently, "Ain't

you comin' in?"



"No-not till I get a-ready. You go 'long an' tend to y'r own business.

Don't stan' there an' ketch cold."



She moved off slowly toward the house. His shout subdued her.

Working alone out there had rendered him savage; he was not to

be pushed any further. She knew by the tone of his voice that he

must now be respected.



She slipped on her shoes and a shawl, and came back where he

was working, and took a seat on a sawhorse.



"I'm goin' to set right here till you come in, Ethan Ripley," she said

in a firm voice, but gentler than usual.



"Wal, you'll set a good while," was his ungracious reply, but each

felt a furtive tenderness for the other. He worked on in silence. The

boards creaked heavily as he walked to and fro, and the slapping

sound of the paint brush sounded loud in the sweet harmony of

the night. The majestic moon swung slowly round the corner of the

barn and fell upon the old man's grizzled head and bent shoulders.

The horses inside could be heard stamping the mosquitoes away

and chewing their hay in pleasant chorus.



The little figure seated on the sawhorse drew the shawl closer

ahout her thin shoulders. Her eyes were in shadow, and her hands

were wrapped in her shawl. At last she spoke in a curious tone.



"Wal, I don't know as you was so very much to blame. I didn't want

that Bible myself-I hold out I did, but I didn't."



Ethan worked on until the full meaning of this unprecedented

surrender penetrated his head, and then he threw down his brush.



"Wal, I guess I'll let 'er go at that. I'ye covered up the most of it,

anyhow. Guess we better go in."





Uncle Denny Gets Busy Under The Lion's Paw facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Feedback