Politeness of the Mexicans

1895

An Engineer's Experience With It After a Session With Tequila.

"For manifesting a grave and imperturbable courtesy in every circumstance of life give me the Mexican people," said a civil engineer who lived in the southwest. "Here is a case in point. A dozen years ago I was visiting Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, and falling in with an old engineering comrade one afternoon we drank not a little tequila. Tequila, or mescal, perhaps you know, is a clear white liquor distilled from the century plant and possessing much of the taste and potency of Irish whisky. There was a circus in town, and in the evening Johnson and I went up the street to see it. The performance did not greatly interest us, and we left the show before it was half through and started down the street on our way to the hotel. The tequila we had drunk was still animating us and inspiring a spirit of adventure. As we came opposite the great house of Dr. Monteverde, one of the grandees of Sonora, we saw perched on a stone post at the entrance of the courtyard a white turkey, and here we stopped and fell to guessing at the weight of the bird.

"At last, to settle our difference of opinion, we started in to catch the turkey. It ran into the courtyard, and we followed. Upon the veranda at one side of the courtyard the household were sitting enjoying the evening coolness. At our unceremonious advent they raised not a word of protest, but only laughed as the turkey ran wildly around, with Johnson and me in pursuit. After a long chase we caught the bird, and approaching the group on the veranda tried to inform them that we should like a pair of scales to weigh it with. Neither Johnson nor I had an idea what the Spanish word for scales was, and so we indicated the best we could by signs what we wanted. They showed much interest in the endeavor to catch our meaning, and at last we made ourselves understood.

"Si, senor," said the head of the house, with perfect bonhomie, and calling a servant gave him some directions in Spanish. The servant departed, and presently came back with a pair of scales, which were placed at our disposal. We weighed the turkey, set the bird at liberty, returned the scales with thanks, and declining the courteous invitation of the hospitable hidalgo that we should sit down and have a glass of wine we lifted our hats and went on our way.

"Fancy two strangers invading private premises and going through such a madcap performance anywhere else you have over heard of, and then tell me the Mexicans are not the politest people in the world." — New York Sun.

Current Turkey Models Are Bigger and Heavier

1934

Shifting of styles in turkeys is under way, according to L. E. Cline of the Nevada agricultural extension service, who recently finished a study of the present market for the holiday birds. The 1934 model will be bigger and heavier, Mr. Cline says, reflecting a consumer demand for a different type of bird which has been increasing since last Christmas.

The shift is a return to the turkey in greatest demand some time ago, the extension man says, and may be an indication of better economic conditions. In recent years the smaller birds have brought the best prices. Demands from restaurants and cabarets for larger breast meat has been an important factor in the change in consumer requirements.

A premium of one or more cents a pound is now being paid for the heavier turkeys, while for the last two or three years the price was that amount under the sum paid for lighter birds.

This condition always shows a decidedly healthy tone of the market, and if it prevails through the coming marketing season, as indications point, there will be a distinct advantage to the turkey producer.

A Virginia Mountaineer's Influence Over Wild Animals

1896

An Extraordinary Power

He Can Summon at His Will Snakes, Squirrels and Wild Birds From Their Retreats

If Kipling were here, writes a Rockbridge Alum Springs (Va.) correspondent of the New York Tribune, he would write of another and elderly Mowgli, local genius of this green valley, with its cordon of hills and outlying rocky summits. Thomas Hostetter is his name and his age is absolutely uncertain. He thinks he is about eighty-five years old. The wrinkles on his bronzed face rival in number and complexity those of Loti's mummy. His eyes are small and deep set. He lives somewhere among the crags and blackberry bushes several miles to the north of this place, in the neighborhood of Collierstown, Va.

He suddenly appeared here the other morning with a well-fingered and timeworn fiddle slung over his shoulder, and a huge kohinoor of an alum diamond in his hand. He said he paid $10 for his violin ever so many years ago in Lexington. He seemed confident of the value of the gem, which only stern necessity compelled him to sacrifice for $1, and which the writer bought in the hope of drawing him out. He said his wife was dead. His nine children were all married or scattered. He had never been to a city and was absolutely unversed in knowledge of any life but one — that of the deep wood, with its multitude of silent creatures. Their habits and language were an open book to him. The old man had innumerable little packages of rattlesnake rattles stuck into every conceivable receptacle of his clothing. It seemed that the snakes had come to regard him without animosity. He had acquired an insight into their habits, and when he did not see them with his worn-out eyes he simply sat down on a log and beguiled them out of the nooks and crannies to his feet. He had no Hindoo "tomtom" wherewith to charm the snakes, and apparently exerted no influence upon them other than that which close sympathy always begets. Doubtless they had learned to regard him much in the light of a sorely overgrown and distorted brother.

The writer came across him one dewy morning seated crosswise on a log with a six-foot rattler coiled contentedly at his feet. Not until the stranger appeared on the scene did that flickering tongue protrude or those angry eyes glitter. The two seemed to be simply enjoying a quiet wood talk as the claw-like hand of the man stroked down the diamond patches on the snake's shiny back. Hostetter apparently did not think this situation at all out of the common. He had known rattlesnakes and blacksnakes and moccasins so long and so intimately that any loss of sociability between him and the reptiles would have seemed strange to him. So powerful was his influence over the coiled serpent at his feet that a little further endearment even reconciled the snake to the writer's presence at a reasonable distance.

When in the woods at night Hostetter always sleeps by the side of a convenient fallen tree, and it is no unusual thing for him to wake up in the morning and find a poisonous reptile slumbering between his legs or warmed into deep sleep on his body. He said that the blacksnakes in the mountain meadows actually coil themselves around the legs of cows and milk them, and that the cows actually grow fond of this unnatural milking and come to the same spot in the field each day at the same hour and low for the snakes.

Uttering an inarticulate sound, midway between a sob and a groan, Hostetter sent the snake into the bushes.

"Let me see you bring a squirrel into your lap."

He sat down on the spreading roots of a pine tree and gave utterance to a subdued chorus of chirrups and squeaks in minor keys, and soon the wood seemed to be filled with the pattering of little feet, and the queer old man became the motionless centre of a cluster of bushy brown and gray squirrels. They raced up and down his legs and arms, sniffed at the opening of his bulging pockets, and only avoided the smoke of his pipe. Again, with a sound half inarticulate and a half gesture, he dismissed the nimble footed throng.

"Can you call the wild turkeys, Hostetter?"

The old man seated himself again with his back to a tree, and the writer wandered off into the deep shadows. Scarcely was this done before a familiar "gobble, gobble" was heard, and then after five minutes silence the notes were repeated. A twig snapped and soon through the leaves the beady eyes of a wild turkey peered with hanging comb and one foot lifted. Again a low "gobble, gobble," and the leaves divided and the stately bird strutted directly to a place beside the old man and stared without blinking into his face.

The Rag Man Finds His Occupation Gone

1910

Rag Man's Business Has Dwindled to Vanishing Point

"Rags, bones, old iron!" is a cry not nearly so familiar to the children of to-day as to those of the '80's. For the ragman, like the chimney sweep and the sun dial maker, is becoming extinct. His used to be a profitable trade. The woolen rags he bought, turned into shoddy, brought thrice their cost. So did the bones, which were ground up for fertilizer. So did the iron, which, melted, lived again. Many millionaire manufacturing families had their beginning in a long-headed ragman. He first ground his rags into shoddy. Then he spun the shoddy into thread. Then, a full-fledged millman, he wove the thread into cloth. But the municipalities of to-day contract with single firms for the disposal of their people's refuse, and the old ragman is disappearing because there is so little for him. For — and this is the great secret — while the ragman made a grand profit on what he bought, it was on the refuse given him that he really throve.


From "Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again"
By Bob Dylan

Oh, the ragman draws circles
Up and down the block.
I'd ask him what the matter was,
But I know that he don't talk.


A Poultry Point

"Always ask for the right leg of a chicken or turkey," said a chef. "If the left leg is offered you refuse it. It will be tough and stringy.

"You see, these birds nearly always roost on one leg, the left. Hence that leg becomes very muscular. The sinews are like steel. It is an excellent leg from the athletic, but a vile one from the culinary point of view.

"But the favored right leg remains tender and juicy. Therefore, as the advertisements say, 'Ask for and insist on getting the right leg.' "

Trussed Turkey Smashes Window to Smithereens

New Mexico, 1920

Turkey Smashes Plate Glass Window

On Monday an 8-pound turkey, although its feet were tied, managed to fly out of a truck on Main street and from there flew straight across the street and clear through the plate glass window of Manasse Bros. store. The window was smashed to smithereens but, so far as could be discovered, the turkey failed to sustain the slightest damage.

—The Rio Grande Republic, Las Cruces, New Mexico, October 21, 1920, page 1.