COUNTRYSIDE YARNS
TALL TALE OR TRUTH? YOU DECIDE!
Wild Man in the Woods, Part 2
by Janis Stein

Join in the continuation as the misdeeds of three boys in the Carsonville/Applegate area in the late 1800s created quite a stir.

Never had we three boys been at a loss for words, but this night as the moon struggled to light our way, all was quiet – except for the chickens…

Hank and I thought we should return the hens. We’d have enough time to do so, return home and still catch a few hours of sleep before the rooster announced the dawn. We’d put to rest, too, this idea of George’s to impersonate the wild man living in the woods. We had a lot of work to do in the morning and it would do no good for Daddy to wonder why we all had a case of the yawns. Without more bones to distract the Sumner’s dog, though, George worried we’d be caught returning the birds and just how, he wondered, might we explain getting caught returning chickens?

As for me, guilt set in a little deeper, for these distraught chickens wouldn’t be laying eggs for Mrs. Sumner’s breakfast either, and then an idea hit me. The old Bryce farm wasn’t too far away if we took another shortcut through the woods – and their dog had died just last month. We could stick these two chickens in the Bryce henhouse on our way home. George deemed it as good a solution as any, though it never occurred to us what might happen when word in town spread that one henhouse in our honest farming community came up two hens short while another had gained the very same amount.

Wearing long sleeves, George had little trouble concealing the scratches on his arms, wounds he’d earned during the hen heist, and within a few days George announced to me and Hank what our next caper would be. Though Hank and I enjoyed the thrill of the adrenaline rush, we’d had our fill of chicken thievery and told George the same. To our surprise, George readily agreed, instructing us to go to bed at the normal time; he would wake us a few hours before dawn.

I awoke to George’s rough and calloused hand covering my mouth as he shook me back to consciousness. I struggled against him until the fog in my mind cleared, at last remembering George had another plan. We slipped into the night without words and, once in the woods, George pulled from Daddy’s discarded overcoat Mother’s glass milk jars and a handful of Daddy’s clover-filled hay.

We made our way south to the Mitchell farm with plans to beat Mr. Mitchell to his morning milking chores. Mitchell’s prized cow produced well as she chomped on Daddy’s clover. With two jars filled to the brim, Hank fastened the lids in haste and we scampered through the woods once more, this time traveling past our farm and well to the north to deposit the morning’s bounty on the doorstep of Widow Hollister.

We returned to do our deed, or misdeed, for the next week or so until word filtered back that Mr. Mitchell’s prize cow had mysteriously dried up – or at least during the morning milking. To Mr. Mitchell’s dismay, the cow seemed to produce record amounts during the evening milking. Meanwhile, Widow Hollister gave thanks in gratitude for the unexplained gift she found on her doorstep each morn.

Daddy found himself traveling to town more than ever as of late under the guise of buying supplies. Mother knew better though, for each time, Daddy came back with news of the wild man’s supposed mischief and misdeeds. Daddy reported folks in town figured this stranger among us must be a shrewd operator for despite all the unexplainable deeds, no one could actually give an accurate description of the wild man. Folks said they had heard this or that, but when it came right down to it, neither the prominent figures in town – nor any farmers in any direction – could lay claim to having spotted this wild man in the woods.

George, Hank and me made ourselves scarce after Daddy’s reports lest our guilty looks give us away.

Hank and I thought we should let the talk die down a bit before we continued to impersonate the wild man, a character even George doubted existed in the first place. George, though, couldn’t be swayed and, after only two nights of rest, I was again shaken awake in the predawn hours. Hank, who seemed to handle our newfound lack of sleep a bit better than I, already stood waiting in the quiet shadows of the barn holding a pair of work boots once worn by our grandfather.

Grandfather had feet so big, his boots were all but useless after he had passed away. Mother had held onto them, though, knowing with three growing sons, it might be likely one of her boys would inherit grandfather’s big feet.

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