Home on the Double Bayou: Memories of an East Texas Ranch 9780292757431

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PERSONAL NARRATIVES OF THE WEST J. Frank Dobie, General Editor

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU Memories of an East Texas Ranch

BY RALPH SEMMES JACKSON ILLUSTRATED BY BUBI JESSEN INTRODUCTION BY J. FRANK DOBIE

UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS PRESS ·

AUSTIN

Copyright © 1961 by Ralph Semmes Jackson Copyright © renewed 1989 First paperback printing 2013 All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to:  Permissions   University of Texas Press   P.O. Box 7819   Austin, TX 78713-7819  http://utpress.utexas.edu/index.php/rp-form

Library of Congress Catalog Number 60-14311 isbn 978-0-292-75742-4, paperback isbn 978-0-292-75743-1, library e-book isbn 978-0-292-75744-8, individual e-book

This book is dedicated to my children Dauris Ann, Ralph Semmes, and James Cade.

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FOREWORD

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he purpose of this book is to entertain the reader with a narrative of pioneer days in southeast Texas. It is particularly concerned with everyday life on the JHK Ranch of Chambers County, Texas, between the years 1847 and 1925. My personal experiences on the JHK Ranch are here related as they were understood by a boy of five to twelve years of age, and portray the lighter side of ranch life without emphasizing the hard work and worry of operating a large ranch. This book is not intended to be entirely historically accurate; and no offense is intended to any persons, living or dead, whose names are mentioned within these pages. I wish to express my appreciation to the many people who assisted me in the preparation of this book, particularly to my brother, Judge Guy C. Jackson, Jr., of Anahuac, Texas, for his contribution of materials and suggestions, and to my wife, Dauris Ray Jackson, for her encouragement and constructive criticism during the preparation of the original manuscript. I am especially grateful to J. Frank Dobie, of Austin, Texas, who first encouraged the writing of this book, and whose help and advice made possible the completion of the final manuscript. R A L P H SEMMES JACKSON

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CONTENTS Introduction From Ireland to Texas Grandpa and Grandma Jackson, Pioneers Law and Order on Double Bayou Grandpa Jackson's Eleven Children From Scotland to Texas The 1915 Hurricane Our Ranch Home . Christmas on the Ranch Hog-Killing Time . Blue Northers. Winter Was for Hunting . Wolves in the Herd . 'Gators . Spring Roundup Our Railroad . The Woods in Springtime Summer Was for Fishing . Tumblebug Time . Goats—and So Forth Across the Bayou Sugar-Cane Mill Our Old Barn. Schoolin' The Store The Burying-Ground

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38 47 50 57 62 65 70

77 81

86 93 96 99 103 109 112

119 122

126 129 134

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PHOTOGRAPHS Grandpa and Grandma Jackson Grandpa and Grandma Briggs

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MAPS East Chambers County, Texas Jackson Ranch

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PHOTOGRAPHS Grandpa and Grandma Jackson Grandpa and Grandma Briggs

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MAPS East Chambers County, Texas Jackson Ranch

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INTRODUCTION

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and has been personal to me from the time I began having feelings. Certain live oaks, certain patches of grass, certain bends in Ramirenia Creek, certain mustang grapevines draping trees along the bank, certain hills on the ranch where I was born and reared remain more vivid to me and are more a part of me than numbers of people I knew while I was putting down roots into that plot of earth. One time when I came home (several years after the family had moved from the ranch to Beeville) and, a few hours later was setting out for the ranch, my mother said, "Why, Son, you think more of the ranch than of your own people." Whatever in the land pulled me, it was not property values. They were meager anyhow. But after my mother died in 1948 and the ranch was inherited by six brothers and sisters, it had to become property. My sister Fannie and I were executors. In 1951 we sold it to Ralph Jackson and five other men associated with him. He was the leader. From the minute I looked at his features of cultivated intelligence and heard his gentle voice, I was satisfied with the inevitable transference of deeds to the land. I had strong feelings on who should possess the deeds and would not have transferred them at any price to a certain individual who came trying to buy. Ralph Jackson's reminiscences are not so personal to me as the ranch in Live Oak County that he also is coming to cherish, but they are more than passingly personal. Something over a year ago he paid me a brief visit and hesitatingly left a manuscript to read, and as I understood, to keep. He had made several copies of it. He gave me to understand that what he had written of boyhood experiences on the

Jackson ranch in Chambers County and of his people there was for his children and for their children to come so that they might better value their human inheritance. He judged that I might find something of interest in the narrative. I read it almost immediately, charmed with the pictures of people and animals, with a boy's experiences, and, above all, with the atmosphere of serenity and simple sincerity. I telephoned my friend Frank Wardlaw, Director of the University of Texas Press, and told him that I had the makings of a book he was going to publish. Ralph Jackson had no more expected this than he had expected to be appointed dictator of the Dominican "Republic." Yet he was by no means displeased when the Press proposed an expansion of the reminiscences, along with certain rearrangements of subject matter, into a book. Galley proofs have given me those feelings of refreshment that the preliminary sketches gave. In a way the chronicle parallels the ancient trunks up in the attic of the JHK Ranch house "stuffed with three generations" of discarded clothes and other keepsakes. The recollections of three generations— Grandpa James Jackson, founder of the ranch, being the most amply revealed character of the book—enforce a definition I once tried to make of a home. Ideally, I said, a home is a residing place enriched by the accretions of human living over several generations, each inheriting something of the ways and experiences of forebears and each weaving its own life into a texture of tradition. This conception, of course, implies more permanence in houses and more permanence in the occupancy of them than the machine-driven ways of American life have come to permit. The sellers, who make more noise than everybody else put together, could not dictate their form of "progress" if large numbers of families remained planted, accommodating themselves to seasons and shadows rather than to annual new models. While exuding the aroma of tradition, Home on the Double Bayou is not at all a traditional book. It illustrates the fact that carrying on a good tradition requires creative energy and is not accomplished merely through passive inheritance. The writer is a part of the parcel of land about which he writes, and reading of it, I find the parcel of land to which I belong stirring within me, though my land is long on drouths and thorns, while his is lush from rain, bounded by water, and so lacking in rocks that a visit

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to shipping pens eighteen miles away meant to a boy a supply of pebbles from railroad ballast to shoot in a niggershooter. Had this sensitive recollector of boyhood sensations been writing a ranch book in traditional style, he would have emphasized such things as the White Ranch—site of the shipping pens—from which on the very day of the battle of San Jacinto a herd of beeves was being trailed to the New Orleans market. More vivid to me than any other bovine critter on the Jackson ranch is a goose-hunting steer who collaborated with his shotgun-armed owner; yet a description of more than two thousand head of prairie cattle piling up against a barbed-wire fence and freezing to death in attempts to reach shelter against a wet norther is rangy enough. Home on the Double Bayou is more akin to W. H. Hudson's Far Away and Long Ago than to the stream of books—scores of them vapid and false—purporting to give ranch experiences. The kinship is not literary; there is no evidence that Ralph Jackson has read Far Away and Long Ago. The kinship is in pictures of reality fresh out of boyhood, untarnished by "the world's slow stain." A parallel to a character who came to the Hudson estancia on the pampas is "The Stranger," an Englishman, who one day drove up to Grandpa Jackson's ranch in his buggy and stayed three years without telling his name. He tutored several of the eleven children, read aloud to the family classical books "out of the depth of his trunk," transmitted to one boy almost totally blind the lifetime solace of drawing beautiful music from a violin, and then one morning, after remarking that he must leave, drove away. The kinship comes to me in minute accounts of animal life, always specific, never generalized, as exemplified by the clouds and heaps of mosquitoes, at certain times, in certain places. It lies in the maintenance from the first paragraph to the last of a quiet tempo of life. One sentence from the chapter entitled "Our Railroad" will illustrate the tempo: "In the middle of the morning and afternoon the engineer would pull the train to a creaking halt opposite some lonely ranch house and proceed to take the entire train crew over to it for a leisurely cup of coffee and a neighborly visit." Ralph Jackson is still a comparatively young man, but he also has written of far away and long ago when a boy would spend hours sprawled on the ground circumventing a tumblebug but finally letting him move on with his xvii

marble-sized riches. That boy, walking away from the tumblebug, was joyfully unaware of having through "a wise passiveness" seeped up from the earth something that would to him be a solace and restorer in all the years to come. It is not often that one finds in a modern book the Ralph Jackson blend of spiritual and of good earth gladness. FRANK DOBIE

In Austin, Texas Where "the leafy month" is April 1961

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU

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FROM IRELAND TO TEXAS

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n order that my children might better understand and appreciate their spiritual and material heritage, I leave to them these recorded memories of my childhood and some family folklore, with the hope that these pages will bring to them some enjoyment and a better understanding of the pioneer men and women from whom they are descended. My great grandfather, Humphrey Jackson, was born November 24, 1784, in Belfast, Ireland. Shortly after the birth of the nineteenth century, in 1808, he sailed from his homeland in the company of his two brothers, Henry and Alexander. The father of these boys owned flour and linen mills in Belfast and was a member of the Irish Parliament. These three Irish boysfirstglimpsed the shores of the new world at New Orleans, Louisiana. They all fought under Andrew Jackson in the Battle of New Orleans in January, 1815. It was never known

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU

whether the three brothers left Ireland through a spirit of adventure or for political reasons. Humphrey, shortly after his arrival in New Orleans, married a Miss White, who soon died without children. On October 13, 1814, at his plantation near Vermillionville, Louisiana, he married Sarah Merriman. This union resulted in the birth of four children, James, who was my grandfather, Hugh, John, and Letitia. Humphrey and Alexander joined Austin's " O l d Three Hundred" in their trek into the wilderness of Texas in September of 1823. Henry ventured into Mexico, to be lost in the passage of time. N o word ever filtered back to disclose the fate that was his lot. Perhaps he was killed or died in a Mexican prison; or he may have lived to establish a dynasty of his own in lands and cattle south of the Big River. In keeping with Austin's agreement with the Emperor of Mexico, Alexander, on July 16, 1824, was granted title to two leagues of land in present Wharton County. Although his brother Humphrey advertised Alexander's plantation for rent in January of 1830, there is no record of Alexander's death. Family tradition would have it that he returned to Ireland and the things from which he had fled. If this be so, surely he returned with some haunting regret that he had not been willing to face the harsh test of adventure and danger in the virgin wilderness of Texas. On August 16, 1824, Humphrey was granted a homestead on the rolling prairies east of the San Jacinto River in the area later to become known as Harris County, Texas. Humphrey's grant consisted of a league and labor of land, or 4605 acres, a portion of which is presently occupied by the townsite of Crosby, Texas. In order to secure his homestead on the San Jacinto, Humphrey addressed the following application to Baron de Bastrop, written in Spanish: Mr. Commissioner Baron Bastrop: Humphrey Jackson, a native of the United States of America and now an inhabitant of the Province of Texas, presents himself and states, that having arrived here with the desire of settling in this Colony, granted by the Supreme Government of the Mexican Nation to the Empresario Stephen F. Austin, he wishes you to admit him and his family as colonist and to give him possession of such a portion of land as the law awards to all new settlers, and he promises to cultivate it, to submit to all laws, and to defend the rights of the Independence and Freedome of his adopted country. Therefore, Sir,

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From Ireland to Texas he wishes you to grant his request, in doing which you will receive his sincere thanks. Town of San Filipe de Austin 13th August 1824 HUMPHREY JACKSON

Baron de Bastrop requested a report from Austin as follows: Town San Filipe de Austin 13th August 1824 The Empresario D. Stephen F. Austin will report to me whether the applicant is entitled to the favor he solicits. Bastrop—Mr. Commissioner Austin replies: In virtue of the foregoing decree, it is my duty to state that the applicant, Humphrey Jackson, can be admitted into the New Colony as a settler both on account of his good conduct and his knowledge of agriculture and raising of all kinds of grain, and that you may grant him one league and a labor of lands. San Filipe de Austin 13th August 1824 STEPHEN F. AUSTIN

The decree granting the land was as follows: Town of San Filipe de Austin 14th August 1824 Baron Bastrop, member of the honorable Provincial Deputation of Texas and Commissioned by the Supreme Government and the Empresario Stephen F. Austin, so as to establish a new Colony in the province: In virtue of the commission granted to Lieut. Colonel Lucían Garcia, the first Governor of the Province by the Supreme Government under date of the 16th July 1823, and in virtue of the power granted to commissioners by the Mexican Nation under date of 18th of February and approved by Congress on the 14th of April 1823. Therefore in virtue of the power invested in me by these decrees and in consideration of the good conduct of the applicant, Humphrey Jackson, as proven by the above certificate we give and grant to him, Humphrey Jackson, in the name of the Mexican Nation, as well as to his heirs and successors, a league and a labor of land, situated upon the Eastern Bank of the San Jacinto River, and we put him in possession thereof and shall issue the corresponding deed as soon as he has paid his fees as stated in the circular published by the Commandant of the Province under

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU date of the 20th May of the present year. This we have signed in conjunction with two assistant witnesses—Baron Bastrop—Stephen Austin—Assistant Witness, John Smith—Assistant Witness, Samuel M. Williams. It is interesting to note that the spelling and sentence structure of these documents are surprisingly good. These officials were certainly men of action, as the formalities of granting the land were started on the thirteenth of August, 1824, and completed the next day. Humphrey Jackson submitted his application, Bastrop requested a recommendation of Austin, and Austin prepared and submitted his recommendation, all on the thirteenth. The grant was signed on the fourteenth, the survey and field notes were certified on the sixteenth, and certified copies of all instruments were issued to Humphrey on the seventeenth. Humphrey paid twelve reales stamp duty for Stamp No. 2 on July 5, 1824, and probably paid Austin twelve and one-half cents per acre empresario's fee as allowed by the Mexican government. The surprisingly good legal procedure and surveying associated with these land grants were used at Austin's instance. A similar transaction today would require six months' negotiations and the services of several lawyers to draw up about two hundred pages of legal papers. Grandpa James Jackson was born on his father's sugar plantation near Vermillionville, Louisiana, on February 15, 1822, and his parents brought him to Texas in September of 1823. He was raised on the banks of the San Jacinto on the plantation granted to his father by the Mexican government. By 1826 James' mother was dead; his father died January 18, 1836. James bought land in southern Chambers County over a period of years until he had accumulated a spread of 26,000 acres, stretching from Frozen Point on East Bay twelve miles northwestward to Double Bayou and from the mouth of Oyster Bayou on the east seven miles across to Robinson Lake on the west. The northern reaches of the ranch encompassed a portion of the Double Bayou woods where the shortleaf pine, the oak, and the gum trees grew. South of the woods the open prairie stretched for miles, its flat surface pimpled with sand knolls and covered with lush grass. Between the open prairies and the bayshore lay the big marsh, the center of which was known as the Open Lakes. This was the area of the

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From Ireland to Texas spunk weed, cut grass, cattails, and salt grass. The surface of the land beyond the marsh rose to a higher bayshore ridge. In 1876 James owned 2,664 acres of land; in the twenty years from 1876 to 1896 he bought 23,663 additional acres. In 1896 his books showed that the cost of the land plus improvements over the twentyyear period averaged $1.20 per acre. To purchase the land he paid between 25¢ an acre in 1876 and $3.50 per acre in 1895. About $5,000.00 was expended on a land suit in 1895. Sarah White was married to James Jackson in 1847, at the age of fifteen, and they lived for some years in a crude log cabin on the banks of Double Bayou in Chambers County. Grandpa James often related that during the first year of their marriage he would come home to their cabin in the evening and find Sarah playing with some crude dolls which she had fashioned from sticks and corncobs. During the pioneer days in Texas girls were scarce, as many young men migrated to the territory without wives or families. Men who wanted wives were prone to court and marry the available girls at an early age if they did not wish to be consigned to the dubious state of bachelorhood. The marriage of James to Sarah White produced eleven children: Ellen, Humphrey, May, Alice, Robert, Edward, Humphrey (second by the name), Claud, Ralph, Guy, and Ula Jean. The seventh child was named Humphrey in memory of the eldest brother, who died before the second Humphrey was born. Within a few years James built for his family a larger log cabin on the prairie about a mile distant from his first home. Later, as his family expanded, he built a second and larger house beside his second log cabin and used the old cabin for storage and as a smokehouse. This new home was a two-story frame house with a gallery (porch) around the lower floor on three sides. Because of the scarcity of iron nails the house was secured with wooden pegs at all points where nails are now used. It was some years before the house had doors, either inside or out, and curtains were hung over the outside doors. On numerous occasions small animals such as coons, opossums, and skunks would walk through the hallway at night. On a memorable occasion one of the children awoke to see a panther walking down the hallway. Later this house was torn down and replaced with a larger, more modern home. This third house burned in 1918 and was replaced by the house that is now on the ranch. Soon

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU after moving into his first real home, James planted a number of liveoak trees around the house and set out additional live oaks in two large squares between the house and the branding pens. He also planted sycamores, chinaberries, and a few cypress trees. Most of these trees still stand as a living memorial to Grandpa James Jackson. Grandpa James' children remember him as a tall, bald-headed man with a full gray beard. He was orphaned at fourteen, married at twenty-five, and the father of eleven children at fifty-two. His discipline was just but stern, and if the breach of conduct warranted a whipping he administered it with a heavy hand. Occasionally one of the boys would be hard to find when the time arrived to administer punishment. Under such circumstances Grandpa would call in Dady Lewis, a young Negro boy that worked on the ranch, and instruct him to bring in the culprit. If Dady failed to accomplish his mission, he received the whipping himself. Since Dady knew every youthful hiding place and retreat on the ranch, he always got his man. Once he caught Robert by the leg as he was scrambling over the backyard fence and another time he had to climb to the top of a large pear tree to retrieve Ed. It is most certain that Grandpa James held a deep and devoted affection for his children, as was evidenced by the following entry in his daily journal of March 25, 1878, while Ed was attending the newly founded A. & M. College of Texas : I had a dream last night that I went into a room where Eddy was and he was sick and could not speak, but worked his lips when I went to the bedside like he was talking, and I said, "Eddy, my poor boy!" and woke up. Today the mail came and no letter from Eddy and I feel quite uneasy about him, but I have not told anyone of my dream but it weighs on my mind. Sarah and Sis have gone to Turtle Bayou to hear from Monroe White, who is at the college with him. Sarah is very uneasy and can't be still, and had to go to Turtle Bayou to hear, if possible from Eddy. The next day: Sarah and Sis returned from Turtle Bayou and report Monroe's letter saying Eddy is well so the scare is all for nothing, and I feel better. Eddy still dissatisfied with his school and says if he ever gets home again he will never go back there. Grandpa served his neighbors and community in many ways. Al-

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From Ireland to Texas though none of his children are living today to portray his character for us, the record of his daily life in his journal paints a vivid picture of this man, his life, and his work. During his lifetime he served Chambers County as chief justice, county judge, sheriff, and notary public; and within his own community of Double Bayou he served as doctor, dentist, druggist, scribe, commissioner, surveyor, assessor, postmaster, private banker, and cotton ginner. In addition to these duties he found time to tend three thousand head of cattle and a hundred horses, to run a farming operation, and to raise a houseful of children.

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GRANDPA AND GRANDMA JACKSON, PIONEERS

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s chief justice and judge, Grandpa held court and tried lawbreakers, married the young, and buried the dead. The weddings, where Grandpa officiated, were gala social events with the entire community in attendance. The wedding was usually held in the afternoon at the bride's home, and was followed that night by a gargantuan wedding feast, which had been in the process of preparation for many days. After the wedding dinner the bride and groom left on their honeymoon, which consisted of the retirement of the happy couple to their honeymoon room, decorated and prepared in advance by the bride's mother. The wedding guests then celebrated the event by dancing all night in the largest available room in the house to the tunes furnished by a 10

Grandpa and Grandma Jackson, Pioneers lone fiddler. Within the improvised ballroom the old folks sat around the edge of the room on chairs and benches, watching and dreaming of their yesteryears, while the children peeked at the dancers through the windows and doors until sheer exhaustion forced them to retire to their assigned pallets elsewhere in the house. The young people danced, snacked on the remains of the wedding feast, and danced some more. Several times before morning a group of dancers would slip out of the house armed with an array of pots, pans, sticks, and spoons to gather under the window of the bridal chamber, where they would stage an impromptu dishpan shivaree by beating their pots and pans with the sticks and spoons and shouting at the top of their voices. As the sun broke cover in the east the music died away and the near neighbors hitched up their buggies, saddled their horses, and journeyed wearily homeward, arriving in time to milk the cows and feed the stock. Those who had traveled from a greater distance usually stayed throughout another day and night to recoup their strength before starting their journey homeward. Grandpa's fee for a wedding was five dollars, but he probably relished the subsequent festivities more than he did the money. Occasionally he would be called to officiate at a private wedding where no feast or dance was scheduled. Under these circumstances it was tacitly understood by the neighbors that it was a wedding of necessity and not an occasion for merrymaking. In Grandpa's day death was accepted, even as it must be today, as an inevitable act of God. Officiating at a burial was one of Grandpa's less pleasant duties, which he was frequently forced to perform, since a travelling preacher was seldom on hand to attend to the last rites of the dead. Burial had to take place soon after death, as the art of embalming was unknown in this frontier community. The story of death is well told in Grandpa's terse account of his brother John's death under the date of June 15, 1877: At 10 A.M. learned my brother John was very sick at Smith's Point. Mr. Mott and I got Dr. Bunk Campbell and started at 12 noon on Sloop Marie. Got to Smith's Point about 4 P.M. Found brother John had died about 4 A.M. that morning, and he was in his coffin on the bank of the Bayou waiting for the Marie to arrive. Took the corpse, Janey, Rachel, Lula and Ely aboard and proceeded to Double Bayou where we reached Sol Barrow's at 9 P.M. and next day prepared vault and buried at 2 P.M. on the 16th of June A.D. 1877. John's age 57 years, 5 months and 5 days at death. The following II

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU lines were found in Brother John's pocketbook after his death, and in his own handwriting: "The promise of future rest, On that my trembling soul relies My trust the crops, my hope the skies My feeble bark has reached the shore And life's tempestuous sea is passed. Trembling I tracemyperil's o'er And yield my dread account at last." Hardly a week passed in Grandpa's busy life without the appearance of one or more neighbors at his door to have some service performed. Some wanted letters read to them and a reply written or perhaps a will or a deed prepared. Others came to purchase stamps, paper, envelopes, or ink and to mail their letters. There were no doctors or dentists residing in the community in those early days. So from Galveston and St. Louis, Grandpa ordered books on medicine, surgery, and dentistry along with kits of dental and surgical equipment. He studied the books with great care in order that he might doctor his own family. Soon everyone for miles around was coming to him to have a boil lanced, a tooth extracted, a bone set, or a cut sewed up. Anesthesia and antiseptics were unknown and there was no way to combat infection except by applying raw whiskey and hot poultices. A severe surface infection was cauterized with a red hot iron rod or knitting needle. Dentistry in those days was far from painless, as the use of dental anesthetics was unknown. So Grandpa pulled teeth for fifty cents each with relatives receiving a cut rate of twenty-five cents on each tooth pulled. A complete set of false teeth cost twenty dollars and partial plates cost from five to ten dollars. Teeth were filled with gold leaf pounded into the cavity, and this job cost one dollar and fifty cents each. Grandpa comments in his journal regarding his dental work as follows: "Dee and Sol come in the morning to have Dee's teeth pulled, broke one and pulled one. Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Edgar called in the evening to have their children's teeth pulled. Sol Barrow came and had a tooth pulled." Grandpa kept a supply of drugs, such as they were in that day, for the use of his family and neighbors. Burnt copperas and whiskey were 12

Grandpa and Grandma Jackson, Pioneers prescribed for hemorrhage of the lungs, potassium chloride for sore gums, and dilute sulfuric acid for cholera. A mad-dog bite was treated with a bread-and-milk poultice or by dropping muriatic acid into the wound, and smallpox was treated with a mixture of zinc sulfate, digitalis, and sugar taken internally. Diphtheria and scarlet fever were treated alike with sulfocarbonate of soda. Charbon or anthrax in cattle was treated with a mixture of turpentine, ammonia, coal oil, camphor, and soda. It would be most difficult for us modern people to face the job of living and rearing children without the comfort of immunization from such dread killers as hydrophobia, diphtheria, and smallpox. In December of 1876 Galveston was overrun by a severe smallpox epidemic, and it was brought, in turn, to Double Bayou by a Captain Turner of New Orleans. Grandpa had read of a new vaccine that would immunize people against this terrible plague. He immediately sailed for Galveston and managed to secure some of the vaccine with instructions for its use. Upon his return he vaccinated every member of his family and all the Negroes on the ranch. Early the next morning he mounted his horse with the vaccine in his saddle bags and visited every home in the Double Bayou community, and urged all the neighbors to allow him to vaccinate their families. Because of ignorance and fear his services were refused in all but a few cases. As a result, the epidemic swept through the countryside, in some instances, wiping out entire families. No family that refused the vaccination escaped and the mortality rate was almost 100 per cent. No member of Grandpa's family contracted the disease, although the ranch house was turned into a hospital with every bed filled with the sick and dying. The girls nursed the sick and the men and boys worked from daylight till dark building crude cypress coffins and burying the dead. Grandpa rode the countryside visiting the stricken families, begging them to allow him to vaccinate the remaining members of their families. Again and again he was refused. What a terrible experience it must have been for him to have in his hand the means of saving those marked for death, and to be thwarted through stupidity and fear. I can remember a small coffin-shaped hog trough on the ranch that had been built for the Middleton baby who, at the time, was the sole survivor of a large neighboring family which had been wiped out by the disease. They were so sure that Archie, the baby, would die that they built this tiny coffin. Archie was one of the few to survive, though 13

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU badly pockmarked, and he lived to become quite wealthy later as the owner of the land over a portion of the Anahuac oil field. The following records of death from smallpox were taken directly from Grandpa's journal: January 2, 1877 Charles Wilborn died from Small Pox and the disease commenced spreading. It having been brought here by Captain Turner from New Orleans in the latter part of December. January 5th J. P. Wilborn died of Small Pox on the 17th, Andrew Wilborn on the 22nd, Lottie Jackson and Alice Patrick on the 25th, G. W. Mayes on the 28th and Sarah E. Moss on the 28th. February 4th David Middleton and Ralph Barrow and Nellie Mitchel on the 5th. E. L. Barrow, the last of poor Dee's children and at this time there is 9 of Mr. Moss'es family down with it. February 6th Buried two negroes—Nelson Carter and Barge Rivers. Weather clear and pleasant. Moss'es family all down. February 7th Mr. Benj Barrow Sr. died. 2 of Wm. Hankamer's children died and Annie Hankamer about to die. Weather fine, clear and pleasant. February 8th Weather clear and pleasant. Would like to be farming but can't for waiting on the sick. No deaths today so far as heard from. February 9th Weather clear and pleasant. No deaths February 10th—Jake Brown died February 11th—Raining, cold and drizzly all day February 12th—Edgar Moss died at 2:30 in the morning Mary Jane Barrow died last Saturday 10th inst. February 13th—Foggy, wind north, light but cool, rained torrents last night. Sent two nurses to East Bay, John Williams and Thomas Priest, and they made Dady take them along the bay and at last found Nelson's boat in Robinson's Bayou and went to town on her. February 14th. Cloudy in the forenoon, the sun coming out in the evening Mollie Middleton died this morning at 5 O.C.

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Grandpa and Grandma Jackson, Pioneers February 15th—Cloudy, cold and disagreeable, but no rain. Moss family all better and none of my family went up last night to sit up. February 16th—Weather cloudy and cold. Sun shone out a little in the evening. Alice Mitchel died this morning. Moss family improving. Then on March 11: Small Pox all getting well and people going to work. Weather cool but no frost. Fine prospects for fruit. Planted Irish potatoes on the 9th and a small piece of corn by the gin house on the 10th. Have been painting and cleaning up the house all last week. When one opens Grandpa's journal, stained and worn by the touch of many hands, to these fateful pages wherein are recorded enough heartbreak and tragedy to have been the just deserts of Double Bayou for fifty years or more, one cannot but wonder about the man whose steady hand recorded these bare facts of life and death without embellishment or personal dramatization. Surely this man had a sincere faith in the inevitability of God's will to have endured the black sixty days of smallpox and then swab and paint his house clean of the disease in time to plow and plant spring crops. When the weather permitted, mail was received and dispatched to Galveston by sailboat. Later a horseback rider carried the mail to Anahuac. As postmaster, Grandpa was responsible for the orderly and safe handling of the mails. In his spare time he assessed the neighbors' property for taxes and surveyed lands for himself and others. In the absence of a regular preacher, Sunday School was held each Sunday by one of the neighborhood women in her home, and when a circuit-riding preacher chanced by, he preached every day while he was there to the assembled community. Grandpa was determined that his children should have an education and his records show that there was a teacher with his children for a portion of each year. None stayed for an extended period of time and their average salary was fifteen dollars and board per month. Mary and Alice spent one year in Galveston in a private school and, upon their return, started teaching the younger children. Occasionally the teacher would hold a spelling class for adults, which was partly social and partly educational. As the children grew older, Grandpa provided them with all the books they could read. On winter evenings the entire family would gather around the fireplace and different members would 15

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU take turns reading from a novel, a history book, or a biography. Once a book was started in this manner, no one was allowed to read it individually until the family had heard it read aloud to the bitter end. By the time the children were grown, the family library contained over a thousand books; all of which had been read by the family as a group or by individual members of the family. In this manner, Grandpa educated his family and left most of them with a deep-rooted interest in reading which enriched their enjoyment of life throughout their remaining years. The social life of Double Bayou in Grandpa's day consisted largely of visiting the neighbors. Hardly a day passed without some visitors being present at the Jackson Ranch house or some of the family visiting elsewhere. In addition, there were dances, charades, tea parties, preachings on Sundays, and croquet under the live-oak trees. Once a year Grandpa took the older children to Galveston to the circus. The children were all quite bashful socially, as they seldom saw strangers in the isolated community of Double Bayou. When strangers came the children ran and hid themselves until Grandpa called them forth to be formally introduced. Immediately after the introductions the children retired and were not seen again until the visitors were ready to leave, at which time they were again required to appear and bid the visitors good-by. One Sunday, in 1875, Mary, Alice, and Cousin John Jackson decided they would call on a young lady who was a guest in the Nelson home at Smith Point. As they drove their buggy down the sandy road to Smith Point, all dressed in their Sunday best, their courage began to wane. When they arrived within twenty yards of the Nelson's front door, panic overcame them and, wheeling their buggy around, they drove home as fast as they could. Alice made the following entry in the family journal of that date, "Pa scolded when we came home." This was, no doubt, a drastic understatement of Pa's reaction to their social misbehavior. According to Grandpa's journal the years 1874-1875 were busy times for the entire family. The women folks scrubbed and scoured the house, planted and hoed the garden, washed, ironed, cooked, rendered tallow, made soap, tailored shirts and suits for the boys and wool pants for Grandpa, knitted socks, embroidered, carded wool, made quilts, milked the cows, and nursed the sick. 16

Grandpa and Grandma Jackson, Pioneers These were the years when Grandpa took a herd of cattle to St. Louis, put into operation the first Double Bayou cotton gin, tried Ned Ledbetter for stealing a cow, held an election where all eleven votes were cast in favor of John Reagan for Congressman, held the election for delegates to the Constitutional Convention of 1875, set out one hundred oak trees around his home, and planted a large orchard of eightyeight orange trees, along with many pear, plum, and peach trees. The boys helped brand and gather the cattle, butcher and cure meat, plow and plant crops, haul manure and clay for the orchard, cut and haul wood, cure hay, chop and pick cotton, mind the birds in the cornfields, pick and shuck corn, dig potatoes, pick fruit from the orchard, and gather watermelons. They also tried to stay out of trouble with Pa. The first thing that Grandpa entered in his journal each day was the weather, because the weather was the controlling factor in the family's ability to survive. Tropical hurricanes were as greatly feared in 18741875 as they are today. In that time there was no Weather Bureau to give warning of the approach of a tropical hurricane; so the early pioneers spent many anxious hours scanning the late summer and fall skies for hurricane signs. The great hurricane of 1875 was one of the most destructive in the history of the Texas Gulf Coast, and the following account is how Grandpa saw it from a ringside seat: September 15, 1875 Had a party here tonight and the weather, after threatening for near a month, fairly set in for the Equinoxal Storm. Wind N.E. to E, blowing fresh and raining quite hard at intervals. September 16th All day long it rained and stormed. Banly, Miss Lane went home about daylight, and Hamon's folks, as well as the Smith Point people. Dr. Spears and daughter here, and have been—tomorrow will be three weeks. September 17th Blowed hard with spattering rain squalls all day, gradually hauling to the South. Topped nearly all my china trees to keep them from blowing down, and one sycamore to prevent it from falling on the house. Blowing a regular storm. About 4 P.M. wind lulled and went West to N.W. and blew a storm from that direction, blowing down one china tree and lots of fencing including the garden. Cattle in the garden in the morning and it's all eat up— clean as a whistle. Cotton all blown out and everything looks like it was frostbit. 17

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU September 18th Wind N.W., cloudy but the sun shines once and awhile. Cleared off and was quite pleasant. Busy all day repairing fence and did not get done. Sunday—19th Wind NW, light and clear. Started to Galveston to see how the storm served them. Found things badly scattered. On East Bay Mr. Arthur's family was all drowned, except 2 boys. His wife and 4 children drowned. The lower country generally under water. At Smith Point where Ely and John Jackson live was barely above water. Wallisville all washed away except for a few houses back from the river, Lynchburg all gone, Harrisburg and Houston badly damaged. Small boats blown ashore generally but very little damage done to boats or shipping in Galveston. Sometime in 1895 Grandpa became ill with severe cramps. As a last resort a boat was dispatched to Galveston for a doctor. When the doctor arrived he said there was a bare chance to save Grandpa's life by operating immediately. With no time to lose, the dining room was prepared as an operating room, and the dining table was padded with quilts and covered with a clean sheet. Guy, the youngest son, was given the job of holding the rag soaked in ether over his father's face until he was asleep. The operation was performed but Grandpa died and was buried the next day in the family cemetery, deep in the pine woods, a mile from the ranch house. Grandpa James was a true Texas pioneer; starting with little as a young man, he left to his children many acres of fertile Texas soil. He was indulgent of his family and was a good neighbor to all who needed help. During the winter of 1895 a severe blizzard swept across Texas to the Gulf of Mexico, leaving misery and destruction in its wake. When the storm was over snow stood three feet deep on the prairies at Double Bayou. As the storm struck the some six thousand head of cattle that were pastured on the Jackson Ranch turned tail to the driving snow and started drifting south with the wind. When they reached the shore of East Bay they walked off into the warmer waters of the Bay and were drowned by the thousands. Of the six thousand head of cattle, only a fraction of this number escaped the disaster, leaving a pitifully small herd with which to start over again. After the storm abated, the men of the family saddled their horses and rode toward the Bay shore, fearful of what they would find. Reaching East Bay, they saw dead cattle 18

Grandma Jackson

Grandpa Jackson

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU lying so thick in the shallow waters along the shore that a man could walk for several hundred yards out into the Bay on the bodies of the dead cattle. There was a point of land extending out into the Bay where most of the cattle made their last stand before stepping off into the water to their death. From that day forward this point of land was known as Frozen Point. It was during this time that my father, Guy, started smoking a pipe. He said that as he rode the Bay shore counting the dead cattle and skinning those that could be reached, the aroma of the pipe tobacco helped overcome the sickening stench of the mass of decaying flesh around him. Sometime after the blizzard of 1895 the ranch was divided into two pastures by a single fence stretched across the entire width of the ranch. If a severe freeze or hurricane threatened, the cow hands would drive as many cattle as possible from the lower pasture into the upper pasture, to give them some protection from the flood waters of a hurricane and to keep them from drifting into the Bay in the event of a freezing wet norther. Grandma Sarah Cade Jackson was the daughter of James Taylor White, who came from Louisiana to Texas around 1819. In Louisiana his family name was LeBlanc, but he used the English equivalent of White after moving to Texas. He settled in present eastern Chambers County and became known as the "Cattle King of Southeast Texas," having at one time more than ten thousand head of cattle roaming the prairies between the Trinity and Sabine Rivers. Sarah was born July 13th, 1832, on her father's ranch, in present Chambers County, which was at that time in the District of Libertad, State of Coahuila, Mexico, four years before Sam Houston won independence for Texas at San Jacinto. She was a small but determined woman, married at fifteen, and the mother of eleven children. She played well the role of pioneer mother and wife, spinning, weaving, and making clothes for her large family. She shared with her husband the troublous days of the Civil War and the reconstruction period that followed, and weathered the disastrous storms of 1875 and 1900. She was mentally alert and physically active until the day she died at the age of eighty-five. During my childhood her active days were but a memory and she devoted her time to reading to her grandchildren. Grandma once told me that during the Civil War a young bride, 20

Grandpa and Grandma Jackson, Pioneers who was a family cousin, stayed at the Jackson Ranch while her husband was away at war. One evening just at dusk she stood at a front window, gazing out across the flat prairie, pensive and sad with her own thoughts of her absent husband. Suddenly she turned from the window with a cry of delight, saying that her husband had just ridden up to the front gate and had waved to her as he dismounted from his horse. Of course, she immediately dashed out the front door and down to the gate closely followed by the rest of the family. When they arrived at the front gate there was no one there, no horse or man. Thinking that he might be hiding behind the large oak tree which stood outside the gate, just to tease her, the young bride ran through the gate and around the tree frantically calling her husband's name, but there was no man or horse to be seen. The womenfolks took the hysterical girl into the house while the men unsuccessfully searched for fresh horse tracks in soft earth under the oak tree. Months later, when the war was over, one of the returning soldiers brought word that the young husband had been killed in battle late in the afternoon of the date his bride had seen him ride up to the front gate. When I was quite small Grandma Jackson's old lye barrel sat beside the washpot in the backyard. In the old days this was used to extract lye water from wood ashes for soapmaking. The barrel had small holes bored in its bottom and was supported above the ground on four stacks of bricks. The barrel was filled with wood ashes from the fireplace and then rainwater was poured on top of the ashes. The water, as it seeped through the ashes and into a tub under the barrel, leached the lye from the ashes. Beef tallow, salt, and other ingredients were boiled to a smooth consistency in the washpot full of lye water. When the mixture had reached the proper texture it was poured into shallow flat pans to harden. It was cut from the pans as it was needed in any size or shape to suit the user. Grandma's lye barrel is gone, the old washpot has rusted away, and only a few people can remember where they stood. But all those who knew Grandma Jackson remember her for her quiet but forceful character.

21

LAW AND ORDER ON DOUBLE BAYOU

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hortly after the end of the Civil War a family of outlaws 1 came from Louisiana and settled in the southern part of Chambers County. There were eleven or twelve children in the family, and most of them were boys. They appeared to be a tough lot and soon confirmed their appearance by their actions. Neighbors' cattle and other stock began to disappear. The newcomers welcomed no visitors, and those approaching their house were ordered at the point of a gun to leave. As time went on the boys of this family became increasingly bold—riding the countryside at night, pistol-whipping anyone they found on the roads, and shooting through the windows of the houses as they passed in an attempt to shoot out the kerosene lamps inside. Any sound of horses approaching a house at night was a signal for the 22

Law and Order on Double Bayou family to douse all lights and lie on the floor with their guns at hand. If it was the outlaw family a few shots would be exchanged to the accompaniment of loud shouts and curses by the raiders. The horses would be wheeled away at a full gallop and they would thunder down the road to harass some other home. One morning one of the outlaws met Charlie Wilborn on the open range not far from the Wilborn Ranch house. Charlie was unarmed; so the outlaw pulled his gun and made Charlie look down the barrel while he cursed him, and told him that if he caught him riding the range again, he would kill him. As an afterthought, he struck Charlie in the mouth with his gun barrel, knocking out some of his front teeth. Charlie went home, picked up his Winchester and rode to the front door of the outlaw's home, where he called to the outlaw that he had met earlier to come out with his gun. He came out, walked a few steps toward the gate where Charlie waited for him, reached for his gun, and fell dead with Charlie's Winchester slug through his heart. Charlie shifted his gun and offered to kill any other man that would step through the front door. When his offer was not accepted, he turned his horse and rode slowly away, offering his back as a broad target to anyone who dared to shoot at him. N o shots were fired. Some of the younger men in the county wanted to form a posse and lay siege to the outlaw homestead. Grandpa counseled against this procedure, as the house was surrounded by open prairie and anyone approaching the house would be an easy mark for a rifleman inside the house. He also felt that a number of good men would be killed in such an attempt. The outlaws apparently sensed the rising tide of feeling among their neighbors, and began to panic, because they sent word to Austin asking the governor to send some Texas Rangers to protect them from the angry cattlemen. Some weeks later Captain Bill McDonald and his Rangers arrived and were quartered at the Jackson Ranch house. They spent some time talking with Grandpa Jackson and other cattlemen of the county and gathered enough evidence to convince them that the family who sent for them was in fact the one to be investigated. When the Rangers rode up to the outlaw homestead no one was in the house, but a search of the premises disclosed that the entire family had taken refuge in a nearby plum thicket. Captain Bill McDonald ordered them to throw out their guns and come out with their hands up. 23

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU The guns were thrown out and the old man was the first to emerge, falling to his knees and begging the Rangers not to kill him. When the old man showed some reluctance to go with the Rangers to inspect the cattle in his pasture, Captain McDonald told him to get on his horse in a hurry or he would drag him into the pasture with a rope around his neck. The old man hurriedly complied with the Captain's pointed request. The Rangers found in the pasture a number of cattle with defaced brands, and an inspection of the outlaw's boat revealed some fresh carcasses of beef in the hold. In the barn they found a large quantity of freshly salted hides bearing a variety of different brands. The cattlemen agreed to pay the family a fair price for their land and the Rangers ordered the entire clan to pack up and leave the country, which they did in considerable haste. It was said that when they buried the outlaw killed by Charlie Wilborn the preacher who was drafted to preside at the funeral arrived drunk, and could not think of anything appropriate to say. So a neighbor read a short passage from the Bible before the grave was filled. Charlie Wilborn was never brought to trial, because the killing of an outlaw was not considered a crime. As might be presumed, the visit of the Rangers was quite an experience for the children of the family. The boys challenged the Rangers to a shooting match and discovered that they could easily beat them when shooting with deliberate aim at a target, but that the Rangers were faster and more accurate when shooting at anything from the hip with either a Winchester or a Six-shooter. Prior to 1884, when all of Chambers County was unfenced range, the cattle were gathered and worked once each year during the summer all the way from Smith Point to the community of Fannett in Jefferson County. Everyone who ran cattle on the open range joined in this general roundup, which lasted two or three months. Several chuck wagons were part of the equipment and each rancher took along his own cowhands and string of cow ponies. The calves were branded at the general roundup in the presence of all the ranchers to avoid any possible later dispute regarding ownership. Each ranch crew cut out their own cattle and drove them back to their home grazing grounds for the winter. About 1884 Grandpa James built the first wire fence in southern Chambers County. This first fence was of slick wire and proved to be an unsatisfactory barrier for the longhorn steers. However, as soon 24

Law and Order on Double Bayou as barb wire became available all the slick wire was replaced with the barbed variety, which effectively stopped all but the most determined steers. Throughout Texas the first ranchers to build a fence on open range always had trouble with the neighboring ranchers, and Grandpa James was no exception. In anticipation of this trouble he built his fences ten feet inside his property line all around the ranch so that anyone cutting his fence would have to trespass to do the cutting. However, within a few years the neighbors saw the advantages of the fences and followed suit by fencing their own pastures. The JHK brand was carried by Jackson Ranch cattle at Double Bayou as early as 1854, according to record, and was probably brought from Louisiana by Humphrey Jackson in 1823, because the first two letters of the brand are the initials of Humphrey Jackson. Therefore, it is certain that this brand has been in continuous use on the Jackson Ranch for over 105 years. Some time around the turn of the century a Colonel W. L. Moody of Galveston bought the Stephenson Ranch near Lake Surprise in Chambers County, and put a Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy and their two sons on the ranch as caretakers. Several years later, when Moody sought to discharge the Kennedy family they refused to leave the premises. So Moody obtained a court order to have them evicted, and sent the order to Sheriff John Frost at Wallisville, which at that time was the county seat of Chambers County. Sheriff Frost was a young man less than thirty years of age, well thought of by the people of the county and serving his second term of office as sheriff. One finger of the Sheriff's right hand had been shot off some years before but this handicap did not hinder his ability to handle his gun. Frost had been warned by Kennedy that he would be killed if he tried to evict him from the Stephenson Ranch. Stung by the taunts of some of his political enemies that he was afraid of Kennedy, Frost left Wallisville by himself on horseback to serve the eviction order on Kennedy. He spent the night at a ranch house about midway of his journey and left the next morning after refusing to let some of the men at the ranch go with him. Several days later a Mr. Whitehead, who lived at Smith Point, found the Sheriff's horse loose on the prairie with the bridle reins cut close to the bit and the slicker missing from the saddle. Deputy Frank Stirling was notified of the finding of the Sheriff's horse, and as quickly as possible he gathered a posse and started for 25

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU Smith Point to search for the missing man. When the posse arrived at the Stephenson Ranch they found that one of the sons, Lee Kennedy, and a friend named Heiman had sailed for Galveston the afternoon before and that the elder Kennedy was reported to be in Houston. Several members of the posse were deputized by Stirling to sail to Galveston and pick up Lee Kennedy and Heiman. Armed with a warrant from the sheriff of Galveston County, they surprised Kennedy and Heiman in the cabin of their boat while it was tied to the dock, and arrested them without difficulty. In the meantime, the elder Kennedy had been arrested in Houston and taken to the Galveston County jail. By this time, talk of lynching had become so widespread in Chambers County that the governor wired the sheriff in Galveston to hold the prisoners there and not allow them to be taken to Wallisville for trial. A large posse of men searched the Stephenson Ranch for days for Sheriff Frost's body, but did not find a single clue as to what had happened. Later, at the trial in Houston, Heiman confessed that he and Lee Kennedy had ambushed Sheriff Frost, and Lee had killed him with a shotgun. They wrapped the body in the Sheriff's slicker, tied it with the bridle reins from his horse, and buried the body in an old grave not far from where they had shot him. After opening two old graves which were pointed out by Heiman and finding no fresh body, it was concluded that Heiman was lying. Then Heiman said they had buried the body in the shallow waters of Lake Surprise, and still later he confessed they sank it in the shallow waters of the Bay. However, a search of these two areas, as pointed out by Heiman, failed to turn up the body. The next day, Heiman said they had taken the body with them on the boat when they sailed for Galveston, and had cut it into small pieces with a hatchet and saw as they sailed across the Bay. The pieces had been placed in a weighted gunny sack and dropped overboard. Still later Heiman said that after shooting the Sheriff they found he was still alive but unconscious. So they put him in a skiff and rowed to the middle of the lake where they disemboweled him with a sharp knife before dumping the body overboard. Again, a search of the lake failed to reveal the body. The trial was transferred to Conroe, Texas, on a change of venue and set for the following summer. In the meantime, a cowhand found the remains of a body half buried in the mud along the bayshore on the Stephenson Ranch. The bones were all found except those of the right hand. However, the body was so badly decom26

Law and Order on Double Bayou posed that a positive identification could not be made. When the trial was held in Conroe some months later, Heiman repudiated all the confessions that he had previously made, and since the body was never officially found, the court was forced to dismiss the case for lack of evidence. Because the notorious pirate, Jean Lafitte, once used Galveston Island as his headquarters, there were various rumors of buried treasure around Galveston Bay. Once during the early days, two rough-looking characters appeared at the ranch and asked permission to fish along the bayshore in the lower end of the pasture. From their conversation it was obvious that they were seafaring men. They said they might camp along the bayshore several days. Some days later they were sighted leaving the ranch in their buggy, but they did not stop by the ranch house on their way out. About a week later one of the boys, riding along the bayshore, found several holes that had been recently dug, and in the last hole was the impression of a large, square chest. No one ever knew whether the sailors actually found Lafitte's buried treasure, or where they went. Their fate was no more uncertain than was the administration of justice, frequently, on Double Bayou.

27

GRANDPA JACKSON'S ELEVEN CHILDREN

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ne of Grandpa James' greatest achievements, with the considerable help of Grandma Jackson, was the successful rearing of a large family. Ellen, the eldest of Grandpa Jackson's eleven children, married Leverett Sherman and had one child, Durward Sherman, all of whom died before I was born. Humphrey, the second child, died as a young man. May, the third child, never married, but lived for many years as an old maid. This tall, slender woman, whose voice was never raised in anger, moved through her daily life with an easy slow grace. She was devoted to her reading and her flower gardens, particularly her roses. Her flower garden, covering about two acres of fertile ground in 28

Grandpa Jackson's Eleven Children the lower end of the front yard, was made an intimate part of the household through the spacious, sand-packed walk leading from the front steps to the garden's edge. There, majestic oaks, spaced along the front edge of her garden, moved their protective shade slowly across the flowers as each day was born and spent. Blooming at their leisure along the white-washed picket fence were all varieties of lily. Next came the royal rose beds spaced neatly from one end of the garden to the other, each bed with its border of dainty dewdrops. Each bed held a different variety of rose; first a deep velvety red, then a fresh yellow, a frivolous pink, and last a bed of snow whites. Close under the protection of the shady oaks were row upon row of violets and pansies. The remainder of the yard was sown in varicolored phlox that bloomed in the spring, covering the entire yard with a brilliant burst of color. Children seem to always retain one outstanding mental memory of older people who died during their childhood. I see a tall, slightly bent feminine figure, with a bun of neatly coiled gray hair perched squarely on the top of her head, a long white dress sweeping the ground, tight in the waist with long tight sleeves and a high lace collar. It is summer and a cool gulf breeze is moving across the yard to the house, through the front door, where I am standing, and down the long hallway of the house. The setting sun has lightly touched the top of the tallest pines in the woods a mile away. From the gallery I can see this figure moving slowly between the rows of roses, her movements slight and deft as she touches one blossom lightly here and stoops there to move a violet from beneath the overhanging leaves. Aunt May is now only a child's memory in color, but the memory brings back thoughts of quiet gentleness, beautiful flowers, and peaceful meditation. Alice, the fourth child, was born with a sharp tongue and boundless energy. After the death of her father she ruled the household with an iron hand, assigning outside chores to the boys and distributing household duties among the girls, while she planned the meals and recreation for the entire family. Alice married George W. Mayes but tragedy attended the wedding. Several days before the wedding day George became ill with a high fever. However, he arose from his sick bed to go through with the ceremony, returning to bed immediately thereafter, never to rise again. Within the week he was dead from smallpox. Alice devoted her time and energy thereafter to managing 29

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU the household and reading. She encouraged her younger brother, Ralph, to become a doctor. She took him to Galveston, rented a house, and stayed with him through the long hard years of his medical training, keeping house and helping him with his studies. Uncle Ralph told me that it was only her iron will and determination that kept him from quitting and going home on numerous occasions. Before he went to Galveston his education had been very limited, and it was necessary for him to study several years before he could pass the medical school entrance examinations. Robert, the fifth in line, was an afflicted child, having been born almost totally blind. As a result, his activities were severely restricted. When Robert was yet a young boy a stranger drove up to the front gate one evening at dusk and asked if he could spend the night. His buggy was loaded down with large trunks and miscellaneous baggage. It was evident that he received a warm and cordial welcome, as his overnight stay stretched into three years. Even within my remembrance the family always referred to him as "The Stranger," because during the three years that he was a guest in my grandfather's home he never disclosed his real name, or where he came from, nor did he ever refer to his family. He was obviously an Englishman, as was indicated by his marked English accent. He was a brilliant, widely traveled man, whose education covered every conceivable subject. He tutored the children in many subjects unheard of in their small country school and entertained the entire family through many long winter evenings with tales of his travels through distant corners of the world and by reading aloud from books of classical literature that appeared from the depths of his trunk. Occasionally, he would show the children several resplendent military uniforms and two swords; one a dress sword with a heavily jeweled handle and scabbard, the other a fighting sword with a finely tempered blade, as evidenced by its ability to withstand the bending of its tip to the handle guard without permanent distortion. Among The Stranger's belongings was a violin. He was an accomplished violinist and many nights, after the family had retired, he would stride up and down the gallery playing intricate and beautiful music for hours on end. One morning, three years after his arrival, he announced that he must leave, packed his luggage into his buggy, thanked the family courteously for their hospitality, and departed from their lives forever. 30

Grandpa Jackson's Eleven Children He came as a stranger and departed a stranger, but he left the family of his host rich in knowledge and memories for having been their guest. The greatest gift of all he left with Robert—the ability to play the violin and an abiding love of music. Grandfather James ordered a violin for Robert from Galveston, and from that day forward it was his constant companion, giving to him a lifelong pleasure and means of self-expression that would otherwise have been denied this sightless boy. Never a day passed without the lively strains of Uncle Bob's violin drifting through the house. Uncle Bob had a lovable, uncomplaining disposition, and he was devoted to all the children in the family. He would entertain them hour after hour with his music or with tales of his childhood. He garnered his reward through the loyal devotion lavished on him by each and every child in the family. In later years, his most prized possession was a fine Edison phonograph and a large collection of classical and semiclassical recordings. Caruso and John McCormick were his favorites. One of his greatest pleasures was fiddling for the country dances. Although the dancers were only vague shadows to him, he was happy when playing from dusk 'til dawn for the young people. This man, handicapped from birth and limited by an age and environment primarily devoted to pursuits of physical activity, never complained; nor did he lose his inborn happy and lovable disposition. In spite of Bob's handicap he was able to ride horseback over the ranch by himself. Once, while still a young boy, he rode twelve miles from the house to the shore of East Bay. At dusk, he decided to spend the night rather than ride back to the ranch after dark. He made camp on the banks of Robinson's Lake at the mouth of Cane Bayou. He unsaddled his horse, staked him close by where he could graze, and built a small fire of cowchips and driftwood. After eating from the supply of cold biscuits and bacon which he carried in his saddle bags, he settled down on his saddle blanket to sleep with his saddle for a pillow. Just then, his horse reared, whinneyed, and lunged to the end of his stake rope, threatening to jerk the stake from the ground. At the same time, from across Cane Bayou, about twenty feet wide at this point, came the chilling scream of a panther, which has been aptly described as resembling the scream of a woman in mortal agony. Bob jumped up, ran to the trembling horse, and staked him more securely at the 31

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU

edge of the campfire. He dared not leave the security of the fire, and handicapped by his poor eyesight he would not risk shooting at the panther for fear of only wounding him. All night long the panther lay in the sea cane not more than thirty feet from Bob's campfire, and screamed and growled. All night long Bob sat by the fire with his gun across his lap and within easy reach of his horse's stake rope because the horse jumped and reared every time the panther screamed. Of course, Bob did not close his eyes all night. Just at daybreak the screams from across the bayou ceased and his horse calmed down. After it became good daylight Bob waded across the bayou, which was only about eighteen inches deep, and found the panther's bed among the sea cane. Ed, the sixth child, was a fun-loving, adventurous youngster with an uncanny talent for craftsmanship and mechanics. He married Lizzie Womble and fathered five children, Maude, Sarah May, Roger, Roy, and Edward. I have childhood memories of Uncle Ed when he was rice farming on the ranch and living with his family in Galveston. He would stay at the ranch several weeks and then in Galveston a week. On every trip he brought us children a present; a large sack of lemon and peppermint sticks, a keg of gingersnaps, or best of all, an entire stalk of bananas. He always brought several new stories, some for the children and some exclusive tidbits to be told only behind the barn, which was the menfolk's retreat. He told his yarns with great relish and skill, sometimes laughing so hard in expectation of the point of his story that he would need to stop and catch his breath. His skill in carpentry was known and appreciated throughout the countryside and the best expression of this talent was in the numerous sturdy and graceful boats that he built to ply between Double Bayou and Galveston. While rice farming he built, and used for many years, the first disk plow. Since he did not bother to have the idea patented, it soon spread far and wide and was patented by another. My best memories of Uncle Ed relate to a time shortly before his death when my brother, Guy Cade, and I visited him armed with all the latest stories we could collect. Although he was very ill at the time, he rolled with laughter at all our tales and polished the visit off by telling a few good ones himself. Humphrey, the seventh child, was named for the second child and eldest son, Humphrey, who died before Humphrey the second was born. Humphrey married Emma Toland and died without children. 32

Grandpa ]ackson's Eleven Children He was a large, stern man with no apparent sense of humor but with high morals and integrity. As a lawyer he owned the abstract business in Anahuac and was county judge for many years. Uncle Dump, as he was called in the family circles, was never known to recognize the presence of children or to bestow an unrewarded favor. His home was the showplace of Anahuac, having a fresh coat of paint each year and sitting in the middle of a spacious lawn, surrounded by a white picket fence. Aunt Emma gave numerous parties for the children's birthdays, and I remember the extra scrubbing that came before our attendance at one of her formal birthday parties. Claud, the eighth child, married May Andrews of Galveston and had two girls, Phoebe and Claudia. Claud was a tall, spare, reticent man with a husky voice. During his early years his success in rice farming enabled him to provide his family with a large home and the first automobile in Chambers County. During the latter years of his life he ran the Double Bayou Store and was known far and wide for his kindness and generosity. He was never known to refuse groceries on credit to those in need, and at the time of his retirement there must have been a large sum on his books in bad debts. He was quite fond of sporty red automobiles. Any time that we children saw a low-slung red car barreling down the road, we knew that Uncle Claud was behind the wheel. Ralph, the ninth child, named Raphael Semmes for Admiral Raphael Semmes of the Confederate Navy, was the doctor of the family. He married Pearl Ross, and they had one daughter, Alice. Pearl had tuberculosis at the time of their marriage, and Ralph moved her to El Paso, where he started practice. They lived in El Paso until Pearl had completely recovered, and then moved to San Antonio, where he practiced until his death. I remember Uncle Ralph as a quiet, kindly man, a doctor who never refused to go to the sick, and never pressed a patient for payment. A goodly part of his time was spent in doctoring the families of his brothers and sisters, for which he would accept no pay. He was always true to the oath of Hippocrates, which he took as a young doctor, administering to the rich and poor alike, and never did he discuss the symptoms or illness of a patient with anyone other than another doctor. This was a man truly dedicated to the finer precepts of his noble profession. When Uncle Ralph moved from El Paso to San Antonio, Aunt Al bought the house next door and moved to San

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Antonio with her mother, May, and Bob. Later, when Ralph moved to the other side of town, Alice followed and bought a home as near as possible to Ralph. After seeing him through medical school she was devoted to him the rest of her life, and I am sure she was a great burden to Ralph and Pearl. Guy, my father, was the tenth child and the youngest boy. He married Berta Nell Briggs and had seven children—James, Guy, Zuill, Ralph, Horace, Berta Mary, and Ula Jean. Although Guy was the youngest boy, he ran the ranch after his father's death, and brought his bride to live at the family ranch home with his mother, three sisters, and one brother. My mother, living and bearing children in a home that was not her own, did not have an easy time during her early married life. She and my father did not have a home of their own until the brothers and sisters moved to San Antonio some years later. I remember my father as a stern, quiet man who left the routine disciplining of the children to Mother. However, if things got out of hand it required only one word from him to straighten the children out, and I do not recall that he ever whipped one of the children to enforce his discipline. He stood tall and straight until the day of his death, and never did one word of complaint pass his lips. Although he was never openly affectionate with his children, he quietly devoted his life to their welfare. His reputation for honesty and integrity was never questioned, and he was generous to a fault in helping his neighbors who were in trouble. He had no outside diversion or interests other than his ranch and family, and on the ranch he was known as "Cap" or "Mr. Guy" by all the ranch hands and neighbors. He was an excellent horseman and roper and took particular pride in his cutting horses. A cattle buyer once bought a large herd of cattle from Dad and before he could sell the market broke, leaving him without enough money to pay for the cattle. The buyer came to the ranch with a deed to his home and offered it in lieu of his debt. Dad, of course, refused the deed, saying he would never knowingly take a man's home in settlement of any debt. Within my memory, he was always subject to severe headaches (which could probably be prevented now). In 1932, when Mother's health began to fail, after the birth of Ula Jean, Dad built a home for her in San Antonio, where she could enjoy a drier climate and be closer to Dr. Ralph. For a number of years Dad drove back and forth between San Antonio and the ranch, but at last had to

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Grandpa ]ackson's Eleven Children give up and stay in San Antonio. This sedentary life did not seem to agree with him, because he did not live many years after moving to San Antonio. During the 1890's, when the cattle were ready for market, they were driven about forty miles to Beaumont to be sold. The first drive that Guy made alone was during his father's last illness. Several days were spent gathering the cattle, separating the marketable steers, and making ready for the drive to market. Hours before daylight, on the day of the drive, the cowhands started drifting the steers out of the home trap and heading them toward Beaumont. On this trip they were able to bed the herd down about dark only a few miles from the shipping point. Early the next morning the steers were driven into the holding pens, where the cattle buyers were already at work. As soon as the cattle were penned, the cowhands were started on their homeward journey. By noon the cattle were sold, after many cups of coffee and many bids and counterbids by the various buyers. Payment for the cattle was made in gold coin, and Guy was amazed at the amount and weight of the gold given him in payment for the steers. He filled his saddle bags and pockets and dropped the remaining gold down into his boots after he had mounted his horse. As he rode away, he noticed that two strangers got on their horses and followed him out of town. For several hours he was able to stay in sight of a ranch house by zigzagging back and forth across the prairie to pass close to each ranch in turn. The two men stayed about half a mile behind him and matched their pace with his. He knew that soon he would leave the small ranches behind him and that his horse, burdened down with the weight of the gold, could not outrun his pursuers. Shortly before dark he could see ahead a strip of heavy timber which he knew was about half a mile wide. He increased his gait just a little, but the men behind him started to close the gap between them. Just at dark he rode leisurely into the timber with the two men now not more than a quarter of a mile behind. As soon as he was out of sight in the woods, he turned his horse at right angles to his normal course and rode several hundred yards into a thicket, dismounted, and placed his hand over his horse's nose to keep him from whinneying at the approach of the pursuing horsemen. He heard the two men enter the woods, urging their horses forward through the timber in order to pick him up on the other side. By this time it was dark, and he knew that his pursuers

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would be unlikely to find him in the woods. In about thirty minutes he heard the two men coming back through the woods, cursing and accusing one another of letting their victim slip away. After they were out of hearing, Guy led his horse quietly out of the timber and arrived home about midnight, sick of the weary weight of the gold in his pockets and boots, tired but safe. My parents' third child, Zuill, died of pneumonia when he was only a few years old. When it became apparent that Zuill was desperately ill, it was decided to take him across the bay to the hospital in Galveston. In those days Galveston was the center of activity for the Gulf Coast of Texas. The only means of travel between Double Bayou and Galveston was by sailboat. The sailboats were quite small because they had to navigate the small bayous along the bayshore and to safely float over the sand bars that existed at the mouth of the bayous. When the decision to take Zuill to Galveston was reached, the best possible preparations were made. The strongest boat and the most able skipper were obtained. The weather was such that only an emergency would have given the skipper the courage to thrust his fragile craft out of the mouth of the bayou into the storm that raged across Galveston Bay. The boat had a small cabin with an open hatch through which the rain and breaking seas constantly poured. Mother and Zuill were placed in the driest part of the cabin while Dad and the skipper stayed on deck to steer and man the sails. In order to reach Galveston, it was necessary to sail partially into the wind, which required a sailing maneuver of tacking back and forth across wind. After an entire afternoon of tacking back and forth it was heartbreaking to see how little progress had been made toward Galveston. Then all through the night the little boat zigzagged across the Bay, constantly tossing and twisting, with rain and spray blowing into the little cabin where Mother was holding her dying child. The next morning, eighteen hours after leaving Double Bayou, the little boat slipped into the dock at Galveston. Zuill was rushed to the hospital, but there were no miracle drugs to save him, and he died of the uncontrollable ravages of pneumonia, as did many others in that day and time. Ula Jean, the eleventh child, was the baby of the family and was teased and adored by all the brothers and sisters. She was the only member of the family, other than Robert, who learned to play a musical instrument. When she was a young lady a piano was purchased and she

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Grandpa Jackson's Eleven Children learned to play with a great deal of ease. In her early youth she fell in love with a young dentist in Anahuac, but the family did not approve; so later she married Dr. Joseph L. Cline, who was in charge of the Weather Bureau at Galveston. One son, Durward, was born to this union. Uncle Joe was from a mountaineer family in Tennessee, slightly built and very frugal. He was at Galveston in 1900 when the hurricane washed completely across the island, killing thousands of people. He and several other people clung to the roof of a house and were washed many miles out into the Gulf of Mexico. As the center of the hurricane passed inland, the winds reversed and they were blown back onto Galveston Island. Uncle Joe's other claim to fame was his ability to drink a two-gallon bucket of water without taking it down from his mouth. Soon after they were married, Joe was transferred to Dallas, where he was Chief of the Weather Bureau until the time of his retirement.

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FROM SCOTLAND TO TEXAS

M

y mother was born October 10, 1881, in Wonowoc, Wisconsin. She was a descendent of the More family of Scotland, a family related to the famous Rob Roy. At one time, Scottish history relates, the More family sheltered the Bonnie Prince Charles in his flight into exile. Her mother, Mary William Zuill, was the daughter of William and Mary Zuill, who immigrated to Wisconsin from Scotland around 1850. The Zuills were horse breeders and raised Clydesdale draft horses. My great grandfather, Perry Wood Briggs, was a banker in Wisconsin and served as provost marshal in the Union Army during the Civil War. At one time he owned the area around Lake Geneva in Wisconsin, which is now a renowed vacation resort. Grandpa Bert Wood Briggs, who had been ill with tuberculosis since early manhood, moved his family from Wisconsin to Anniston, Ala-

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From Scotland to Texas bama, when my mother was quite young in order to live in a warmer climate. While living in Alabama he was employed by the federal government as a revenue agent and his principal duty was tracking down and destroying moonshine stills in the hills of Alabama. Grandpa Briggs always said that during his career as a revenue agent he was shot at many times, but fortunately never hit. Mother remembers the old plantation house where they lived in Anniston, Alabama, the outside pockmarked by rifle balls and the walls of the unused upstairs rooms gaping with holes where cannon balls had been shot completely through the house during the Civil War. She also remembers being called a "damn Yankee brat" by some of her older playmates. When Mother was thirteen Grandpa decided to move to Texas. He sent his family on to Galveston by train, and drove a wagon loaded with their household goods from Anniston, Alabama, to Chambers County, Texas, a distance of about eight hundred miles. They bought the old Dick homestead at Lone Oak, where Grandpa farmed for a number of years. He tried to raise Belgian Hares but they all died except one old buck rabbit named "Buster," who seemed to be indestructible. He enjoyed a good fight and kept all the family dogs at a respectful distance outside the yard fence. Occasionally a strange dog would accompany a visitor to the Briggs home. Upon seeing Buster apparently asleep in the sun in the middle of the yard with his eyes closed and his ears resting on his back, the dog would immediately exercise the age-old prerogative of chasing rabbits by rushing at Buster at full speed, anticipating a meal of fresh rabbit meat. Buster would give no indication that he saw the dog coming, but just as the eager jaws opened to seize him, Buster would leap straight up into the air and land on the dog's back and rake him from shoulder to tail with the claws of his powerful hind legs. If the dog was persistent and attacked again, Buster would again leap into the air and slash the dog across the eyes. A real mean dog might last as long as one minute with Buster, but most would give up after the initial encounter. Buster never lost a fight, and no dog was ever fast enough to lay a fang on him. Once some neighbor boys brought Mother a baby wild pig that they had found while hunting the wild razorback hogs in the marsh. Soon the little pig was as gentle as a puppy and followed her everywhere she went, rubbing against her legs and squealing to have his back scratched. She named him "Grunt," which seemed an appropriate name for a little

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pig. About the time Grunt was half-grown his mistress was old enough to start having gentlemen callers. Since Grunt had negotiated a truce with Buster the rabbit, he was allowed to stay in the yard during the daytime. When a young man came to call, a half-grown pig squealing around one's feet added little to a romantic setting. Also, Grunt had a jealous streak in his character, and would try to upset the young man by running between his legs. If the young couple chose to go for a horseback or buggy ride down the public road, Grunt would be found running right behind them squealing and grunting in protest. Since no respectable young lady could tolerate for long these swinish overtones during her romantic interludes, poor Grunt was soon banished permanently to the confines of the pig pen. Guy Jackson was among the first young swains to call, and he soon staked out an indisputable claim at the Briggs household. He patiently waited out the years until Berta was twenty and had reached her parents' age for consent to marry. Grandpa Briggs soon found that his asthma and hay fever were severely aggravated by pollen from the lush vegetation and growing crops in Chambers County. Sometimes, in order to secure some relief, he would sail out into the middle of Galveston Bay, anchor his boat, and stay for several days until he could breathe again. When it became evident that Grandpa's health was steadily deteriorating they bought the Reagan Wells resort, located in the hill country of Uvalde County, Texas, where the climate was higher and drier. During my early childhood we spent a portion of each summer with Grandma and Grandpa Briggs at Reagan Wells. The Reagan Wells resort consisted of a large frame hotel and numerous cabins for the accommodation of guests. Adjacent to the hotel was a large log cabin which housed the dining room and kitchen. The rugged bulk of a huge stone fireplace filled one end of the dining room, and in the cool of the evening the cheerful warmth of the cedar-stump fire soon filled the half-circle of comfortable chairs in front of the hearth with hungry guests anxiously awaiting the sound of the dinner bell. As the crackling blaze warmed the rocks of the old fireplace, the host of crickets that made their home between the stones would start their fife and fiddle chorus, which would spread and increase in volume as the heat

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From Scotland to Texas seeped deeper into the chimney walls. The kitchen was large and cheerful, with windows around three sides. Reagan Wells offered hot mineral baths, mineral water for drinking, good meals, cool nights, and an abundance of peace and quiet. Since Grandpa Briggs was a victim of tuberculosis, he and Grandma lived in a floored tent, winter and summer, in order that Grandpa might have access to an abundance of fresh air. Great Grandpa and Great Grandma Briggs lived in a downstairs corner room in the hotel building. Although Great Grandpa was over ninety years of age at that time, he was quite active. One summer when he was ninety-six, he was busy putting new shingle roofs on all of the guest cabins. Grandpa Briggs was a small, wiry man with a crew haircut and a short mustache. He was always neatly dressed, wearing cuff links and a bow tie every day and having his shoes shined to a high gloss on all occasions. To us children, living in the damp climate of Chambers County, the summer trips to Reagan Wells were always joyfully anticipated months ahead. It seems to me that the strongest memories of childhood are associated with certain odors. I have a vivid recollection of the first faint scent of the cedars as we drove into the foothills at Uvalde, and of the fresh green smell of the first mountain stream as we splashed across the fording place in our Model T. In the summer there was always the tangy odor of burning cedar, and the faint haze of cedar smoke filling the valleys in the early morning. The dirt road that wound through the hills between Uvalde and Reagan Wells crossed and recrossed the river and each crossing was an exciting experience, as there were no bridges and the driver had to know the character of each fording place. Those with deep water and gravel bottoms were crossed with care at a snail's pace with the water surging over the running boards. The shallow crossings with the soft sand bottoms were hit at full speed with a running start from the top of the river bank, and were usually successfully negotiated in a spray of flying water. A motor stalled by flying water in midstream gave the children a happy opportunity to remove shoes and stockings and help push the old Ford to safety on the opposite bank. The time required

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to dry out the coil and magneto provided ample time for the children to wade, splash, and skip rocks in the river. When the last crossing was made and the old car had climbed to the top of the hill overlooking Reagan Wells Valley, each pair of small eyes busily checked every familiar landmark, seeking the assurance that each house and each tree was where it had been left the summer before. Children identify their need of security with familiar landmarks and familiar faces. The death of an old tree or the destruction of an old barn leaves them with a sad, lost feeling, although their father may consider it a great improvement to get the old tree out of the way and to replace the old barn with a new one. Children also seem to resent the aging process of their parents, because it brings a change in the familiar faces and a change in the activity pattern of their mothers and fathers which threatens their feeling of security. Grandma Briggs always reserved for us the largest family cabin, which afforded a cold-water shower and a small wood stove. Most of our time was spent on the river, running a short distance from our cabin. A small country store between the road and the river served us as a source of supply for lemon drops and peppermint candy as we trekked back and forth to the river. A path led from the store down a steep bank to the river, which had a solid limestone bottom. Watercress and wild mint grew in great profusion along the water's edge. The mint, bruised by many small bare feet, exuded a fresh pungent odor most pleasing to the sensitive nose of youth. Many a small dam was laboriously constructed of rock, sticks, and mud; and many a minnow and tadpole was captured and imprisoned behind those dams. Across the river, where the sycamore and willow trees overhung the bank, numerous varieties of fern covered the steep slope at the river's edge, shaded by the broad leaves of the sycamores and dampened by the cold river water seeping up from below. The river had its beginning a short distance upstream from the store at a point where a large spring spouted forth a stream of crystalline pure water. The churning force of this stream of water had washed out a large pot-hole, or natural swimming pool, which was flanked by large gray boulders and shaded by towering pecan trees. The water was frigid enough to turn a perspiring little boy, in a matter of seconds, into a bluish, goose-pimply mass of half-frozen flesh. The accepted procedure was to dive in over the spring, paddle across to a large rock on the far 42

Grandma Briggs

Grandpa Briggs

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU side and curl up in the sun to thaw out. About a mile down river was a spot called the Blue Hole, where, according to local tradition, no one had ever been able to find bottom, even with the longest sounding line. We were allowed to visit the Blue Hole only in the company of an adult, and were never allowed to go swimming there, because many years before several people had drowned and their bodies had never been recovered from the mysterious depths of the Blue Hole. At least once each summer we undertook the exhilarating experience of climbing the highest mountain in sight and were surely as proud when we stood on top as were the intrepid conquerors of Mt. Everest. One summer we caught two baby squirrels, and decided to take them back to Chambers County when we returned home. On the way home we stayed overnight at the Majestic Hotel in Galveston. On the front door of the hotel was a large sign which read, "No Pets Allowed." We solved this problem by carrying the squirrel cage around through the alley and up to the room by the back stairway. The squirrels were so excited and raised so much fuss and chatter that we were forced to cover the cage with a large hotel quilt. The next morning, we discovered that the squirrels had busied themselves all night gnawing holes in the quilt and extracting the stuffing in order to make two comfortable beds in the bottom of the cage. While Daddy went to purchase needle and thread, we worked the stuffing back into the quilt. Mother neatly patched the holes in the quilt, and we departed, as we had arrived—the squirrels down the back stairway and the rest of the family through the front door. In the front yard we built for the squirrels a large walk-in cage, where they lived for many months, until someone left the cage door open and they escaped to the sanctuary of the large oak trees that shaded the front yard. While confined to the cage the squirrels were perfect pets and would sit on the children's shoulders and dig into their pockets for bits of food. However, having once escaped, they displayed a surprising degree of intelligence in thwarting all schemes to recapture them. We filled their feeding dishes inside the cage with choice pecans and tied to the open door of the cage a long string with which to slam it shut, if they should succumb to the temptation of the food within. The food certainly tempted them, for they would scamper all over the outside of the cage barking and fussing with frustration. They would

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From Scotland to Texas even sit just outside the open door and peer inside, but not once did they venture across the threshold. For many years thereafter they lived in the oak trees and maintained a friendly but distant relationship with their former captors. On the Fourth of July at Reagan Wells Grandpa Briggs staged a goat barbecue and invited everyone in the canyon. We children thought the barbecued goat was wonderful, but Mother was a bit squeamish about the whole thing, and ended up eating a more orthodox meal in the kitchen with the cook. The day's festivities reached a climax with a big square dance in the dining hall that evening. The dances were executed with a great deal of enthusiasm and physical vigor. When the call went out for "Cotton-Eyed Joe" the local boys really turned loose trying to outdo one another with intricate loose-jointed steps, all accompanied by a steady drum beat of cowboy heels on the floor and the rhythmic clapping of hands by the spectators. Periodically one of the more exuberant young men would back away from his partner to cut a buck-and-wing or to solo jig. The other dancers would form a circle around him, clapping their hands and shouting encouragement. When he began to show signs of exhaustion, another volunteer would leap into the ring to exhibit his skill at jigging. One night, much to my dismay, someone pushed my father into the ring. To my great surprise, he proceeded to cut the fanciest buck-and-wing displayed that night. His skillful performance brought the first realization to me that my father had once been young. Later, through discreet questioning of my Mother, we learned that Daddy had been considered the most accomplished dancer in Chambers County, and, in our mother's opinion, he was also the best-mannered and most handsome. Immediately he became younger and more glamorous in our eyes. To us children the visits to Reagan Wells started too late and ended too soon, but we were always glad to smell the pine trees and relish each familiar landmark as we neared our home in Chambers County. Some of my most cherished memories are of my grandmother, Mary William Briggs, born of Scotch immigrant parents, and by her actions and words, as truly a Scotswoman as if she were born in the old country. Tall and sparsely built, with deep-set eyes and ebony-black hair, she seldom laughed and never cried. She spent most of her life caring for her sick husband and his aged parents, and at the same time, earning the family living by running first a summer resort and later an apart-

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ment house. In spite of her heavy burdens she found time to be interested in world and civic affairs and never failed to vote at election time. The only luxury she allowed herself was a pair of canary birds, which she tended with great care. When I was a small boy, living with my Aunt Al in San Antonio and going to school, I spent each Sunday with Grandma Briggs, reveling in her Yankee pot roast with mashed potatoes for dinner and her Scotch hash and lemon pie for supper. One of her greatest assets was her ability to listen to a child's woes and dreams without censure or criticism. If asked for an opinion or advice, she gave it in a straightforward manner which left no doubt in the mind of a small boy as to her beliefs or principles. First and foremost, she believed in God and the Presbyterian Church. In her personal book of faith, lying, cheating, and gossiping were mortal sins. Sympathy and pity were to be enjoyed by those of weak character and timid hearts. The problems of life were to be overcome by strength of character, persistence in action, and a stern faith in the ultimate victory of good over evil. Intolerance of one's self was a virtue, but intolerance of others was a fault. She believed that self-pity could destroy the soul and shorten the span of life. During my childhood Grandma Briggs was one of the few adults who, in my opinion, merited my complete personal confidence. I like to believe that the rigorous Scottish blood transfused into the family tree by Grandma Briggs could be responsible to some degree for any strength of character or moral integrity that may have emerged in later generations.

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THE 1915 HURRICANE

O

ur entire family was in San Antonio when the 1915 hurricane drove the waters of the Gulf of Mexico up to within a few yards of the ranch house. For several weeks the major portion of the ranch was covered with sea water. And after the water receded the prairie was dotted with dead cattle, dead people, wrecked boats, sea buoys, life preservers, house tops, and many other types of wreckage. When we arrived at the ranch we found that many of the people living on East Bay and Bolivar Point had lost their lives, and that many of the bodies had been left by the receding waters on the prairie not far from our ranch home. Before our arrival, Monte Humphrey and some of the neighbors had picked up all the bodies they could find and had buried them after identifying as many as possible. During the storm Mr. Hillebrandt, who lived at the mouth of Oyster Bayou, had

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tied his small boat to the gallery of his house. Just before the house was swept away he got into the boat, and in it was able to ride out the fury of the storm. His boat, driven eight miles northward, at last came to rest on a sandy knoll not far from the ranch house. Among the first bodies found were those of Hugh Jackson, a cousin, and his grandson. The corpse of Hugh Jackson was dreadfully mutilated, as if a large timber had been driven completely through his body. The body of his grandson was found lodged in some bushes on a nearby knoll. It was known that when the storm struck Hugh and his grandson were at their ranch house, located at the mouth of Oyster Bayou and across the bayou from Mr. Hillebrandt's place. It was never determined whether they attempted to ride out the storm at the ranch house and were killed, or drowned when the house collapsed, or if they tried to escape by boat and were capsized before reaching safety. As a result of the flooded conditions a tremendous crop of mosquitoes was hatched. Everyone wore long-sleeved clothes, gloves, and rags wrapped around their heads and necks. The mosquitoes covered the bodies of the cattle until all the color of the cattle was obscured. Red, black, or white cattle all appeared to be a dark gray, as they were constantly covered with a swarming mass of mosquitoes. Many cows and calves died from loss of blood, and the cattle that survived shed most of their hair and were very thin, because they were unable to eat much while the infestation lasted. Although the houses were screened and everyone slept under mosquito netting, it was still almost impossible to rest at night, because a large number of mosquitoes would penetrate both these barriers. On the lee side of the house very little light came through the windows, since the outside screens were almost completely covered with a solid mass of mosquitoes. In spite of the insects, the cowhands rode the pasture checking the cattle loss. When they unsaddled in the evening, blood could be seen dripping from the bellies of the horses. Only necessary trips were made to the Double Bayou Store in the Model T. When the car returned, mosquitoes would be clinging to the back of the car, one on top of the other, forming a solid mass of mosquitoes several inches thick. It was possible to scoop the mass of mosquitoes off with a gloved hand into a washtub until the tub was entirely filled with mosquitoes clinging together in solid balls. The worst of 48

The 1915 Hurricane the infestation was over in about ten days, although the mosquito population stayed considerably above normal until the first freeze. Since only a few head of cattle survived the storm, Daddy borrowed $100,000 and restocked the ranch, primarily with cows from Florida, which he crossbred with Brahma bulls. Because of their small size and scrawny appearance these Florida cows were known as "jitney cattle." For several years after 1915 the prairie was dotted with bleached bones of the cattle that had drowned in the storm. Every time we went into the pasture wefilledthe wagon or Model Τ with bones and hauled them back to the ranch house until we had a pile of bones that stood higher than the buggy house. Eventually they were shipped to Galveston, where they were ground into bone meal for fertilizer.

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OUR RANCH HOME

A

lthough I was only nine when our ranch home burned in 1918, my memories of this house are vivid and sharp. My mind can re-create each room in distinct detail. This two-story house had seven bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining room, a parlor, a bath, five entrances, and a gloomy attic. To this day when reading about an old house, my mind automatically shifts the described scenes to the rooms of my grandfather's home. I place a family dinner in our old dining room with the oak sideboard, and I see the fictional children race up and down our stairway and slide down our banister. A murder in a bedroom always takes place in Uncle Ed's bedroom at the head of the stairs. This home was designed for gracious living, facing toward the south so the cooling gulf breezes could sweep through the spacious

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Our Ranch Home central hallway. It was built upon brick pillars about five feet in height, and the broad steps were an invitation to enter the coolness of the covered gallery, which extended across the front of the house and swept around both sides to accommodate similar east and west entrances. These expansive front steps, easily seating twenty or more members of the family as they gathered to have their likenesses recorded for posterity, were the setting for many family pictures. The gallery was cluttered with rocking chairs and benches, where the men sat with their feet on the banister and spoke in low tones of the weather, the cattle, the crops, and of more serious problems which a small boy was not supposed to hear, but which he could hear if he would crawl under the house and sit out of sight just under the edge of the gallery. Each summer day, just before dark, a small stool and towel were placed beside a washtub half-full of water on the front gallery. Late in the evening, as each barefoot child scampered up the gallery steps, he plopped down on the stool and hastily washed and dried his feet before entering the house. Woe unto him who failed to perform this ritual—for his bedsheets, smudged in black the next morning, pointed an unerring finger directly at the sinner. A peach-tree switch liberally applied to the dancing legs of the culprit always drove this particular sin from his body and soul forevermore. As one stepped through the double screen doors into the broad hallway, covered from wall to wall with grass matting, the eyes were drawn upward to measure the height of the tall ceiling that extended far back to disappear into the dim recesses of the house. Then the eyes were drawn back down by the moving glint of light reflected from the swinging brass pendulum of the grandfather clock which stood in its own niche where the dining-room wall extended slightly into the hall. On the right and toward the back of the hall a carpeted stairway angled upward to where a small window, with its uncertain light, illuminated a landing. From the turn at the landing the stair rose a few more steps and opened into a duplicate hallway on the second floor. A few steps from the entrance on the left a door led into the parlor, where the shades were drawn and the doors were always closed until the buggy bearing company broke into view from the edge of the woods a half mile distant. The time required for the buggy to cover

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this half mile between the woods and the front gate was just the time needed to open the parlor doors, raise the shades, and give the furniture a quick dusting. The parlor housed the good furniture—including the piano and the spindly-legged glass-fronted cabinets containing souvenirs from the Chicago World Fair—and a musty smell which caused the children to have a sudden desire for the outdoors. When visitors came the women sat in the parlor, the men sat on the front gallery, and the children raced for the barn. The front door to the right of the entrance led into Grandpa's and Grandma's room, with its oversized fireplace and the four-poster feather bed. To the right of the fireplace was a circular alcove directly under a similar alcove on the second floor. To the left of the fireplace a door opened onto the porch, where fireplace wood was stacked, and where the dogs slept in the wintertime with their backs against the warm chimney. Double sliding doors opened into the next bedroom, which had the only bathroom in the house. Cold water was piped to the tub and the hot water was carried from the kitchen in tea kettles. After the family had decreased in size, this room was used as a sitting room and sewing room. Here Grandma Jackson sat by the hour rocking and warming by the cast-iron wood stove, reading to the grandchildren or talking to the girls as they read or worked on their sewing and embroidery. Directly across the hall was the dining room, with its many pleasant memories of good country food. Behind the dining room was the dish pantry and then the kitchen. Attached to the kitchen was the large kitchen supply room. Flour, meal, coffee, and sugar were brought from Galveston in large wooden barrels and stored in the supply room. One large barrel held the winter's supply of pickled meat. Several sides of home-cured bacon always hung from the ceiling, along with sausage and hams. Two large buckets sitting by the kitchen door were known as "slop buckets." All food scraps that contained any food value went into the slop buckets, which, in one day's time, might include a pan of clabber, rancid grease, stale sweet potatoes, cornbread, potato peelings, and all scraps from the table. When my older brother, Guy Cade, was quite young he delighted in slipping into the kitchen and jumping up and down in the slop buckets with both feet. The customary peach-tree-

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Our Ranch Home switch cure was relatively ineffective in this case. If he could just get into that slop bucket with both feet, he would worry about the peachtree switch later. The second floor of the house consisted of five bedrooms; one of which, in reality, was a small servant's room. My parents' bedroom was directly over the parlor and had a cupola alcove that Mother kept filled with ferns. From the upstairs hallway a narrow enclosed stairway led up to the attic, with a door at the bottom of the stairway enclosure. Attics fascinate children and, at the same time, frighten them just a bit. As children we seldom went into the attic alone, and, if we did, we always carefully propped open with a brick the door at the bottom of the stairs. A child would always pause on the stair just as his head rose above the attic floor and carefully look into all the dark recesses formed by the many-gabled roof. To the right of the stairway opening sat the old round-topped trunks stuffed with three generations of clothes, souvenirs, and keepsakes. Pieces of furniture, retired but not discarded, sat about at odd angles on their broken legs and rockers. Two small gable windows shed some dusty light into the attic and partially dispelled the eerie gloom in a brief semicircle in front of each window. A peek out of one of the windows disclosed the yard below in an unfamiliar pattern. The big oak was just a large spread of green leaves, and the four-foot-thick trunk that identified it on the ground was nowhere to be seen. The familiar chicken house with its chicken-wire front and its rows of roosts was just a square of flat roof from above. The big pond behind the barn with the light reflecting from its surface appeared as a silver dollar carelessly dropped in the grass and not the muddy haven of water moccasins and snapping turtles we knew so well on the ground. This tiny attic window did, in fact, provide a strange perspective on many familiar scenes. When the house burned no one was at home, as all our family were in San Antonio. Old Fanny, the cook, was staying on the ranch while we were gone, but she had left to visit her relatives the day of the fire. Some of the neighbors saw the smoke and arrived in time to save some of the furniture on the lower floor, including Daddy's desk with his legal papers and ledgers. When the news of the fire reached San Antonio Dad left immediately for Double Bayou. Although his first letter

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confirmed the report that the house and all within had burned to a pile of ashes, we children could not believe that the only home we had ever known was really gone. We secretly cherished the belief that when we got to Double Bayou we would find it still standing, shaded and sheltered by the stately oaks and tall sycamore trees. After several weeks of anxious waiting, Dad arrived in San Antonio and loaded the entire family in the car for the long journey back to the ranch. Usually when the family was returning home from a trip the children were excited and chattered about their plans for the first day at home and our parents would be discussing the necessary work and chores that had to be done. However, on this day, as we drove along the road the children were quiet and subdued and our parents seemed to have no interest in what had to be done at home. Coming out of the woods half a mile from home, we could see the grove of trees around the house but, as yet, could not be sure that the house was gone. But when we stopped to open the horse-trap gate we saw the empty space under the trees. N o one spoke or even cried as we drove slowly up to the yard gate. It was as if we were arriving at the funeral of an old and cherished friend. As the children got out of the car they slipped through the gate one by one and stood silently for a few minutes, gazing at the mound of grayish black ashes which lay scattered between the rows of gaunt, brick pillars that had once supported the house. It was true! Gone were their familiar beds, their favorite pair of overalls with a treasured jack knife left in the pocket. The old kitchen stove lay in the ashes where it had fallen through the burning floor, a twisted heap of melted iron. One child stooped and picked up a glob of melted glass and identified the remains of a vinegar cruet that always sat in the middle of the dining room table. Soon all the children were scrabbling through the dead ashes searching for the remains of any familiar object. Before long each child had a little hoard of twisted metal, iron buttons, and melted glass, which represented to him a link with his past, now so abruptly destroyed. It has been often said by the learned philosophers of history that the hardships and tragedies of a lifetime harden and anneal the character of a man. If this be true, the hammer of fate struck a resounding blow in tempering the characters of those children as they stood that day shuffling their feet in the ashes of their past. Arrangements had been made to have a rice-farm shack moved in

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Our Ranch Home for family living quarters while a new house was built. Fortunately it was summertime and we were reasonably comfortable in it, although the shack had a low tar-paper roof, which made the inside of the house unbearably hot in the middle of the day. This was the last year of World War I, and we had no white flour or sugar. Cane syrup was used to sweeten everything that required sugar, such as coffee, tea, and cereal. We had rye-flour biscuits, grayish in color and flat and hard. The children were assigned the job of breaking the old bricks into small pieces with a hammer. The resulting rubble was used as filler in the concrete piers for the new home. A Mr. Meitzen from Anahuac built the new house with the help of a handful of unskilled labor. The only skilled man on the job, other than Meitzen, was an ex-sailor named Pat, who did the painting and paper hanging. Pat was a transient workman and stayed only long enough to finish the job. The children were entranced with Pat, who had an inexhaustible supply of tales and was never too busy to stop and spin yarns for the children. While my father appreciated his skill as a painter, we children were delighted with his unusual ability to sneeze at will. Upon request, Pat could produce one authentic sneeze or a dozen, and fortunately he never seemed to grow tired of sneezing for our entertainment. Pat prescribed mint-leaf tea for all ailments and he furnished the supply of dried mint leaves for the entire family. I do not know that Pat's brew ever saved a life, but it tasted good and thereby boosted our morale. When the new home was completed Dad subscribed to the party telephone line that served our little community. The phone was mounted on the wall in the hallway at a convenient height for our father's use, so when mother used the phone, she had to pull the mouthpiece down and tilt her head back in order to be heard. An old kitchen chair stood in the hallway beside the phone to be used by the children as a stool when they talked to the neighbors. Each household was assigned a different combination of long and short rings. So when the phone rang, all conversation within the house halted temporarily until the ring was identified. It was generally understood that all telephone conversations would be monitored by some of the neighbors. Much to our disgust, Daddy would not allow the children to listen in on the party line. An elderly neighbor, who had grown too old for active work, soon

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became an unofficial central operator for the Double Bayou end of the line, and entertained himself by listening on the party line throughout most of the day. He had a high stool with a padded seat so he could listen in comfort. Sometimes he would become so much interested in the conversation that he would break in and give his opinion on the subject under discussion. He was quite helpful in that he was always willing to pass along news of general interest such as reports of approaching storms and illness among the neighbors. When he died his helpfulness and cheery conversation were certainly missed along the party line.

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CHRISTMAS ON THE RANCH

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hristmas on the ranch during my childhood was a time of story-book remembrances. The big, old-fashioned ranch home was filled to overflowing with family and kin who journeyed from all parts of Texas to enjoy the Christmas season at the old homestead from which they originated. The Clan would start arriving a week before Christmas and would linger on for at least a week after. Some came by boat from Galveston and some by rail to White's Ranch, where they were met by a member of the family and transported by buggy or wagon eighteen miles across the prairie to the ranch house. Some Christmases as many as twenty-five guests would gather for the Christmas holidays. One job in preparation for the festivities was to check the backlog in the fireplace. The backlog was always put into the fireplace at the beginning of Christmas week. This log had to be of such size and con57

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sistency that it would burn for an entire week. The opening in the family fireplace was easily six feet by four feet and the fire box was about four feet deep. The backlog was cut and hauled to the back steps several months before Christmas. It was always a section of the trunk of an oak tree about five feet long and between two and three feet thick. A track of two heavy boards would be laid up the back steps, across the porch, and into the house to the fireplace. A block and tackle was used to skid the log up the steps. Then it was rolled along the boards into the fireplace and pushed into place against the back wall. A fire of smaller logs was built in front of the backlog and as Christmas week progressed, the fire in front would gradually burn away the backlog. Each morning coals from this backlog were used to start the fire anew. The kitchen hummed with activity from morning 'til night. Old Fanny, the family cook, bossed her extra kitchen help with the firm authority of a top sergeant. From this kitchen with its scrubbed pine floors, three big meals were served each day. During the festivities of Christmas two and sometimes three shifts of hungry family were served at each meal. When the children became old enough to use a knife and fork they graduated to the second or third table. The grownups sat at the first table and ate the choice pieces of chicken and hot biscuits fresh from the oven. Although the children ate seconds, their youthful appetites more than made up for the cold biscuits and the chicken plate filled with only necks and wings. About a week before Christmas day all the children were bundled into a wagon for the long-anticipated trip to the woods to cut the Christmas tree. The most shapely trees grew at the very edge of the woods. So, as soon as the wagon came to a halt the children spilled over the sides to race frantically through the woods, each trying to find the tree of his choice. Everyone was an expert on Christmas trees, and soon every child had chosen a tree and was loudly proclaiming its merits and virtues. Most would be championing a pine about thirty feet tall. Dad would seriously inspect every chosen tree and would finally make his choice by sinking his ax into the trunk of a tree that was obviously much too short and much too small in girth to qualify for a real Christmas tree! Amid the protestations of the small fry, Dad would cut the tree with a few skillful blows of the ax, all the while

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Christmas on the Ranch assuring the children that the tree would magically grow to their expectations by the time it was mounted in the parlor. As the tree fell to the ground there was always afleetingmoment of sadness in the minds of the youngsters as they witnessed the sudden transformation of a living tree to a thing lying on the ground, inert and dead. This feeling was quickly dispelled by instructions from Dad to find a holly tree. Immediately, the race was on again, this time deep into the woods where the holly trees grew. Soon a cry of triumph would ring out as a holly was located, and all would converge on the discovery. A few choice limbs of holly would be cut and carried to the wagon. After the tree and the holly were loaded on the wagon, the mules were headed back toward the house, while the smaller children nestled down among the tree branches and the larger youngsters shouted and skipped along behind. The tree was unloaded at the buggy house and a wooden stand was fashioned around the base. Many anxious little hands were busy handing the saw and hammer back and forth and passing just the rightsize nails. Then the tree was carried into the parlor with its fifteen-foot ceiling and placed upright in the center of the room, from which all the furniture, except the piano, had been removed; and Lo!, as if by magic, the tree had grown until the top brushed the high ceiling and the thick green branches stretched out to almost touch the walls of the room. Most years the trees were longleaf pine but one year we had a large holly tree loaded with gleaming clusters of crimson berries. The next morning the children arose to find the doors to the parlor tightly closed and the shades drawn to the bottom of each window. From that moment until Christmas Eve no children were allowed in the parlor. Those intervening days were days of unbelievable suspense and anticipation, with the grown-ups popping in and out of the parlor doors with large and small packages of mysterious shapes and sizes. A peek through the keyhole was futile, because the key was in the keyhole and turned from the inside, or the room was in darkness. An occasional unsatisfactory glimpse could be had if a drawn blind could be found with a small crack at the bottom. The sounds of muffled laughter and talk could be heard sometimes, if a small ear was pressed firmly against the door. This was surely the most enjoyable part of Christmas for the parents and uncles and aunts—decorating and redecorating the tree, planning surprises for the children, and anticipating the reaction

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of each and every child to each and every present. I am sure that modern psychologists would feel that these days of childish frustration and thwarted desires should have resulted in a generation of homicidal little monsters. But since the concepts of complexes and frustrated egos were not a part of their knowledge, these children relished every waiting moment, and in doing so laid by a treasury of pleasant memories. In spite of the misgivings of the anxious children, Christmas Eve did always arrive. Promptly at eight o'clock the large folding doors of the parlor were pushed aside and there stood the tree in all its glory—the realization of the children's dreams. There it stood in a blaze of flickering candlelight, stretching from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall. Surely, there were a thousand Christmas candles, the glowing flame of each reflected from the strings of gold and silver tinsel and from countless glistening varicolored balls. Strings of snow-white popcorn traced a delicate pattern of graceful loops and swirls against the deep green of the pine needles. A swinging apple or orange would be reflected in an occasional dull red or orange glow. Each limb was heavy-laden with presents, as all, except the most bulky, were tied to the branches of the tree. High up, near the top, would be the dolls for the little girls. Below the dolls were the presents for the boys and adults. To the eyes of the children there appeared to be thousands of presents weighing down the branches of the tree. In an instant the children filled the room, some racing around and around, trying to see everything on the tree at once, others standing quietly, gazing in rapture at a doll or an air rifle as if to make it their own. Most of the presents were hung on the tree unwrapped, but with the tag carefully hidden in the foliage. After the first shock had partially dissipated, some of the children would start trying to read the tags, but without much success. Soon Dad would call for quiet, and after the children had seated themselves on the floor he would start cutting down the presents with his pocket knift, one by one. He would call out the name on the tag and the child or adult would come forward to be presented with the gift. This gave the entire family a chance to see each gift as it came from the tree. Of course, there was some impatience in evidence among the children as this ritual was performed. At last the tree would be bare

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Christmas on the Ranch and the entire parlor would be covered with a wild array of presents and noisy children. The week following Christmas was primarily devoted to transporting the various visiting members of the family back to their point of embarkation, either to the boat at Double Bayou, or to the railroad at White's Ranch. After Christmas a small boy could get back to the less strenuous task of enjoying the winter.

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HOG-KILLING TIME

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f course hog-killing time came before Christmas. Early in the fall several selected hogs were penned and fattened on corn and slop from the kitchen. Around the first of December these hogs were killed and bled at the hog pen and transported by wheelbarrow to the butchering tables behind the house. Here a fifty-gallon iron washpot of scalding water awaited. The water was heated to boiling by a roaring fire built around and under the pot. Next to the pot and partially buried in the ground was a large wooden barrel. This work area was situated about fifty yards back of the house in the pecan orchard and was used both for washing clothes and butchering hogs. The pecan trees, about fifty feet in height, furnished a dense shade in the summer for the washwomen, but stood stark and bare in winter. The barrel was filled with boiling hot water from the washpot, and

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Hog-Killing Time each carcass in turn was immersed into the scalding water. A singletree suspended from an overhead limb by a block-and-tackle was hooked through the tendons in the hind legs of the hog, and he was heaved out of the scalding water and hung a few feet from the ground. Immediately several men would start scraping the hair from the hog with dull knives. The hair came off easily after being loosened by the hot water. Soon several clean white carcasses would be hanging from the pecan trees and the cleaning process would begin. The children would get the bladders from each animal and inflate them through a large hollow quill from a turkey-wing feather. Then they would tie them securely with a string and hang them in a tree to dry. The children found them very durable footballs after about a week of drying in the sun. The hog carcasses were spread for cooling, pulled up high into the trees, and left overnight. If the moon was shining the small boys would slip out after dark and gaze up at the white, ghostly forms hanging in the trees. I cannot remember what we thought at the time, but there was a certain fascination in the experience. The next morning the meat grinders and sausage mills were clamped to the tables. The hams and bacon sides were removed and hung in the smokehouse. The fat was cut into two-inch squares and thrown into the washpot, where a hot fire reduced the fat to lard and cracklin's. The cracklin's came out of the pot golden brown and steaming hot. As fast as they were removed from the pot they were salted and gobbled up by the children and adults alike, either straight or tucked between two halves of a fresh biscuit. Some of the shoulder meat was pickled in a barrel of brine and the rest made into sausage. The freshly ground meat was mixed in a large wooden bowl in accordance with an age-old family recipe of salt, black pepper, red pepper, sage, and other more esoteric ingredients. The sausage mill was in reality a press. The barrel of the press was filled with seasoned meat and a plunger operated by hand forced the meat out through a nozzle into the sausage casing attached to the nozzle. The sausage casings were brought from Galveston packed in brine in a small wooden keg. As I recall, they were made at the packing house from sheep intestines. Occasionally Dad would prepare chitlin's, which were segments of a selected small intestine carefully cleaned and fried in the lard-rendering pot. The ribs and

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backstrap were eaten fresh, and the sausage was hung in the smokehouse along with the hams and sides of bacon to be smoked over a smouldering hickory fire until completely cured. The smokehouse was constructed of heavy timbers, with no windows, only a few small vents around the eaves and a few vents down close to the base of the walls. A hickoiy fire was kept burning on the dirt floor in the center of the house. Just enough air entered through the vents to keep the fire smouldering but not blazing. When the door was opened a haze of smoke would drift out along with the tantalizing aroma of the slowly curing sausage, bacon, and hams.

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BLUE NORTHERS

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inter was always ushered in by a blue norther. Since there were no radios, and newspapers were about a week late arriving, it was necessary to anticipate bad weather from natural signs. Sometimes we would know twenty-four hours before a norther struck that it was on the way. The most reliable predictors of weather were the pigs. They would start making beds by shoving corn cobs and shucks into the corners of their pens, all the while squealing, grunting, and fighting one another. Within twenty-four hours, a norther would be in. The dogs would start about the same time digging beds under the house close to the base of the fireplace chimneys in anticipation of the norther. The horses would show their restlessness by walking around and around the pasture, stopping to gaze over the fence as if looking at something far away. Even the small children seemed to sense the approach of a norther, as they were more quarrelsome and

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restless, a fact which supports the theory that children have an abundance of animal instinct. While it was still hot the dark clouds would start forming in the north, and the children would watch them grow rapidly and roll closer. One could see the first puff of north wind strike the treetops in the woods half a mile away; then it would swirl across the horse trap, where the horses would start racing around and around along the fence, squealing, kicking, and biting at one another. Even the placid old milk cows would join in the fun for a short time. As it hit the cornfield a ripple would move across the tops of the cornstalks, each stalk bowing before the blast. The pigs would start an uproar at the barn and the chickens would start clucking and cackling in annoyance as the wind fanned their tail feathers over their backs. A small boy would stand facing the north, watching and listening in silence to the approach of the wind. As the first puff of cool air gently tossed his hair, it triggered off a reaction that sent him racing around and around the yard, shouting and leaping as if possessed by demons. Soon all the children would be cavorting wildly about. Then they would all dash into the house and seek out a place of shelter. Although it would still be hot, some would wrap an old quilt around themselves; one might crawl under a mattress sunning on the porch, another would get into a large pasteboard box on the porch and close the lid over his head, while yet another might kick off his shoes and slip under the covers on his bed. Within a few minutes, this madness was gone, the children would return to their normal play, the horses would return to their grazing, and the riot at the pig pen would subside to an occasional disinterested grunt. Whence these instinctive reactions in children and where does it go? Once we rigged a sail on a small goat wagon just before a norther. When the norther struck it filled the sail with a sharp snap and away we went at breakneck speed across the open prairie until we ran into the shelter of the woods. Then came the long trudge pulling the wagon against the wind to get set for another dry-land sail with the wind. In winter our house was heated with two fireplaces—one in our parents' bedroom and one in the living room—a wood stove in the dining room, and the wood cookstove in the kitchen. The remaining four bedrooms and bathrooms were not heated. At bedtime a child would toast himself, front and back before the roaring fireplace, in

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Blue Northers preparation for a quick dash down the long hallway into the cold bedroom and an efficient shedding of clothing, with five seconds allowed to don outing pajamas and five more seconds to jerk back the covers, leap into bed, pull the heavy covers over his head, and curl up into a small shivering knot. Gradually, as the shivering subsided, the knot would relax and the feet would explore a few more inches of the icy depth of the bed. In a wink it would be morning and one could hear the crackling of the new fire in the fireplaces and the sharp rattle of stove lids from the kitchen. The aromatic odor of freshly lighted pitchpine kindling would be faintly discernible, followed shortly by the rich aroma of bubbling dark-roast coffee and the smoky tang of slab bacon cooking in its own fat. A faint soft thumping from the kitchen indicated that fresh biscuit dough was being lightly kneaded, rolled, and cut with a baking-powder can. A few moments were required to anticipate the cold floor and to screw up courage to jump out of bed and reverse the previous night's routine at the same fast pace, ending up where one started the night before, toasting front and rear before the fireplace. If the fireplace was crowded some of the children ended up behind the kitchen stove to complete their dressing procedure. The monstrous old cast-iron cookstove that dominated the kitchen was a source of companionship and comfort to all. However, its appearance before daylight in the morning by the feeble glow of a kerosene lamp was anything but comforting. It stood there, cold and black, emanating a faint disagreeable odor of dead ashes and cold grease. Even the task of removing the stove lids and laying a fresh fire seemed distasteful. But as soon as the first flames roared up the stove pipe the stove was transformed into its old cheerful self again. The fresh wood would pop and crackle while burning furiously until the damper was turned down. Through the cracks in the firebox, dancing spots of light would weave a cheery pattern of flickering light on the still darkened walls of the kitchen. Within a few minutes the entire kitchen would be warm and cozy. This old stove cooked mountains of food for a large family, dried wet clothes on a line behind its back, warmed little orphan animals of all descriptions in a box at its side, kept food warm in its spacious warming oven for late eaters, and furnished hot bath water for old and young alike from its large storage tank. In the winter the children had their baths in a large washtub set directly in front of the open oven door. This stove popped corn, roasted coffee and

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peanuts, heated flat irons for ironing, and on very cold nights heated bricks to be used as bed warmers. Many winters we would have a spell of freezing rain, when all the trees would acquire a coating of ice. Small puddles of water would freeze solid and these furnished a temporary sliding pond for the children. It was great fun to slide across the ice in leather shoes or in a wooden box. One winter we chopped ice from a windmill tower where it had been formed by the spray from a leaky pump. Using the ice we made a large freezer of ice cream and then huddled around the fireplace to eat it. This was a rare treat, as we had ice cream only occasionally in the summer. Ice was brought in by boat from Galveston at a cost of ninety cents per hundred pounds and by the time it arrived a one-hundred-pound block was melted down to not more than fifty pounds. Northers frequently meant hardship and financial loss. In the spring of 1923 most of the cattle had been brought out of the marsh and put into the open upper pasture. Suddenly, and without warning, a severe freezing rain drove in from the north. The cattle in the upper pasture drifted into the middle fence as they sought to escape the fury of the storm and froze to death when they could no longer keep moving with the wind. As those in front froze and went down those behind clambered over their bodies until they too struck the fence and collapsed. The next morning between twenty-three and twenty-four hundred head of cattle were dead in one corner of the fence, their bodies stacked, one on top of the other, higher than the fence posts. After a disaster of this kind the only possible salvage was in the hides of the frozen cattle. So, as soon as the storm abated, all cowhands, men and boys, capable of wielding a skinning knife rode into the pasture to skin cattle. This work started at dawn and continued all day until the warming weather started rotting the hides. A wagon drawn by a team of mules carried the cold lunches for the skinning crew and a supply of firewood. Two men worked with the team unstacking the carcasses and dragging them to an open spot where the skinners would have room to work. These two men kept a small fire going to warm the numbed hands of the skinners and also sharpened the knives as they became dull. Each skinner carried a wagon-spoke club with which to beat the carcass of the animal to loosen the frozen hide. The front legs and shoulders were skinned out with knives, and then the men with the 68

Blue Northers team of mules finished the job by driving the horns of the cow into the ground as an anchor, and then hooking the team to the loosened portion of hide they were able to peel the remainder of the hide from the carcass by one steady pull with the mules. The hides were loaded into the wagon and hauled to the ranch house, where each hide was spread on the floor of the buggy house, salted, and rolled into a tight bundle for shipment to Galveston on the next boat. This was hard and tiresome work, but very important, as the return on twenty hides was usually about enough to buy one cow for the new herd.

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WINTER WAS FOR HUNTING

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inter was a time for hunting. All varieties of ducks and geese came to the marshes with the first northers: big greenhead mallards, tiny blue-winged teals, canvas backs, and many others, along with the big Canadian ring-necked geese and brant. All geese except the Canadian ring-necks were called brant. Every fall the children eagerly awaited the first faint honk from overhead that announced the onset of the fall migration. Sometimes it came late at night after the lights were out and sometimes it was dusk when thefirstslowmoving vee of geese could be spotted against the evening sky. From that time onward, for several weeks, there would be hardly a moment, day or night, that the cry of ducks and geese could not be heard as thousands moved overhead, starting their slow descent into the marshes which lay a few miles south of the ranch house. Hunting did not start until the first freezing norther blew in. The 70

Winter Was for Hunting day before the first hunt was a time of great activity and anticipation. The Model Τ was checked carefully and filled with gasoline, or, if it was too wet to travel by car, the old wagon was greased and the mules were given an extra ration of corn. That night the guns were carefully cleaned and the long underwear, sweaters, coats, and wool caps were laid out on chairs beside the beds where they could be reached with ease in the morning. Long before daybreak the insistent clatter of the alarm clock would bring the sleepy hunters stumbling from their warm beds to pull on their woolen hunting gear, still strong with the odor of moth balls and cedar from their summer's rest in the cedar chests in the attic. After a quick breakfast of strong coffee, fat bacon, and eggs in the kitchen by the lantern light, the hunters would file out of the kitchen door and across the yard to the buggy house with collars turned up and heads tucked down against the wintery blast of the norther. Inside the buggy house the old Model Τ stood cold and stubborn with no intention of venturing out into the howling norther before daylight. As each boy took a turn cranking the sullen monster, the driver was busy pulling the choke, advancing and retarding the spark, and jiggling the gas lever. As a last resort the spark plugs and coil were warmed with a flaming twist of newspaper. Finally one cylinder would start firing, and then two, and at last all four would be pounding away and the hunters could start for the marshes. A number of ponds scattered across the prairie at the edge of the marsh were our favorite hunting spots. At daybreak we would drive our Model Τ to within about two hundred yards of the first pond. Then one of the boys would stand up on the fender and look for the ducks on the pond. If the pond was full of ducks we would start our approach, which consisted of crawling through the low grass until we were within gun range. At a prearranged signal the hunters would rise to their feet and shoot as many ducks as possible as they rose from the surface of the water. Normally, by the time we had visited about three ponds we would have enough ducks to fill our needs. Sometimes we would "walk the marsh," or wade along the shallow edges of the marsh, shooting ducks as they rose in front of us, or occasionally we would hunt from a blind built in the marsh. The brant and geese fed during the day in the old rice fields and on the burned-over prairie where the new-growth was green. They would leave the fields late in 71

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the afternoon to roost on the open marshes and lakes and return to the fields in the morning. From a crude blind of spunk weeds at the edge of the marsh we could shoot our geese as they made their round trip to their feeding grounds each day. If the geese were already feeding several boys would crawl as close as possible and lie flat on the ground while another boy circled the flock and walked them up so they would fly over the hunters. One cold winter day three of us were hunting along East Bay. Late in the afternoon, having stuck the Model Τ in a quicksand flat, we decided to walk to the ranch house and return the next day with a team of mules to extract the car from the quicksand. So we started for home, clumping along in our rubber boots, each with a string of ducks over one shoulder and a gun over the other. By the time we had walked three miles to the middle fence, our feet were covered with blisters from the chafing of the heavy rubber boots. In spite of the extreme cold we decided that it would be better to risk frost-bitten toes than to have all the skin rubbed off our feet. So we hung our boots on the fence and started on, determined to get home with our ducks and guns. By the time we had walked another three miles to the Double Gates, our feet were numb and our socks were worn to tatters. Without debate, we hung our ducks and guns in a small tree by the gate and walked the last mile and a half home after dark hoping that our numb feet would still be with us when we arrived. Fortunately, our feet were not permanently injured, and after a few days' rest our cuts and bruises were healed enough that we were all ready to go hunting again. Our parents had a fixed rule that all ducks and geese must be picked and cleaned before anyone could eat. In one of the outbuildings there was a duck-picking room where all ducks were picked into a large wooden box. The feathers were later used to make pillows and feather beds. At the end of each hunting season we had a flock of wounded geese which we kept among the chickens. They would become quite tame and seemed content to eat and live with the chickens. They would stay with us all spring and summer, never attempting to fly away, although they were fully recovered. However, in the fall when the first flock of wild geese flew over they were up and away to rejoin their wild brethren.

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Winter Was for Hunting One winter James and Guy Cade decided that they could get rich by trapping and selling their furs to Sears, Roebuck, & Company. They ordered from Sears all of their equipment, including traps, pelt stretchers, and lure scents, along with a set of instructions on the curing and preservation of pelts. They trapped for wolf, skunk, opossum, raccoon, and rabbit. Their transportation consisted of an old single-seated buggy and a mare mule named "Old Maud." Old Maud was a character in her own rights in that she was very co-operative until she tired out, at which time she would stop and rest and no amount of persuasion could get her to move until she had recouped her strength. The trap lines were run every few days, and each evening the animals were skinned out and the pelts put on stretchers to dry. On one expedition it was decided to clean out a small barn on a rice farm that was completely filled with baled hay. A number of burrows around the base of the barn indicated that many small animals were making their homes in the hay inside. We plugged all but three of the burrows on the back side of the barn with dirt, and I had the job of guarding these three exits with an old .22 pump gun. James and Guy Cade opened the front doors of the barn and started pulling out the baled hay. Almost immediately, opossum, skunks, and rabbits started popping out of the three burrows so fast that I could shoot at only a few of them. It seemed to me that for a few minutes animals were running at me, over me, and around me in all directions. James and Guy Cade were armed with short clubs and attempted to club the animals as they scampered by their hay-moving operation. Soon James killed a skunk with his club and both boys had to dash out of the barn for air. James was the only one with fortitude enough to go back into the barn and pull out the rest of the hay. In the excitement most of the furs got away but the action was fast and furious while it lasted. When we got home Mother would not let us into the house until we had changed clothes in the barn. On another occasion it was decided to run the trap lines and then spend the night in an old abandoned rice farm barn north of Salt Cedars. The Salt Cedars was an abandoned farm once occupied by a family named Smith. In the early days the Smiths had planted two large squares of salt cedars around their house and barn as wind breaks, and the only remaining evidence of their former occupancy was the

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HOME O N THE DOUBLE BAYOU salt cedar trees. This barn was of standard construction, with a long passageway through the center and rows of horse stalls on either side. The entire second floor was a hay loft. As we approached the barn late in the afternoon, we noticed a dead cow lying on a knoll a short distance away. Nearing the animal we discovered a large timber wolf feeding on the carcass. The wolf did not hear us approach because its head and shoulders were completely out of sight in the body cavity of the carcass. W e shot the wolf, and as we were dragging it away we noticed that the cow was still breathing; so we immediately dispatched the suffering animal with a shot in the brain. W e hung the wolf carcass from the rafters in the passageway of the barn and removed the hide. Before dark we spread our bedrolls on some loose hay in the barn loft. The hay had been in the barn loft undisturbed for a number of years and that which was stacked in one end of the loft was honeycombed with small animal burrows. W e had the forethought to put our bedrolls in the opposite end of the barn away from the main stack of hay. Shortly after dark the coons and opossums started scurrying out of their burrows, across the floor, and down out of the barn. When we would light our kerosene lantern all activity would cease. As soon as we would turn the lantern out, our nocturnal circus would start again; back and forth across the floor we could hear the scurrying feet accompanied by various grunts and squeaks, which I suppose were threats and protests being hurled at the intruders. As the night wore on, our little friends became bolder and soon were running all around us. About midnight we were jerked upright on our pallets by the unearthly wail of a timber wolf coming from not more than ten yards outside the barn; then this cry was immediately answered by another on the opposite side of the barn. Then came another from another different direction. W e realized that the barn was encircled by a pack of wolves and that they were sitting back discussing the matter one with the other. After the first howls had died away complete silence lasted for about ten minutes. Then from below us in the passageway of the barn came the sound of swiftly running feet, a snap, as if a large steel trap had been suddenly sprung, a thud, and then again silence. W e quickly glued our eyes to the cracks in the loft floor in time to see a large shadowy shape run in one end of the barn, leap high in the air at the wolf carcass hanging in the passageway, hit the ground with a

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Winter Was for Hunting thud and run out the opposite end of the barn. It appeared that the wolves were taking turns trying to pull the carcass down. They ran through the barn, one after another, leaping and snapping. The carcass was hanging high enough to keep them from pulling it down, but occasionally one would leap high enough to sink his teeth in, without gaining a hold, however, since the weight of his body would tear his grip away. After watching this eerie performance for a while we shot at one wolf through a hole in the loft floor. After that no more came into the barn, but they continued to circle the building, serenading us with their unearthly howls until almost daylight. As can be imagined, we spent a sleepless night and were most happy to see the first signs of daybreak. One winter a man from Katy brought to our ranch his "goose-hunting steer." The steer was quite large, very gentle, and trained to stop and go at pressure applied through a short rope attached to a ring in his nose. The hunter would unload the steer close to a bunch of geese feeding on the open prairie, take his gun in one hand and the lead rope in the other, and gradually work the animal in a circle, closer and closer to the geese. The hunter always stayed hidden behind the shoulder of the steer and in this manner it was possible to approach within a few yards of the flock of feeding geese. Of course, the resulting slaughter of birds was tremendous. Within a few years this type of hunting was outlawed by the Federal Game Commission. In the early days, and before the enactment of game laws, ducks and geese were a basic winter food supply. Since the geese roosted at night on the open lakes, it was easy to secure as many birds as were needed through the use of a small rowboat and a kerosene flare. Several hunters would get into a boat with the flare in the bow and row quietly out on the lake and into a raft of roosting geese. One volley at point blank range would usually fill the boat with geese. On several occasions, after a freezing rain had fallen during the night, we would find geese on the prairie with their wing tips frozen together across their backs, and thus unable to fly. Since geese are not very fast on their feet, it was relatively easy to run them down and capture them without firing a shot. During the winter, after a hard-blowing freeze had swept in from the north, the men would hook up a team and wagon and go to the mouth of Robinson's Bayou. When the wind blew strong from the

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north the water over the bar at the mouth of the Bayou was quite shallow. As the red fish tried to swim across the shallow waters of the bar seeking the warmer waters of the Bayou beyond, they would become stunned by the extreme cold. It was comparatively easy to wade out onto the bar with gunny sacks and pick up a wagon load of fish. If the sun was shining most of the fish would thaw out and begin flopping around in the wagon before the long journey home was completed. It was certainly a hard trip on the mules and men, but it was one means of providing food for a large family. At least once during the winter an expedition would be made to the bayshore to gather oysters. This trip was made by wagon, as the marsh along the bayshore was always wet during the winter months. The children would wade into the shallow water of the bay with gunny sacks and pick up oysters. After the oysters were gathered a fire of driftwood would be built to warm the oyster gatherers and to broil some of the oysters. The oysters were left on a bed of hot coals until they popped open and were thoroughly broiled in their own juices. Eaten with a liberal sprinkling of salt they tasted better than Oysters à la Rockefeller at Antoine's.

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WOLVES IN THE HERD

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ne evening after dark we started our eight-mile journey back to the ranch house with only a lantern to light our way. About five miles from the house the mules, that had been plodding listlessly along, suddenly started snorting and lunging in the harness. We knew immediately that we had picked up a convoy of wolves. By standing up in the back of the wagon and holding the lantern above our heads we could see theflickeringflashesof their eyes as they loped silently along with the wagon; one out to the right, one to the left, and several behind. Although we realized their presence constituted no real danger, everyone was relieved when they broke away as we approached the lights of the ranch house. However, it was interesting to discover how much pep and stamina our old mules really had as they carried us the remaining five miles in record time. Throughout the years it was necessary to wage a continuing war

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU against the wolves that harassed and killed the calves. On March 4, 1875, Grandpa Jackson wrote in his journal, "The wolves came up to the house tonight and fought the dogs." Fifty years later, during my childhood, the wolves were still bold enough to occasionally challenge the dogs to battle just outside the yard fence. These wolves were not the common coyote, which are still plentiful throughout the western and southern portion of Texas, but were a variety of large timber wolves, the size and coloring of the present-day German shepherd dog. A large number of wolves made their home on the ranch and raised their young each year in dens dug into the sides of the sand knolls. Whenever we went into the big pasture, part of our fixed equipment was a Winchester 30-30, and in the spring of the year we carried two long-handled shovels. In the spring, when the wolf pups were still in the dens, we could circle the larger knolls hoping to spot an opening leading into a wolf den. When a den was located, and if there were fresh wolf signs in evidence, two boys would start digging into the soft sand on top of the knoll. Back from the entrance to the den a third boy stood at a respectful distance with the 30-30 in readiness just in case the old bitch-wolf happened to be at home. I don't recall ever finding a full-grown wolf in a den, but each time a den was dug out it constituted a real thrill to a boy to stand spraddle-legged, with gun cocked and eyes glued to the mouth of the den, imagining that at any moment an enraged wolf would emerge from the opening with fangs bared and yellow eyes gleaming with hatred. If pups were found they were usually destroyed on the spot, because for every wolf destroyed a number of young calves were saved to grow to maturity. Because the grown wolves were very cunning, it was seldom possible to shoot one with a rifle. If they were within rifle range, they would lie down behind a knoll or in the tall grass until the hunters had passed, and they would not abandon their hiding place unless a wagon or a horseback rider almost ran over them. Occasionally if a wolf was jumped on the open prairie in the Model Τ it was possible to run him down. However, in this instance it was necessary for the driver to cock both ears of the Model Τ all the way back and fly across the prairie at top speed without regard for knolls, sloughs, ditches, or the safety of his passengers. Then, if no tires blew out, if the Model Τ did not flip, and if there were no fences within two miles, the hunters just might get close enough to the wolf to fire a killing shot. However, the wolf

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Wolves in the Herd usually slipped under a barb-wire fence, leaving the frustrated hunters on the other side, trying to get their joggled eyeballs back into focus and sloshing marsh water over the whistling radiator of their vehicle. We always experienced an influx of foreign wolves that migrated from the area of the Big Thicket toward the coast as winter set in. The colder the winter the greater were the number of wolves that slipped under the fence to feed on Jackson Ranch beef. When this happened drastic measures were needed to control the increased calf kill occasioned by these migrating marauders. The key to controlling the wolves was to keep a "drag"going until the wolves had been reduced to a normal population. To set up a "drag," baits were prepared. First hot tallow was poured into shallow pans and then, when solidified, it was cut into small squares. Next a round plug was cut from the center of each tallow square and a few crystals of strychnine were carefully placed in the bottom of the plug hole. The plug was re-inserted to seal the strychnine in the center of the tallow block. The amount of strychnine had to be just right, as an overdose would cause the wolf to regurgitate the bait before it proved fatal. The bait maker wore gloves and was careful never to touch the bait with his bare hands. When the baits were ready a rider would start out with a sack full of baits tied to his saddle horn, and ride until he found a reasonably fresh wolf kill. By tying one end of his lariat to the remains of the carcass and the other end to his saddle horn he was able to "drag" the carcass all over the pasture, thus providing a fresh scent trail for the wolves to follow. Every hundred yards or so he would drop a tallow bait. That evening at dusk as the wolves started out on their early evening hunt, they would soon cut across the scent trail of the drag, and in whichever direction they turned to follow the trail they would encounter a bait. If the wolf was young and foolish, or hungry enough, he would gobble up the tallow bait, because his nose was full of the scent of the meat drag. A bait not on a fresh drag would never be touched by a wolf. The next day the rider would retrace his steps to count the dead wolves, and pick up all the remaining baits that he could find. Sometimes a wily old wolf would pick up a bait, carry it for some distance along the drag trail and drop it beside another bait. Those that were smart enough to avoid the baits probably died of old age. This was a battle of survival between man and wolf in which no clear-cut decision was won by either side. The moral victory should be credited to the wolf,

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since man found it necessary to stoop to the use of poison to eke out a stalemate with his cunning adversary. The easiest prey for the wolves were young calves, but on occasions they would attack and kill grown cattle if they could find one separated from the herd. A lone wolf was seldom a match for the sharp horns of a single cow or steer. However, when hunting in packs of three or more, as was their usual custom, they were usually successful. They would assign one wolf the job of harassing the cow from the front while a second wolf slipped around behind and "hamstrung" her with one swift slash of his powerful jaws. With the big tendon cut in both hind legs, the cow was at the mercy of the wolves. After the wolves had the cow helpless on the ground they would make no attempt to kill the animal by slashing the throat, but would immediately start cutting into the abdominal cavity as their first choice was the entrails and other internal organs of the animal. A cow might continue to live for a number of hours or for more than a day while the wolves continued to feed on her living flesh until they destroyed a vital organ that would put her out of her misery. Each year at roundup time several animals always showed up in the holding pens with portions of their tails missing. It was evident that a wolf had missed his slash at the hamstring and had neatly clipped off the cow's tail instead.

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GATORS

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uring my childhood the bayous and marshes were heavily populated with alligators. One of the first alligator yarns. I ever heard was told by Forrest White, a distant cousin of ours, who ran the White Ranch in Chambers County. It seemed that his cowhands had discovered a large alligator living in Elm Bayou not far from where the railroad crossed the bayou. One day while working cattle Forrest and his hands found this old alligator asleep in the sun on the bank of the bayou. They roped him and tied him to a low tree branch with the intent of building a crate and shipping him to a 200. However, after they left to finish their cattle work, he choked to death on the rope and the 200 failed to get what could have been the largest 'gator in captivity, because he measured eighteen feet in length from the tip of his ugly snout to the end of his dangerous tail. Some time later my cousin, Roger Jackson, attempted to carry the skull of this 81

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'gator back to the ranch on horseback but found it to be so heavy that he had to discard it on the prairie before he arrived home. Along the road to the shipping pens at White's Ranch we always crossed the west fork of Elm Bayou. It was along this bayou that the beautiful white egrets came once each year to nest and raise their young. From a distance the tops of the trees growing along the bayou seemed to be covered with snowy white blossoms. As one drew closer the blossoms erupted into the air as the egrets took wing, all at the same time. It was also here at Elm Bayou that we sometimes stopped to search for alligator nests. Once a year old mama 'gator crawls out onto the muddy bank of the bayou and lays her eggs. She first roots out a hollow in the bank above high-water mark and lines it with grass. After laying from fifty to one hundred eggs in her newly made nest she carefully builds over the nest a top of grass, sticks, and mud. The sun-baked stick-and-mud top provides adequate protection for her eggs from all marauders except her own mate, the old bull 'gator. A bull 'gator likes nothing better than fresh eggs or little 'gators. Since mama 'gator is well aware of her mate's cannibalistic habits, she stays in the close proximity of her nest until her eggs are hatched and her brood is safely in the water. The hot sun creates inside the mud nest an oven-like temperature which hatches the eggs. The eggs are dead white in color and about the size of a large hen egg, but they are shaped more like a large capsule than are hen eggs. Nature has provided the 'gator egg with an exterior surface like very fine sandpaper, and when the eggs are disturbed, the shells rubbing together produce a screeching sound that always brings mama 'gator rushing to the nest with jaws popping and tail lashing. When mama 'gator arrives on the scene to protect her nest, it is time for boys and bull 'gators to head for high ground. Once we successfully robbed a 'gator nest on Elm Bayou by being as quiet and cautious as a gang of safe crackers opening a safe in a store with the sheriff leaning against the front door. We slipped down to the 'gator nest like a trio of Indians stalking a deer and quietly opened a hole in the top of the nest. The eggs were extracted one at a time and carefully placed in a cardboard box padded with hay until we had almost a hundred eggs. When we were about fifty yards from the nest we could not resist shaking the box a few times to see if mama 'gator would respond. We did hear a splashing along the bayou bank behind some bushes, but did not stay around to see just what was caus82

'Gators ing the uproar. When we arrived home we dug the rotten center out of an old sycamore stump in the front yard, buried the eggs in the bottom of this stump and covered them with sticks, leaves, and dirt. Each day for a week we peeked at the eggs and finally reached the conclusion that they were not going to hatch. One morning, long after we had forgotten about our 'gator incubator, Mother walked out into the yard to cut some flowers. As she stooped over to cut a rose, she heard a strange hissing sound behind her. Upon turning around to investigate, she discovered that she was surrounded by little six-inch 'gators, standing up on all four legs with their tiny mouths open, hissing at her. The roses were forgotten as she clutched her skirt in both hands and hopped and jumped over the little 'gators back to the safety of the front porch, all the while shrieking something about the yard being full of alligators. Of course everyone within earshot came running on the double to rescue Mother. She had not exaggerated much, because one hundred little 'gators crawling over the front yard could be considered as almost a yard full. For a while the yard was full of boys chasing alligators, trying to see who could capture the greatest number. Although they were too small to cause much damage with their tiny jaws, they all put up a spunky fight and did their best to amputate any stray finger they could reach. For several weeks there were boxes of 'gators tucked around the house and yard until we grew tired of the chore of feeding them each day. So, with some urging from Mother, we turned them loose at the edge of the marsh to fend for themselves. Hunting 'gators at night was always an exciting part of any camping trip to Oyster Bayou. After dark, the hunters would pile into a skiff equipped with a flounder flare in the bow to throw a glow of light across the surface of the water. One hunter sat directly behind the flare with a 30-30 rifle in readiness across his knees. A second hunter, sitting in the stern of the boat, drifted it down the bayou with an occasional soft push of his paddle. Soon, within the flickering light of the flare, two glowing red coals of fire could be seen floating on the surface of the bayou. These coals of fire were in reality the unblinking eyes of a 'gator floating on the surface of the water, fascinated by the slowly approaching light. Immediately, both hunters would become tense and alert as one quietly maneuvered the boat toward the 'gator and the other slowly raised his gun and aimed at a spot just below the 'gator's eye where the skull structure is thinnest. At the sound of the

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU shot, the boy in the stern would dig in with his paddle in an attempt to reach the 'gator before he disappeared. If the gunner properly placed his shot the 'gator would roll over, exposing his white belly to the glare of the light for a few seconds and then sink to the bottom of the bayou. If he sank before the boat arrived, it was necessary to probe the bottom of the bayou with a long pole until his body was found. Because my brother, Guy Cade, was the most adventuresome of all the boys, it was his job to dive to the bottom of the bayou and bring the 'gator to the surface. The thought was always in our minds that some night one of these 'gators would be wounded or just stunned instead of dead; if this had ever happened, this yarn could have had a different ending. One time Guy Cade shot a small 'gator in a shallow pond, and when he waded out into the pond and grabbed the 'gator by the tail, the 'gator grabbed him by the hand. For a few minutes it was hard to tell who was winning that battle. The water was flying and the blood was flowing, but Guy Cade finally struggled to the edge of the pond with his trophy. Although his right hand looked as if it would have been more at home in a hamburger bun than on the end of his arm, he seemed to be well satisfied with the results of his encounter. Once, after we had skinned out a large 'gator on Oyster Bayou, we cut a chunk of meat from the 'gator tail and fried it over our campfire. This dish can be recommended for those lost in a swamp as a means of sustaining life, but it is doubtful if it will ever appear on the menus of our better restaurants. The meat was quite tough and tasted like an old discarded boot that had been soaking for years in a stagnant swamp. Alligator hunting always brings to mind Mr. Henry Hillebrandt, who was hired by my father about 1905 as a watchman and guard for the lower part of the ranch. His house was built on the shore of East Bay at the mouth of Oyster Bayou, where he could watch the bayshore and check all boats going in and out of the bayou. This arrangement was a protection against cattle rustling by boat. Since the cattle grazed along the bayshore and the bayou bank, it was easy for rustlers to cruise along the bayshore or up the bayou until they found some beef that suited their fancy. A few quick shots with a rifle would provide them with all the meat their boat could carry. They always skinned the carcass out to the shoulders, took the hindquarters and tossed the forequarters into the bayou to get rid of all identifying brands and ear marks. Mr. Henry was a hermit at heart and seemed to enjoy living

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'Gators alone. The hurricane of 1915 washed away his house at the mouth of Oyster Bayou; so my father built another home for him, on the same site, perched on heavy pilings twelve feet above the ground. This elevation furnished some protection from future flood waters, and allowed him to see much farther up the bayou and down the bayshore. The outlaw element quickly learned to respect Mister Henry and his Winchester and soon turned their attention to sections of the bayfront beyond his jurisdiction. He supplemented his small salary by trapping the small fur-bearing animals that abounded in the bayshore marsh surrounding his house. Probably his best source of extra income was from alligator hides secured by using his own unique method of " 'gator fishing." His rigging consisted of a large 'gator hook attached to the end of a six-foot section of lightweight chain which in turn was tied to a length of strong rope. The end of the rope was tied to a sturdy stake driven into the bank of the bayou. After baiting the hook with a marsh hen or blackbird he suspended the bait a few inches above the surface of the water from the limbs of a bush overhanging the bayou. A hungry 'gator, spying this tempting tidbit, would start drifting down toward the bait with only its two eyeknobs showing above the muddy surface of the water. The movement of the 'gator was so slow that not a ripple disturbed the surface of the water until he arrived within a few feet of the dangling bird. Suddenly the surface of the bayou seemed to explode directly under the bait as the 'gator engulfed the bird in his gaping jaws in one swift rolling lunge. By the time Mr. 'Gator had reached the end of the rope, he had swallowed the bait and the hook was set deep in his gullet. Later, when Mr. Henry checked his lines, the fight would be all gone from the 'gator, and he could pull him up to the bank like a well-trained horse on a bridle and shoot him without undue exertion or trouble. After skinning the 'gator, he always threw the carcass back into the bayou, where the crabs, gars, and other 'gators picked the bones clean.

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SPRING ROUNDUP

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n the spring all ranch activity increased. The cattle were gathered and worked. The fences, troughs, and other equipment were repaired. It was a time when children took sulphur and molasses, Jayne's Vermifuge, coca quinine and calomel for the various ailments that come with the rising sap. A wound from a rusty nail was immersed in kerosene and an insect bite was poulticed with wet tobacco. Castor oil was prescribed for general irritability and mint-leaf tea for loss of appetite and a host of other minor ailments. At this time of year the youthful urge to build was irresistible, and this urge was expressed in the form of caves, playhouses, and tree houses. A cave consisted of a large square hole in the ground covered over with boards and sod. The playhouses were sometimes quite elaborate, having twofloorsand a secret trap door betweenfloors.The large oak trees around the house were made to order for tree houses. The 86

Spring Roundup fun was in the building, with all the material being pulled up to the building site at the end of a rope. Access to a tree house was always by rope ladder or knotted rope. When the rope ladder was pulled up into the house we children would experience a feeling of complete privacy. Late spring was roundup time—a time of excitement for a small boy. I can remember the noises of the preparations starting before daylight. The kitchen would be bustling with breakfast for the hands, consisting of bacon, eggs, biscuits, cane syrup, and milk or coffee. Outside we could hear the muffled conversation and laughter of the hands (all the cowhands were Negroes) as they rode up to the saddle house in the darkness. From the front of the house would come the subdued shouts of the two horse wranglers as they drove the string of cow ponies from the horse trap to the round pen at the barn. Back of the house on a ten-foot post stood the old cast-iron dinner bell, which was rung by a wire running from the back door to the bell. When breakfast was ready the cook would ring the bell gently with one tug on the wire and the hands would start filing across the yard into the lamplit kitchen, where they put away a large breakfast, for they knew there would be no more food until nightfall, when they returned to the ranch house. A peek into the kitchen would reveal eight or ten dark, woolly heads bobbing up and down over the plates mounded high with food, accompanied by the irregular rattle of knives and forks. There was no conversation; a request for more food was transmitted by one or two low spoken words to the cook. In the meantime the family was eating the same menu in the ranch-house dining room. As soon as it was light enough to see, all hands congregated at the round pen, where the horses were waiting. This pen was built in a perfect circle about fifty feet in diameter. It was made of strong posts set about three feet apart around the circumference of the circle. Sixfoot-one-by-four pine planks were steamed to make them flexible and were then nailed securely to the inside edge of the posts. The fence was at least eight feet high and served as an excellent roosting place for a small boy. The order in which the horses were roped from the pen was governed by a rigid priority system. Monte Humphrey, the old colored foreman, would step first to the center of the pen with the noose of his rope open in his right hand and the coils held loosely in his left. As he started to twirl the noose slowly around his head the horses would crowd to the circular fence and start running around

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and around the roper, who continued to turn slowly on his heels, all the while whirling the rope over his head until he saw the head of Dad's horse in the clear. Then with one quick step forward and a graceful throw of the rope he sent the noose floating high for a second before settling over the head of the selected horse. Dad would step to the center of the pen, slip the bridle on, and lead his horse to the saddle house. Then Monte roped his own horse, and after that each hand roped his horse in turn according to his seniority as cowhand on the ranch. There was Fred Johnson, small, bowlegged, and black, who laughed most of the time in a high cackling voice that could be heard with ease from the barn to the ranch house. There was Jim Fish, short, fat, and black, who would not eat cornbread because he claimed it tickled his throat. There was Pal Mayes, tall, green-eyed, and light-skinned, who, in later years, tried to organize a strike for higher wages. Monte Humphrey had been born a slave on the Jackson Ranch and had spent his entire life breaking horses and working cattle on the old homestead. Monte was a prideful man whose love for the old ranch was perhaps greater that that of the owners. He stood on his feet and sat a horse as if his backbone was made of steel. He was a forceful talker—all of his adjectives were cuss words and his cuss-word vocabulary was full and complete. It is my honest belief that in the many years that have passed since Monte's death I have not heard a single cuss word that did not belong to his colorful vocabulary. Monte was almost speechless in the presence of my mother because he would not, upon the pain of death, utter a cuss word in the presence of Miss Berta. In the absence of my father he was in charge of the cattle work, and we boys jumped to his orders as quickly as to our father's commands. As soon as the horses were saddled the hands topped off the halfbroken horses by mounting and spurring them into a gallop around the horse trap. Every morning there were several that would stage an impromptu rodeo by bucking and pitching for a few minutes. Then the group would ride off toward the bottom of the pasture with Dad and Monte leading the way. The small children would stand on the porch and watch them until they were out of sight across the grassy prairie. Late in the afternoon, Mother would step to the porch and gaze out across the prairie to see if there were any signs of the returning men. The first sign would be a small cloud of dust and tiny moving figures

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Spring Roundup on the horizon. At the first sign of the approaching herd of cattle, the cook was aroused and the preparation of food was started. Even after the herd could be seen it was some time before the faint shouts of the cowhands and the popping of the cow whips could be heard. In the background could be heard the constant though fluctuating rumble of the bellowing cattle. Slowly the taller figures could be distinguished as men on horseback. The whip popping and shouts became loud and clear; the bellowing of individual cows could be distinguished, some plaints high and urgent, others low and rueful. After the cattle were driven into the big holding trap in front of the house for the night and the horses were unsaddled, the weary cowhands would walk slowly to the wash bench on the back porch, where they sloshed cold water over their faces and hands before settling down to their evening meal of meat, beans, cornbread, milk, and cane syrup. When working cattle our cowhands always used the same word or expression to urge them along. Whether shouted or spoken in a soothing tone the expression was always "soo-kay, sookay, cow." It is always interesting to speculate on the origin of such an expression. This particular call was possibly brought from Louisiana by some of the early settlers. Gathering the cattle into the trap in front of the house required several days. At night during this period the lowing of the cattle was continuous. It was very pleasant after one had gone to bed to hear the unending melodious lowing as the cows searched out their calves for the night. Later, after the calves had been separated from their mothers, the lowing increased in tempo and urgency as the cows paced back and forth unable to locate their calves. This created in one's consciousness a vague feeling of uneasiness, and it was a relief when the cows and calves were turned together again and driven back to the lower pastures. The cows and calves were separated by putting a portion of the herd in the big corral at the branding pens, where Dad and Monte would cut out the calves on their cutting horses while the two cowhands would shoo them through a gate into a smaller pen. Sometimes the smaller children would be allowed to man the gate; opening it quickly for the incoming calf and closing it before the other calves could run out. In the meantime several cowhands would keep the rest of the herd milling outside the gate of the big pen. In later years Dad built at the

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU branding pens a cutting chute, which made the cutting horse almost obsolete. After the calves were separated from the cows, the cows were released into the mill trap and the branding of the calves commenced. One small pen was reserved for branding. Just outside this pen a wood fire was built to heat the branding irons. One cowhand was kept busy passing hot irons through the fence and reheating irons as they became too cold to brand. Inside the pen, activity was rapid. About ten calves were turned into the pen, and four or five cowhands, with their chaps and spurs removed, threw the calves by hand. There were two approved methods of throwing a calf, "tailing" or "mugging." In tailing, a hand would crowd the calves into a corner of the pen, grasp a calf by the very end of its tail, and run with it around the pen until the calf turned a corner, at which time the man would throw his full weight on the tail of the calf in the direction the calf was turning. This maneuver would throw the calf on its side. Then the thrower would quickly scramble up to his calf, place both knees on the calf, and pull the tail up between its hind legs. In mugging, the thrower grasped the head of the calf by the muzzle and ear and by twisting the head, threw the calf on its side. As soon as the thrower had his calf down he would shout "Hot Iron," and Dad would step over and brand the calf. Then Monte Humphrey would place one foot on the neck of the calf and quickly earmark both ears. If the calf was a bull calf he would also remove the reproductive glands with his knife, thereby converting the little bull into a young steer. Since these glands were considered a rare delicacy, in the category with brains, kidney, and sweet breads, they were passed through the fence to be roasted over the branding-iron fire. The boys too young to throw calves in the pen were on duty at the fire to roast these tidbits for the branding crew as well as for themselves. Each boy came prepared with an overalls pocket full of a mixture of salt and pepper. A quick flick of the wrist wrapped the string of the gland around the shank of the branding iron, where the heat caused it to bind firmly to the hot iron. In ten minutes over the hot coals these delicacies would burst, turn inside out, and roast done to a delicious golden brown. A quick dash of salt and pepper from an overalls pocket and this gourmand's delight was ready for the hungry cowhands. When all calves

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Spring Roundup in the pen had been branded they were turned into the mill trap to find their mothers. A call from the throwers for "more meat and better meat" brought a new batch of calves into the branding pen. From a vantage point on the fence one could see all this action at a glance. Through a billowing cloud of dust that rose continuously from the pen this picture would emerge: In the center of the pen two men are kneeling on their bawling calves and in the far corner two more men are crowding the calves to the fence. One grabs a tail as a calf breaks away from the herd, jumping and bawling, trying to kick the man off his tail. The second man secures his tailhold and his calf breaks sharply across the pen attempting to jump over a man kneeling on his calf. In an instant there is wild confusion as two men and two calves roll and tumble in a cloud of dust. Two calves scramble to their feet and bounce over to rejoin their comrades in the corner of the pen. Two men slowly get to their feet, softly cursing and start crowding the corner to make another catch. The earmarkers and branders move deliberately and silently from one prostrate calf to another, performing their duties. Over at the fence the iron handler bangs a fresh hot iron on the fence to attract the attention of the brander. Soon the calf throwers are soaked with sweat and caked with dust. The din of the bawling calves is punctuated by the yipping and short growls of the calf throwers as they hit the ground with their calves. The pungent odor of the pen of hot calves is accented by the acrid aroma of sweating men, burning hair, and scorched flesh. Odors are often remembered better than sensations received through the eyes and ears. For those who love the rancher's life the smell of a working branding pen cannot be dimmed by the passage of time. At roundup time there were always several outlaw Brahma bulls who rebelled against being penned. Usually they would enter the pens with the other cattle, but when they decided to leave they would jump as many seven-foot fences as necessary to gain their freedom. It was an impressive sight to see these bulky animals, weighing perhaps fifteen hundred pounds, leap a series of fences with the ease and grace of a deer. Once a year the colts were penned for branding. About three colts at a time were put into the roping pen, where a roper stood in the middle with his noose trailing behind him. One cowhand kept the

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colts running around the pen. As a colt galloped by, the roper would flick the noose out in front of the running animal with a swift twisting motion, and rope the colt neatly around both front legs. Because this maneuver required an unusual amount of skill Dad always roped the colts. As soon as the colt hit the ground two cowhands were on him, one to hold his head down, and one to tie his hind feet. Since a horse rises from a prone position, front feet first, they are held down by sitting on their necks or heads. A calf is held down by kneeling on its flanks, as the calf rises back feet first. The branding of the colts officially terminated spring roundup. Horses and men alike always enjoyed the customary week of rest which immediately followed the strenuous activity of roundup time.

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OUR RAILROAD

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n the fall the cattle were rounded up again, for the purpose of selling calves. All cows with calves large enough to ship were cut from the herd. These selected cows and calves were driven eighteen miles to the shipping pens at White's Ranch. Since this was an all-day trip, a cold lunch was taken for the cowhands, who stayed with the cattle all night. The next morning the calves were separated from the cows, and several of the cowhands started drifting the cows back along the home trail. The calves were loaded into the waiting cattle cars for their trip to the market at either Galveston or Beaumont. The Gulf and Interstate Railroad, which served the shipping pens at White's Ranch, was the only railroad in the county, and its field of operation was limited to a run from Beaumont to Galveston, a distance of seventy-five miles, with an allowance of two days to complete the round trip. Scattered at random along this seventy-five miles of rail-

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road were a number of shipping pens and passenger flag stops. At each flag stop was a small house where the waiting passengers could take refuge during inclement weather. It was always a treat for the children to be allowed to make the long trip to White's Ranch to meet the train, because it was here that they secured, from the heavy gravel ballast along the railroad track, their supply of good throwing rocks. Since the train schedule was highly irregular, it was often necessary to while away a few hours, walking the rails or throwing rocks at fence posts. About every half hour someone would lay his ear to one of the rails to see if he could hear the train coming, because the rumble of the train could be heard in the rail a long time before engine smoke could be seen across the flat prairie. As the train came rocking and rolling from side to side down the uneven track, the children lined up at a respectful distance from the rails and Daddy stood at the edge of the tracks and flagged the train with his Stetson hat. The engineer ran his train at a leisurely pace, and a stranger making his first trip from Beaumont to Galveston might wish that he had used a horse. There were always several stops to chase stray cattle and horses from the tracks, and if there were some loaded cattle cars to be picked up, the train crew liked to chew the fat with the cowhands. In the middle of the morning and afternoon the engineer would pull the train to a creaking halt opposite some lonely ranch house and proceed to take the entire train crew over to the ranch house for a leisurely cup of coffee and a neighborly visit with the ranch family. During the winter the train crew carried shotguns—but not to protect the passengers from train robbers. If the engineer happened to see a pond full of ducks not too far from the track, he would ease the train to a slow halt, the crew would dismount with their trusty weapons, and all would start crawling through the tall grass toward the pond. The passengers would crowd to the windows to watch the progress of the hunt, some with avid interest and some with considerable impatience. If the hunt was successful, the passengers cheered from the open windows as the hunters climbed aboard with their game. Upon arriving at Bolivar's Point the train was loaded on a ferry for the three-mile trip across Bolivar Straits to Galveston Island. If the engineer was forced to stop his train for a wait at the ferry landing, because the water was too rough for a crossing, the passengers could

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Our Railroad try to nap on the hard seats of the day coaches or sit on the dock and watch the seagulls until the wind laid. An experienced passenger on this railroad always came prepared with a cold lunch and an abundance of reading material. This old railroad and the leisurely crew who manned it have long since passed away. Only memories remain in the minds of those who enjoyed its dubious comforts in the early days.

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THE WOODS IN SPRINGTIME

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n the spring the prairie would cover itself in spots with a solid mass of bluebells and milkweed, which bloomed at the same time. This created a blue-and-white sea stretching across the prairie as far as the eye could reach. Both of these flowering plants grew to a height of about two feet, while the pink-and-white buttercup grew low on the ground along with the Indian pinks. At the very edge of the woods, where the young pines grew thick, wild violets bloomed in the spring. The wild violets were white, and their blossoms were smaller than the domestic purple violets. Stepping out of the warm sunshine at the edge of the woods, through the thicket of young trees, and into the area of wider-spaced older pines was like slipping off a hot and busy street in the city into the cool quiet of a cathedral. Overhead the interlocking tops of the trees formed a vaulted ceiling of green, shutting out all but a few downward 96

The Woods in Springtime sloping rays of dusty sunshine. Underfoot the thick carpet of brown pine needles muffled one's footsteps. This brown carpet was free of underbrush and interrupted only by the slender brown trunks of the trees and by an occasional squatty toadstool. The only sound to break this illusion of cathedral-like quiet was the moan of the wind pushing at the undulating treetops high overhead, which created the illusion of organ music, half heard from a great distance. Deeper in the woods was an area where larger trees grew. Here, every spring, the woodcutters secured the winter supply of wood for the ranch. As children we liked to watch the men fell the tall pines. After deciding the direction of fall, two men would take a position on opposite sides of the tree. The man on the side of fall would start cutting a low notch and his partner would start a cut on the opposite side but about ten inches higher on the trunk. The flashing axes would soon cut to within a few inches of the center of the tree. The first indication that the tree was about to topple was a visible movement of the topmost branches as the tree leaned slightly in the direction of fall, followed by a sharp crack at the point of cut as the big pine seemed to hesitate in trembling anticipation. Then, with a sigh that turned rapidly into a crashing roar, the tree would fall, carrying with it branches from nearby trees and all small trees that stood in its path. As it hit the ground, the entire tree would seem to bounce and then settle back to the ground. One ax man would quickly cut off the top and turn to help his partner slash off the remaining branches. After the trunk was cut into short lengths with the crosscut saw, the blocks were turned on end and split into stove-wood size. The wood was then piled neatly into cord-size stacks, where it remained until fall, at which time it was hauled by wagon to the kitchen woodpile at the house. One spring and summer James and Guy Cade built a log cabin in the woods. Trees about six inches in diameter were felled, trimmed, and notched in the approved backwoods style. The peaked roof was constructed of small saplings nailed side by side to the log rafters and covered by a sod-and-pine-needle topping. The cracks were chinked with mud and pine needles. Shortly after the cabin was completed it was burned to the ground by trespassers. One of our favorite woodland sports was "riding the saplings." In the spring, when the young pine trees were limber and full of sap, a boy could shinny up a young sapling ten or fifteen feet to a point 97

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where the weight of the boy would bend the top of the young tree to the ground. As the boy's feet hit the ground a quick kick and a shift of weight would snap the treetop upward again and down to the ground on the opposite side, with the boy clinging to the slender trunk like a flea on a dog's tail. On warm summer nights, when the moon was full, the children would slip out of the house and wander down the sandy wagon road that wound through the woods to the store on the bayou. The moonlight filtering through the treetops would cast only a few patches of soft light along the path. The scurrying sound of small woodland animals as they ran through the dry leaves on either side of the path and the occasional mournful wail of a hoot-owl from the tops above, contributed to the eerie quality of this nocturnal adventure. The final test of youthful courage was to make this journey to the store and back alone on a moonless night. Our woods contributed in many ways to our life on the ranch. It provided fuel for our stoves in winter, blackberries for jelly in the spring, a shady refuge for the cattle in the summer, and a source of pleasure and adventure for the children throughout all seasons of the year.

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SUMMER WAS FOR FISHING

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uring the summer months we always organized several overnight fishing trips to Robinson Lake, which is a tidewater lake connected to the bay by Robinson Bayou. The Model Τ would be piled high with food, bedding, mosquito nets, and other miscellaneous fishing and camping equipment. We usually camped at the point where the bayou entered the lake. Mullet and shrimp were caught with a cast net in the shallow water of the lake or in the bayou. If the shrimp were running they could be baited by dropping cornmeal, either loose or in a sack, into the water along the edge of the bayou. Our fishing equipment consisted of hand lines, or throw lines, which were made up from 100-foot lengths of strong fishing cord with a heavy sinker at one end. Just above the sinker were spaced two or three hooks. The free end of the line was looped around the wrist with the slack in the line coiled carefully between the feet of thefisherman.The

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hook end of the line was grasped just above the hooks, whirled around and around the head and tossed far out into the bayou. Our catch usually consisted of red fish, cat fish, and alligator gar. Although the gar is not an edible fish, we enjoyed catching them, as they grew to a length of five feet or more and always put up a good fight. Just at dusk a steadily increasing hum could be heard as clouds of mosquitoes started rising from the marshes. This was a signal to string up the mosquito nets, for within a few minutes our campsite would be covered by thousands of mosquitoes. Most of the night we would fish for gar and drink black coffee, as the insects would keep us from taking more than short cat naps. Normally, the mosquitoes would subside about midnight, followed by a visitation of deer flies, and, just before daylight, swarms of greenhead horseflies. By morning there would be a ring of dead insects several inches high around the edge of our campfire. On the west shore of Robinson Lake was a series of large shell mounds where for untold centuries the Karankawa Indians came each summer to fish and gather oysters and clams for food. Each year the Indians came the mounds grew higher as they sat around their campfires roasting oysters and clams and tossing the empty shells aside. Some of these mounds were six to eight feet high. An industrious boy could dig into these mounds and find some shells still black from some long-forgotten campfire. Occasionally, some pieces of crude broken pottery would be unearthed and the boy would sit with these fragments of clay in his hand and wonder what the people who had fashioned these crude pots and bowls were like. He could remember some of the old-timers' yarning about the last few Indians that came to Robinson Lake. The old-timers said that the Indians kept a coating of rotten fish oil on their almost naked bodies at all times as a protection against the insects that swarmed in the coastal marshes. There was no danger of an Indian's slipping up on a white man, because they could be smelled long before they could be seen. It was also said that they practiced cannibalism; so, as we sat around our campfire across the lake from these old shell mounds, we could imagine a group of these naked savages squatting around their small fire, roasting a leg joint of a recently slain enemy. Even the fishy smell of the lake at low tide added some substance to this illusion.

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Summer Was for Fishing However, in all of our digging we never turned up a single human bone; so perhaps the Karankawas' reputation for eating their enemies was slightly exaggerated. At midnight, if the wind had laid, we went floundering. Our gigs were made by inserting an old pitchfork tine into the end of a broomstick, and our light was a kerosene flare carried in an old five-gallon oil can with two sides cut and flared back to reflect the light. With a gunnysack dragging in the water behind him, the fisherman starts wading the shallow water of the lake shore, with the kerosene flare in his left hand and the gig held in readiness in his right. As he slips quietly along in search of the telltale oval shape of a flounder bed, with the warm water of the lake lapping at his ankles, he can see within the half circle of light cast by the flare the blue crabs scuttling in all directions, the school of minnows turning and darting in unison as if they were all tied to the same piece of string, and occasionally, at the very edge of the circle of light, a big red fish that had been lazing in the shallows, now breaking for deep water and leaving a roiling muddy trail in his wake. Sometimes the fisherman, with his eyes glued to the shallow waters within his circle of light, wanders out into the lake to a point where the shore is no longer visible. Perhaps for just a moment, surrounded by only the gently rippling water reflecting the feeble beam of his flare in all directions, he realizes that his sense of direction has failed him, and he knows fleetingly the unreasoning panic of being lost. In an instant this feeling is gone as he sweeps the starry skies with his eyes and locates his old friend, Polaris, the North Star, standing steadfast where it should be—in its usual place. However, as the shoreline again reflects the flashing rays of his light he resolves to keep the shoreline in sight, as flounder fishermen have been known to wander too far into the lake and drown in a deep pothole. The flounder likes to bed down at night on a sandy bottom by burying himself in the sand until only his eyes are showing. Because of his ability to hide, many a false thrust is made with the gig before a flounder is speared. However, when one is gigged he starts jerking and flopping, and the procedure is to hold him pinned to the bottom until the sand and mud settle enough to clearly see that it is a flounder, because stingarees look very much like a flounder, and no one in his right mind would try to pick up a stingaree that had just had a gig driven through its

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back. If the wind, the water, and the moon are just right, a fisherman might bring back to camp a gunnysack full of flounder to show for his night's work. Along the south side of Robinson Lake were a series of shallow potholes that were filled by the high tide but were cut off from the lake when the tide receded. As the tide came in, the big gar fish would swim into the potholes after the smaller fish that sought sanctuary in these shallower depths. Often the receding tide would trap these big gars in the potholes, thus giving us a chance to go gar gigging. A bunch of boys armed with flounder gigs "mixing it up" with a school of big gar in a shallow pothole is a sight to remember. As the boys wade in and start gigging, the gars start for home. In a minute the pothole looks like the inside of a great churn with mud and water flying in all directions, the gars knocking the legs from under the boys and ducking them into the muddy water, and the boys struggling to drag the gigged gars out of the hole. When the battle ends the gars lie flopping on the bank and the boys lean on their gigs to catch their breath looking like a row of mud-encrusted scarecrows and wearing on their faces that satisfied expression which boys assume when they think they have done something worthwhile. Fishing is for the young and for the old who are still young at heart. A good fishing trip clears the mind and raises the spirits of all dedicated fishermen.

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TUMBLEBUG TIME

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hen we were small the only summer beverage that we were allowed, other than milk and cocoa, was sassafras tea. The sassafras trees that grew around the branding pens provided a steady supply of sassafras roots for tea. The roots, as we dug them from the ground, had to be small and tender and no larger than a boy's little finger. The roots were cut into short lengths, scrubbed with a brush, and dried in the sun for several days. A handful of these dried roots steeped in a pot of boiling water provided a most delectable beverage when liberally laced with warm milk. The older boys made for the younger brothers popguns of straight sections of limb from the elderberry bush. After the pithy center is rammed out of an elderberry limb only a slender wooden tube with a straight, smooth bore remains. A plunger whittled from a piece of white pine to fit the bore completes a popgun that will shoot a green 103

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU chinaberry over the barn or send the chickens squawking for the safety of the chicken house. No country boy is ready to face a new day unless his trusty niggershooter is dangling from the back pocket of his overalls. All he needs to construct this faithful weapon is a forked limb, a piece of string, an old leather shoe tongue, and a discarded inner tube. From a chunk of damp blue clay he can manufacture high-grade ammunition by rolling small pieces of clay in the palms of his hands to small round marbles and drying them in the sun to a bricklike hardness. Now he has ammunition that is ballistically sound and easy to carry. For rabbit hunting, a piece of an old cast-iron stove, broken into small pieces on an anvil, furnishes a supply of truly lethal ammunition. Although this type of ammunition does not shoot as straight as clay balls, it whistles in a satisfactory manner as it flies through the air, and a rabbit squarely hit by a piece of this jagged metal is meat for the pot. During the hot doldrum days of August, boys could always while away an idle hour by batting bumble bees. Every wood panel fence on the ranch was honeycombed by a kind of large wood-boring bumble bee. These industrious little workers started their hole on the under side of the fence panel. They bored upward about two inches and then horizontally along the length of the board without breaking the top surface of the panel at any spot. Armed with split cypress shingles for bats, the boys would saunter along a fence testing each panel for bumble bees by gently tapping it with their bats. When they reached a section of fence where the volume of buzzing from within the panels indicated a high concentration of bees in residence, one of the boys would thump the fence vigorously with a stick as an invitation to the bees to emerge and do battle. The little warriors always accepted the invitation, and within a few seconds the air would be filled with swirling, darting bumble bees. The boys looked like a group of Indians doing a war dance as they hopped around, ducking, dodging, and swinging their bats at the bumble bees. The battle usually lasted only a few minutes, because the reinforcements that continued to pour from the fence soon forced the paddle-wielding enemy to retreat. Teasing the tumblebugs was another lackadaisical sport that seemed to be appropriate during the hot lazy days of August. The tumblebug is an industrious small black beetle whose only apparent purpose in life is to fabricate balls of dung and roll them down a sandy road all 104

Tumblebug Time day long. However, from the viewpoint of a tumblebug this is a very important activity, because they lay their eggs in the center of their ball and then roll it as fast as they can to their nests, where the little tumblebugs can hatch out in safety. To a boy lying flat on his stomach in a sandy road with the sun on his back and his bare toes in the sand, the ball that Mrs. Tumblebug is rolling rapidly toward his nose looms as large as a basketball propelled by a monster bug from a horror movie. So rather than move from his comfortable position, the boy places a stick across her path. After trying in vain to push or pull the ball over the stick she quickly leaves her burden to scout out the length of the obstruction, returns to her ball, and pushes it around the stick and back into the path again. Next the boy encircles the tumblebug with a dike of sand. Again she frantically tries to push her load over the dike and when this maneuver is unsuccessful, she attacks the dike itself, with legs flying, and digs a passageway through which her ball will pass. As a last resort, the boy encircles the struggling little creature with small clods of hard dirt. After trying without success to shove some of the clods out of the way, she climbs over the circle of of clods and busily inspects each one from outside of the ring. She then starts digging a hole at the very edge of one of the smaller clods. The sun is lower on the horizon and no longer hot on the back of the boy as he watches fascinated while the tiny bug digs its hole deeper and wider. Finally, Mrs. Tumblebug starts excavating under the clod of dirt, kicking the loose sand back with her feet. When she at last backs out of the hole, the clod tumbles into the excavation leaving a breach in her prison wall through which she triumphantly rolls her precious ball. The boy rises slowly to his feet, brushes the sand from his overalls and starts for home, kicking the sand with his bare feet. Once he turns and looks back to see if the little ball is still rolling, and satisfied with what he sees he again turns in the direction of home. Perhaps in later years when the burdens and responsibilities of this boy's mature life seem insurmountable, he may think of the persistence and ingenuity of the tiny tumblebug on that sunny August day of long ago with encouragement to move forward again with a lighter step. Another pleasant summer diversion was swimming in the bayous along with the gars and alligators. One of our favorite swimming holes was in the bayou below the Double Bayou Store. Since none of us owned a bathing suit it was necessary to find a secluded spot for 105

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU our swimming. We knew that alligators would catch pigs and dogs by knocking them into the water from the bank of the bayou with their tails, but we were confident that they would not bother white boys. The Negro boys would not swim there, because they were sure that the alligators were quite fond of dark meat. Many times we would slip off our clothes and jump into a bayou when we could see several large alligators swimming around. If the alligators should cruise down too close to our swimming hole we would swim directly at them, splashing and shouting, and they would always retreat. Sometimes we would test the bayou for hungry 'gators by first throwing a dog into the water. If the dog made it back to the bank in one piece, we assumed it was safe for us to jump in. Incidentally, we never lost a dog while conducting one of these tests. One summer, at the expense of considerable time and effort, we built a water slide at one favorite swimming hole on Double Bayou. The slide started from a platform high in a gum tree and dipped sharply to the water's edge. It consisted of a wooden seat which slid on a pair of greased runners reinforced with cross braces attached to the bottom of the runners at six foot intervals. One day a neighbor boy went with us to try out the slide. He listened patiently to our operating instructions, climbed to the platform, and deposited himself on the slide seat. As he shoved off we saw that the portion of his anatomy used for sitting was extending too far below the back edge of the seat. As he swooped down the runners, his posterior end neatly removed each cross brace as he shot by, and the nails exposed by the removal of the braces raked him on either side as he passed. The next day he could not sit down. From a rear view one would have thought that he had been carrying a fighting baby wildcat in each hip pocket. All of the ponds around the house were alive with cottonmouth moccasins. We would spend hours shooting at them with a .22 rifle as they stuck their heads out of the water. Sometimes we would go snake hunting with a couple of hoes and some sticks. Several boys would wade into the pond beating the water with the sticks while two boys stood on the bank with the hoes. The noise would start the snakes crawling out of the water onto the banks of the pond, where the waiting boys would chop their heads off with the hoes. This sport seemed perfectly safe to us as we had always heard that a snake could not bite under water! 106

Tumblebug Time Late one afternoon we were sitting on the front porch when we saw a large alligator crawling across the lot just outside the front gate. Dad got his revolver and we all ran out to help. The children wanted to capture it but since it was about eight feet long, Dad decided against this idea and dispatched it with his gun. It was very dry that summer and apparently the 'gator was seeking a new home after his pond had dried up. When I was a young boy there were a few prairie chickens left. These birds were as large as chickens and shaped and colored very much like a quail. They were quite easy to kill, as they would not flush until you were quite close to them and their size made them an easy target. Before many years they were all killed out. Dad said that when he was a boy the prairie chickens were all over the country by the thousands. In the fall, they would come to the house and roost in the chinaberry trees, because they liked to eat the old fermented chinaberries. The chinaberries would make them so drunk that they would fall out of the trees and flop around on the ground, unable to fly. It was an easy matter to pick up as many birds as one needed for supper. One of the late summer activities was the burning of the salt-grass marsh in the lower pasture. My father always supervised this job, because it was necessary to judge the direction and velocity of the wind accurately in order to avoid trapping the cattle in the flames or burning the fences. Before leaving the house he would fill his morral with boxes of old-fashioned kitchen matches. When he reached the line along which he wished to start the fire he would slow his horse to a walk and start dropping lighted matches into the dry salt grass at evenly spaced intervals until the trail behind him was marked by a long line of smoke plumes rising from the marsh as each dropped match started its own little fire. Before he reached the end of his fire line, the little fires would have merged into a continuous wall of flame sweeping across the flat prairie. That night, from the gallery of the ranch house the whole southern horizon would be flickering and glowing with the flames of the marsh fire. On nights when the sky was overcast this glow from the flames would be reflected from the low-hanging clouds sometimes as far as the ranch house, casting an eerie red light upon the faces of those watching from the gallery. With the wind from the south the whole ranch would become enveloped in a shroud of smoke making it difficult to 107

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see the cornfield and the barn from the house. Although the smoke caused red eyes and considerable coughing among the family, summer would not have seemed complete each year without this smoky experience. Sometimes on a dark summer night the children would sit on the south gallery and watch forfireballsin the marshfiveor six miles away. These fireballs appeared to rise from the marsh in the form of a glowing ball which bobbed along just above the horizon for a few seconds and disappeared. Some said that the phenomenon was caused by a type offluorescentgas that rose from the marsh during the heat of the summer. However, the colored folks on the ranch had a more plausible explanation. They said that many years before two men, whose names were lost in the passing years, were hunting in the Jackson Marsh. When they failed to return from the marsh in a reasonable length of time, a search party sent to look for them found one of the men lying in the spunk weeds at the edge of the marsh with his head blown off by a shotgun blast. The other man was not found, nor was he ever seen again. It was assumed that the man who disappeared had murdered his companion and escaped across the bay in a small boat. The dead man was buried where he lay in the spunk weeds at the edge of the marsh. The colored folks would roll their eyes and say that when the weather was right this headless man rose from his grave with a ghostly light in his hand and searched the marsh for his head, for he knew that if he found his head, he could then search out his murderer and haunt him into his grave.

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GOATS—AND SO FORTH

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ets play a very important part in a child's life, and since we lived in the country we always had pets of some description. One summer Daddy had a pair of Angora goats shipped in from Reagan Wells and ordered from Sears-Roebuck a goat wagon complete with harness and seats. In our part of the country goats were a curiosity, and the neighbors made special trips to see our goats. They were also quite a nuisance, as they spent most of their time walking the top panel of the board fences and climbing onto the roofs of all the sheds and chicken houses on the ranch. After much labor we trained them to pull the wagon, but they were very unpredictable and were always running away or getting tangled in the harness. We gave them the rather plebeian names of Billy and Nanny, and as Billy reached his maturity, he started challenging everything that moved on the ranch by tucking his head and trying to butt the offender out of his way. One day 109

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Mother heard our little sister, Berta Mary, screaming outside the yard fence. She rushed out to find that Billy had Berta Mary pinned to the fence with a sharp horn digging into the fence on either side of her small body. She was about five years old at the time and, of course, was no match for a full-grown billy goat. At Mother's insistence, Daddy gave both goats to a neighbor the next day. Once we brought home a tiny male wolf pup that we had dug out of a den in the pasture. We fed him with an eye dropper and nursing bottle until his eyes opened. During his early life he reacted to petting and care as would a small domestic puppy. He was very affectionate and wanted to be held and petted all the time. As soon as he developed some teeth, we started feeding him scraps of raw meat. His reaction was that of a wild wolf. He would snarl and snap as he gulped down the meat and would allow no one to touch him until the meat was gone. The odor of raw meat would send him into a frenzy of excitement, and if a piece of meat was held out of his reach he would continue to leap for it, growling and snarling all the while, until he was exhausted. In his excitement, he would turn completely over in the air and land heavily on his back or side in his efforts to reach the meat. He learned to stalk and kill Mother's chickens, and no amount of whipping could break him of the habit. One day he started chasing a chicken around the front yard and Mother started chasing him with a big switch. Around and around the yard they went, the wolf chasing the chicken and Mother chasing the wolf, with several of the children happily racing after Mother to see who was going to win the race. The wolf caught the chicken and Mother started switching the wolf. The wolf refused to release the dead chicken and Mother exhausted herself with the switch. As a last resort, Mother sent one of the children for the ammonia bottle and held it under the wolf pup's nose. With a startled gasp, the pup dropped the chicken and ran under the house. Our experience with the wolf pup taught me that instinct is stronger than environment. The wolf pup was raised exactly as we raised our domestic puppies, but as soon as his eyes were open, his wild instincts began to predominate. His instinctive mania for raw meat, his instinct for stalking and killing anything smaller than himself, and his natural enmity for all dogs were strongly evident in his character at a very early age. By the time he was three months old he was more wolf than dog and we were forced to give him away.

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Goats—and So Forth We always had dogs around the ranch. Those I remember best were a pair of beautiful collies named Scotty and Lassie. They seemed to have an instinct for protecting the small children and would attack anything that threatened the children's safety. Scotty learned to ride the fender of the Model Τ Ford. The instant the car motor started Scotty would come racing from wherever he was taking his nap and leap into the space between the fender and the hood of the car. He would wedge himself tightly by bracing his feet against the fender and leaning against the hood. Wherever the car went Scotty went with it, and no matter how rough the road he managed to stay wedged in position. One spring while we were moving an old lumber pile we discovered a nest containing one baby skunk. Its eyes were not yet open and it was about three inches long. I immediately appropriated the baby skunk as my pet and named it Zephyr. Zephyr was kept in a cardboard box. Just before going to bed each night I would slip Zephyr's box into the house and put it under my bed. As Zephyr grew older she developed into a gentle pet and played like a kitten. However, if someone startled her she would throw her tail into the air and assume a stiff-legged stance. This was all bluff, because she was too young to have developed her musk glands. Then came the day when I forgot to take her box out to the porch in the morning and Mother, with her broom, discovered it under the bed. She was horrified to find that a skunk had been sleeping under my bed for several weeks. Unfortunately, Zephyr chose this particular time to demonstrate that she was growing up by protesting Mother's broom work with her first perfumery show. I am sure that she was proud of her new-found accomplishment, but it was her downfall as a pet, because Mother insisted that she be taken to the woods and released immediately. We even had two pet Brahma bulls, as gentle as horses. As they grazed around the horse trap they would let the children ride on their backs. They would come when called and they liked to be petted and to have their ears scratched. However, Daddy did not approve of the children's becoming too familiar with the bulls, so the bull riding was usually done in his absence.

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ACROSS THE BAYOU

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ithin the confines of that geographical area known as Double Bayou the colored people outnumbered the white about five to one. With very few exceptions the colored folks all lived in a densely wooded area "across the bayou." No name other than "across the bayou" was used to designate this colored community. Some of their small cabins were built along the road but most were ¡situated back in the woods, each one sitting in its own clearing with room for a vegetable garden and grazing space for a few cows, horses, pigs, and chickens. They shipped what produce they could spare by boat to Galveston, and the men and boys supplemented this meager income by working as cowhands on the surrounding ranches. It was an accepted fact that a certain number of the colored people were prowlers, addicted to a habit of prowling at night around the barns and other outbuildings of the ranches. Since they never stole anything, 112

Across the Bayou the accepted policy was to ignore them. The shades were never drawn in any room in our house except at bedtime; so many nights we knew by the way the dogs were barking that we had an unseen audience watching us as we sat down to eat in the dining room. The dogs stayed inside the ranch-house yard at night, and generally kept any such audience beyond the yard fence. My earliest personal experience with a prowler occurred one night when I was quite small. Something aroused me from a deep sleep in the middle of the night, and as I sat up in bed and looked out the window the shadowy figure of a man, outlined against the moonlit yard, slipped by the open window. At that moment my heart seemed to stop and my blood knotted my veins. I lay back down very slowly, and then eased out of the bed, horizontally, to the floor and crept on hands and knees, without making a sound, through the bathroom, into my parents' room, and to the bedside where my father lay sleeping. Very carefully I aroused him and whispered that a man was creeping around outside the house. He replied, "Son, go back to bed. He won't hurt you; he is just prowling." With this assurance I went back to bed and to sleep. From that night on I was able to assume the same nonchalant attitude towards the prowlers as did the rest of the family. For a while a deaf and dumb colored man known as "Old Dummy" lived across the bayou. Although Old Dummy attempted to talk, the results of his efforts were just a series of grunts and groans. One day while Old Dummy was standing around the Double Bayou Store, a cattle buyer paid Daddy a large sum of money in cash for some cattle that he had bought the day before. Daddy brought the money home and put it in the iron safe where he kept his valuable papers, more as a protection from fire than from thieves. After supper that night, while the family was gathered in the living room, our old watch dog, Fritz, who was sleeping on the front gallery, started growling in a most peculiar manner. Fritz was a large brown mongrel, whose courage had been tested under many diverse circumstances, and when Fritz was given the word by a member of the family he would tackle anything that walked, crawled, or flew. One of the boys stepped out on the gallery to see what was troubling old Fritz and found him crouched at the top step, trembling as if he had a chill and with the hackle hairs on his shoulders raised straight up. Then, for the first time in his life, when ordered to "go get 'im," Fritz failed to respond. Instead, he backed up 113

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU against the screen door, continuing to growl low in his throat, with his eyes glued to the front-yard gate. Fritz's unorthodox performance soon brought the entire family out to stand on the front porch and stare into the inky darkness beyond the gate. Suddenly, from behind the trunk of a large oak tree, just beyond the gate, came a series of unearthly sounds which could not be attributed to anything within the knowledge of anyone present. Some thought it sounded like a sick child at night coughing, moaning, and calling for its mother, or a mortally wounded animal crying out its last moments of life. We children knew, although we did not voice our thoughts, that it could only be a ghost or some other supernatural being to cause our valiant Fritz to cower and whine in such abject terror. Daddy told us to go back into the house, that it would go away soon. Within a few minutes after we returned to the living room we heard old Fritz barking at the front gate with his familiar full-throated roar as if trying to redeem his earlier cowardice. We knew then that "it" was gone. The next morning Daddy said he was almost sure that it was Old Dummy attracted to the ranch house by the sight of the money that Daddy had brought from the store that afternoon. His was a reasonable explanation, but not entirely adequate for the children, who could not forget old Fritz quivering with fright the night before. Surely a dog's nose could tell a man from a ghost. Foremost among our childhood companions were several little colored boys, children of Monte Humphrey, the foreman of the ranch. In the summertime they often walked to the ranch from their house in the woods and would immediately become an integral part of the boyhood activity for the day. If it was a building project, they fetched and carried the lumber and dug the holes. If a rabbit hunt was on the agenda, they carried the lunches and extra shells, being occasionally rewarded for their services by permission to shoot the gun. They were always happy and full of fun, and when the tired rabbit hunters flopped down at the edge of a pond to eat their cold lunches, they entertained the group with an endless stream of doggerel, rhymes, and amusing yarns about the colored people across the bayou. One of the boys, Little Vick, was small and black and bubbling continuously with laughter. He was his own best audience, for he always rolled on the ground and cackled and laughed the loudest at his own stories. Two of Vick's nonsensical rhymes that he never grew tired of reciting were: 114

Across the Bayou Up the hickory, Down the pine, Tore my britches Right behind. And 'Possum up the 'simmon tree, Coony on the ground, Coony say to possum, "Throw them simmons down." Although there is no single line of the Dagger Soliloquy that I can recall to mind, Vick's childish rhymes lie readily available today on the surface of my mind. For a number of years a colored man named Joby Fisher lived by himself in a small shack about a mile north of the ranch house and supplied his modest needs by doing odd jobs around the ranch. Joby was a pack rat by natural inclination, because at the end of each work day he carried home something that belonged to the ranch and carefully stored it away in a small shed behind his house. About once each month Daddy would send some of the boys to Joby's shack to bring back all the missing equipment. When we arrived at Joby's place the approach was always the same. W e would call to Joby and tell him that we wanted to get the shovel or ax that he had borrowed, and he would tell us it was in the shed. When we entered the shed we always found, in addition to the shovel or ax, a collection of our hammers, saws, wrenches, and other miscellaneous equipment, which we loaded into gunny sacks brought for that purpose, and carried back to the ranch. Once when we confronted Joby with his misdeeds and accused him of stealing, he became very indignant and explained his actions in the following terms: "Now Suh, I never would steal. Iffen I took sump'n' and sold it, dat would be stealin' and de sheriff man would shorely put me in the jailhouse, but iffen I jest takes sump'n' I needs, dat's jest takin', not stealin'." After this rather confusing encounter with Joby's philosophy of right and wrong, we never again accused him of stealing, but just arranged to unload his tool shed periodically. Hidden somewhere in the woods across the bayou was a spot known as The Thicket, the location of which was a well guarded secret among the colored people. It was here each Saturday night that the colored "5

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU

sporting fraternity of Double Bayou gathered with a jug of corn squeezings and their galloping dominoes to duel with Lady Luck. This hidden rendezvous was actually a small clearing in the center of a dense thicket, well away from the frequently used paths and trails that wound through the woods. In the center of the clearing was a circular area of bare earth packed to the hardness of sun-baked brick by the knees of countless crapshooters who had gathered here throughout the years to bounce the dice across the circle under the feeble glow of a kerosene lantern. Some of the small colored boys who came to the ranch would tell us about slipping up to the edge of the clearing at night and watching the crap games. Their colorful description of the crapshooters as they talked and pleaded with the dice sounded so interesting that we wanted to see this spectacle for ourselves some Saturday night. However, no amount of cajoling or threatening could induce them to reveal the location of The Thicket. Once, two of us pinned little Vick to the ground and sat on him, while a third boy threatened to cut his ears off with a sharp pocket knife, but to no avail, because he steadfastly refused to divulge the secret. The only white man that we knew who had the secret of The Thicket was one of our cousins. When he was a young man helping his father run a rice farm, he had worked a number of colored hands during the rice season. On Saturday, when he paid the hands, a small crap game would always get started, and before it was over he would be rolling bones with the hands. He usually won some of their money, and, in order to protect their investment, the hands would insist that he come to The Thicket that night and give them a chance to recoup their losses. Quite often this cousin went across the bayou alone on Saturday nights to accept their challenge. The next day he always had a pocketful of money and would boast that he had won enough money to meet the next week's payroll. However, he too was true to the Code of The Thicket and never revealed the location of this backwoods casino. One time James, Guy Cade, and I decided to camp out in a large grove of oak trees near the old Dick Place. After eating our supper around the campfire we started spreading our bedrolls. I discovered near the fire a depressed spot that seemed to be the right size to accommodate my blankets. As we were settling down to sleep we heard a soft call from just outside the light of the fire, and an instant later, 116

Across the Bayou Deseire Johnston, a Negro man, stepped to the fireside. Deseire lived by fishing and hunting and would turn up in the most unexpected places. He sat by the fire for a few minutes sipping a cup of black coffee and looking at me continually as I lay in my bedroll. He drained his coffee cup and said to me in his low quiet voice, "Ralph, do you know that you are sleeping in Ninny Dick's grave? Old Ninny is right there under you." In less than a minute, I had found a more suitable place to sleep on the opposite side of the fire. Deseire Johnston was unique in that he seldom worked for wages. He made his living by hunting, trapping, and fishing. He was never known to own a pair of shoes, either summer or winter, and his great calloused feet seemed to be immune to the briars and cut-grass. His knowledge of the habits and ways of all wild life was phenomenal. He knew where the ducks were feeding and where the fish were biting. Several times I sat on the bank of the bayou beside him, using the same bait, and had not a nibble, while he hauled in fish after fish. The entire lower part of the county was his domain as he roamed barefooted from ranch to ranch, sometimes on foot and occasionally on horseback, without regard to the ownership of the land. The ranchers regarded him as an asset, as he would occasionally appear at a ranch house to report a broken fence or a sick cow in some remote corner of the pasture. He was short on conversation, using the fewest possible words to state his views, in a low, well-modulated voice. Because of his reputation for skill with a fighting knife, the children were fascinated by him, but at the same time, were always just a little frightened of him. Occasionally a tough Negro from Galveston would appear across the bayou. Usually these characters were evading the law and cooling off in our rural community of Double Bayou. Within a short time they would be gone again and an inquiry among the colored people as to their whereabouts always brought the same reply, "Deseire Johnston had a little talk with that colored gentleman." Many years ago while Grandpa James was riding horseback along the sandy road that winds through the Double Bayou woods, he found one of the transient Negroes from Galveston lying in the middle of the road. He was cut across the belly from side to side and most of his intestines were lying in the sand beside him. Grandfather had in his saddle bags a large stock needle that he used to sew up cattle and horses. He put the man's innards back where they belonged, sand and

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU all, and sewed him up with the stock needle and thread. The victim was put aboard a boat for Galveston. Many years later it was reported that he lived to be an old man. However, there is no record of his ever returning to the Double Bayou Community. It was assumed that this incident was only a justifiable disciplinary action on the part of Deseire Johnston. Black Lazarus, who kept the yard and tended the chickens, was sorely afflicted by spastic paralysis, which crippled his limbs and tied his tongue. With one arm locked in a useless position against his breast and one leg several inches shorter than the other, Lazarus worked steadily all day, wielding his hoe and rake with one arm far better than some could with two arms. He wanted no pity and consequently received none, but one could hope that his heavenly rewards would be as satisfying as were those of his biblical namesake, Lazarus Of the BOOK OF LUKE.

"Old Sait," who was Fanny the cook's husband, tended to the milking and feeding, and spied and tattled on the boys' extracurricular activities, such as riding the milk calf or smoking cornsilk cigarettes behind the barn. Old Sait's propensity for tattling kept a sort of lukewarm feud going between himself and the boys. Although the boys were actually quite fond of Old Sait, they were honor-bound to occasionally pay him back. One form of retaliation was to dip the milk cow's tail in muddy water just before he started milking so that the first time Old Betsy switched her tail for a fly, the muddy end of it would hit him across the face. When he started toward the house with a pail of milk in each hand, the boys would slip up behind him, lock step with him and march along in single file chanting some youthful dirge. By the time Old Sait could set his buckets down, his young tormentors would be out of reach. Once my two older brothers discovered that Old Sait kept a cache of beer hidden under the house, and they were caught by Old Sait himself in the act of sampling a bottle of his private stock. He flew into a violent rage and threatened both boys with sudden death if they ever again touched his beer. The boys never again touched Old Sait's beer, because it did not taste too good, and they could never feel too certain that his threat of sudden death was not made in earnest.

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SUGAR-CANE MILL

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onte Humphrey's brother, Barge, fed and clothed his large family by selling fresh vegetables in the spring and fall from his extensive garden plots. His homestead was back in the woods not far from the Double Bayou Store. Barge had the only sugarcane mill at Double Bayou, and during the harvest season everyone for miles around brought his cane to Barge Humphrey to be ground and boiled down into syrup. During sugar-cane season, when the wind was right, the aroma from the fermenting cane pulp could be detected in the air along the winding woods road long before his clearing was reached. In the center of the clearing, surrounded by a tough plank fence, stood the sugar mill. Tied to the outside of the fence, wagons full of cane were always waiting their turn at the mill. The mules, still hitched to their wagons, dozed patiently in the traces with their

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HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU heads down, their hindquarters at ease with one hip up and the other down. The mill was a simple contrivance consisting of two upright steel rollers geared to a twenty-foot wooden boom, which extended outward horizontally above the rollers. Hitched to the end of the boom was an old mule whose job it was to pull the end of the boom around and around in a never-ending circle to provide power for the crushing rollers. The old mule walked his circular beat at a steady pace all day long, and after several days of steady cane crushing, his plodding feet would have worn a circular trench around the mill in the sandy soil of the yard. As one man fed the long purple stalks of cane to the rollers, the thin, slightly amber juice dripped into a tin vat which was in the rack beneath the rollers. Another man tossed the crushed cane stalks onto a pulp pile as they emerged from the rollers on the opposite side. Within a few days the hot sun started the pulp pile to fermenting, creating the brewery atmosphere that was so evident to those approaching the mill from downwind. When fed to the hogs, this fermented pulp seemed to create the same illusions of grandeur in the pigpen as are sometimes observed at human cocktail parties. Some dashed around the pens squealing their delight, some sought a quiet corner and promptly went to sleep, while others tried to whip all the remaining pigs in the pen who were still on their feet. As the juice pans filled, they were carried to the boiling vat and dumped into the cooking pans. The boiling vat consisted of an enormous rectangular metal pan fitted into the top of a large brick firebox. A roaring fire of pine knots kept the cane juice in the pan boiling at a steady pace. Barge stood at the vat all day, constantly stirring the thickening juice and skimming off the froth that continued to rise to the surface of the boiling syrup. This skimming procedure created a better grade of syrup, as the froth brought to the surface all the bits of pulp, leaves, and sticks that had inadvertently fallen into the raw juice. Barge knew that some of his customers liked their syrup thin, some liked it thick, some liked it quick-boiled, and some liked it slow-boiled. So he would boil off a batch to suit each customer. While this tedious process was going on the children sat on the fence or in the wagons, peeling and chewing the raw cane. It is possible to chew a piece of sugar cane until the pulp assumes a greenish tinge.

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Sugar-Cane Mill At the end of the day, the boy with the least green chaw of cane had to open all the gates on the way home. This was considered a fair contest until it was discovered that one of the more astute lads had been slipping a few blades of green grass in with his sugar-cane chaw.

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OUR OLD BARN

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boy grown to manhood who has never known the feel and delights of an old ranch barn is not adequately prepared to face his so-called golden years, when memories are more vital than action. Memories of our old barn are still warm in my mind. It was built around a large passageway running the length of the barn, both ends of which stood open in the summer but which were closed in the winter by massive sliding doors. If one stood in the gloom of the passageway on a sunny afternoon, the square of the large north doorway framed a natural picture in color for the viewer. The right side of the picture just caught half the rough gray trunk of a water-oak tree, from which one branch drooped into the upper right corner, filling it with a ragged patch of green. Low in the foreground was a square of the brown sand of the corral, patched with scattered pads of light green 122

Our Old Barn Bermuda grass. In the middle background the six-panel corral fence stood geometrically correct, separating the sand of the corral from the carpet of broadleaf grass in the pasture beyond. The panels of the fence, painted an old gray-green by the slow growth of wood moss and lichen, cast long straight shadows at acute angles to the fence. A small chinaberry tree, with its stem touching the fence, held its shaggy umbrella over the top of one post, shading it from the hot sun. A small green hedge protruding above the top of the fence, turned at a second glance into the tops of the tall pine trees in the woods half a mile distant. Above the fence, a portion of the windmill, in the pasture beyond, was outlined against the blue sky, with its four converging legs seeming to point at the busy rotor wheeling away above them. This is an ordinary picture, and, but for the framing of the old barn door, would have gone unnoticed. The feed crib, just inside the door of the barn, with its mixing bin the size of a giant coffin, smelled of oats and bran and corncobs, subtly intermingled with the musty odor of rats and mice. Both sides of the hallway were lined with sturdy horse stalls, each with its feedbox in front and hayrack in back. The last stall on the right was heavily reinforced, because this was the stall of the Black Stallion, a magnificent black animal, kept for the sole purpose of improving the quality of the cow ponies on the ranch. He was kept isolated from the other horses, and exercised in a pasture by himself because he would kill any horse that he encountered. Of course, he had his fling once a year when the mares were brought in for breeding. Anyone approaching his stall would be greeted with a terrific clamor as he tried to kick down the side of the barn and paw open the stall door, all the while blowing and whinnying, rolling his eyes, and biting at the intruder through the openings between the panels of his stall. In all his lifetime only two men ever rode him or attempted to ride him. One was Monte Humphrey, the old ranch foreman, and the other was a horse trainer named Swenson, who visited the ranch about once each year. The saddle horses and the milk cows came in from the pasture at sundown and walked into their open stalls to be fed. The milk-cow stalls were under a lean-to shed attached to one side of the barn. After the feed troughs were filled and the stall doors fastened for the night, one could stand in the barn hallway at dark and absorb the noises and smells of a barn in use. From all sides came the sounds of 123

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ear corn being rattled around in the feed boxes, the steady crunch of horses chewing corn, the occasional stomping of horses' feet as they jarred loose the greenheadflies,the steady switch of tails, and occasionally a scream and thumping kick from the Black Stallion's stall as he protested the presence of the horse in the stall next door. Overhead, in the loft, the rats would start scurrying around, tracing their patterns of scratchy sound back and forth across the floor above. Through the thin partition wall of the cowshed could be heard the swishing sound of the first milk hitting the bottom of the milk pails. As the milking went on, an experienced ear could detect the changing sound of the squirting milk as the pail filled. An empty pail rings, a half-filled pail echoes or rumbles slightly, and a full pail sounds flat. At nightfall the barn odors seemed to intensify. The sweet smell of field hay was cut with the acrid odor of fresh horse droppings. The dust stirred up from the hallwayfloorintermingled with the sweetish odor of fresh horse sweat. Even the mule harness hanging from the wooden pegs in the barn hallway contributed its tang of neats-foot oil and old leather, and everywhere hung the distinctive odor of rats and mice. The upper floor of the barn was entirely devoted to the storage of hay and was entered by climbing a vertical ladder through a trap door. Sliding doors opened both ends of the loft to the sun. In the late summer the prairie hay was cut and hauled to the barn in wagons equipped with hay racks. Each wagon was halted under the loft door, and two men pitchforked the hay from the wagon up into the loft, where two more men pushed the hay to the far end of the loft and stacked it up to the roof. In the fall, when the loft was full, the boys dug tunnels through the bottom of the stack until the whole stack was honeycombed with burrows complete with nests hollowed out at intervals along each passageway. If tunneling became tiresome, boys could always finish an afternoon by somersaulting down the side of the haystack or turning flips from the rafters into the soft hay ten feet below or, perhaps, sitting in the big loft door just thinking of the few things they were sure about and of the many things they were not sure about. To a country boy the barn was playground, workshop, study, haven, and refuge in times of stress. On Sundays and holidays the older boys milked the cows and younger children could stand around the milking stall and beg the milker to 124

Our Old Barn squirt the fresh milk directly into their open mouths. Of course, they usually ended up with more milk on their faces than in their mouths. What a perfect example of "direct from producer to consumer!" If, by chance, Mother and Dad went visiting on Sunday, the boys could stage a calf-riding contest, as a supply of big dogie calves was always available in the feed lot at the barn. A big calf would be roped and held by two boys while the third mounted the calf. Just mounting the calf was no small task, for the calf would be bawling, kicking, and twisting in spite of the combined efforts of the two "holders.'' With a whoop the holders would release the calf, and boy and calf would go lunging around the pen, the calf bawling and kicking dirt, the boy squeezing with his legs to stay on. Usually, the boy and calf parted company at about the third jump, the boy hitting the soft sand of the barnyard with a thump and the calf racing on around the lot with its tail stuck straight up into the air at an indignant angle. It is strange that a calf throws its tail into the air when it runs and a grown cow or bull does not. Probably a calf quits throwing his tail up at about the same age that a boy quits standing on his head. It's not that either of them can't do it—they just reach a point where it does not seem to be worth the effort.

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SCHOOLIN'

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efore the county school was built Dad employed each winter a teacher, who lived at our house and held school in one of the upstairs bedrooms. The neighbor children came by horseback every morning to attend school. The first teacher I remember was Miss Crocker, an elderly old maid with white hair, and the possessor of several eccentric habits. About once a week she would send one of the boys to the barn for a large bowl of bran right out of the bin where the bran was kept to feed the horses. She kept this supply of bran in her room and apparently ate it dry, as she never took milk or sugar to her room. She was very fond of milk and could never understand that milk was a great surplus on the ranch, the bulk of which was fed to the chickens and pigs. Before a meal she would step into the dining room, quickly gulp down a glass of milk, and refill her glass from the several large pitchers on the table before the rest of the family came into the dining room. 126

Schoolin' I will always be grateful to Miss Crocker, for she taught me to read before I was old enough to go to school. Each day I would sit in a small chair by the door of the classroom and read to myself with her help. By the end of the year I was reading second- and third-grade books. When we were quite small the county built a two-room school house several miles from the ranch at Pine Island, and on the road to Smith Point. This building also served as a church house on Sunday. Sunday school was held each Sunday by women of the community who volunteered for this duty. Sometimes church services would be held by a circuit-rider preacher; occasionally a "called preacher" would hold services. As it was explained to me at the time, a "called" preacher was a man who had received a call from God, either in a dream or vision, to rise up and preach the Gospel, and incidentally, to share in the proceeds of the collection plate. It was certain that such a service would be long on singing and "hell's-fire-and-brimstone" preaching. It was rumored that one such called preacher who occasionally filled the pulpit Sunday morning plowed his field Sunday afternoon by hitching his daughters to the plow and lashing them with a whip to make them pull the heavy load. It was said that the children never heard a word of this preacher's sermons on Sunday morning because they were busy trying to visualize the type of harness that would be needed to hitch some girls to a plow. One Sunday, as a direct result of some eloquent preaching, a woman with a long string of children in tow appeared at the ranch house and announced that they had come for dinner, because the preacher said that Sunday was set aside by the Lord as a day of rest, and that she had given up cooking or any other work on Sundays. Sometimes our education was advanced by painful experience, including contact with the peach-tree switch. Our mother enjoyed relating stories of our childhood and always said that Guy Cade was the most active and venturesome of her seven children. Once when Guy Cade was quite small she loaded all of her children in the buggy for a trip to the Double Bayou Store to pick up the mail. She managed to get all the children safely seated in the buggy with the exception of Guy Cade, who, while her back was turned, had clambered out of his seat and was standing on the buggy step. When she applied a brisk whip to her spirited team to get them started, the resulting jerk dislodged Guy Cade from his perch and dropped him to the ground in 127

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time for the back wheel of the buggy to run squarely over his stomach. By the time Mother could stop the team and run back to the scene of the accident, Guy Cade was on his feet and holding his stomach with both hands. He looked up at her without a tear in his eye and said, "Mama, am I busted?" Fortunately, he wasn't "busted" at the time, but he did get "busted" with Mother's ever-present peach-tree switch when they got home. Probably the hardest part of the peach-tree switch procedure was the requirement that the culprit go into the orchard and cut and trim the switch to be used in his own whipping. If he selected one too small and limber, the other children scorned him as a sissy and coward, and if he cut one too big and rough, the punishment would exceed the gravity of the misdeed. So the problem was to select a switch of such size and weight as to avoid both of these undesirables. Today's children think of the Sears-Roebuck catalog—if they think of it at all—as just something to put in baby brother's chair to raise his chin above the table top; but to those of the older generation who were raised barefoot in the backwoods this publication represented their guide to the outside world. As children we spent many a long winter evening studying the Sears-Roebuck catalog page by page. Each pictured item with its colorful descriptions of the merits of the products added materially to our youthful store of knowledge. Without this source of information we would not have been informed regarding the latest style in ladies' underwear or the latest development in crystal radios. Each new issue of the catalog brought us up to date on current developments in the fields of science, industry, medicine, and fine arts. Long before Christmas each child had compiled and revised many times his secret list of gifts to be ordered from Sears-Roebuck. Poor Mother, who censored each list before placing the combined order, always knew what she was scheduled to receive for Christmas. Long before the shipment was due, the anxious children, in anticipation of the arrival of their packages, kept the road warm between the ranch and the Double Bayou post office. Upon the arrival of a new catalog, the old issue, dog-eared and worn, was consigned to that last resting place of all good Sears-Roebuck catalogs—the family outhouse.

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THE STORE

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uch of the community life centered around the Double Bayou Store, established sometime before 1900 by my father's cousin, John Jackson, and later operated by Uncle Claud Jackson. Since there was no other store in the community, it was simply known as "the Store." It was a one-story, unpainted, frame building, nestled in a small clearing in the woods on the bank of the east fork of Double Bayou. One side hung over the edge of the bayou and was supported by pilings driven into the bed of the stream. Nailed at random to the weather-beaten outside wall of the store were many small and large tin signs proclaiming the virtues of the various wares within the store, such as "Cardui for Women," and "Lydia E. Pinkham's Pills for Women." As small boys we often wondered why all these wonderful and mysterious products were always for women and there was nothing for the men. Uncle Bob said that the magical ingredient that 129

HOME ON THE DOUBLE BAYOU cured all female aches and pains was the liberal allowance of "spiritus fermenti" in each bottle. Perhaps he was right! There were also signs calling your attention to Grandma's Coca-Quinine, Garrett's Snuff, and Brown Mule Chewing Tobacco. In the best display spot of all was always that old favorite, the Bull Durham bull, standing spraddlelegged and proud, with nostrils flaring and tail a-switching, ready to crash right through that flimsy fence and leave the sign behind. Inside, the walls were shelved from floor to ceiling and loaded with all the needs of man and beast. In one corner were rows and rows of patent medicine that would cure every ailment known to man. Alongside were the many preparations for the health and comfort of horses and cattle. Close by was the showcase with a curved glass top, containing candy and tobacco. One end was reserved for licorice sticks, rock candy, chocolate drops, gum drops, and small wooden kegs of hard sugar candy; the other end of the case contained the boxes of plug tobacco, twists, smoking tobacco, cigars, and snuff. A penny went a long way in the candy end, and if the gum drops had a faint tobacco flavor it only added to the total enjoyment of the sweet. One wall of shelves was reserved for the ladies, where bolts of gingham, calico, and denim, hats, shoes, stockings, and dresses were displayed. Corsets and other items of feminine underthings were kept modestly under the counter in covered boxes. If a lady inquired for these items, she was invited behind the counter to rummage through the boxes herself while the storekeeper rearranged the canned goods on the opposite side of the store. If, by chance, she selected something, she wrapped it and paid the proprietor the amount marked on the box, commented on the weather, and departed without disclosing the exact nature of her purchase. Behind the counter on the opposite side of the store were the canned goods, barrels of flour, sugar, and coffee, and soda crackers. Such a variety of goods hung from the ceiling that one got the impression that there was no ceiling but only a close-packed array of bridles, harness, horse collars, buckets, tubs, pots, pans, brooms, mops, stove pipes, shovels, rakes, and hoes. One back corner of the store was separated from the general sales area by a low wooden banister with two swinging gates. Within this enclosure were the boxlike cage that served as the post office, the potbellied wood stove, and several rocking chairs and benches. N o one entered this enclosure, except family and close personal friends, without a specific invitation from the store130

The Store keeper or his wife. The extreme back portion of the store was partitioned off as a storeroom, where the barrels of coal oil and heavier items of merchandise were stored. Behind the store and connected to it by a raised platform was the feed warehouse, where the sacked rice and feedstuff was stored. Attached to the raised platform between the buildings, and sloping down to the bayou's edge, was a wharf, where the boats from Galveston loaded and discharged cargo. By my time the sail had been replaced by motors in the Double Bayou cargo boats, but these boats were still the primary artery of communication between Double Bayou and the outside world. The boats carried every conceivable type of produce to the Galveston market, fresh fruit and vegetables, blackberries and mayhaws in season, chickens and eggs, and, in the early days of wild game, ducks, geese, prairie chicken, rabbits, hides, and tallow. About a mile northeast of us Uncle Bud Moss lived in the old Moss homestead. He was a bachelor and the only one of a large family of children to remain at home. He did his own washing, cooking, and house cleaning. He kept the entire house spotless inside and in good repair outside. At least once a day he rode horseback to the Store on Double Bayou. He had very courtly manners and when he encountered a woman he would sweep his big Stetson hat from his head and make a low bow. Even on horseback he could bow so low that his hat would almost brush the ground. One day, after both Uncle Bud Moss and Uncle George Wilborn were quite elderly, they met on horseback on the road and became engaged in a hot argument. They finally settled it by dismounting and fighting it out. Since neither of them was strong enough to strike a solid blow, they ended up in the ditch, rolling over and over, spurring each other with their cowboy spurs. It was never decided who won this match, as a neighbor came along and separated them before either had given up. During watermelon season the boat would make extra trips to take care of this seasonal crop. When the watermelon wagons backed up to the platform, a number of men would line up about eight feet apart across the platform, down the wharf and into the hold of the boat. The man in the wagon would toss a melon to the first man in line, who would catch it in his arms, pivot with the momentum of the melon, heave it on to the next man in line, and pivot back to catch the next flying melon. In just a few minutes the men would strike a steady 131

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cadence of toss-and-pivot and the melons would move in a steady stream down the line of men and into the hold of the boat. From a distance this watermelon line appeared as a giant green spotted caterpillar undulating down the wharf from the wagon to the boat. On the day the boat was due to arrive from Galveston, Uncle Bob would put all the children in the wagon and drive to the Store to await the arrival of the boat. The boys would take turns swinging on the back axle of the wagon, cutting furrows in the sandy trail with both heels as the wagon rolled along. At the Store the children would get out of the wagon without making a sound and wait until the oldest boy slipped up to the door and cautiously peeked in to see if a certain elderly female cousin was sitting in the rocking chair. This procedure was eminently necessary, because if the whole covey of children raced into the Store when this cousin was present, they had to go through "The Ritual," which consisted of lining up, one behind the other, in front of the cousin's chair to be kissed. Since she was quite elderly and did not see well, she would grasp each child in turn and peer intently into their faces and say, "Now, which one are you?" The victim would dutifully reply, "I'm James, Guy Cade, or Ralph, Cousin" as the case might be, and she would always say, "My, my, how you have grown!" and plant a resounding kiss on whatever portion of childish face she could reach. To the children this was truly an unpleasant ordeal, because she never knew one child from another and never varied the procedure. One thing must be said for this relative—she was, in truth, a real "kissing cousin." If our advance scout reported that our cousin was in the Store, the boys would race off down the bayou, around the first bend, slip off overalls and jump into the cool muddy waters of the bayou. Since we could hear the boat coming several minutes before it hove into sight, we had time to slip on our overalls and run back to the wharf in time to watch the unloading of the cargo. Right in the edge of the Store clearing stood the shack of Uncle Pete, an old colored man of undetermined age, whose duty it was to guard the Store at night. Uncle Pete's shack, dark and dirty, with only a sandy earthen floor, was off-limits for us children, because Uncle Pete was said to be "tetched in the head." He stayed in his little shanty all day while the community activity ebbed and flowed around the Store a hundred yards away, repulsing all attempts at friendliness by 132

The Store any of the white people. The colored people that came to the Store looked straight ahead as they slipped by his shack, because, as they said, "the spirits were with him." When I was four or five years old, Uncle Pete and I were friends. I understood Uncle Pete and he understood me. After the grownups had gone into the Store and the older children had run down the bayou to the swimming hole, I would slip over to Uncle Pete's shack and stand in his doorway until he would notice me and say, "Come in here, boy." He would then seat me on a sawed log stool at his table and serve me cold biscuits soaked in sorghum molasses on a rusty tin plate. Then we would talk. I would tell him about the things that I did all day and of the many things that I wished I could do, such as being able to leap over the house with one bound or what it would be like to coast and dive through the blue sky like a chicken hawk. He told me of the visions he saw and the dreams he had, things that were childish to those of his age, but things that were logical and sensible to a boy of five. Mother sometimes scolded me for visiting Uncle Pete, but not too harshly, because I am sure that she had some inkling of the rapport that existed between the old Negro and the small boy.

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THE BURYING-GROUND

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here is a spot in the woods at Double Bayou not far from the Claud Jackson homestead where a large sandy knoll rises above the flat floor of the surrounding pine woods. The winter rains form a shallow moat of still, brown water around this knoll, converting it into a woodland island and making it different from any other spot in the woods. The privacy of this island is insured by a screen of trees at the edge of the woods which shields it from the noise of the public road beyond. This plot of ground is bare of trees except for one old magnolia that spreads its branches over one end of the island. Immediately beyond the rainwater moat the tall pines, the stocky water oaks, and the slender gum trees form an encircling wall of green and brown. That portion of the sky visible above the encircling trees is round and blue, broken only by the lazy pattern traced by

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The Burying-Ground an occasional soaring buzzard as he wheels and slides through the air. A pair of red birds flit back and forth across the clearing, forcing the eye, by the sheer brilliant intensity of their coloring, to follow involuntarily their course of flight. The quiet of this spot is broken only by the barking of a gray squirrel in the top of a nearby pine. This is truly one of nature's sanctuaries dedicated to the needs of man, for it was here, many years ago, that Grandpa James Jackson chose to bury the first of his family dead. Surely some Almighty hand guided him to this spot so eminently fitted by nature to receive the dead and to rest them in solitude and peace. When I first knew this spot many of my ancestors were already buried here, as well as the families of other pioneer settlers of Double Bayou. The Jackson portion of the cemetery was surrounded by a decorative iron fence, and a white marble slab was provided to cover the top of the brick vault on each grave. When a member of the family died, the Negroes dug the grave and the men of the family lined the grave with brick to the surface of the ground. If a man died, the men laid the body out, and if a woman died, the women laid the body out. "Laying out" consisted of washing and dressing the body in burial clothes, closing the eyelids by placing coins on them until they remained in a closed position, and placing the body in a large cypress box or coffin. After the family and friends had viewed the remains, the top was nailed to the box, and it was carried to the cemetery in a wagon and lowered into the open grave before the mourners arrived. If a minister was not available a member of the family read a passage from the Bible, and the assembled family and friends sang a familiar hymn. At the conclusion of the hymn the nearest of kin threw the first shovelful of earth into the open grave, and the neighbors quickly finished the job with their own shovels brought for that purpose. Not until the grave was completely filled and mounded over did the funeral party leave the graveyard. This factual account of the burial procedure might sound somewhat crude to the reader, but when one stood in this woodland glade beside the open grave contemplating the past which lay beneath one's feet, and saw the present as represented by the honest faces of the neighbors

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raising their voices to the strains of "Rock of Ages," the future seemed as clear as the blue sky above the surrounding pines. Within these pages depicting more than a century of pioneer life in Texas, are death, hardship, sadness, and sorrow, but in them also are joy, love, hope, and accomplishment, all of which bring me a sense of pleasurable fulfillment as I bring this story to a close.

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