The Chicken Who Came to a Wedding

Kelly lived on a little bit of acreage, and her family kept a few fruit trees, two cows, an elderly donkey, several lost-and-found cats of unknown quantity, one scrappy border collie (“scrappy” being a redundant and totally unnecessary adjective), and about fifteen chickens.  No goats, as Kelly’s mom said they smelled.  Why she thought them more odoriferous than the other creatures, we are not sure, but No Goats Allowed.

 

The donkey was called Festus, and he had soft hairy ears to pet.  The cows, Ethel and Edith, were brown Jerseys, a breed known for the richest cream.  One could gain three pounds from drinking one glass of their milk.  The chickens were just whatever caught the family’s eye in the chick box at the feed store come spring.  They’d had Buff Orpingtons, Barred Plymouth Rocks. Speckled Sussexs, and Cochons, as well as ones they weren’t sure of.

No matter what the breed, chickens don’t always last long, as there are raccoons, bobcats, and various chicken maladies that can strike down our sweet clucking friends with sad regularity.  But one particular little hen, Henrietta, lived a long time, outlasting not only the stew pot but raccoon raids, bumbling bobcats, and many maladies, to become something that few chickens ever become—elderly.  She was a favorite of everyone on the farm, especially Kelly.

Kelly was getting married that September in the barn, and the whole family was commissioned to put up hanging baskets, sweep out old hay and put in fresh straw, fetch borrowed chairs, and iron tablecloths.  Henrietta perched on bales of hay adding instructive criticism when the tablecloths were crooked, offering opinions when the hanging basket might be too high or too low, and scratching the hay on the floor into a more artistic arrangement.

Everything was running perfectly, the afternoon of the wedding. If you asked Henrietta, it was due in no small part to certain little feathered helpers.  The barbeque was smoking fragrantly as guests arrived.  The lemonade was made and chilling.  Dad was looking mighty dapper as he stood on one foot then the other, joking with Kelly’s brothers.  Mom and Kelly were lacing up the back of her gown and fastening Grammy’s string of pearls around her slim neck, slipping a sixpence in Kelly’s shoe, and touching a curl into perfection.  Down the stairs came Kelly, beaming smiles, beheld as perfection in Dad’s tearful eyes.  They walked arm in arm to the barn, where the guests, the bridesmaids, and be-fluffed flower girl waited. 

The music started, the bridesmaids smiled and entered, then the flower girl started up the aisle.  Dad and Kelly were the last ones left at the door.

Scurrying around the corner, as if late, came Henrietta.  Someone had forgotten to shut the chicken coop door, and neither Dad, and certainly not Kelly, were going to chase her off now.  Henrietta looked up the aisle, heard the wedding march music, and proceeded to follow the flower girl up to the pastor.  The bridesmaids giggled at Henrietta following them in, but Henrietta, unlike either her winged species or bridesmaids, was unflappable. Kelly smiled at her dad, and up the aisle they went to her groom. Henrietta took her place closest to the bride, thereby outranking the Maid of Honor.  When the pastor asked, “Who gives this woman to be married?” both Henrietta and Kelly’s dad answered affirmatively.

Henrietta was very well behaved and did not get between Kelly and her groom at the exchanging of the rings.  But when it was time for the recessional, the flower girl decided that Henrietta should ride in her basket and Henrietta politely declined, preferring to walk in a dignified way directly behind Kelly, being careful not to step on her gown.  The guests chuckled and clapped for her, and Henrietta bowed to one side, then the other, enjoying her celebrity.

Henrietta died two days later while Kelly was on her honeymoon. But she’s never been forgotten, and her views on life haven’t been either. Who can deny that the greatest thing anyone can aspire to is to be part of the party and enjoy friends?  Way to go Henrietta, way to go.

Trapper Dave's Prank

It is not easy being the strapping young ten-year-old out in the woods with two grown men.  When you are ten, there are lots of things to learn and much teasing to take from the old guys.  They take you on snipe hunts, make you carry the cast iron skillet, and in every way make your life a misery.  But any ten year old boy would agree that even the worst humiliating prank is preferable to sitting in fifth grade listening to Mrs. Peabody try to teach you fractions or grammar.

The thing about ten year olds, is that they soon grow up and turn into old men themselves, full of pranks to play on the unsuspecting.  Trapper Dave was just such a ten year old who had turned into a seasoned Veteran of Great Pranks. But back when he was ten, he wasn’t Trapper Dave, he was just little Dave P.  Dave’s dad promised him a fall hunt, and they headed off to a great little hunting cabin that Dad and his brother Uncle Basil had built.  Well, “built” was perhaps an exaggeration.  “Constructed” wasn’t even quite right, and if you had been paying attention in Mrs. Peabody’s class you might be able to come up with adjectives like “fabricated” and “slapdash”. 

Whether or not little Dave paid attention back then has yet to be determined, as this story is not about Mrs. Peabody’s classroom.  “Slapdash” will do to describe Mr. P’s hunting cabin.  And “cabin” is far too grandiose a term.  Hut or shack won’t even do, for it was merely a pole held up by ropes stretched between a big T-pole on one side and a stake on the other.  Suspended from the poles was simple black plastic.  The door was canvas, in one corner was a bed where Mr. P slept.  Uncle Basil and Trapper Dave slept on the floor.  They had a small pot belly stove in one corner. 

In a hunting tent at night there was very little to do, except sit by the warm stove.  The main entertainment was to set mouse traps, then watch the ensuing entrapment of the miniature camp robbers.  After 10 had been trapped, it was bedtime.  Sometimes bedtime came mighty early, other times, not until midnight.  You could bet on what hour it when ten mice had been caught.  At that point, the Coleman lamp was turned out, and pitch blackness would descend.

It is difficult for those who haven’t been out in the woods to understand the correlation between blackness and night sounds.  The darker the night, the louder the sounds.  A ripping man-fart in a tent on a pitch black night is nearly inaudible compared to a snapping stick or rustling leaves.  A deer tiptoeing through camp booms like Dolby surround sound.  A chipmunk scurrying across a forgotten tarp is thundering.  Each noise rivets attention from ten-year-olds that Mrs. Peabody the fifth grade teacher could never in her wildest dreams command.

Dave could hear snoring certainly, but something else caused him to freeze and hold his breath.  Something was snuffling.  Something large.  Larger than a boar.  Very large.  L-A-R-G-E!  The snuffler sniffed and poked at the plastic right beside Dave, and then rustled along the plastic siding towards the piece of canvas that served as a door.

There was no food in the hut.  The men practiced clean camping and had hung all the food in a garbage bin, suspended from a rope, but animals can be curious.

“Uncle Basil, wake up, there’s a bear!” whispered Dave.

“Mmmmph.”

“Uncle Basil, there’s a bear!”

“Ha, ha, I’ll bet.”

“No, really!  Listen.”

It couldn’t be denied there was something sniffing the plastic sides of the tent.

“Aw, go back to sleep, it’s a raccoon,” yawned Uncle Basil.

“No Uncle Basil, it’s a bear, and he’s going to come in.”

By this time Uncle Basil had deigned to raise up on one elbow and determined that there was indeed something present just outside the door.  At that point, a bonafide bear poked its head through the canvas door.  Uncle Basil flicked his powerful flashlight on right in the bear’s eyes, blinding as well as scaring it, so that the bear took off and plowed right into the T-pole where the rope holding up the hut was tied.  Down came the pole, followed by the whole hunting shack, waking Mr. P in a spasm of questions simultaneously addressed to both heaven and hell.

Uncle Basil, swathed in plastic, was laughing his head off.  Trapper Dave batted off plastic and tried to get out before the bear dragged the whole hut down the hill.  When the dust cleared, Mr. P. did not believe there was any bear involved.  He was pretty sure that he’d had a prank played on him, in spite of Uncle Basil and Trapper Dave both insisting it was a bear.

Of course, since Trapper Dave himself told me this story, I’m not so sure a prank hasn’t been played on me, believing such a tale.  Trapper Dave is sitting by the fire right now chuckling to himself, and I’m pretty sure that twinkle was aimed at me.  He’d better be careful though, he knows not with whom he deals.  I paid attention in Mrs. Peabody’s class and can come up with adjectives.

An Amazing Rescue at Philmont Scout Ranch

Although my brother Clark is very gracious about inviting me along with his California Boy Scouts when they go on backpacking trips, I’m not sure the boys always thought I was cool enough for them.  A middle-aged woman named Victoria was joining them?  Who next?  Shirley Temple?  If she could come, it obviously was not going to be a trip for he-men.  I admit I cannot carry an 80 lb. pack.  I’m used to cooking over fires and not camp stoves like the Californians, so am not very adept at them.  I went with them up Mt. Whitney, led them on a canoe trip to Lake Ozette and out to the coast, and backpacked with them around the Wonderland Trail (or would that be Trial?).  But our trip to Philmont Scout Ranch was not only laden with heavy packs, it was weighed down by strife. Talk about hiking off on the wrong foot!  The months of planning, evaluating equipment, and getting in shape, did nothing to prepare me for snarky attitudes of some boys that I had known for several years and backpacked with before.  I was flummoxed at their posturing.  What happened?  When did that sweet 14 year-old turn into an aggressive college freshman?

I loved Philmont though.  It was a dream come true.  All my growing up years, I read about it as the ultimate goal in my brother Clark’s Boy’s Life magazine.  As a child, I donned my dad’s canvas Duluth pack and “hiked” to the park, dreaming I was in Boy Scouts with my brother.  I did sit ups in front of my dad so he would take me on a canoe trip.  I studied the Boy Scout handbook from cover to cover. 

I could not believe it when Clark called and said they had an extra space on their Philmont Trek and could I join?  It was going to be a 62 mile circuit, and the goal each day would be to get to each campsite early enough so that the Scouts could do the activities there, whether tying flies, rappelling, shooting black powder guns, archery, or horseback riding and branding our boots.  So fast hiking was imperative.

Philmont Ranch is located in New Mexico, and my vision of New Mexico is desert.  Philmont’s located in the mountains of the northern part of the state, though, and is pine and alder forest in the mountains.  Thinking it was desert, I was worried about the sun, being a victim of the rays of Helios and a regular visitor to the dermatologist. Backpacker’s magazine suggested taking, of all things, an umbrella.  Turned out that was a bad idea.  There wasn’t that much sun, as the trees shaded us.  If I tried to use it as an actual rain shield, it was dangerous, as there were thunder and lightning storms and it would have acted as a lightning rod. Thirdly, it did nothing to endear me to the boys, who thought it was the epitome of laughable decadence.  Since there were a lot of bears at Philmont, I made up my mind to use it as a bear-frightening device.  Open an umbrella near a horse and the rider is liable to end up in the next county, so I figured it would work on bears.  Turns out the most aggressive animals we saw were teenaged boys.

My pack weighed 30 lbs. when I left home, but when water, group food, and a tent were added, it was up to 55lbs.  That’s a lot of weight for a 128 lb. person.  No matter, I’ve got knees like a draft horse and was sure I could do it.  Getting the thing on my back proved to be problematic however.  Even though I could carry it up hill and down dale, I could not lift it and get it slung around onto my back.  If I leaned it up against a rock, got the straps on, then tried to stand, I could not get up.  The thing that worked best was to either have my brother hold it up while I got the straps on, of it he wasn’t available, to find a tall rock or a steep hillside to put it up on, the weasel into the straps.

When the group stopped for a potty break, they all peed standing up.  I didn’t work that way.  I had to take it off to squat or I’d not be able to get back up.  Options? One, don’t ever pee.  Two, take it off and find a helper or a tall rock to get it back on.  Three, buy an adapter.  Seriously, who knew they made such things?  They are tricky to use, and you have to lean a certain way or get drenched, but I found it to be the answer.

The boys were quite content to stuff all things in their pack in random disorder, never brush their teeth, wash, and certainly never change their clothes.  I, being slightly more of a neatnik, liked brushing my teeth.  They groused about the time the adults were taking in the morning to get ready.  Even my brother was not immune to their griping.  Solution?  We got up an hour before them to tend to ablutions.

It eventually became clear to them that I could indeed keep up their pace, but my brother and his wife did not.  This worked in Clark’s favor at one point.  All the fast hikers went blowing past a turnoff, and Clark, the human GPS, bellowed “STOP!” in his Russian bass voice.  He urged us to come back and reconsider our direction, and when we did, we were surprised to find the trail.  No one but Clark had found it all summer, I’m led to believe, as it looked like it had only been used by rabbits.  All the other troops said they missed it.  But the boys still did not stop their denigrating comments about the adults, in spite of the fact one of them had just saved them an afternoon of bushwhacking.  Telling them to cease their reproaches did not work.  They did not listen to us.

I should have had the good sense not to get peeved by adolescents.  But when they kept complaining about the adults’ dwaddling, I went and hefted the pack of the ringleader.  It was lighter than mine.  When I called him on it, he cited my decadent umbrella.  I admit I should have not brought that, but told him if he wanted to grouse about slow adults, he could carry more weight.  The boys did not want to slow down as they wanted to get to the camps early and it said it was hard to walk slowly.  The adults said it was a Philmont rule that we were all supposed to stay together.

The tension and animosity was thick.  I apologized to the ringleader whose pack I had weighed, so did he, but it was as if our ears were plugged.  Finally, Clark’s wife broke down, and told her sons how rude and immature they were being.  Considering all the work and planning the adults had put in to the trip, they could jolly well keep their criticism to themselves.  Her sons came and hugged their mother, but I was still fair game, and anything to ridicule was looked upon as a merit badge to these tough-men wannabes.

The ringleader’s dad B--- was with us on this trip.  We had been on several treks before, and I liked the guy.  He was carrying an immense pack, maybe 65lbs? I can’t understand how he did it.  So one morning after a great rain, glorying in the wildflowers, fresh air, and scent of the pines, we came upon a boardwalk over a meadow.  The boys were first, then B---, then me.  Suddenly a board broke, B---‘s leg slipped in the hole, and he fell off the boardwalk.  His pack was down, his face was up, and his lower leg was trapped in the broken boardwalk.  It looked as if his shin was about to break.

I was agog at this, not knowing how I could possibly get him out.  All I could think of was to try to drop my pack and get his off somehow.  But he yelled, “Lift me up, my leg bone is breaking!”

With my pack on, I leaned way out, grabbed him by the chest strap, and with one hand, lifted him up on his feet.  We stood there in disbelief.  Being a woman of faith, don’t tell me I did that because of adrenaline.  Don’t tell me I had some leverage or favorable physics. 

That night at our group gathering, I expressed thanks to our heavenly Father for His timely aid.  The boys mimicked me and sniggered.  But I like to think that the same heavenly Father, who can aid a woman lifting a full grown man with a 65lb. pack with one arm, can also lift a woman in the estimation of her hiking buddies.  I think that part of the "rescuing" was for me too, when I came to realize that He who launched the earth in orbit and said to the proud wave "Thus far and no farther" could keep all of us orbiting around each other in harmony, speaking to each of us in gentle admonition, urging us to view each other as God's perfect child.

By the end of the hike, we were zooming along together at warp speed, and little was said about pokey old adults.  I saw the ringleader again a few years later, and he was polite, nodding and smiling to me in greeting.  I’m sure he is a charming young man.  He went back several times to Philmont, and I hope he has many happy memories of that place.  I’m glad his dad did not have to be airlifted out with a broken leg. 

And I’m especially happy to see the handiwork of the great God, who is Love.  Whether the great mountains and beautiful scenery of Philmont, or the quiet comraderie of those who walk its trails.

May in an Wannabe English Garden

It was a little misty around the castle this morning.  OK, so that's not really our house on the left there, it's a painting of the side of a Derbyshire castle, supposedly the one used in the filming of The Princess Bride.  We had to buy it when told that, true or not.

Our brave house tries to live up to the standard of a real English garden. I try to give it encouragement by calling it something charming like "bungalow" or "cottage" but it is really nothing more than a daylight basement, built in 1946, with a few whistle-y windows and a suspected roof leak.  Call it what you will, it gets spangled up in May as rhododendrons go mad with blooms.  Early roses delight us.  The gentle drift of saxifrage blossoms speak up from where they've been hiding behind rocks.  Lupines thrust spires like wannabe French cathedrals. Hostas come out with fresh spring leaves, the sage is blooming a lusty blue, and Solomon's seal is a graceful arching dancer.

My favorite this time of year is the Cecile Brunner rose on the arbor and the rose trees up the brick path to the front door.  Walk under this arbor, up the brick path, in the front door, and leave your modern worries behind. Not much modern in here, we are all hand-me-downs and sentimental stuff, although the furniture insists I call them, "antiques".  I humor them, they are not really.

The apple tree has finished blooming by now and has set to work making future pies and applesauce. I know a little boy whose favorite food in all the world is "applesauth".  I don't mind calling things by whatever name is the favorite.  A little girl I know likes "pamplemousse" rather than what the grocery store terms a grapefruit.  How could you call such a pretty pink thing grapefruit?  Pamplemousse is its right and proper name.  My daughter finds herself scarred because she was a teenager before she realized that nobody else around here called a grapefruit pamplemousse.  Only her weird-o mother.  And about a few million French folk.

Reality has no place in a garden.  It is all dreams and hopes, from the moment you stick a seed or root stock in the ground.  It seems just the right sort of place for storytelling.  Come on in, I'll tell you a few.  What did you say your name was?  Sir Gallahad?  Guinevere? Buttercup? Great!

I Should Have Been Named Colton McCabe

I should have been named Colton McCabe.  Wayne Ryder.  Swanky Toughpants.  Anything but Victoria Elizabeth.  Sounds like I’m a frail little princess.  Here I wrote a wilderness survival story, filled with raids from warring rivals, jealousies, sacrifices, and monumental grief, as well as humor and a love story, and I don’t get to put Colton McCabe on the cover as author.  Well, I could, but I want to use my real name.  I just wish my real name was something else.

The book, Only the Mountains, originally started as a story of a white captive woman living with Crow Indians in 1846-48.  I loved researching it, traveling the Oregon Trail, camping out alone, and sans cell phone.  It wasn’t that I was trying to be daring—we didn’t own a cell phone back then, and camping was cheaper than motel rooms.  The wide windy plains, the miles and miles of dry tumbleweeds, the steep climb into the Blue Mountains, and the drippy trees of Oregon were great times to write in my head.  Coming around the back of Mt. Hood on the historical Barlow Trail, I got stuck. Oblivious to my danger, chopped through an obstruction, went on, got lost on a forest road, and found my way out in spite of May snow.  I’m not sure my husband knows about that part.

I visited with the Crow Indians, got a Crow-English-Crow dictionary, interviewed tribal members, and prowled around the reservation.  Spent hours in the library, spent hours online went to pow-wows, visited lots of museums featuring Native American artifacts.

Probably the best research was going on annual wilderness canoe trips and the many backpacking trips with my brother. He’s an insistent hiker, and who can say no to his zeal?  Off we’d go, and it is great fodder for writing about exhaustion, determination, rain, cold, and hunger.

After sending out vast numbers of query letters, attending writers’ conferences and interviewing with agents, I was able to send the book itself off.  They said they liked it, but could I change it? “Historical fiction does not sell well,” they said.  So I fast forwarded the time of the book to 500 years from now, after the apocalypse and the pandemics, when the population is down to 5% of what it is now.  The world has plunged into a more primitive setting, and civilization in New America is clustered on the two coasts.  Seattle is the new capital.  What population there is lives in little towns and tries to eke out a living by farming.  Southern America is a desert.

However, the Native Americans, especially the Dakota Sioux and the Crows, have done well.  The Crow, influenced by Mennonites who had lived near them before the apocalypse, decided to return to their own roots and live a purified Native American lifestyle, as did the Dakota Sioux.  They believe their traditional lifestyle has made them able to resist the pandemics, but unknown to them, they have in inherent resistance. The Crows, now called the Wrocks, and the Dakotas, now called the Dackos, have grown to two huge populations, controlling most of the central north section of North America.  Feared by city people, who believe the Wrocks and Dackos to be cannibals, violence is common. Internal tribal strife has risen as well. The elders want to hold to traditions, while the younger men want weapons more powerful than their enemies.  Meanwhile, city people from both coasts are encroaching on their territory, and once again history is repeating itself.

But above all else, this is a love story.  A young city woman is captured by a raiding party of Wrocks when her airship crashes. A Wrock man in the raiding party seeks her out.  When sex traffickers raid the tribe, the Wrock man and other tribal leaders have to take off to rescue them. Friendless now, with winter approaching, the city woman has to make decisions that will change her life forever.

I suppose I have a pretty good name for writing romances. Such a prim and proper name, let me pour you some tea.  It might be spruce needle tea rather than Darjeeling, it might be served in a horn cup rather than bone china.  Although when you think about it, Victoria and both Elizabeths were long living and powerful queens. 

Toughness and bone china to boot.

Mrs. Hepsibah Gove Rides a Mule Across Panama, and Hilarity Ensues

When I look on Amazon for a book, many are about time travelers rushing around to this century or that, larking about with new lovers, or fighting famous battles of history.  Great fun, and evidently the woman I portray at Fort Nisqually, Mrs. Hepsibah Gove, is not to be left stuck in 1855.  Oh no.  After all, a woman who can travel on a sailing ship from New England, on a mule across the isthmus of Panama, and sail up the coast of California to the boom town of San Francisco is not about to let a little ol’ thing like time travel slow her down.

I suspect she came popping into my sewing room because, after all, I have said her name numerous times at Ft. Nisqually.  She’s a like-minded lady for me to portray, because her husband was a steamship captain and is always gone, as is mine.  Not that my husband is a steamship captain, although he does bear the rank of captain.  His “ship” was declared decidedly too futuristic by Mrs. Hepsibah Gove, and she did not react too well when I told her that his ship flies.  No such thing is possible, she informed me.  I decided not to argue about flying ships with a time traveler.  There are certain things that just can't possibly be believed, airplanes and people liking asparagus among them.

So here she came, popping into the sewing room one Saturday around noon, and to her credit did not inform me I was FAR too old to be portraying her. 

I wondered if perhaps time travelers might require refreshment?  Evidently time travel makes one very thirsty.

I would have loved to have asked her so many questions, but Hepsibah is a talker.  Holy moley yes.  She went so far as to ask where I got the inspiration for my sheer, which was recently ironed and hanging in the hallway on the way to the kitchen, but naturally did not know the name Martha Pullen or KayFig Patterns.  I took her to the kitchen to get the lemonade, figuring a diet Coke would not garner a good reception.  She gawked at the magical refrigerator, running water and instant ice, and considered that water or lemonade might not suit, so we found something darker and redder, but I promised not to tell what it was. 

“I notice that you seem to have quite a bit of lace in your sewing room,” she started. “May I inquire as to your source, it is quite lovely.”

“Thank you. Luc’s in the Netherlands.  May I give you some?” I replied.

“I couldn’t possibly accept such a generous gift. Perhaps if you had a scrap… But I am endeavoring to find a source for veiling.”

“That might be a bit more difficult these days, as most is polyester.”

“Who is Polly Esther?”

“Never mind. My friend Nancy might have some.  What color?”

“It doesn’t matter, it is not for me, it is for a mule. I’ve been making bonnets for mules and sending them to Panama.”

“Why?” I asked, thus lighting the fuse of her tongue, which required several more glasses of emollient.

So here is her story, written down as directed.

“When our Expedition across the Isthmus commenced, it was dreadfully hot, and I wore a Bonnet to protect against the Kiss of Helios.  Our Guide, a frightfully pink and corpulent Englishman who proclaimed himself an Adventurer of yore and who was now employed to perch on the back of a Mule to shepherd fervent Travelers across fifty miles of an arboreal and sultry Panama, was jollied by the Fact we suffered so from the Mosquitos of that Clime. He claimed no such Distinction, saying he was far too sour for their Tastes, although I suspect the pickling of Tobacco and Gin with which he preserved himself might have played a part. He called those whining pests by the local colloquial, which he said translated to Veritable Handmaids of Hell.  A chosen few of us were bitten to distraction by the zephyric Lions.  A Veil was fetched from my Luggage, and added to my Ensemble, flung over my Bonnet and secured inside my Collar so no Insect of any kind was allowed Entry.  The Weave of the Veil was very fine, which was scarcely required, as the Insects were such great flapping Creatures I am disposed to grant them favor in admitting their relentless effort was mandatory in sustaining their great size. No jungle Beast, no ravenous Dog, no adolescent Boy was ever so hungry.

 

“My position in the Caravan was near the middle, with the Englishman near the front, and preceding the entire party were several local Peons whose sole engagement was to render the Trail clear of Spider Webs that oft festooned our path.  They carried great Knives called machetes to render the spiders unconscious, I do not believe it was possible to kill them.  The Englishman’s Mule was a sour Creature, who had determined that we should never indeed arrive at our appointed Destination, for she took not one Step without stopping to rub her Nose on her Foreleg. The Englishman used his Crop in a macabre rhythm, bellowing multitudinous, flamboyant, and imaginative Names and descriptive Courses of Action to which he intended to subject her. I discovered through these rantings that her Name was Jezebel.

“I wondered what would impel the creature to continually scratch her Nose, until I came to the realization that I was scratching mine.  Could her Recalcitrance be induced by those tenacious biting Denizens?  I urged my long-eared Steed closer, and beheld the Horror of her inflamed and swollen Nostrils. Her delicate Nose was black with Mosquitoes, drinking and swaying around her like Bacchus. I determined that just as some Humans seemed more susceptible to the probing Proboscis of a Mosquito, some mules must be likewise.

“Her Discomfort was plain, and one could see the distasteful Aftermath of these insects whose tenancy of Earth should be a question put to the Almighty.  I immediately called a halt, which caused dozing plodding Beasts of burden and the Men aboard them to both grunt in similar disharmony. Once again my Luggage was called forth, and once again a Length of Veiling was produced along with my second best straw Bonnet.  Not bothering to remove the Decoration, I squished through the Mud to the Creature I had once considered obstinate, and now looked upon with the compassion of a War Nurse.  I approached with the Bonnet, and Jezebel made no move to rebel. Her Passenger did, proclaiming this to be an Assault on his Manhood.  HE was not going to ride a Mule that wore a Bonnet, by God! Jezebel, who had a proclivity to good Fashion, stood in all manner of Sweetness. I slipped the Bonnet over her Ears, tied a great pink Bow under her Chin, and brought the Veil around her Nose to tuck it in the Ties. Surveying my Handiwork and pronouncing it good, I squelched both spluttering by Englishmen and Mules alike with the narrowing of an Eye.

 

“Since first donning her Godey’s Bonnet, my fair Jezebel has refused to move without it, and the Englishman has determined all his Mules must wear them, for he has found his Mule Train to have gained a Reputation and subsequent monetary Gain has been incurred, since every traveler finds the Bonnets a delightful Amusement, and Ships coming in to Port have Requests preceding them.”

Mrs. Gove drained her glass, and made ready to go.  I gave her all my veiling, although I fear that some of Polly Esther’s got in there. 

I am sure neither the Englishman nor the mules will mind.