The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks - Donald Harington [36]
John Bellah figured, “Wal, there’s me and Barbary and our four, and the Rolands with their three, and the Seabolts, no childring, but Isaac Archer and Louisa has got five, and Jim Archer and Mary Ann has got two, the Boens has got two, and Jesse Casey the blacksmith has got ten of ’em, Seburn McPherson and Bess has got three, Bill Bowin and Nancy has got four, and the Coopers, all told, Ike and Sarah Ann and his mother Nancy and their childring, six of ’em. That makes fifty-seven.”
“Hah!” Jacob exclaimed and silently thanked Lizzie Swain for having been so multiparous. “Stay More has got fifty-nine!”
John Bellah stared woefully at him. “Whar is this city of yourn?” he asked.
Jacob pointed south.
John Bellah took a hunter’s horn and blew on it three times. Soon, from all directions, fifty-six other men, women and children had assembled in Bellah’s yard, standing in a circle around John Bellah and Jacob Ingledew.
“Folks,” said John Bellah to the assembly, “this here feller claims they’s a town up the creek a little ways has got more people in it than we’uns do.”
“My stars and body!” a woman screeched.
“I’ll be jimjohned!” a man roared.
“Golly Moses fishhooks!” a boy bellowed.
“It beats my grandmother!” a girl squealed.
John Bellah asked, “Air we’uns gonna take this a-layin down?”
“No sirree bob!” a woman shrieked.
“Not by a damned sight!” a man barked.
“I’ll be hanged if!” a boy snarled.
“Not for the world!” a girl bleated.
“Nope, nohow,” a child wailed.
John Bellah raised his arm and suggested, “Then let’s go!”
“Skedaddle!” a woman yipped.
“Pull foot!” a boy snapped.
“High-tail!” a girl howled.
“Hoof it!” a child mewed.
The entire population of Mount Parthenon began moving at a brisk clip up the trail in the direction of Stay More. Jacob Ingledew could only follow along, worried and puzzled. None of these people were armed, so if they meant to fight, they would fight bare-handed.
At the northernmost end of the valley of Stay More, there was a field which had been cleared by Levi Whitter for a cow pasture, and now this field was heavy with sweet clover. It would always be called the Field of Clover after the confrontation which took place there between the people of Stay More and the people of Mount Parthenon.
One of the Swain children had seen the Parthenonians coming and had run to alert the rest of the village. All of the Stay Morons (and kindly believe me that my use of this name is meant to be neither pejorative nor facetious; if you wish to split hairs, it should be borne in mind that strictly speaking a moron is in the mental age group between seven and twelve, a time of life which, as anyone who has lived through it can tell you, is simply wonderful) left their homes and came to halt the Parthenonians’ advance at Levi Whitter’s clover pasture. The two communities faced one another across this field, keeping a distance of some hundred feet (or six hats) between themselves.
“Is that all of ’em, neighbor?” John Bellah asked Jacob Ingledew.
“Yeah, neighbor, I reckon,” Jacob replied.
John Bellah began with his bent finger to count the Stay Morons. When he finished, he said, “Fifty-eight.” Then he counted the Parthenonians and declared, “Fifty-eight.”
“Huh?” Jacob said. “Here, neighbor, let me try.” Also using his finger as a counter, Jacob totaled up the number of people standing over there across the field, and sure enough, it came to fifty-eight. Then he counted the number on this side of the field, and it was also fifty-eight. Something was wrong, that Stay More had lost, and Mount Parthenon gained, a person.
Soon all of the Parthenonians who knew how to count were also counting the Stay Morons, and the latter, with nothing better to do, began counting the former. Everybody who could count agreed that the two groups contained the same number of people.