The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks - Donald Harington [129]
“Lady,” said one of the other men, “he aint never been frightened by man nor beast in his whole life long, so you’re jist a-wastin yore time. He don’t like to talk because—”
“Not so fast,” said the young woman, taking notes as rapidly as she could. “I can’t keep up with you.”
“He don’t like to talk because he don’t like to talk. Now why don’t you ask me somethin, and leave him alone?”
“Very well. What is your name, sir?”
“Puddin Tame,” he replied.
“How do you spell that last name?”
“I caint spell, ma’am.”
“How quaint. Have you lived here all your life?”
He felt his pulse. “No. Not yet.”
“Hi, hi,” she commented. “What work do you do?”
“I keep the ’skeeters out of the mill.”
“Mosquitoes? How do you keep them out?”
“With my shotgun.”
“My. Are they that big?”
“You aint seen any Stay More ’skeeters yet? Wal, iffen ye do, don’t swat at one. Jist makes it mad. Fling rocks at it as fast as ye kin.”
“I believe you are having me on, sir,” she said, closing her notebook and leaving the mill. But as she strolled further about the village she kept her eyes open, and at one point she bent down and picked up a rock which she carried in her hand. She caught sight of the unusual Ingledew barn and walked all around it, noting that it had no windows and was dramatically cantilevered. She walked into the passageway that ran through it, where she heard voices coming from the loft above. She listened, hearing an off-color joke. Then she climbed to the top of the ladder, with difficulty on account of her ankle-length dress. The young Ingledews were surprised to see this elegant young lady holding a notebook in one hand and a rock in the other. Hastily they buttoned themselves. “How quaint,” the elegant young lady was moved to comment. “What is this?” None of them answered. “Is this your house?” They looked at one another and then nodded in unison. “What is all the dried grass for?” she asked. “Oh, is it to sleep on?” They nodded. She looked at Lola. “Are you the lady of the house?” Lola nodded. “Which of them is your husband?” “All of ’em,” declared Lola solemnly. “How quaint. Even him?” she said, indicating thirteen-year-old Raymond. Lola nodded. “What are your names?” “Ingledew.” “All of you?” They nodded. The elegant young lady climbed down the ladder.
She noticed the two cribs, which were empty; the horses and cows were out to pasture. One of the horses, she noticed, was mounted upon one of the cows. To herself she remarked, “How quaint.” Then somehow she found the road to Jasper. As she walked along it, a turkey buzzard flew out of a tree in her direction. She screamed and threw the rock she was carrying at it. The rock missed, but the turkey buzzard did not come and sting her. At Jasper she caught a coach which took her to Harrison, where she caught a train back to Chicago. Not long afterwards, an issue of Arcadian Times carried her article, “A Most Quaint Village Deep in the Ozarks,” with wood engravings by the staff artist illustrating a typical home filled with dried grass, a giant mosquito, and a seven-foot inhabitant who never spoke. All of the inhabitants, said the article, were named Hinkledew, with the exception of a Mr. Tame, who had told her how to deal with the giant mosquitoes. The region was an utterly enchanting and enchanted one. The people ground their own flour and meal in an enormous mill powered by a steam engine. The post office was in the general store. The only painted buildings in town were the small offices of two doctors and two dentists. The people were polyandrous, one woman having as many as six husbands; there was probably a shortage of women. Their pastimes were sensual. The pastimes