6. Music Lessons

Papa continued his practice of taking me along on trips to funerals, so that I might look after the horse. On these journeys we resumed our talks about Greek words, adding new ones to my vocabulary. We didn’t do much about Greek grammar, but enough to let me know that it wasn’t easy. I was surprised to learn that while our language offers a choice of only a singular and a plural number the Greeks have an intermediate, dual number, consisting of only two persons or things. I was also to learn that it wasn’t sufficient to conjugate the verbs in all tenses, but there were many “irregular” verbs to be considered.

It can easily be seen that while we lived in Uniondale we were practically in the open country. Our parsonage was situated on a double lot with enough room for a large vegetable garden which we utilized to full capacity, even to the extent of raising sweet corn, potatoes and melons in abundance.

To the rear of us, and separated from us by a high, impenetrable hedge of arbor vitae, was a sprawling, ramshackle old tile mill operated by a weary and taciturn man of sixty and his three grown-up sons who hated him and their job. This tiling was used for drainage. The finished product was a red cylinder of kiln-baked clay about two feet long and five inches in diameter. The operation began with wagonloads of clay, dumped into a huge hopper, moistened with water, and stirred until soft and malleable. This stirring was done by an enormous spoon with a handle the length of a telegraph pole to the end of which a horse was attached.

All day long this pole was drawn slowly around and around. The horse was a tall, big-framed but emaciated, dapple-gray stallion, totally blind. His sad predicament reminded one of Samson after he had delivered himself into the hands of the Philistines.

I went out there occasionally to watch the work at the tile mill, but never stayed very long. It was too depressing. The men never laughed, rarely spoke; there was nothing to be heard but the creaking of the long pole and the heavy breathing of the old horse on his endless journey to nowhere. I made up a story about him and his proud exhibitions at the County Fairs where he wore ribbons woven into his luxuriant mane and tail and was given prizes for his beauty and strength. Dear! dear! How far the old fellow had come down in the world, and through no fault of his own. He had grown old; that was his trouble. Surely no one could blame him for that. Old age can be a great tragedy for horses—and people. I learned that early, though it didn’t bother me much.

The barn belonging to our parsonage was small and in disrepair. The Church Trustees agreed with Papa that we should have a larger barn and a chicken house. Uncle Worth was summoned to do the carpentry. He lived with us, that first summer, and in addition to his board and lodging he received a dollar fifty per day. I do not know how many hours he worked. He was out there, sawing and hammering, when I woke up in the morning; and, after working hard all day, would often take another hitch at it after our five-thirty supper.

About the middle of August, when this work was nearing completion, Uncle Worth, perched on the progressing roof of the large new chicken house, with his mouth full of shingle nails, mumbled to me, watching him from the ground, “You have a birthday pretty soon, don’t you?”

“The twenty-seventh, Uncle Worth,” I replied promptly.

He continued to nail shingles until his mouth was cleared.

“I see that Barnum and Bailey’s Circus is in Fort Wayne that day,” he said. “Would you like to go?”