SOS Calling All Black People A Black Arts Movement
Reader 1st Edition John H. Bracey (Editor) - PDF
Download (2025)
https://ebookultra.com/download/sos-calling-all-black-people-a-
black-arts-movement-reader-1st-edition-john-h-bracey-editor/
Visit ebookultra.com today to download the complete set of
ebooks or textbooks
Here are some recommended products for you. Click the link to
download, or explore more at ebookultra.com
The Black Arts Movement literary nationalism in the 1960s
and 1970s Smethurst
https://ebookultra.com/download/the-black-arts-movement-literary-
nationalism-in-the-1960s-and-1970s-smethurst/
After Mecca Women Poets and the Black Arts Movement
Quality is not great Cheryl Clarke
https://ebookultra.com/download/after-mecca-women-poets-and-the-black-
arts-movement-quality-is-not-great-cheryl-clarke/
Salvation Black People and Love Bell Hooks
https://ebookultra.com/download/salvation-black-people-and-love-bell-
hooks/
Britain s Black Past 1st Edition Gretchen H. Gerzina
https://ebookultra.com/download/britain-s-black-past-1st-edition-
gretchen-h-gerzina/
Laundering Black Rage 1st Edition Too Black
https://ebookultra.com/download/laundering-black-rage-1st-edition-too-
black/
Black Lives Matter vs All Lives Matter A Multidisciplinary
Primer 1st Edition Abdul Karim Bangura
https://ebookultra.com/download/black-lives-matter-vs-all-lives-
matter-a-multidisciplinary-primer-1st-edition-abdul-karim-bangura/
Black Love Black Hate 1st Edition Felice D. Blake
https://ebookultra.com/download/black-love-black-hate-1st-edition-
felice-d-blake/
The Danube A Journey Upriver from the Black Sea to the
Black Forest 1st Edition Nick Thorpe
https://ebookultra.com/download/the-danube-a-journey-upriver-from-the-
black-sea-to-the-black-forest-1st-edition-nick-thorpe/
Black s Law Dictionary Bryan A. Garner
https://ebookultra.com/download/black-s-law-dictionary-bryan-a-garner/
SOS Calling All Black People A Black Arts Movement
Reader 1st Edition John H. Bracey (Editor) Digital
Instant Download
Author(s): John H. Bracey (editor), Sonia Sanchez (editor), James Smethurst
(editor)
ISBN(s): 9781625340313, 1625340311
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 10.07 MB
Year: 2014
Language: english
This page intentionally left blank
SOS–
Calling
All
Black
People
This page intentionally left blank
SOS–
Calling
All
Black
People
A Black Arts Movement Reader
edited byJohn H. Bracey Jr., Sonia Sanchez,
and James Smethurst
University of Massachusetts Press amherst and boston
Copyright © 2014 by University of Massachusetts Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-62534-031-3 ( paper); 030-6 ( hardcover)
Designed by Dennis Anderson
Set in Minion Pro and Gill Sans
Printed and bound by Sheridan Books, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
SOS /Calling All Black People : a Black Arts Movement Reader / edited by John H. Bracey Jr.,
Sonia Sanchez, and James Smethurst.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-62534-031-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-62534-030-6 ( hardcover : alk. paper)
1. American literature—African American authors. 2. African Americans—Intellectual life—
20th century. 3. Black Arts movement. 4. Black nationalism—United States—History—20th century.
5. African Americans in literature. I. Bracey, John H., editor of compilation. II. Sanchez, Sonia, 1934–
editor of compilation. III. Smethurst, James Edward, editor of compilation.
PS508.N3S66 2014
810.8ʹ0896073—dc23
2014007781
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Publication of this volume and other titles in the series In the Spirit of W. E. B. Du Bois,
edited by John H. Bracey Jr., is supported by the Office of the Dean, College of Humanities
and Fine Arts, University of Massachusetts Amherst.
A Note from the Volume Editors:
We wish to acknowledge the support of our colleagues in the W.E.B. Du Bois Department of
Afro-American Studies at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. We are deeply grateful to
Chancellor Kumble Subbaswamy, Vice Chancellor for Research and Engagement Michael Malone,
and College of Humanities and Fine Arts Dean Julie Hayes for their financial support of this volume.
We wish to acknowledge also the cooperation of many of the artists who appear in this anthology.
A particular thanks is due Nelson Stevens for providing the cover art for the volume. We owe a
special debt of gratitude to Flávia Santos de Araújo for helping obtain permissions and documents
for this volume. Many thanks also to Tricia Loveland for her usual help in making all our efforts
go more smoothly.
In the rush to get into print we neglected to mention the monumental efforts of Bruce Wilcox,
former Director of UMass Press. Bruce retired during the final stages of production, but his support
from our original conception to the final published work was steadfast and essential. Thanks Bruce,
your leadership over the years has led the Press to the forefront of academic publishing. Your rest is
well earned. Have a happy retirement.
To the Memory of
Amiri Baraka (1934 –2014)
Poet. Playwright. Essayist. Novelist. Short story writer.
Critic. Educator. Steadfast warrior in the struggle for justice
for all human beings. Rest in peace, our dear brother.
A luta continua.
This page intentionally left blank
SOS
Calling black people
Calling all black people, man woman child
Wherever you are, calling you, urgent, come in
Black People, come in, wherever you are, urgent, calling
you, calling all black people
calling all black people, come in, black people, come
on in.
Amiri Baraka (1969 )
This page intentionally left blank
For My People
For my people everywhere singing their slave songs
repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues
and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an
unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an
unseen power;
For my people lending their strength to the years, to the
gone years and the now years and the maybe years,
washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending
hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching
dragging along never gaining never reaping never
knowing and never understanding;
For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama
backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor
and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking
and playhouse and concert and store and hair and Miss
Choomby and company;
For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn
to know the reasons why and the answers to and the
people who and the places where and the days when, in
memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we
were black and poor and small and different and nobody
cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood;
For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to
be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and
play and drink their wine and religion and success, to
marry their playmates and bear children and then die
of consumption and anemia and lynching;
For the people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox
Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New
Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy
people filling the cabarets and taverns and other
people’s pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and
land and money and something—something all our own;
For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time
being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when
burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled
and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures
who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;
For my people blundering and groping and floundering in
the dark of churches and schools and clubs and
societies, associations and councils and committees and
conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and
devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches,
preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by
false prophet and holy believer;
For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way
from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding,
trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people,
all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless
generations;
Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a
bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second
generation full of courage issue forth; let a people
loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of
healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing
in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs be
written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now
rise and take control.
Margaret Walker (1942 )
Contents
Editors’ Introduction 1
Amiri Baraka
The Black Arts Movement 11
Section I. Theory / Criticism
A. B. Spellman
Introduction to Theory / Criticism 23
Askia M. Touré
Poetry and Black Liberation: Freedom’s Furious Passions
( Reminiscence) 25
Eugene B. Redmond
DA-DUM-DUN: A BAM Triumvirate of Conch / Us / Nest:
Miles Davis, Henry Dumas & Katherine Dunham in East St. Louis,
Illinois ( Reminiscence) 31
1. Politics and Culture
Harold Cruse
The Harlem Black Arts Theater—New Dialogue with the
Lost Black Generation 39
Carolyn Gerald
Symposium: The Measure and the Meaning of Sixties 46
Ron ( Maulana) Karenga
Black Cultural Nationalism 51
Larry Neal
The Black Arts Movement 55
Dudley Randall
Broadside Press: A Personal Chronicle 67
Ed Spriggs
On the Boycott 74
James T. Stewart
The Development of the Black Revolutionary Artist 77
Barbara Ann Teer
Needed: A New Image 82
Rolland Snellings (Askia Touré)
Keep on Pushin’: Rhythm & Blues as a Weapon 86
2. Gender
Toni Cade ( Bambara)
Preface to The Black Woman 93
Alice Childress, Paule Marshall, and Sarah E. Wright
The Negro Woman in American Literature 97
John Oliver Killens
Lorraine Hansberry: On Time! 103
Abbey Lincoln
Who Will Revere the Black Woman? 106
Louise Moore
Black Men vs. Black Women 110
Evelyn Rodgers
New Fashions for Afro-American Women 112
Sonia Sanchez
Queens of the Universe 114
3. Aesthetics / Poetics
LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka)
The Changing Same ( R&B and New Black Music) 123
James Baldwin
If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is? 132
L. Eldridge Cleaver
As Crinkly as Yours 135
Sarah Webster Fabio
Tripping with Black Writing 145
xii contents
Hoyt W. Fuller
Towards a Black Aesthetic 151
Addison Gayle Jr.
Cultural Strangulation: Black Literature and the White Aesthetic 157
Stephen E. Henderson
The Question of Form and Judgement in Contemporary
Black American Poetry: 1962–1977 162
David Llorens
What Good Is the Word without the Wisdom? or
“English Ain’t Relevant” 179
Max Roach
excerpts from Black World interview 185
Carolyn M. Rodgers
Black Poetry—Where It’s At 188
Section II. Statements of Purpose: Groups and Journals
Introduction to the Documents 201
The Asian-African Conference, Final Communique: Cultural
Cooperation 203
Black Panther Party, Platform and Program 205
Black World, Editor’s Notes 207
SUDAN, the history of SUDAN (in Texas?) 208
The Institute of the Black World, Statement of Purpose and Program 210
Liberation Committee for Africa, Statement of Aims and What Africa
Means to Americans 213
NKOMBO, Food for Thought 215
Elijah Muhammad, “What Do the Muslims Want?” 218
Organization of Afro-American Unity, Statement of Basic Aims and
Objectives: Culture 220
OBAC [Organization of Black American Culture],
Statement of Purposes 221
Rhythm, Statement of Purpose 222
Soulbook, To the Peoples of Afroamerica, Africa, and to all the
Peoples of the World 223
cont e nts xiii
Southern Black Cultural Alliance, By-Laws 225
Third World Press, A Statement of Purpose 227
Max Stanford ( Muhammad Ahmad ), Towards Revolutionary Action
Movement Manifesto 228
Umbra, Foreword to Issue 1.1 232
Larry Neal [Atlanta C.A.P. Creativity Workshop], Resolutions 234
Section III. Poetry
Sonia Sanchez
The Poetry of BAM: Meditation, Critique, Praise 243
Haki Madhubuti
Storm Coming: Memoir and History ( Reminiscence) 254
1. Consciousness
Jewel C. Latimore ( Johari Amini )
Upon Being Black One Friday Night in July 265
Dr. Margaret Burroughs
What Shall We Tell My Children Who Are Black 267
LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka)
Black People! 269
Gwendolyn Brooks
The Life of Lincoln West 270
Mari Evans
Black jam for dr. negro 274
Joe Goncalves
Sister Brother 276
Bobb Hamilton
A Father Tells His Son About the Statue of Liberty 277
Calvin C. Hernton
Jitterbugging in the Streets 279
Gil Scott-Heron
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised 283
Abiodun Oyewole and Umar Bin Hassan with Kim Green
Niggers R Scared of Revolution 286
xiv cont e nts
Don L. Lee ( Haki Madhubuti )
But He Was Cool 289
Gaston Neal
Personal Jihad 291
Eugene Redmond
Barbequed Cong: Or We Laid My Lai Low 293
Carolyn M. Rodgers
how i got ovah 295
Sonia Sanchez
summary 296
A. B. Spellman
tomorrow the heroes 298
Edward S. Spriggs
“Black Power!” 299
Lorenzo Thomas
Twelve Gates 300
Rolland Snellings (Askia Touré )
Cry Freedom 301
2. Malcolm
Ossie Davis
Eulogy for Malcolm X 309
LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka)
A Poem For Black Hearts 311
Gwendolyn Brooks
Malcolm X 312
Etheridge Knight
Portrait of Malcolm X 313
Marvin E. Jackmon ( Marvin X )
That Old Time Religion 314
Larry Neal
Malcolm X—An Autobiography 315
Sonia Sanchez
Malcolm 317
Quincy Troupe
For Malcolm Who Walks in the Eyes of Our Children 319
cont e nts xv
Margaret Walker
For Malcolm X 321
Jay Wright
A Plea for the Politic Man 322
3. Coltrane and Jazz
Jayne Cortez
How Long Has This Trane Been Gone 327
Ebon Dooley
Legacy: In Memory of ’Trane 330
Sarah Webster Fabio
Tribute to Duke 332
David Henderson
Elvin Jones Gretsch Freak 336
Don L. Lee ( Haki Madhubuti )
Don’t Cry, Scream 340
Amus Mor
The Coming of John 344
Larry Neal
Don’t Say Goodbye to the Pork-Pie Hat 349
Sterling Plumpp
Conversions 353
Yusuf Rahman
Transcendental Blues 355
Carolyn Rodgers
Written for Love of an Ascension-Coltrane 359
Sonia Sanchez
a /coltrane /poem 361
Sonia Sanchez
on seeing pharaoh sanders blowing 365
A. B. Spellman
Did John’s Music Kill Him? 367
4. Africa
Jayne Cortez
African Night Suite 371
xvi cont e nts
Margaret Danner
The Painted Lady 374
Nikki Giovanni
Africa I; Africa II 375
Ted Joans
Lumumba Lives L umumba L ives ! ! 377
Keorapetse Kgositsile
My Name Is Afrika 378
Dudley Randall
Ancestors 379
Ishmael Reed
I am a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra 380
Rolland Snellings (Askia Touré )
Earth 382
5. Women
Jewel C. Latimore ( Johari Amini )
For Gwendolyn Brooks—A Whole & Beautiful Spirit 385
Mari Evans
I Am A Black Woman 386
Nikki Giovanni
Woman Poem 388
Gloria Larry House
Woman 390
June Jordan
If you saw a Negro lady 391
Audre Lorde
Naturally 393
K. Curtis Lyle
Cadence 394
Don L. Lee ( Haki Madhubuti )
blackwoman 396
Carolyn Rodgers
The Last M.F. 397
Sonia Sanchez
woman 398
cont e nts xvii
6. Heritage
Sam Cornish
Promenade 401
Jayne Cortez
Lynch Fragment 402
Victor Hernandez Cruz
Urban Dream 403
Tom Dent
Return to English Turn 405
Everett Hoagland
The Music 411
Etheridge Knight
The Idea of Ancestry 413
Dudley Randall
Ballad of Birmingham 415
Eugene Redmond
Rivers of Bones and Flesh and Blood 417
Ahmos Zu-Bolton
Sunset Beach / L.A. 419
7. Songs
James Brown
Say It Loud—I’m Black and I’m Proud 423
Oscar Brown Jr.
Afro Blue 424
Marvin Gaye
What’s Goin’ On 426
Curtis Mayfield
Keep on Pushin’ 427
Weldon J. Irvine Jr.
To Be Young, Gifted, and Black 428
Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong
War 429
xviii cont e nts
Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Westy Martin
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.
Title: Westy Martin
Author: Percy Keese Fitzhugh
Release date: January 6, 2020 [eBook #61118]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024
Language: English
Credits: E-text prepared by Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WESTY MARTIN
***
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Westy Martin, by Percy Keese
Fitzhugh, Illustrated by Richard A. Holberg
WESTY MARTIN
HE MANAGED TO GET HOLD OF A BRANCH OF A SCRUB OAK.
WESTY MARTIN
BY
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS
THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS
ILLUSTRATED
PUBLISHED WITH THE APPROVAL OF
THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1924, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
THE ROTARY CLUB OF AMERICA
WHOSE MEMBERS HAVE SHOWN THEIR VITAL INTEREST
IN THE FUTURE CITIZENSHIP OF OUR COUNTRY BY
THEIR SPLENDID WORK AMONG THE BOYS OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
I A Shot
II A Promise
III The Parting
IV The Sufferer
V A Plain Duty
VI First Aid—Last Aid
VII Little Drops of Water
VIII Barrett’s
IX On the Trail
X Luke Meadows
XI Westy Martin, Scout
XII Guilty
XIII The Penalty
XIV For Better or Worse
XV Return of the Prodigal
XVI Aunt Mira and Ira
XVII The Homecoming
XVIII A Ray of Sunshine
XIX Pee-Wee on the Job
XX Some Noise
XXI One Good Turn
XXII Warde and Westy
XXIII Ira Goes A-Hunting
XXIV Clews
CONTENTS
XXV A Bargain
XXVI The Marked Article
XXVII Enter the Contemptible Scoundrel
XXVIII Proofs
XXIX The Rally
XXX Open to the Public
XXXI Shootin’ Up the Meetin’
XXXII The Boy Edwin Carlisle
XXXIII Mrs. Temple’s Lucky Number
XXXIV Westward Ho
XXXV The Stranger
XXXVI An Important Paper
XXXVII Parlor Scouts
XXXVIII Something “Real”
WESTY MARTIN
CHAPTER I
A SHOT
A quick, sharp report rent the air. Followed several seconds of
deathlike silence. Then the lesser sound of a twig falling in the still
forest. Again silence. A silence, tense, portentous. Then the sound of
foliage being disturbed and of some one running.
Westy Martin paused, every nerve on edge. It was odd that a boy
who carried his own rifle slung over his shoulder should experience a
kind of panic fear after the first shocking sound of a gunshot. He
had many times heard the report of his own gun, but never where it
could do harm. Never in the solemn depths of the forest. He did not
reach for his gun now to be ready for danger; strangely enough he
feared to touch it.
Instead, he stood stark still and looked about. Whatever had
happened must have been very near to him. Without moving, for
indeed he could not for the moment move a step, he saw a large
leaf with a hole through the middle of it. And this hung not ten feet
distant. He shuddered at the realization that the whizzing bullet
which had made that little hole might as easily have blotted out his
young life.
He paused, listening, his heart in his throat. Some one had run
away. Had the fugitive seen him? And what had the fugitive done
that he should flee at the sight or sound of a human presence?
Suddenly it occurred to Westy that a second shot might lay him
low. What if the fugitive, a murderer, had sought concealment at a
distance and should try to conceal the one murder with another?
Westy called and his voice sounded strange to him in the silent
forest.
“Don’t shoot!”
That would warn the unseen gunman unless, indeed, it was his
purpose to shoot—to kill.
There was no sound, no answering voice, no patter of distant
footfalls; nothing but the cheery song of a cricket near at hand.
Westy advanced a few steps in the dim, solemn woods, looking to
right and left....
CHAPTER II
A PROMISE
Westy Martin was a scout of the first class. He was a member of
the First Bridgeboro Troop of Bridgeboro, New Jersey.
Notwithstanding that he was a serious boy, he belonged to the Silver
Fox Patrol, presided over by Roy Blakeley.
According to Pee-wee Harris of the Raven Patrol, Westy was the
only Silver Fox who was not crazy. Yet in one way he was crazy; he
was crazy to go out west. He had even saved up a hundred dollars
toward a projected trip to the Yellowstone National Park. He did not
know exactly when or how he would be able to make this trip alone,
but one “saves up” for all sorts of things unplanned. To date, Westy
had only the one hundred dollars and the dream of going. When he
had saved another hundred, he would begin to develop plans.
“I’ll tell you what you do,” Westy’s father had said to him. “You go
up to Uncle Dick’s and spend the summer and help around. You
know what Uncle Dick told you; any summer he’d be glad to have
you help around the farm and be glad to pay you so much a week.
There’s your chance, my boy. At Temple Camp you can’t earn any
money.
“My suggestion is that you pass up Temple Camp this summer
and go up on the farm. By next summer maybe you’ll have enough
to go west, and I’ll help you out,” he added significantly. “I may even
go with you myself and take a look at those geezers or geysers or
whatever they call them. I’d kind of half like to get a squint at a
grizzly myself.”
“Oh, boy!” said Westy.
“I wish I were,” said his father.
“Well, I guess I’ll do that,” said Westy hesitatingly. He liked
Temple Camp and the troop, and the independent enterprise
proposed by his father was not to be considered without certain
lingering regrets.
“It will be sort of like camping—in a way,” he said wistfully. “I can
take my cooking set and my rifle——”
“I don’t think I’d take the rifle if I were you,” said Mr. Martin, in
the chummy way he had when talking with Westy.
“Jiminies, I’d hate to leave it home,” said Westy, a little surprised
and disappointed.
“Well, you’ll be working up there and won’t have much time to
use it,” said Mr. Martin.
Westy sensed that this was not his father’s true reason for
objecting to the rifle. The son recalled that his father had been no
more than lukewarm when the purchase of the rifle had first been
proposed. Mr. Martin did not like rifles. He had observed, as several
million other people had observed, that it is always the gun which is
not loaded that kills people.
The purchase of the coveted rifle had not closed the matter. The
rifle had done no harm, that was the trouble; it had not even killed
Mr. Martin’s haunting fears.
Westy was straightforward enough to take his father’s true
meaning and to ignore the one which had been given. It left his
father a little chagrined but just the same he liked this
straightforwardness in Westy.
“Oh, there’d be time enough to use it up there,” Westy said. “And
if there wasn’t any time, why, then I couldn’t use it, that’s all. There
wouldn’t be any harm taking it. I promised you I’d never shoot at
anything but targets and I never have.”
“I know you haven’t, but up there, why, there are lots of——”
“There’s just one thing up there that I’m thinking about,” said
Westy plainly, “and that’s the side of the big barn where I can put a
target. That’s the only thing I want to shoot at, believe me. And I’ve
got two eyes in my head to see if anybody is around who might get
hit. That big, red barn is like—why, it’s just like a building in the
middle of the Sahara Desert. I don’t see why you’re still worrying.”
“How do you know what’s back of the target?” Mr. Martin asked.
“How do you know who’s inside the barn?”
“If I just tell you I’ll be careful, I should think that would be
enough,” said Westy.
“Well, it is,” said Mr. Martin heartily.
“And I’ll promise you again so you can be sure.”
“I don’t want any more promises about your not shooting at
anything but targets, my boy,” said Mr. Martin. “You gave me your
promise a month ago and that’s enough. But I want you to promise
me again that you’ll be careful. Understand?”
“I tell you what I’ll do, Dad,” said he. “First I’ll see that there’s
nobody in the barn. Then I’ll lock the barn doors. Then I’ll get a big
sheet of iron that I saw up there and I’ll hang it on the side of the
barn. Then I’ll paste the target against that, see? No bullet could get
through that iron and it’s about, oh, five times larger than the
target.”
“Suppose your shot should go wild and hit those old punky boards
beyond the edge of the iron sheet?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Good night, you’re a scream!” laughed Westy.
Mr. Martin, as usual, was caught by his son’s honest, wholesome
good-humor.
“I suppose you think I might shoot in the wrong direction and hit
one of those grizzlies out in Yellowstone Park,” Westy laughed.
“Safety first is your middle name all right.”
“Well, you go up to Uncle Dick’s and don’t point your gun out
west,” said Mr. Martin, “and maybe we can talk your mother into
letting us go to Yellowstone next year.”
“And will you make me a promise?” asked Westy.
“Well, what is it?”
“That you won’t worry?”
CHAPTER III
THE PARTING
The farm on which Westy spent one of the pleasantest summers
of his life was about seventy miles from his New Jersey home and
the grizzlies in Yellowstone Park were safe. But he thought of that
wonderland of the Rockies in his working hours, and especially when
he roamed the woods following the trails of little animals or stalking
and photographing birds. The only shooting he did on these trips
was with his trusty camera.
Sometimes in the cool of the late afternoon, he would try his skill
at hitting the bull’s eye and after each of these murderous forays
against the innocent pasteboard, he would wrap his precious rifle up
in its oily cloth and stand it in the corner of his room. No drop of
blood was shed by the sturdy scout who had given his promise to be
careful and who knew how to be careful.
The only place where he ever went gunning was in a huge book
which reposed on the marble-topped center table in the sitting room
of his uncle’s farmhouse. This book, which abounded in stirring
pictures, described the exploits of famous hunters in Africa. The
book had been purchased from a loquacious agent and was intended
to be ornamental as well as entertaining. It being one of the very
few books available on the farm, Westy made it a sort of constant
companion, sitting before it each night under the smelly hanging
lamp and spending hours in the African jungle with man-eating lions
and tigers.
We are not to take note of Westy’s pleasant summer at this farm,
for it is with the altogether extraordinary event which terminated his
holiday that our story begins. His uncle had given him eight dollars a
week, which with what he had brought from home made a total of
something over a hundred dollars which he had when he was ready
to start home. This he intended to add to his Yellowstone Park fund
when he reached Bridgeboro.
He felt very rich and a little nervous with a hundred dollars or
more in his possession. But it was not for that reason that he carried
his rifle on the day he started for home. He carried it because it was
his most treasured possession, excepting his hundred dollars. He
told his aunt and uncle, and he told himself, that he carried it
because it could not easily be put in his trunk except by jamming it
in cornerwise. But the main reason he carried it was because he
loved it and he just wanted to have it with him.
He might have caught a train on the branch line at Dawson’s
which was the nearest station to his uncle’s farm. He would then
have to change to the main line at Chandler. He decided to send his
trunk from Dawson’s and to hike through the woods to Chandler
some three or four miles distant. His aunt and uncle and Ira, the
farm hand, stood on the old-fashioned porch to bid him good-by.
And in that moment of parting, Aunt Mira was struck with a
thought which may perhaps appeal to you who have read of Westy
and have a certain slight acquaintance with him. It was the thought
of how she had enjoyed his helpful visit and how she would miss
him now that he was going. Pee-wee Harris, with all his startling
originality, would have wearied her perhaps. Two weeks of Roy
Blakeley’s continuous nonsense would have been enough for this
quiet old lady.
There was nothing in particular about Westy; he was just a
wholesome, well-balanced boy. She had not wearied of him. The
scouts of his troop never wearied of him—and never made a hero of
him. He was just Westy. But there was a gaping void at Temple
Camp that summer because he was not there. And there was going
to be a gaping void in this quiet household on the farm after he had
gone away. That was always the way it was with Westy, he never
witnessed his own triumphs because his triumphs occurred in his
absence. He was sadly missed, but how could he see this?
He looked natty enough in his negligee khaki attire with his rifle
slung over his shoulder.
“We’re jes going to miss you a right good lot,” said his aunt with
affectionate vehemence, “and don’t forget you’re going to come up
and see us in the winter.”
“I want to,” said Westy.
Ira, the farm hand, was seated on the carriage step smoking an
atrocious pipe which he removed from his mouth long enough to bid
Westy good-by in his humorous drawling way. The two had been
great friends.
“I reckon you’d like to get a bead on a nice, big, hissin’ wildcat
with that gol blamed toy, wouldn’ yer now, huh?”
“You go ’long with you,” said Aunt Mira, “he wouldn’ nothing of
the kind.”
Westy smiled good-naturedly.
“Wouldn’ yer now, huh?” persisted Ira. “I seed ’im readin’ ’baout
them hunters in Africa droppin’ lions an’ tigers an’ what all. I bet
ye’d like to get one—good—plunk at a wildcat now, wouldn’ yer?
Kerplunk, jes like that, hey? Then ye’d feel like a reg’lar Teddy
Roosevelt, huh?” Ira accompanied this intentionally tempting banter
with a demonstration of aiming and firing.
Westy laughed. “I wouldn’t mind being like Roosevelt,” he said.
“Yer couldn’ drop an elephant at six yards,” laughed Ira.
“Well, I guess I won’t meet any elephants in the woods between
here and Chandler,” Westy said.
“Don’t you put no sech ideas in his head,” said Aunt Mira, as she
embraced her nephew affectionately.
Then he was gone.
“I don’t see why you want ter be always pesterin’ the poor boy,”
complained Aunt Mira, as Ira lowered his lanky legs to the ground
preparatory to standing on them. He had been a sort of evil genius
all summer, beguiling Westy with enticing pictures of all sorts of
perilous exploits out of his own abounding experiences on land and
sea. “You’d like to’ve had him runnin’ away to sea with your yarns of
whalin’ and shipwrecks,” Aunt Mira continued. “And it’s jes a parcel
of lies, Ira Hasbrook, and you know it as well as I do. Like enough
he’ll shoot at a woodchuck or a skunk and kill one of Atwood’s cows.
They’re always gettin’ into the woods.”
“No, he won’t neither,” said her husband.
“I say like enough he might,” persisted Aunt Mira. “Weren’t he
crazy ’baout that book?”
“I didn’ write the book,” drawled Ira.
“No, but you told him how to skin a bear.”
“That’s better’n bein’ a book agent and skinnin’ a farmer,” drawled
Ira.
“It’s ’baout the only thing you didn’t tell him you was,” Aunt Mira
retorted.
Acknowledging which, Ira puffed at his pipe leisurely and
contemplated Aunt Mira with a whimsical air.
“I meant jes what I said, Ira Hasbrook,” said she.
“The kid’s all right,” said Ira. “He couldn’ hit nuthin further’n ten
feet. But he’s all right jes the same. We’re goin’ ter miss him, huh,
Auntie?”
But they did not miss him for long, for they were destined to see
him again before the day was over.
CHAPTER IV
THE SUFFERER
In truth, if this were a narrative of Ira Hasbrook’s adventures, it
might be thought lively reading of the dime novel variety. He had
not, as he had confided to Westy, limited his killing exploits to
swatting flies.
He was one of those universal characters who have a way of
drifting finally to farms. And he had not abridged his tales of
sprightly adventure in imparting them to Westy. He had been to sea
on a New Bedford whaler. He had shot big game in the Rockies. He
had lived on a ranch. His star performance had been a liberal
participation in the kidnapping of a despotic king in a small South
Sea island.
Naturally, so lively an adventurer had nothing but contempt for a
pasteboard target. And though he did not wilfully undertake to
alienate Westy from his code of conduct, he had so continually
represented to him the thrilling glories of the chase, that Aunt Mira
had very naturally suffered some haunting apprehensions that her
nephew might depart impulsively on some piratical cruise or Indian
killing enterprise.
These vague fears had simmered down at the last to the ludicrous
dread that her departing nephew (whom she had come to know and
love) might, under the inspiration of the satanic Ira, celebrate his
departure from the country by laying low some innocent cow in
attempting to “drop” an undesirable woodchuck. She had come to
have a very horror of the word drop which occurred so frequently in
Ira’s tales of adventure....
But Aunt Mira’s fears were needless. Westy had been Ira’s
companion without being his disciple. In his quiet way he had
understood Ira thoroughly, the same as in his quiet way he
Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade
Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.
Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and
personal growth!
ebookultra.com
