Page Four

PERSPECTIVES

MR. WESTLY AND THE STRANGER
...Joe Knox

WAS EATING a penny's worth of
New York Chocolates on the front
porch of Mr. Caleb Westly's General
Store when I first saw the stranger. He
rounded the bend of the old wagon road
which follows Long Hope Creek, and as
he approached, sauntering easily, he
whistled. I did not recognize the tune
and decided he must be a stranger. At
exactly three-fifteen on this July after-
noon, a. Friday in 1927, he stopped
whistling and stood in front of the
store. It would be impossible to offer
a reasonable explanation for this oc-
currence. However, Mr. Caleb Westly
made a record of the facts. He was the
keeper of vital statistics in Little Ben
and it was his self-imposed duty to
note the name, age, health, social stand-
ing, financial resources, business and
philosophical doctrine of the few
strangers who, by chance or design,
made their way into our section of the
valley. What information he gleaned
from wayfarers on one day was com-
munity gossip on the next. According-
ly, when I called Mr. Westly's atten-
tion to the stranger who had just
rounded the little bend in the road,
he made a brief entry in his book con-
cerning the time of day and state of
the sky, and then returned to the store
porch to await developments. He was
seated on a keg of ten-penny nails near
the door and I sat in front of him, my
legs dangling over the edge of the
porch in order that I might pick up
pebbles with my toes.
The stranger stopped whistling and
stood, for a moment, gazing at us. We,
in turn, inspected him carefully. He
was dressed in faded khaki pants and
shirt, an old shapeless felt hat and
well worn shoes. In one hand he car-
ried a small cloth satchel which held,
presumably, his toilet articles and extra,
pieces of clothing.
Mr. Caleb Westly spit in such a man-
ner as to welcome the stranger in the
community of Little Ben. "Travellin' a
fur piece?" he inquired casually.
Thus accepted, the stranger came over
and rested his luggage on the store
porch. "Couldn't say to be pos'tive,
mister. Just a-travellin'. I've come a
smart distance."
"Wahl, ye ought to set down fer a
rest," suggested Mr. Westly. He stood
up, went in the store and rolled out
another keg of ten-penny nails and
placed it on the other side of the door
opposite his own position. "Thar, you
set and re-lax."
The stranger bounded up on the
porch and sat down. He leaned his
angular frame against the weather-
boards of the store front, stretched out
his long legs and said, "Much obliged."
I turned around to face the two men.
"Right tol'ble weather we got," Mr.
Westly ventured. ,
"Tol'ble," assented the stranger.
"Them little thunderheads," he nodded
toward the sky, "ain't growed none all
day. Been watchin' 'em. They's as puny
as they was at dinnertime. Ain't apt
to water a drop."
"No they ain't," Mr. Westly agreed
and looked at the stranger. "You know
the signs?" he asked cautiously.
The stranger laughed. "Ever' day's got
its own weather!" Mr. Westly nodded
and so spit as to indicate genuine in-
terest in this wayfarer who continued,
"Signs fer one day don't just have to
hold good fer the next."
"Wahl," said Mr. Westly and rubbed
his chin as if doubting this. He took
great pride in his ability to read the
signs and he offered his daily weather
forecasts, without charge or encourage-
ment, to all residents of the commun-
ity. "Some signs is never wrong fer any
day if a man can read 'em right."
"Some signs is reli'ble," agreed the
stranger and began to roll a cigarette.

"'Bout out of makin's," he murmured
half to himself. And then, "Weather's
right perculiar thing. Sometimes good,
sometimes bad, sometimes just plain
cus-sed."
"De-pendin' on the season and the
crops a-growin'," qualified Mr. Westly.
"Dependin'," the stranger nodded and
drew at his cigarette. "And dependin'
on the time of day and if a man's in-
doors or outdoors, and if he's rich or
pore, brainy or teched, workin' or play-
in'."
"Or loafin'," said Mr. Westly and
they both laughed. "This feller here on
the floor likes to play in the rain,
don't ye, young Johnathan?" They
looked at me.
"I sure do, Mr. Westly," I replied
earnestly and laughed with them, flat-
tered at being drawn into the conver-
sation. I was nine years old.
"He takes off his overhalls when it
comes up a warm shower," Mr. Westly
continued, "and his maw lets 'im run
around nekkid in the rain." They
laughed again and I with them.
"Sometimes I wash up in a shower
my-self when they ain't a stream han-
dy," said the stranger. "Carry a bar of
soap all the time." He pointed to his
cloth bag. "It's a sight cleaner water'n
you git from a city pipe."
"Aye, it'd be a sight cleaner." as-
sented Mr. Westly. "Washin' water,
fresh from a cloud," he mused and nod-
ded reflectively toward the sky. "It'd
be better. I'm jest thinkin', young
Johnathan, yer lucky to be a youn'un."
"I'm sure lucky, Mr. Westly," I said,
seriously.
The stranger smiled slightly at this
and Mr. Westly nodded. After a pause,
he said, "What d'ye caluculate fer to-
mor'w?"
"It's what I was sayin',"' the strang-
er replied cautiously. "Everday's got
its own perticular weather. I'd just
hate to say, bein' plumb new in these
parts. What d'you reckon?"
Mr. Westly had, without question,
been waiting for this opportunity. He
laughed and said, "Wahl, it's sure a
man wouldn't always want to swear his
pre-diction on a Bible. But now ye take
Little Ben," he continued, not without
modesty, "That's the name of this here
place ye're at-ye take here. I've lived
at Little Ben fer 63 summers and win-
ters and ever'day I studied the signs
and l'arnt how to pre-dict reason'ble
well. W'y hit's got so folks about've
come to re-ly on me, fer a fact. Ain't
that right, young Johnathan?"
"Papa says you're .. ." Mr. Westly cut
me off.
"Hits ex-per'ence in readin' the signs
that makes a man re-li'ble. Yed agree?"
"Yep." The man continued to smoke.
"Wahl, 'f ye'd noticed, hit's a new
moon tonight. The first new moon
after the first hay was cut in Little
Ben, two weeks back. And I'd say that's
a right pos'tive sign fer rain tomorr'w."
Mr. Westly settled back and spit a long
stream of tobacco juice which indicated
complete confidence in this prognos-
tication.
The stranger flipped his cigarette out
into the road. "Wouldn't be serprized,"
he said generously. "I'd hate to say
myself." He looked at Mr. Westly as
though sizing up an opponent. "But
d'you stop to study, when it's a new
moon at Little Ben, it's a new moon
in Araby? It's a new moon ever-where."
Mr. Westly had been staring with
vacant complacency at the church
steeple just across the river and it was
a moment before he began to function.
He was, undoubtedly, too taken back
to say anything but "Wahl." He said
this deliberately and gazed intently at
the stranger.
"It'd be purty to-do, rainin' all over
the whole world at the same time," the

man continued. "Nobody'd get his hay
up."
"How d'ye know fer a fact it's a new
moon all over," asked Mr. Westly sus-
piciously, now coming to life, slowly.
"W'y," the stranger replied off-hand-
edly, "take a look at the Almanac."
Mr. Westly went in the store and re-
turned with the 1927 issue of Good-
year's Almanac. "Don't see what hit's
to do with the Almanac," he mumbled
as he handed the book to the stranger.
I stood in front of the two men and
watched.
"It's right here on the cover," said
the stranger. "Published in Chicago,
Illinois. Now how far'd you say it was
to Chicago?"
Mr. Westly considered this. "W'y .,.
a right fur piece, I'd say."
"A long ways," agreed the stranger.
"And they sent this here Almanac to
people all over. They don't print it just
fer you all at Little Ben."
"Reckon not," Mr. Westly agreed,
reluctantly.
"Now over here to . . . let's see, July.4
The stranger turned the pages. "Here
now." He pointed to a calender for the
month of July. "New moon starts July
25. You was right, it's tonight."
"Yep. I was abserlutely kerrect."
Mr. Westly began to take a more gen-
uine interest in the proceedings.
"But now they sent this here Almanac
all over. And a man who's got it in
Araby or Laural Junction, w'y he's got
a new moon too," the stranger con-
cluded.
"Wahl," said Mr. Westly, thus con-
fronted with irrefutable evidence. He
seldom doubted anything he saw in
black and white printed words. This
was the case with the other residents of
Little Ben, many of whom could not
read or understand the words which
they believed. Mr. Westly resumed his
seat on the key of nails and struck a
thoughtful pose.
"Wahl," he said again. "Who'd've
thought."
The stranger continued to thumb
pages in the Almanac. I stood by and
watched. "Tryin' to find the weather
perdictions."
"They ain't a bit of good!" Mr. West-
ly came to life. "Them predictions ain't
never right. I stopped usin' 'em y'ars
ago."
"I was just goin' to show . . now
here, fer July." He pointed and helm'
the book up for Mr. Westly to see: "They
Tot different perdictions fer different
places in the country and it's a new
rsoon in ever' one of them places."
Mr. Westly glanced momentarily at
the page of weather forecasts, grunted,
mumbled something unintelligible and
stared out over the river to the -church
steeple. There was no question but
what the stranger had clinched his
case. Mr. Westly indicated this by the
way in which he spit.
It was a moment or two before either
of the men spoke. I resumed my seat
on the floor. The stranger whistled a
tune softly. I thought I recognized it
to be "The Possum and the Coon Dog,"
though I could not be sure. The whist-
ler was adding a lot of extra warbles
and fancy trills. Meantime, Mr. Westly
was allowing the stranger's lesson in
logic to mature before he trusted him-
self to speak again. Now with undeni-
able respect, he said "How's it ye've
come to know about the moon and the
weather, stranger? Ye don't look to be
old a-tall."
The stranger crossed his legs and
rolled another cigarette. "W'y, I ain't
old," he laughed. "I ain't but 24. I been
in the Army. Finished a three year
hitch last spring."
"Wahl, ye've been soldierin'!"
"I've soldiered about ever-place in
the country," the stranger continued,
modestly. He lit his cigarette. "Been

down to South Car'lina and Tex.as. Last
summer they had me soldierin' 75 miles
west of Ashville!"
"Wahl," said Mr. Westly and thought
about this. Then he leaned forward
and asked, with evident interest, "Jest
tell me fer honest truth, stranger.
What's it a soldier does when they ain't
a war on?"
"W'y," the stranger cleared his
throat. "W'y they had us tacyhootin'
all over. It's just a lot of shootin' and
a takin' on." This sounded somewhat
boastful to me but, of course I was
only nine. However, Mr. Westy seemed
impressed.
"Reckon they larn ye a whole lot in
the Army," he said. Then without wait-
ing for confirmation, he inuired "Ye
l'arnt about the moon from sodierin'?"
"Yep," said the stranger.
There was a distinct pause in the
conversation.
"Stranger?"
"Uh."
"D'ye thing hit'll rain tomorr'w?"
The stranger frowned thoughtfully
and drew hard on his cigarette. He
got up, walked to the middle of the
road and surveyed the condition of the
sky in all directions. "It's wist I was
sayin'. Ever'day to its own weather.
Now, you see them sickly clouds up
yonder?" He pointed and 'Mr. Westly
and I joined him in the road to look
at a scattering of puffy cumulus. "Now,
'f you was to see clouds as puny as
that early of a mornin', you'd win yer-
self a bet to guess thunder ' srain by
afternoon. Trouble with them. clouds,"
he pointed again, "is they got started
too late. I watched 'em. Tey didn't
hatch out till dinnertime. ft was too
late in the day fer them to grow up
and amount to somethin'. They just
ain't no water in 'em, to speak of," he
concluded, with authority.
"Wahl!" said Mr. Westly. Then "D'ye
reckon hit'll be the same tomor'w?"
"I'd just hate to say, fer a fact." The
stranger crushed his half-smoked cig-
arette in the dirt and looked sidewise
at Mr. Westly. "You wouldnt have a
the'mometer, 'd you?"
"W'y sure!" said Mr. Westly, evident-
ly much pleased that he did, indeed,
own a weather instrument. lit's over
here on the side of the store." We fol-
lowed him to the south side of the
store where there was a Tuie Rose
Snuff thermometer tacked on the wall.
Mr. Westly took a careful reading,
"Hit's . . . jest at seventy-four." He
looked anxiously at the strauger who
now considered this report.
"What I got to have," said the strang-
er, boldly assuming full coimand of
the situation, "is a little rag wet with
water."
Mr. Westly did not pause to contem-
plate this odd request, but hurried into
the store to wet a rag. He returned
shortly and gave the stranger a small
bit of calico. "Ye reckon wet water'll
do?"
"Well water's the best," said the
stranger. He placed the damp cloth
over the bulb of the thermometer. "I'll
just wait a minute fer it to eool." We
gathered about the thermometer and
waited impatiently and anxiously an
kept our eyes glued to the instrument.
"Now what's it say?" asked Mr. Wesly
after a moment.
The stranger peered. "W'y it's down
to 52!" Then he turned around and
announced flatly, "It ain't goin' to
rain."
"Hit's a new one fer me,'" said Mr.
Westly and shook his head as we re-
turned to our positions on the porch,
"How'd ye come to figure no rain?"
"It was the big diff'rence in the
temper'tures," replied the stranger. "'F
it'd been just a little diff'rene, I'd've
said rain." He pursed his lips, and had
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