During the 1930s, James Edward Tufft (1915-1939), a newspaperman who had grown up on a farm, wrote short verses under the heading, “The Cheerful Plowman,” that appeared in several of the farm magazines of the day. With all of today’s controversy over lethal weapons in the hands of people who seem bent on slaughtering innocents, it seems a little ahead of its time.
Nick Buckert’s boy, Adolphous Ned, is on his back this month in bed with three big buckshot in his head; you see he went out hunting hares with guns enough for shooting bears against his mother’s earnest prayers. “He may get shot!” his mother cried, “Full well I mind when Hiram died! Young boys shoot carelessly and wide!” “He loves to hunt,” said father Nick, “and sissy boys make me sick! I think our Ned can do the trick! My father wouldn’t let me shoot, and when I shot I got the boot. I grew up scared, a big galoot! I want my boy to be a man laid out on broad and able plan; we’ll let him hunt, I know he can!”
Well, Ned went hunting right away, with Frank and Pudgie Grey! My, he was careful for a day! The second day becoming bold he held his gun with looser hold, he felt at least as sure as gold! Another day and bolder yet, without a tremor or regret, he slammed along through dry and wet with gun hung dangling by his side, the muzzle swinging free and wide, like careless cowboys when they ride! The seventh day, and “Bang!” she went, and leaden balls election bent plowed through his skin with seam and rent!
The kid’s not badly hurt, oh no, he’ll soon be up and on the go, all well within a week or so; but Nick, his dad, has hid the gun; Ned’s hunting days this year are done, Nick has a new dictum for his son! “A boy’s a boy,” I hear him say, “and tho he’s careful for a day, his judgment still is curds and whey! A boy has just a youngster’s head, his ma was right in all she said; no guns just yet, I see for Ned!” — J. Edw. Tufft.
My dad wasn’t a hunter, although his sister said that when he was a boy he had an eagle eye for spotting and shooting squirrels. There was an ancient rusty musket I found tucked away overhead in our granary and that I pretty much destroyed playing with. My grand dad, who lived with us, had a .45-70 caliber, Springfield trap-door army rifle that fascinated me and that he sometimes loaned to friends for deer-hunting — it disappeared, apparently one of those friends failed to return it.
Of course, I always had toy guns, mostly 6-shooter style cap guns, and we kids played cowboy, or warred on German or Japanese soldiers during World War II, and I whittled several wooden pistols that fired rubber bands. One year for Christmas I was given a suction cup dart gun with a tin target and had a lot of fun with that until all the darts were lost.
Dad had a Remington single-shot .22 caliber Springfield rifle that he kept around for killing hogs at butchering time and for shooting varmints. That little gun became my pride and joy at around age twelve. I don’t specifically recall Dad giving me any instructions on how to use it safely, but he must have. I carried that little rifle everywhere on the farm and plinked away at random targets — cans, bottles, trees, posts — anything that took my fancy. The only real hunting I did was for groundhogs, of which we had an abundance, and managed to kill a few, although I always felt bad afterwards.
I’ve owned a few guns over my lifetime and really enjoy shooting (but not killing), but when I sold out before moving to town four years ago I sold them all, including that old .22 Springfield, and have none now.
But, enough about guns — Merry Christmas, or whatever holiday you happen to celebrate during this season.
Sam Moore