Chapter VII: "burr-Oak Cider."

IT was a bright morning when Tom took stage from — Landing, on the Mississippi, for the frontier prairies.

There was a full load aboard, albeit every public conveyance can always accommodate "one more." A merry company they were, too. All men—journeying from various quarters for various purposes—health, pleasure, to "locate," or to visit immigrant friends in their wilderness homes.

Well may you imagine that the "unruly member" enjoyed a gala day in that crowded vehicle, for a stage-coach is a social institution anywhere, but especially so where the freedom of western manners bears sway.

A "light-weighted," wiry, ever-at-motion Hoosier, with twinkling black eyes and a saucily upturned nose, started conversation by plying each in turn with personal questions, put with the familiarity of an intimate acquaintance, his interrogatories being always answered cordially, sometimes wittily. They could the less resent the liberties he took, since at the outset, in a few characteristic words, he sketched his own history, announcing himself as "a shoolmaster from Ingianny, going to Minnesoty to teach school, if he could get one; if not, to hire out farmin'."

"What is 'your' name?" he began, directing his attention to a portly gentleman of forty-five, occupying the right hand corner of the front seat.

"Hammond, Dr. Hammond," was replied, with frank good humor.

"Where from?"

"The wooden nutmeg and pine wood pumpkin seed state, erroneously called Connecticut in the geographies."

"Got a family?"

"Too young to marry."

"Calc'late to settle in these parts?"

"If 'twill pay."

"Going to invest in land?"

"May 'risk' a trifle where it's a 'sure' thing."

Passing thus in regular order among the passengers, with an assurance, volubility, persistency, and ingenuity that kept the company in a roar, sometimes putting a new question before the response to the previous one was fairly out of the mouth, he reached the last person but one—a young man in hunter's garb, and carrying a rifle. He was of Scotch-American descent, hardy and opinionated; had been, he said, on the frontier five years; was recently from a hunting expedition on the Red River with friendly Indians. This experienced youth the "Ingianny" man bored with numberless inquiries concerning the climate, soil, productions, growth, and population of the country.

"The settlers are from most all parts, I reckons."

"Yes," answered the hunter, naming different nationalities represented, ending with "Norwegians."

"Norwegians! What sort of folks are they?"

"Don't fancy them, nor their heathenish jabber," was the narrow reply.

"Are they peaceable?"

"O, they never make any trouble, are generally hard-working and honest. But for one, I can't relish the idea of these 'foreigners' coming over here and getting the best land. And of all the foreigners, I despise the Norwegians most. They are different from anybody else. I can tell one as far as I can see."

"And where are 'you' from?" asked our questioner of the remaining passenger—a man of thirty, of fine physiognomy and gentlemanly bearing.

"From Norway," was the affable response.

"Then you are a Norwegian?" returned the astonished Hoosier.

"I am," he pleasantly replied.

An embarrassing silence fell on the party at this unexpected "dénouement," from the effects of which even the versatile and irrepressible "schoolmaster" could not rally, while the imprudent youth, whose eyes were so keen for Norwegians, looked chagrined and chopfallen enough at the sharp rebuke his prejudice and evil-speaking had received; for the comparison which the incident led us to make, between the young hunter and the well-bred stranger at his side, was not over-favorable for the former.

"Big spring! Wud ayther iv the gintlemen like a taste uv the warther?" shouted the wide-awake Irish driver, as he reined in the horses, and, seizing a pail, hurried to a ravine a few rods off, followed by the passengers.

The limpid water, cold and sweet, gushed from the earth in a powerful stream.

"Magnificent!" ejaculated the doctor, swallowing great draughts. "Wouldn't take a thousand dollars for this spring, if it was on my place at home! Will you try some?" he added, rinsing his flask, and passing it, refilled, to Tom.

Despite the slight flavor of whiskey that still clung to the drinking-vessel, Tom could but join in his enthusiasm. And as they resumed their ride, a number of accounts of remarkable springs were given by several.

But Erin's dulcet tones again resounded, as he proclaimed,—

"Those gintlemin as wish can git something to ate here."

They were now in "the barrens." Stretching along a gentle ridge, in a singularly orderly way, presenting a striking resemblance to a New England orchard, were the "scrub" or "burr" oaks. Among the trees nearest the road stood a log house, over the door of which, on a rough oak board, was the inscription in red chalk, the letters staggering, as if formed by a drunken hand,—

"'Burr-oak Cider.'"

"Cider!" repeated the Norwegian, as they dismounted. "I thought that was manufactured from apples."

"An' sure," interrupted the driver, slyly winking at the doctor, "they make it here without the fruit at all, at all, an' it's the 'gin-i-wine,' an' no mistake."

The plain meal of corn-cake, fried pork, eggs, and coffee innocent of sugar or milk, was despatched, and Tom had quite forgotten about the "cider." But on returning to the stage-coach, the smell of the doctor's breath, and the unnatural excitability that prevailed, led him to suspect that some "beverage" stronger than the poor coffee of the table had been patronized while he was walking beneath the oaks.

A suspicion that became knowledge, when, an hour later, the doctor, in the glow of his feelings—perhaps I should say, stomach—drew his flask, filled with "burr-oak cider," "alias" whiskey, from his coat pocket, and sent it the rounds, all partaking except the Norwegian and Tom. When restored to its owner, he held it up to the light, shook it, and looking at its contents with a professional air, said,—

"That is what I call one of God's good creatures!"

"And yet," boldly replied Tom, "how many accidents, losses, quarrels, murders, deaths, what poverty, wretchedness, crime it causes! It is on this account that so many of the great and good stigmatize it as the 'worst' of 'man's' creatures."

"O, I mean rightly used," answered the physician, with a touch of condescension.

"Used as it has been here, for a common drink?" inquired the young critic.

"Boy," he replied, with doctorial dignity, "I contend that there is a principle, in whiskey, which, as a tonic, is invaluable."

"May I ask," politely interposed the Norwegian, "in which of the drugs employed in manufacturing and flavoring the article you find that principle?"

"Sir," returned the whiskey advocate, getting nettled, "need I state that I refer to pure old Bourbon!"

"Pardon me, then, for reminding you," courteously responded the Norwegian, "that one seldom sees 'old' Bourbon, much less old Bourbon 'pure.' And surely the liquor called 'burr-oak cider,' sold at that wretched loggery, cannot be of the kind or quality you mention."

"Besides," broke in Tom, "when you prescribe a 'tonic,'—'cinchona,' for example,—you are careful about the size and frequency of the dose—are you not? Why, then, take the whiskey 'tonic' in such large quantities and so often? A tonic is to strengthen the body when weak; but those addicted to the 'Bourbon tonic' use it when weak or strong, and continue it till it beggars or destroys them. It would be mal-practice to administer a tonic to those already over-stimulated.

"But suppose, doctor, one should weigh two hundred, his face and eyes were red, the blood too much in his brain. Would not an intelligent practitioner recognize such a person as apoplectic? And would not tonics be hurtful and dangerous to him, especially whiskey tonics? Hence, is not, after all, your defence of alcoholic drinks, on medical grounds, a pleasant little piece of professional strategy? Do you not really hold to them because they are agreeable to the taste?"

"You are a little personal," rejoined the physician, heartily laughing; "and I don't know but you are about right. But it is not best to be social bigots. An occasional glass cheers, enlivens, disperses the blues, leads a man to feel at peace with all the world, and forget care, fatigue, and sorrow. It promotes good fellowship, arouses the intellect, and enlarges the heart. How dry and insipid are public dinners without wine! And on a journey what introduces strangers so gracefully, and quickly makes them acquainted!"

"An eloquent eulogy!" observed the Norwegian. "But, doctor, I have read of a custom in France, before the revolution, that adhered more faithfully to fact.

"When a great personage, a marshal of France, a prince, duke, or peer, passed through a city of Burgundy or Champagne, the corporation of the city waited on him, delivered an address, and presented him with four silver goblets, in which were four different wines. On the first goblet he read this inscription, 'monkey wine;' on the second, 'lion wine;' on the third, 'sheep wine;' on the fourth, 'swine wine.' These inscriptions expressed the four descending degrees of drunkenness: the first, that which enlivens; the second, that which irritates; the third, that which stupefies; the last, that which brutalizes."

The physician, like one of Victor Hugo's characters, combined, with admirable art and in masterly proportions, the thirst of a guzzler with the discretion of a judge, and had preserved his mental equipoise notwithstanding the whiskey. But the nervous little Hoosier had by this time become unduly "elevated," and posturing as if about to fiddle, sawed away with one arm across the other, and struck into a dancing tune.

"'Monkey' wine," Tom murmured, nudging the doctor's elbow. "The 'tonic' is taking hold."

From imitating the violin, the "Ingianny schoolmaster" proceeded to describe incidents in his history which showed that he had seen more of life among rowdy Mississippi raftsmen than in the school-room.

"The 'tonic' is introducing to us the raftsman," whispered Tom. "What can so 'quickly make strangers acquainted.'"

The Hoosiers ended his stories with a coarse song.

"'Swine' wine," exclaimed the Norwegian, in disgust.

Erin, on before, broke out also in rude strains, alternated with swearing at, and furiously lashing, his better-behaved horses.

"The 'tonic' has mounted to the driver's head," said Tom.

"'Monkey,' 'lion,' and 'swine' wines," chimed in his ally from Norway.

But the deepening ravines made their way uncomfortably rough, the wheels now sinking into heavy ruts, anon surmounting some jagged rise of ground, while the driving was reckless in the extreme. Tom shouted to the driver,—

"Be careful, or you'll turn us over!"

"O, be aisy, me by," he roared in return, whipping the horses anew. "Dennis O'Brien's been acrass the prairies before to-day. Get ape, ye bastes!"

A moment more, and the stage canted threateningly, righted, then came down, Tom's side, with a crash, his face resting on a sharp object protruding through the intervening leather. He was too closely pinioned by the passengers over him to move, and lay helpless, expecting each instant the horses to run and drag him thus. But the animals, becoming disengaged from the whipple-trees as the coach went over, although spurred on to the moment of the casualty by the drunken Jehu, waited quietly by for orders, like good temperance beasts who had taken no "tonic."

When the door of their prison-house was opened, the passengers emerged, a sadly jolted and bruised set, happily, however, without serious injury, only to the stage, which was pretty well "smashed," obliging them to "foot it" to their destination, a distance of two miles. The Norwegian and Tom, however, enlivened the walk by reminding the doctor that it was "one of God's good creatures" that, turning the driver's brain, upset the stage.

"Admirable 'tonic'! Powerful 'good creature'!" ejaculated the Norwegian. "By all means, doctor, when again we travel together, bring some burr-oak cider aboard; it helps on a journey!"

"How true the old proverb," suggested Tom, "'Wine is a mocker; strong drink is raging; whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.'"

"Young man," said the doctor, as they entered the little frontier village, "to what part of the east do you belong, did you say?"

"No part," frankly answered Tom, "I was brought up in a log cabin on the prairies, but have been east studying."

"Medicine?"

"In part, but mainly for the ministry."

"So you were a boy-pioneer?"

"I was."

"And now you propose pioneering it in religion and reform? Let me tell you that you will find it a mighty sight harder battling vice and sin than fighting poverty and Indians. But you've the pluck for it. I wish you success. Good-by."

As Tom left, the doctor muttered,—

"Well, if 'he's' a sample of what pioneering it does for body and mind, pity that there were not fewer dwellings of luxury, and more cabins! But how that youngster walked into my arguments! Fact is, I had a sorry cause to defend. Drinking is poor business."

"Mr. Jones," said the Hoosier, drawing him mysteriously aside, "if I should light on your neighborhood, and get a school there, perhaps you'd help me out, if I got in a hard spot. Now, 'rithmetic isn't a mite nat'ral to me. You see I've had no great chance for schoolin'. You'd give an old acquaintance a lift on the diffikilt sums, I s'pose?"

But the Hibernian driver saved Tom the trouble of replying, by asking, in a business-like way, "the gintlemin" to be sure and ride with him on their return, or not in the opposition line.

"And get upset again?" suggested Tom.

"An' sure an' the accidint wud niver have occurred at all, at all, if it hadn't been fur the—"

"Whiskey," added Tom.

"Faix, an' yer honor's right there," answered Erin.

Tom scanned the countenance of the young Irishman. He had a clear blue eye, an interesting, intelligent face, and his brown hair curled in beautiful, clustering ringlets over a fair, open brow.

"What a pity," observed Tom, "that a young man of your smartness should permit his head to be turned by the vile stuff! You'll marry one of these days, and be, perhaps, a drunken sot of a husband, and break your wife's heart, if you get the appetite fastened on you. Yet you might be a good and useful member of society."

"An', indade, sir," exclaimed the warm-hearted Celt, touched by the frankness and sincerity of Tom's manner, "it's married I am now." And he dashed off a tear. "An' wut wud me angil uv a wife say had she seen me droonk to-day?"

"Where is she?" asked Tom, much interested.

"She's in the ould country, sir; an' I'm getting the dollars together to bring her over—her an' the babe."

"Steer clear of the whiskey, then," said Tom, "if you wish to get them here soon, and make them happy after they arrive."

"All the angils bless yez, sir! The reverend clargy couldn't spake betther nor yez. An' Dennis O'Brien is no fool to kape ter the drink that's harrmed many an' many a wiser an' a betther than he. An' sure it's not to the credit of a docthor ter be a recommindin' it to the likes o' me."