 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
ANCIENT HENRY.
Saratoga, July 28.
Right here, now that I have written
the social news to-day, I must tell you
some reminiscences of “Old Uncle Hank.”
“Old Hank” was one of the century
posts of Central New York. He lived in
Eaton (Log City), Madison Co., when the
writer left home to go away to college a good many years ago,
but not before the fame of “Ancient Henry,” as the boys used
to politely call him, had traveled over a large portion of the State.
They say he is dead now, but his wit, his frolicsome humor and
keen satire live fresh and green in the memory of all.
If we take Lord Kane's definition of wit—“a constant surprise,”
then Uncle Hank would rank with Swift, Juvenal and
his wicked anecdotes only resulted from a desire to cheer with
wit the funereal lives of his friends.
His stories were generally of
the Baron-Munchausen-General
Nye order, only a good deal more
wicked. He was a great hunter,
kept a pack of hounds at the
grocery in the village, and a farm
on the hills just to hunt on, and
he knew every fox-hole and
coon-trail in the county.
He used to tell the school boys
about shooting a fox so large
that eight boys could stand
around him, and before they had
ceased wondering, he would tell of seeing innumerable flocks of
wild geese flying so low that you could shake a stick at them!
Once he was telling about a fast horse which he owned:—
“Why, sir,” said he, “I started from West Eaton yesterday
with that air mar of mine square in front of a terrible thunder
shower. The wind blew a hurricane right down on our backs.
The big drops fell into the hind end of my wagon box—
“`Clk—clk!' says I to the old mar. On she flew, and the hurricane
after us—all the time raining and hailing in the back end
of the wagon. I reached the grocery after a three mile race.
The rain had poured into the hind end of the box until it was
level full of water, and I had to hold up my feet to keep them
dry, while my coat and the wagon seat were as dry as powder!”
One day his hounds were baying after a fox on the hills. Old
Hank sat on the grocery steps and listened as to a symphony
from the heavenly choir.
“Do you hear that heavenly music?” he asked, as Charley
Miles went by to the postoffice.
“No,” replied Charley, “those d—d hounds make such an
infernal noise I can't hear anything;” and then he went on
chuckling to himself at the good joke he had played on “Old
Hank.”
“Uncle Henry bought a farm on the hill,” he said, “because
he always raised such fearful crops of corn and hay that the
ground frequently sank in with the weight!” Once he negotiated
for some land adjoining his meadow. And when John Hall
hay on his land that he had no place to spread it to dry.”
During the last part of his life they had a good many Methodist
and Baptist revivals in town. During one of these his son
became a devout Christian, but “Old Hank” held out to the
last.
Speaking of special Providences
one day, he said,
“Why the Lord takes care
of every good Methodist.
There's my Henry—when
he signed one hundred dollars
the other day towards building
the new meeting-house,
we did not know where in
the world the money was
coming from; but that very
night Elder Smith came
along on a visit, and he and
Henry got to trading horses,
and before morning Henry
had traded him out of a
hundred dollars as slick as a
whistle!”
Once every one in town
got very much interested
over a Baptist revival which
was being carried on by Elder Brown and Elder Smitzer. Elder
Brown used to go round and tell what the good Lord had done
for his Christian children, and how much he would do for the
worst sinner if he would only repent and come into the fold.
Meeting “Old Hank” one day on the grocery steps, where he
had just arrived with a string of gray squirrels, Elder B—
commenced as usual—
“Now, Uncle Henry,” he said, “you see what the Lord has
done for me, you see what he has done for brother Hunt and
brother Joslyn; now what has he done for you?”
“Old Hank” looked down first on his tattered breeches, and
then at the pile of squirrels, and then, in the utmost seriousness,
replied: “Well, Elder Brown, while I think it over,—up to this
time I don't-think-he has-done the first dam thing!”
The Methodist minister had been reading the story of the
betrayal of our Savior. Uncle Henry looked very serious, and
after service the Elder asked him what serious subject his mind
was dwelling upon.
“I'm thinking what a dam scoundrel that Judas was,” exclaimed
“Old Hank” religiously.
“Old Hank,” Chancey Root, and Cheen Bellous were the four
“cracked” hunters and fishers of Central New York. Nobody
thought of questioning their success or of doubting their prowess.
One day “Old Hank” was amusing a group of villagers on the
grocery steps with Munchausen stories of hunting, &c., when Dr.
Purdy, a light, frail physician who had never been known to hunt
in his life, came along. After listening for a moment, he startled
everybody by saying, “Uncle Hank, I'll bet you twenty-five
dollars that I can kill more game in a day than you can.”
“More game than I can!” exclaimed Uncle Hank in amazement.
“Yes, more than you can,” repeated the Doctor.
“It's a bet,” replied Old Hank—“next Tuesday is the day;
we'll count the game as they do in the shooting matches, 100 for
a fox, 50 for a coon, 25 for a woodchuck, 10 for a squirrel, 5 for a
pigeon, 2 for a chipmunk and 1 for a bird,” and then he hurried
back into the grocery for fear the Doctor would back out.
Tuesday came. Everybody had heard of the great match and
the town was tremendously excited. Uncle Hank knew George
Andross and the Leeville fellows were to run a fox that day, so he
took his dogs and went off slily to strike his trail on the hill.
The Doctor loaded himself down with pigeon shot and went out
shooting everything he could see from a ground bird up to a
squirrel. Chancey Root said he shot even large sized crickets
and grasshoppers. At any rate he rushed about like a walking
arsenal firing minute guns all day. Night came. Uncle Hank
missed his fox and disappointed, but confident, came in with two
woodchucks and about a dozen gray squirrels, counting in all 110.
The Doctor came in with two bags full of chipmunks, ground
birds, meadow larks and red squirrels, counting 232! That killed
Uncle Henry. He never appeared happy after that. He stopped
talking about hunting, attended to his farm and became one of
the most circumspect citizens of the town, but he always kept
out of the Doctor's way.
When he died there was mourning in the village. His place
has never been filled. No more such grand old stalks can grow
from the same hill, for Nature exhausted the soil.
Had Uncle Henry been schooled like Edward Everett or
Spooner, his stories would have been like the “Tale of the Tub,”
“Gulliver's Travels,” and his adventures would not have
afforded food for this letter.
| Saratoga in 1901 | |