Lilian Jackson Braun One day I was lounging between the huge roots of my favorite tree and reading in pop-eyed wonder about the mysteries of outer space, when I heard a rustling in the tree above me. I looked up, expecting a squirrel, and saw a pair of legs dangling from the mass of foliage: clunky brown shoes, woolly brown kneesocks, brown leather breeches. A moment later, a small man dropped to the ground—or rather floated to earth. He was old, with a flowing gray mustache, and he wore a pointed cap like a woodpecker’s, with the brim pulled down over his eyes. Most amazingly, he was only about three feet tall.
I wanted to say something like: Hello . . . Who are you? . . . Where did you come from? But I was absolutely tongue-tied. Then he began to talk in a foreign language, and I had seen enough World War Two movies to know it was German.
Now comes the strangest part: I knew what he was saying! His words were being interpreted by some kind of mental telepathy. He talked—in a kindly way—and I listened, spellbound. The more I heard, the more inspired and excited I became. He was talking about trees! That the tree is man’s best friend. It supplies food to eat, shade on a sunny day, wood to burn in winter, boards to build houses and furniture and boats. The greatest joy is to plant a tree, care for it, and watch it grow. What he did not say was something I had learned in schooclass="underline" that trees purify the air and contribute to the ecology of the planet!
Then, before I knew it, he was gone! But I had 쑽쑽쑽
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Short & Tall Tales changed! I no longer wanted to be an astronaut; I wanted to grow trees!
I ran home with my two remaining pears and my magazines, which no longer interested me.
My father was in his study. “What is it, son? You look as if you’ve had an epiphany.” He was always using words we didn’t know, expecting us to look them up in the diction-ary. I’m afraid I never did.
With great excitement I told him the whole story. To his credit as a parent, he didn’t say I had fallen asleep and dreamed it . . . or I had eaten too many pears . . . or I had read too many weird stories. He said, “Well, son, everything the old fellow said makes sense. If we don’t stop de-stroying trees without replacing them, planet Earth will be in bad trouble. Why don’t you and I do something about it?
We’ll be business partners. You find a forester who’ll give us some advice about tree farming. I’ll supply the capital to buy seedlings. And you’ll be in charge of planting and maintenance.”
My father was a wise man. One thing led to another, and I became a partner in his medical clinic, just as he had been my partner in growing trees. But that’s not the end of the story. In med school I studied German as the language of science, and that’s where I met my future wife. We went to Germany on our honeymoon—to practice our second language. I particularly wanted to visit the Black Forest.
In a shop specializing in wood carvings, I suddenly looked up and saw the little old man who had communi-
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Lilian Jackson Braun cated with me in the woods. He had a long flowing mustache and a Tyrolean hat with the brim pulled down over his eyes, and he was carved from a rich mellow wood with some of the tree bark still visible on the hat.
“Was ist das?” I asked.
“A wood spirit,” the shopkeeper answered in flawless English. “He inhabits trees and brings good luck to those who believe in him. This one was carved by a local artist.”
“How did he know what a wood spirit looks like?”
Nell asked.
The shopkeeper looked at her pityingly. “Everyone knows.”
I wanted to tell him I’d had a close encounter with a wood spirit but held my tongue—to avoid another pitying look. The carving now hangs over my fireplace, reminding me of the day that changed my life. Was I hallucinating? Or had I eaten too many pears? Or what.
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7.
My Great-
Grandmother’s
Coal Mine
She Wore a Little White Lace Collar and Carried a Shotgun
How many mining buffs know that one of Moose County’s ten coal mines was operated by a woman—more successfully than some men were doing? She said she was only carrying on the work of her late husband. Maggie Sprenkle tells this story regarding her great-grandmother Bridget.
—JMQ
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This story about pioneer days in Moose County has been handed down in my family and I believe it to be absolutely true. There were heroes and villains in our history, and many of them were involved in mining.
As you know, there were ten mines in operation—and enough coal for all—but most of the owners were greedy, exploiting their workers shamefully. My great-grandfather, Patrick Borleston, owned the Big B mine. He and another owner, Seth Dimsdale, cared about their workers’ health, safety, and families, and their attitude paid off in loyalty and productivity. Their competitors were envious to the point of hostility. When Patrick was killed in a carriage accident, his workers were convinced that someone had purposely spooked his horses.
They suspected Ned Bucksmith, owner of the Buck-shot mine. Immediately he tried to buy the Big B from the 쑽쑽쑽
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Lilian Jackson Braun widow. But Bridget was a strong woman. She said she’d operate it herself. The idea of a woman mine operator shocked the other owners, and when the mother of three proceeded to do a man’s job better than they could, their antagonism grew—especially that of Ned Bucksmith. She was twice his size, being tall, buxom, and broad-shouldered.
She always wore a long, voluminous black dress with a little white lace collar and a pancake hat tied under her chin with ribbons.
Folks said it was the lace collar and ribbons that sent Ned Bucksmith over the edge. He and the other mine owners met in the back room of the K Saloon on Thursday evenings to drink whiskey and play cards, and he got them plotting against Big Bridget. One Thursday night a window was broken in the shack she used for an office. The next week a giant tree was felled across her access road. Next her night watchman put out a fire that could have burned down the office.
One Thursday morning Bridget was sitting at her roll-top desk when she heard a frantic banging on the door.
There on the doorstep was a young boy, out of breath from running. “Them men!” he gasped. “At the saloon. They be blowin’ up your mine!” Then he dashed away.
That evening Bridget went to the saloon in her tent-like black dress and pancake hat, carrying a shotgun. She barged in, knocked over a few chairs, and shouted, “Where are those dirty rats?” Customers hid under tables as she swept toward the back room. “Who’s gonna blow up my 쑽쑽쑽
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Short & Tall Tales mine?” she thundered and pointed the gun at Ned Bucksmith. He went out the window headfirst, and the other men piled out the back door. She followed them and unloaded a few warning shots.
There was no more trouble at the Big B. Now if you’re wondering about the youngster who tipped her off, he was Ned Bucksmith’s boy, and he had a crush on Bridget’s daughter. When they grew up, they were married, and that young boy became my grandfather.