May 15, 1844. Wednesday.

There was a faint light over Brookville when Jim Tanner woke up, which meant that the sun was starting up somewhere on the other side of the hills, but hadn't reached the top of the pine trees yet. Waiting to see actual sunlight would be too late, so Jim rolled off the straw paillasse and climbed down the ladder from his perch in the barn, yawning. Stopping to throw two handfuls of water in his face from the rain barrel by the door (which put an end to the yawning, as the water was ice-cold), he grabbed an armful of hay and headed to the front door of the 'hotel' – a two-storey frame building on Main Street. His arrival was greeted by an appreciative 'moo' from Myrtle the cow. The hay was for her. She proceeded in stately manner up the dirt street and stopped in front of the hotel, beginning to munch her morning treat. Jim rubbed her between the ears.

Mrs Gallagher came out the front door, fussing with the buttons of her pinafore. She stopped under the hotel sign:

'Peace and Poverty', by John Dougherty

Nodding pleasantly to Jim – Mrs Gallagher wasn't a talker – she plunked down the milking stool from beside the door and began stroking the cow's udders with long, practised but gentle pulls. The fresh milk splashed noisily into the wooden bucket. Jim looked east up Main Street, where the same scene was being reenacted in front of every threshold, as if in an infinity of mirrors.

'Infinity, heck,' thought Jim, who wondered where he'd plucked that word from. 'They ain't but 50 shanties in the whole place, and a dozen bidness premises.' True: Brookville, in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, was in its infancy. Seeing all the women milking the cows, Jim grinned, and went off whistling a song about a girl milking a cow. He had other work to do.

John Dougherty, who was also the postmaster, owned the wittily-named Peace and Poverty Inn, but it was managed by the Gallaghers, Mr and Mrs, with the help of the eight little Gallaghers and Jim. Jim was officially apprenticed to Mr Dougherty, but he mostly helped the Gallaghers, and slept in their barn. Dougherty had taken Jim as apprentice and brought him over from Punxsutawney when Jim's mother died. Jim was 12 then: now he was 20, with a year to go on his apprenticeship. He didn't mind the work, which mostly consisted of helping with farm chores and serving whiskey at 3 cents the cup. And the Gallaghers were family to Jim. But lately, Jim was feeling the itch for the experiences of adulthood: he was, after all, about as 'grown up' as he was going to get. The fact that this equated to five-feet-one-and-a-fraction rankled somewhat, but he wasn't the only short fellow in western Pennsylvania. He'd make do with what God gave him, red hair, freckles, and all, and do what was in front of him, which at the moment was horse-tending, chicken-feeding, and the like.

The sun came on up, as it is wont to do when left to its own devices. The milked cows wandered off to pasture on their own – animal husbandry in Brookville was sort of laissez-faire. Chickens scratched around. Roosters crowed for the sake of hearing their own voices. A few customers at the Peace and Poverty, elderly men, talked loudly, for much the same reason. For a while, the loudest sounds in town were the blacksmith's apprentice's hammer and two tied-up dogs who were having a barking contest. Then they heard it.

Rum, tum, rum, tum, rum, tum....

'Hut! Two, three, fowar...

…accompanied by random cursing and the sound of out-of-step marching.

'The militia's back!' said a customer, and the whole town ran out to look.

It was, indeed, a parade of a martial nature. The local militia, made up of all able-bodied men in the county between the ages of 21 and 45, had been doing their mandated annual drill for the last three days in Roseville, behind the racetrack. The return into town was intended to be a triumphal march, but, as the fare the last three days had consisted mostly of gingerbread and a nearly limitless supply of Monongahela whiskey, the marching was a bit ragged. Most of the troops were hung over.

Still, everyone in town applauded, and small boys ran alongside the stalwart warriors back from their training in drill and musket-loading. Those with guns hefted them proudly, while those without sported cornstalks saved from last winter. Jim privately thought they looked 'a right bunch of gawks', but waved with the others as they 'marched' past. At their head was General Levi M Clover, looking as proud as if he'd just won the War of 1812. Behind him came Charles P Merriman, the premier snare-drummer in the land, with a beat peculiarly his own. Judge Taylor happily played along on his fife: 'The Girl I Left Behind Me'. Jim had to admit they sounded fine.

As the 'columns' marched past, Dr George Darling peeled off from the parade and entered the Peace and Poverty, settling into a Windsor chair with every sign of appreciating his return to civilisation.

'Well, boys, that was 'fun', I can tell you. But I'm glad it's over! I like to get these things done in the early spring.' (It hadn't snowed for a whole week, hence the scheduling of militia training.)

Jim handed the doctor a glass of his favourite tipple, whiskey with tansy bitters. 'Were you very busy, Doctor?'

Darling shook his head. 'The usual black eyes, and a dislocated collarbone, but they were fairly subdued this year. We had quite a fright, though, when Dan'l North showed up with his tale about the bear. I thought it would be the first time I had to treat a patient for over-excitement.'

Old folks and children crowded around to hear the tale. Jim asked, 'But Dan'l North wasn't at the training, was he?' They knew Dan North, a very hearty farmer of about 50. Darling held up his hand to stop questions until he'd taken a sip of his bitters, and then told his story.

'Yesterday morning, Dan'l came running into the camp in a state of what I'd have to call nervous exaltation. We sat him down, gave him some medicinal whiskey, and let him tell it. It seems he was harrowing a field and broke the harrow, so he got his axe to repair it. While he was working at this, he heard a godawful alarm from the hogs in the woods nearby, so he went to investigate.

'When got there, he couldn't believe his eyes. A big black bear was trying to make off with one of the hogs. The hog wasn't having it, of course, so Bruin couldn't hold onto him long. He'd just pick up the hog, walk a few steps, then thr-o-o-w the hog as far as he could. Then he'd walk up to the hog, and do it again. The hog, understandably, was outraged, and shared his feelings with the world at large by violent squeals.'

The adults nodded, while the little children sat with open mouths. Dr Darling took another sip of whiskey.

'Dan'l said he got so mad at that bear he couldn't think. He hit at it with the ax, but the blow just glanced off – and it made the bear mad. The bear leaned up in Dan'l's face, and he thought he was a goner. But, quick-thinking, he threw his hat into the bear's face. The bear, startled, turned and ran.'

Old Man McGee nodded sagely. 'B'ars don' like it when you does annathing unexpected,' was his judgement.

Dr Darling laughed. 'Here comes the really good part of the story. Dan'l was so mad at that bear for trying to steal his hogs that he chased the bear quite a ways, planting a stout boot into Bruin's backside. He must have kicked that bear halfway to the Village of Day. He almost treed it, but the bear dove into some brush and got away.' He finished his whiskey with a sigh of satisfaction at news well-imparted.

That evening after supper and chores, Jim took down his father's old fiddle, the one that said 'Thomas Perry, Luthier' on the inside. Rosining the bow and tuning a string or two, he started to make a song based on the new tune he'd learned from a guest up from Pittsburgh the week before. The song, which was a catchy new minstrel number called 'Old Dan Tucker', inspired Jim to the following lyric:

Old Dan North, he met a bear,

He don't like 'em anywhere,

Said to the bear, 'Drop that hog

Or I will kick you with my clog!'


Get out the way, Mister Bruin,

You won't be my livestock's ruin,

I will drive you back to Day,

And kick your backside all the way!'

Jim was pretty satisfied with that: he'd have to teach it to George Hayes. Maybe they'd earn a penny or two with it at the next doin's. Oh, to be in a big place, and win musical fame…so thinking, he put away the fiddle, and fell asleep on his straw mattress, dreaming of Pittsburgh.

Dmitri Gheorgheni