436 N. Library,Waterloo, Illinois 62298

I, E.R. Dugan, was born and reared in an Irish settlement called
Tipton just south of St. Louis, not far from little Egypt. My
father was a thresherman for many years, and I was only seven years
old when this story too, place.

My Grandma Dugan was going to thresh in the next few days. I was
at her house this afternoon, and she said to me, ‘Lad, it’s
getting late. Now run along. You have to get the cows in. I will
pick you up in the mornin’ with the horse and buggy, and we
will go to town to get some grub for the threshers.’

Mornin came, and so did Grandma with her horse and buggy. She
said, ‘Jump in, me lad,’ and off we went up the road. 1
reached into her basket to see what she had on her grub list, as
she called it. What do you know! I said, ‘Grandma, two gallons
of Whiskey the first thing on the list!’ ‘Oh,’ Grandma
explained, ‘you know, me boy, the water is so very bad around
here and full of wiggle tails that you got to have a little
whiskey, so’s the men don’t get sick.’ I said,
‘Grandma, the next thing on the list is twist tobacco.’
‘Yes,’ me boy, she replied, ‘I doubt if we get to town
before me pipe burns out, but you take a good look, all the rest of
the list is grub.’

So, we trotted up the raod. All at once Grandma said,
‘Whoa,’ to the old horse and what do you know, he stood
dead in his tracks. 1 asked, ‘Grandma, what’s the
matter?’ She looked over her smoky glasses and replied,
‘Here comes that bugger of a Flanagan up the road the biggest
liar in the country. I am very much afraid if St. Peter don’t
keep an eye on him, he will slip in the gates, and that sure would
be a shame.’ We drove on up the road until we met Flanagan.
‘Whoa,’ siad Grandma, ‘Top of the morning to you,
Flanagan. Stop and tell me and the lad a good lie before we go to
town.’ (This took place every time we met Flanagan.) ‘no
lies this morning,’ said Flanagan, ‘I am in a divil of a
hurry. You know our neighbor, Gilligan, down the road turned up his
heels last night.’ At that he cracked his lines. The mules tore
out up the road as he yelled, ‘I am going to town to make
funeral arrangements.’ Grandma would have almost bet her horse
and buggy that Flanagan was tellin the truth; he looked so sober
and worried. She sat dumfounded for a few minutes until she got
hold of herself and then said, ‘Boy, we better go down and pay
our respects to poor Mrs. Gilligan before we go to town.’

As we drove into Mrs. Gillian’s yard, out she came. ‘Top
O the mornin to you, Mrs. Dugan. What in the world brings you two
here this time of the mornin?’ Grandma, shedding a few tears,
said, ‘Mrs. Gilligan, I am so sorry to hear Mr. Gilligan kicked
up his heels last night.’ Mrs. Gilligan exclaimed, ‘Who in
the world tells you a thing like this? He did not kick up his
heels? he’s out in the barn getting the mules ready to go
threshing.’ Grandma explained, ‘Mrs. Gilligan, we just met
that divil of a Flanagan right up there on the road and he told us.
What a lyin bugger he is! Oh, Mrs. Gilligan, I am all shook up over
such a Shu-do.’

Mrs. Gilligan comforted, ‘Come on in, and take a swig out of
me bottle. That will brace you up, I am sure.’ ‘You
know,’ Grandma said, ‘Just for Flanagan a lyin to me that
way, I don’t think I will give the bugger a drink out of me jug
until he comes to his knees a beggin and repentin.’ Mrs.
Gilligan continued, ‘You know, Mrs. Dugan, I feel especially
sorry for his poor old coon hounds. They are so faithful. You know
how often we have had to go over to his place and call his coon
hounds when he wanted to go coon hunting. He is such a liar; they
wouldn’t believe him even when he was a biowin his horn.’
‘Yes’, Grandma answered, ‘It’s sure too bad
Flanagan couldn’t cough up the truth a little more than he
does. I am afraid he’s got his poor old yellow torn cat worried
too. Flanagan was a tellin neighbor one day that he didn’t
believe a cat had nine lives and his, for sure, wouldn’t live
one if he didn’t quit his loafin’ at night. So poor old Tom
sneaks in the mornin before Flanagan gets up and also makes sure
the shot gun is in the rack. Old Tom lays there sleeping with one
eye open on Flanagan, for he doesn’t trust him one little bit.
‘ Says Grandma, ‘Jump in, me boy, we must be off for town.
Good day to you, Mrs. Gilligan, we must be goin. We are a half, day
late now, and the worst of all is me old pipe is burned out.’
‘Good-day to your-self,’ answered Mrs. Gilligan, ‘I
will see you all in the mornin a threshing.’

As we trotted up the road, Grandma shook her head and said to
me, ‘I do hope that bugger of a Flanagan gets into heaven a
half hour before the Divil knows he’s dead. After all, he
isn’t such a bad fellow; he goes to church and all if only he
wasn’t such a liar! Oh, well, if the Divil would of had him
first, we wouldn’t of had much fun at all and nobody to do the
lyin. ‘

Courtesy of Harvey H. Baier, Route 2, Ebner Coulee Road, La
Crosse, Wisconsin 54601

Harvey sent us this article that appeared in his local paper the
other day. The editor of paper gave his permission to use this
article. We thank both these men.


SUNDER LAND, England (AP)- Stan Kipling called off his wedding
rather than move a model locomotive out of the bridal chamber.

The bride-to-be, Mrs. Janet Parkin, said the three-foot-high
engine took up too much room in Kipling’s bedroom.

Last month the 62-year-old miner agreed to dismantle the engine,
and the couple scheduled a March wedding.

Thursday Stan changed his mind.

‘I just can’t bear to part with the machine,’ he
said in an interview. ‘It’s my only hobby and I want to go
on tinkering with it.’

He added that the bedroom is the only place he has room for

Mrs. Parkin, a 66-year-old widow, collapsed on being told the
wedding was off.

‘I am being made to look a fool,’ she said, ‘but I
will never take second place to a locomotive.’

Dear Friends:

Enclosed, I am presenting another article for your consideration
toward publication in the Iron-Men Album. Many little side stories
I find I like, may also find some entertainment for others, in the
care, operation and construction of old farm machinery. There are
many unsung heroes among the development of machinery; one whom I
found interesting and I am sure many people know nothing about:
Issac Babbitt.

Also among the readers we might try find out ‘What is the
best remedy for a hot box?’ We probably could round up a dozen
or more. One remedy I ran across is white lead and oil.

In this shortened biography of Issac Babbitt, mention is also
given of one John Ericsson, who’s biography is another story in
itself. A man we had to learn about way back in school. He invented
numerous useful machines, among them, a tubular steam boiler, the
screw propeller, a heat engine, and he constructed the MONITOR,
first Federal iron-clad gun boat, in 1862 during the Civil War.

Farm Collector Magazine
Farm Collector Magazine
Dedicated to the Preservation of Vintage Farm Equipment