From my Writer’s Class UNCLE FUDD AND THE ROOSTERS. The burden of uncle Fudd has always rested heavily upon our town having not a shadow of business to attend to he has made other business his own and looked after in season and out, especially out. If there is a thing nobody wants done to this uncle Fudd applies his busy hand. One warm Sunday we were all at church. Our pastor had taken the passage on turning the other cheek or one akin to it for the text and the preaching on peace and quiet and nonresistance. He soon had us in a devout mood which would have been beautiful to see and encouraging to the good man. Of course uncle Fudd was there, he always was and forever in a front pew so his neck craned up looking backward to see if there was anything that didn’t need doing he could do. His strongest church point was ushering. Not content to usher the stranger within our gate he would usher all of us and always trust him to sit us beside the people we did not want to sit with. If you failed to follow him when he took you in tow he would stop and look back reproachfully with mighty in-drawing curves of his arms and if you pretended not to see him he would give a whistle to attract your attention his arm working right along like a Holland windmill. On this particular warm summer Sunday uncle Fudd was in place wearing his long skirted coat, a queer dark bottle green purplish blue. He had ushered to his own seating joy two men into one pew and given them a single hymn book who on any single day speak to each other. I ought to mention we had made a verbal uncle Fudd to do uncle Fudd was the wrong thing. It was a regular verb, uncle Fudd, uncle Fudding. Those two rabid enemies in the same pew had been uncle Fudd. The minister was floating along smoothly on the subject of peace when uncle Fudd was observed to throw up his head. He heard a sound outside. It was really not anything but one of Deacon Palmer’s young roosters crowing. The deacon lived near and vocal offerings from his poultry were frequent and had ceased to interest everyone except uncle Fudd. Then in the pauses between the preacher’s periods we heard the flapping of wings, the sudden stopping and starting. Those noisy fouls unable to understand that man’s words were fighting. Even this didn’t interest us, we were committed to peace but uncle Fudd shot up like a jack in the box and cantered down the aisle. Of course his notion was the roosters were disturbing the services and it was hid duty to go out and stop them. We heard vigorous “Shoo!” and “Take that!” and “Confound you!” And then uncle Fudd came back looking very important and as he stopped at the aisle and glanced around, nodding his head saying clearly “There, where would you be without me.” Another defiant crow flew in the window. The next moment the rushing and beatings of wings began again and down the aisle went uncle Fudd the long tails of that coat fairly floating like a cloud before him. There was further uproar outside and uncle Fudd was back in his place this time whispering hoarsely, “I fixed em.” But this time was not the case for twice more the very same thing was repeated. The last time uncle Fudd came back he wore a calm, smug expression as who should say, “Now I have fixed them.” We should have liked it better if the visitors had fixed uncle Fudd. Nobody paid attention except Deacon Plummer. The thought had occurred to him that perhaps uncle Fudd had killed the fowl, but he hadn’t. However there were no more disturbances without and after a time the sermon closed. There was some sort of special collection to be taken up. Of course uncle Fudd always insisted on taking up all the collections. He hopped up on this occasion and seized the plate with more of an unusual vigor. His struggles with the roosters had evidently stimulated him. He soon made the rounds and approached the table and approached the pulpit with his harvest. As he did so we saw to our horror that the long tails of that ridiculous coat were violent agitated. A thickening suspicion overcame us. The next moment one of the belligerent young roosters struck the head out of either of the coattail pockets. Uncle Fudd dropped the plate with a scattering of coins, seized the coat skirt in each hand and threw it front. This dumped both fowls out on the floor and they went at it hammer and tong. What happened after this was a blur in most of our memories. The only things certain is that there was an uproar in the congregation, especially the younger portion, that the Deacon began making unsuccessful for is poultry, that the organist struck Onward Christian Soldiers and that the minister worried this away without a benediction and loud shouts of “Shoo!” and “Drat the pesky critters!” from uncle Fudd. Did it serve to subdue uncle Fudd? Not in the least. He survived to do worse things.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Jun 2013 23:03:14 +0000