The Chronicles of Major Peabody Read online

  “We paid no attention to Henry. We ignored him during the daylight hours and, when back in camp, we avoided him as men in the Middle Ages would avoid a leper. One dark and stormy night, we threw him out of our tent. He had to move in with the guide where he was able to whine and complaint at length. (The reason the Cree guide never bothered to learn English became apparent. He just smiled, said nothing, and went to sleep.)

  “This is an excellent example of how experienced hunters like Steve and Mike and me will not allow adversity to spoil our hunt.”

  Surprise

  I’ve tried to condition myself never to be surprised by anything Major Nathaniel Peabody says or does. It has not been an easy task. I’ve been at it for years and there were times when I believed I had succeeded, but I was always wrong.

  I was truly surprised when the Major announced he was going to attend a party organized by the members of the Desmond County Woodcock Watchers Protective Society. The Society is widely known for its violently anti-hunter and anti-gun activities. Among other propositions, each year the DCWWPS sponsors legislation designed to declare the hunting of Woodcock to be a crime requiring capitol punishment. I could think of no rational reason why Peabody would agree to be present at one of the Society’s functions.

  When I cautiously wondered why he was going to the meeting, my surprise was magnified to incredulity. Peabody advised me the Society was so-named because it was dedicated to the protection of Woodcock Watchers and that he was interested in meeting kindred spirits. Just like the members of the Society, he, too, was an avid Woodcock Watcher. He carefully watched for them when he was carrying a shotgun in the autumn woods and lowlands.

  The reason for the Major’s erroneous interpretation of the Society’s purposes and activities became apparent to me when he said Doctor Carmichael had arranged for his attendance at the meeting. Doctor Carmichael has a peculiar sense of humor. I suspected this was his way of getting a degree of pay-back for some outrage the Major had directed toward him. I could understand how the doctor would mislead him for the pure joy of watching the Major’s extreme discomfort when, surrounded by Society members, he discovered their true objectives.

  Peabody asked me if I would drive him to the party site. Of course, I immediately agreed. This was one party I wouldn’t miss for all the tea in China (and in India and in England, too). Frankly, I looked forward to watching him try to control his temper and avoid the crude and combative comments he would normally be expected to make when he learned of the Society’s enmity toward bird hunters in general and to Woodcock hunters in particular.

  When we arrived at the home of Mr. Frederick Goodfellow, the president of the Society, the party was in full swing. I half expected a veritable explosion when those in attendance discovered a bird hunter in their midst. I stayed close to the Major, hoping to restrain him if he appeared ready to engage in a fist fight. The first test came at the hors d’oeuvres table, I found myself in a position where I had to introduce Major Peabody to our host. My fears evaporated when it became apparent that Frederick Goodfellow knew nothing about Peabody or his obsession with shotgun hunting.

  Those fears quickly re-appeared when Goodfellow bemoaned the shooting of Woodcock and characterized all hunters as uncivilized, cruel and bloodthirsty criminals who should be arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced to death by firing squad. I held my breath as Peabody curled his upper lip, just as a pit bulldog might do. Somehow, he managed to control himself. In the face of such a set of particularly obscene comments, the Major limited himself to emitting a few unintelligible gurgling sounds which Goodfellow interpreted as an indication of full agreement with his statements.

  During the rest of the afternoon, Peabody showed few further signs of needing restraint. I watched as he mingled and chatted with the members and though often provoked, only once did he temporarily lose his composure. I noticed a rather large, tweedy lady, wearing flat heeled, brown walking shoes and a severe hairdo. She had been surreptitiously watching the Major.

  Finally, she swooped down and cornered him. It looked like trouble to me. I shouldered my way through the crowd and to the Major’s side. I got there in time to overhear her introduce herself, proclaimed her widowhood and, rather coyly, I thought, questioned him about the sex life of the Woodcock.

  The lady listened attentively as Peabody described the electric-type “peeent, peeent” call of the male birds as they circled, flying high in the dusk-time skies. He explained how the birds tumbled to an open area on the ground and how the females surreptitiously watched them, made their selections, and then swooped down and cornered them.

  As he spoke, the lady studied the Major in a speculative manner. She responded to his discourse by asking if he were married. Peabody’s eyes opened to their widest. He stepped back half a pace. I believe he panicked. It took him a few moments to compose himself. Then he answered.

  “Yes, Madame, I am married. I have two wives. One does the cooking and the other takes care of the housekeeping.” Then he studied her in a speculative manner and asked; “How are you at washing clothes?” The lady’s eyes opened to their widest. She stepped back half a pace. I believe she panicked. Regaining her composure, she excused herself and went to hunt in more productive terrain.

  As the afternoon came to a close, the Society members dispersed and I searched for Major Peabody. He had behaved admirably. He had been proper and civil and even polite in his conversations with the enemy. When I found him, he was chatting pleasantly with Frederick Goodfellow. I heard the last part of the conversation.

  “Why, Major Peabody,” Goodfellow gushed, “that’s very nice of you – comparing me to a Woodcock. It is such a noble bird. It lives free in nature’s wonderland. In spite of the dangers it faces from owls, foxes, those terrible hunters and other equally nasty predators, it survives and maintains its dignity. Thank you for your most considerate compliment.”

  As we drove back to Philadelphia, I couldn’t help but think of the extraordinary events of the day: Peabody voluntarily remaining in the very midst of his sworn antagonists; Peabody, nevertheless, refusing to adopt either verbal or physical assault tactics against the enemy; and, Peabody actually complimenting Frederick Goodfellow. The Major explained that later wonderment.

  “I hope Mr. Goodfellow will take the trouble of studying the Woodcock,” he said. “If he does, he will find the bird’s eyes are placed near the back of its head, not close to its beak. He’ll learn the Woodcock’s ears are below and in front of its eyes, not above and behind them. He’ll also discover the Woodcock’s brain is located near the bottom of its skull and is upside down. Then perhaps, he’ll understand I was not complimenting him. I was trying to tell him that he, too, had his head on backwards.”

  * * * * *

  A few days later, Major Peabody and Doc Carmichael enjoyed a successful day in the field. The sun was setting when the two hunters returned to Major Peabody’s apartment.

  “A great day, Nate,” said the doctor.

  “Yes it was,” Peabody answered. “Come on up and have a drink or two.”

  “Certainly, if you promise not to try to give me the blended stuff someone passed off on you.”

  “I only offer that to people I don’t like,” Peabody answered and he took his Leg o’ Mutton gun case and a dead Woodcock from the back of Carmichael’s vehicle.

  Carmichael wrinkled his nose and, in a tone of disbelief asked; “You’re not going to eat that, are you?”

  “Of course not, Doc. I’m going to have it mounted. I’ll send it to that Goodfellow guy. It’s the least I can do for him. After all, he’s the one who told me where his bird watchers found the highest concentrations of Woodcock. He gave me reports on three more likely spots. We’ll try one of them next Saturday.”

  Save the Environment

  A medical emergency arose during one of Major Nathaniel Peabody’s grouse hunting expeditions. A young hunter, unaccustomed to the dangers of entering the woods without appropriate provisions, recei
ved an urgent call of nature and found he had neglected to bring any form of paper with him. In his confusion he wiped with a handful of poison ivy. Miles from modern medical services, the poor fellow had to resort to the partial relief afforded by a river mud poultice. He had to apply it himself. None of his fellow hunters would volunteer for the job.

  That evening as the men sat around the campfire (except the young hunter, who preferred to stand or lean against a tree), Major Peabody rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass and, while one of his companions found the single malt Scotch and performed the re-fill ceremony, the Major began a discourse designed to enlighten his shotgunning associates.

  “The historians tell us,” he began, “that toilet paper was first made in China in 1391. The sheets were two feet by three feet in size and only the Emperor was entitled to use them. Federal Government records identify Mr. Seth Wheeler as the man who invented perforated toilet paper. He received Patent #117355 on July 25, 1871. You will all recall this earth shattering event occurred 22 years after the 1849 California gold rush when thousands of people hurried across the prairies to strike it rich in the new El Dorado.

  “That trip was a rough and rugged one for those pioneers and a rough and rugged life awaited them on the West Coast. At the time of the gold rush, you see, there was no perforated toilet paper. How could those hearty pioneers have survived? The answer, friends, is simple. They eschewed the use of poison ivy and, instead, used corn cobs. Of course, they first removed all of the corn kernels.

  “The 20th century development of paper technology by companies like Kimberly Clark, Scott and Northern Tissue (which advertised: “Not a splinter in a roll”) popularized toilet tissue in the 1920s and 30s. What with the subsequent world-wide population explosion, huge volumes of the stuff are now annually produced.

  “There are those who are convinced the toilet paper industry represents a serious threat to the universe. Certain Hollywood intellectuals are pushing a program designed to save humanity from the evils of toilet paper.” The Major looked at the young man leaning against the tree as he sometimes squirmed and grimaced. “Don’t worry, young man,” Peabody said. “Nobody is suggesting the substitution of poison ivy. Hollywood has something else in mind and, I understand, the proposal is gaining traction in California. It may result in yet another of those peculiar California laws.

  “There’s an awful lot of used West Coast toilet paper going down the drain every day. Let’s conservatively presume the average Californian uses five sheets of toilet paper per operation and produces three operations per day. That’s 5,475 sheet per person per year - 5,490 during leap years. Since the population of California is estimated to be 336,500,000, that means in California alone, about one trillion, 742 billion, 337, million, 500 thousand sheets of used toilet paper go into the California sewerage system every year. And, I haven’t counted the paper used by California’s undocumented and uncounted illegals.

  “There are many well intentioned Hollywood types who have never worn out a pair of boots in their lifetime and wouldn’t know Mother Nature if she knocked them down and sat on them. Nevertheless, they should be applauded for their good intentions to protect the old girl. The entertainment world intellectuals are now preaching the advantages of using only one square of toilet paper during each of our regular daily lower intestinal exercises. The benefits of their program, we are informed, are numerous.

  “A lot of trees have to be cut down to produce one and three-quarters trillion sheets of toilet tissue. By reducing usage from five to one sheet per evacuation, in California alone, at least one trillion 400 billion sheets of toilet paper will be saved. By using only one sheet instead of five, Californian’s yearly production of one and 3/4 trillion used toilet paper sheets can be reduced to a mere 350 million. By eliminating the need for so much paper, a lot of trees will no longer have to be cut. The rain forests will be saved.

  “Saving the rain forests is not the only environmentally responsible result of that proposal. If the one sheet rule becomes mandatory in that State, the toilet paper industry will be forced to reduce their destruction of California’s beautiful forests by 80 percent. As a result, thousand of miles of woodsy bicycle and walking trails can be constructed for California folks to use for healthy exercise as they bicycle and jog and commune with nature.

  “Still another benefit will occur. Given new prime forest habitat, the mountain lion population will expand. With a larger and healthier mountain lion population, the animal can be taken off the Endangered Species List. Moreover, the people who use California’s new bicycle and walking trails will become a source of food for the increased number of marauding mountain lions. California’s terrible over-population problem could be held in check by hungry cougars.

  “To be fair about it, Hollywood’s mandatory one sheet proposal does nothing to solve a related and equally serious environmental problem. Let’s say each California toilet flush carries one and a half gallons of water. At three flushes per day, that’s 1,642.5 gallons per California inhabitant per year. Considering the entire population of the State, somewhere around five and a quarter billion gallons of West Coast water per year is going down the drain.

  “On a good day, Lake Tahoe contains 22,800 cubic meters of water. A thousand gallons of water is equal to about a cubic meter. 22,800 flushings are equal to about 13,300 cubic meters of water. If Californians got their flushing water from Lake Tahoe, 58 percent of the volume of water contained in the lake would go down the tubes each year. What a frightful cause for alarm for the Hollywood types who have property on Lake Tahoe.

  “The one sheet program does nothing to reduce the total number of California toilet flushes. Since the water and the paper eventually end up in the salty ocean, the Hollywood program does little to save humanity from the terrible consequences of the slow but inevitable destruction of the State’s entire fresh water supply. According to the environmentalists, when good drinking water runs out, Californians will all have to face the terror of having to buy and drink California wines.”

  Peabody stared down at his feet and said to himself. “What we really need is a way to save both the world’s forests and the world’s water supply.” Then he brightened as the answer came to him. “The 49ers provide the answer. Not the football team, I refer to the rugged 49ers - the ones who came across the prairies in covered wagons.

  Hollywood types can emulate their pioneer ancestors and use corn cobs. They require no flushing. Changing the Hollywood one sheet proposal to a one corn cob proposal will do away with all toilet paper, saving even more of the rain forests. By eliminating the need to flush, Californians will keep the world’s water supply in a pure and pristine condition.”

  Peabody concluded his lecture. “The disposal of used corn cobs,” he said, “presents no problem. Since they are biodegradable, they can be deposited in front of Hollywood’s Malibu Beach homes, providing a natural barrier to protect against beach erosion.” Then he looked up and was disappointed to find his friends had lost interest in his environmentalism and wandered off. Only the young man remained. He was preoccupied with rubbing his hind side against the tree.

  A Christmas Carol

  It was mid-December. There was a light covering of snow on the ground - just enough to require Philadelphia’s soot and grime to color it black. The skies were gray, too. Nevertheless, it was the season to be jolly. Soon Smythe, Hauser, Engels and Tauchen would announce the firm’s office Christmas party and gifts would be exchanged. Soon, the regular end-of-year bonuses would be distributed. In spite of the gloom of the weather, the spirit of the holiday was making its presence known. Secretaries began covering their desks with festive decoration and I found myself developing the “ho-ho-ho” attitude toward everything.

  I was full of cheer and good spirits and I thought about Major Nathaniel Peabody. Though his Spendthrift Trust remittance wasn’t due for delivery until January 1 – another 19 days – I presumed he would, nevertheless, be caught up in the pleasantries atte
nding the Christmas and New Year holidays. Then I remembered Peabody’s nearest relatives were separated from him both by geography and by temperament. It occurred to me the Major would spend the holidays alone in this apartment. It would not be a joyous occasion for him. On the contrary, it would be a lonely time.

  I could understand why the Major might not greet the season with unbridled joy. I was happy, but he, in all probability, was sad. Somehow, I felt guilty. To erase that feeling, I decided to give him a special present. I visited a tobacconist and made a substantial investment in a box of H. Upmann six ring cigars. The next stop was the Major’s apartment. I knocked at his door.

  At first there was no response. After the third try, the door opened and, without as word of greeting, Peabody let me in. “Good afternoon, Major,” I said. I smiled, in accordance with the custom dictated by the holiday spirit. “You’re looking well.” Peabody remained silent. “A very happy Yule time tiding to you, Major,” I said and reached out to hand him the present.

  Peabody really didn’t look well. His eyes had lost their sparkle. His expression seemed fixed and empty. Without comment of any sort, he stared at me for a few seconds and then took the gaily wrapped box of cigars from my hand. He placed it, unopened, on the table beside the winged back chair next to his fireplace. As I suspected, the Christmas season had not been a happy time for him. Clearly, he needed cheering up.

  “You look just a bit depressed,” I said to him. “And at this time of year, too. It’s unforgivable, Major. Just look around you. People are shopping and full of the Christmas spirit. Children have their noses pressed against the toy store windows, wondering what old Santa will bring them. Ha, ha, ha.”