The New Corn-Market
The serpent of Sugar Creek colony. A temperance narrative of pioneer life in Ohio. Robinson, J. B. (John Bunyan). 1885
Chapter VII
Two months later, June found the settlement covered with yellow wheat-fields and tender corn plants. The dog-fennel filled the lanes, the dandelion covered the meadows with its snowy down and the May-apple lent its fragrance to the wood. The apple-trees had already passed their flecked beauty and were showing the law of paternity, bearing up their half-grown fruit. But the clear mornings of June added another sound to the air which floated over the settlement. For two miles every way could be heard in the still morning, a dull croak, regular, but unmusical, like the rubbing of wheels and the creaking of machinery.
“What is that strange noise?” asked Sarah Dick of her husband one morning.
“That,” said he, listening, “that is the music of the new still house; you must get used to that sound, wife. It’s come to stay.”
To those who would go and gaze on the structure, it appeared massive and commanding for those times. The friction of the wheels and croak of the mash apparatus that arose up into a cupola, the overjet roof from the comb of the front gable which covered the hoisting pulleys, the mill-race which crept down through the meadow from Sugar Creek, and above all, the smoke of the fire always thickly rising from the high chimney like the smoke of a torment which ascendeth forever and ever, were novel sounds and sights for the neighborhood.
A yoke or two of oxen lolled around ready for duty and six or eight men were employed in the various drudgery of the premises. Two or three new cabins of the workmen began to cluster in the edge of the clearing, and the surroundings had the air of a far-west village just born. Among these tenants were Freeman Snooker and Davy Cabery, both having little families.
Jimmy Barclay was the first to dispose of his last year’s corn to Devore. He had kept it in view of this market, and he secured the same price here as his neighbors had got twenty miles away. When Jimmy would bring his loads he would go below to witness the operations of Snooker, who superintended the stilling process. And they two had many a taste of the fresh whisky so as to pronounce upon its grade.
“This,” said Jimmy, “is more delicious than the article I get at the county seat. Snooker you are a capital workman.”
“Yes,” replied Snooker, “by thunder, I learned my trade at the largest establishment on the river.”
“Good,” responded Jim, ‘”to-morrow I’ll bring my jug and take home some of this lot for my harvest hands; they’ll think I’ve hit a spring. What a capital thing to have this improvement at our doors.”
“Yes,” answered Snooker, “in spite of the over pious meetin’ folks—how I despise hypocrisy!” “I guess we’ve got most of the settlement with us Snooker, howsomever. Even the meetin’ folks are pleased, ‘cept three or four and they dassent talk too loud. There’s Squire Martin says he’s ‘ticlarly gratified. But, good-by, boss. I’ll see you to-morrow. ” Barclay had tasted so freely and staid so long that it required the kindly help of Devore to get him seated in the bottom of his wagon. Once in the main road his noble horses, who drank no whisky, steadily walked the four miles home, while Barclay slept off his delirium.
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