The Honest Woodsman

“Well now, it looks like Winifred MacLoughlin might be losin’ ‘er touch with the apple bread. One slice use t’put a smile on a lad’s face. What d’ye think, ScottyGarrett. Is it time t’hang up me apron?”

“No. Your apron’s fine.” Scott took a bite of his friend’s warm, fruit-filled problem solver and mustered a slight smile. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that when a fella reaches 13 years of manhood, apple bread loses some of its magical qualities. 

“Oh, well now. Look at that. The Good Lord just blessed me kitchen with a genuine ray of sunshine.” The Garrett cook seated herself across from her morning’s gloomy visitor. “Next he’ll be sellin’ me a bag of back bay clams fer a copper.”

The thought of the Good Lord selling Winnie a bag of clams raised Scott’s eyebrow but did little for his forced smile. “Gee, he only charged you a copper?”

“Ah, now there’s our cheeky lad home for a holiday from his studies. ScottyGarrett, ye been mopin’ around this house ever since ye walked through the door. And yer Grandfather’s startin’ t’notice, so, ye can either be telllin’ me in the kitchen about this worry of yers or be tellin’ him in the study. Choose.”

J

“Fine.” A heavy sigh put forth a name. “Archibald Crowninshield.” 

Over the next several minutes and consumption of sliced apple bread, Scott relayed his situation of being blackmailed due to his moment of artistic inspiration depicting Headmaster Pughman as a robed pig. Unfortunately, the discarded drawing had been snagged from a trash barrel by fellow student Archie, floundering with failing grades. To avoid another uncomfortable conversation with the headmaster, Scott had begun penning Crowninshield passing essay assignments in exchange for the boy’s silence with no end in sight. 

“The little shyster is fleecin’ ye?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, now. We certainly can’t be havin’ that.” Another slice of apple bread was offered along with a query. “Tell me, ScottyGarrett, have ye ever heard the tale of the Honest Woodsman?”

*********

“What?”

“Not what, Johnny - who? The Honest Woodsman.”

“The fella’s name’s not ticklin’ a memory, brother.”

“Care to hear the tale?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Are you acquainted with the phrase captive audience?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

It was Scott’s memory of Winnie’s kitchen filled with the aroma of apple bread that tickled a strategy on how to erase the smirk Will Jenkins wore as he’d tucked the dime novel back into his coat pocket and boarded the stage. The trick now was to persuade Johnny of a resolve that didn’t involve one of his brother’s side-alley solutions ending in a broken nose of questionable ownership. The day’s ride back to Lancer presented a perfect opportunity of convincing. The storyteller cleared his throat and began.

 “Once there was this poor Woodsman cutting down a tree near a deep pool-”

“Martin’s Lake?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was this fella cuttin’ down a tree at Martin’s Lake?”

Pondering pout. “Well…” Shrug. “Seems plausible.  All right… this Woodsman was cutting down a tree near Martin’s Lake. Now, it had grown late in the day and the Woodsman was tired because he’d been working since sunrise.”

“Workin’ since sunrise.” Chuckle. “Sounds like we might a got ourselves another brother the ol’ man ain’t told us about.”

“Again, plausible.” Grin. “So, tell me the brother who is physically present to hear this tale, may I continue?”

“By all means.”

“Since fatigue had set in, the Woodsman’s axe strokes weren’t as sure as they’d been that morning. Thus it happened the axe slipped and flew out of his hands into the pool.”

“Martin’s Lake.”

Slow exhale. “Right. Martin’s Lake. The Woodsman was in despair. The axe was all that he had to earn a living and he didn’t have enough money to buy a new one.”

“Guess he’d visited one too many bunkhouse poker games.”

Side-eyed slow nod. “Sounds accurate with a hint of familiarity. Maybe this gent is our long-lost brother after all. As he stood at the edge of Martin’s Lake wringing his hands, the god Mercury appeared.”

“Hold up. Can’t do it, Scott. Nope. Not another toga-totin’ tale.”

“All right, how’s this? As the Woodsman stood by the lake in despair his oldest and wisest brother appeared.”

“Hold up. How many brothers does this fella have?”

“Three.” 

“So, where’s the third brother?”

“Sitting in on a bunkhouse poker game trying to win back the money his younger brother lost on an inside straight.” Cocked eyebrow. “Keeping up?”

“Yeah.”

“When the Woodsman told what had happened, the kind and wise oldest brother dove into Martin’s Lake. Surfacing, he held up a wonderful golden axe and asked - is this your ax? The honest Woodsman shook his head.  No, that is not my axe.”

“Lost me.”

“How so?”

“This fella turned down an axe made a gold.”

“I suggest you tag along for a few more minutes. The fog of confusion may lift. The patient oldest brother laid the golden axe on the banks and dove back into Martin’s Lake. This time he brought up an axe of silver but once again the Woodsman shook his head no and declared his axe was simply an ordinary one with a wooden handle.”

“Hold up. Is this one of those moral-a-the-story?”

“It’s desperately trying to be.” Slow exhale. “So, the wise oldest brother dove into Martin’s Lake for the third time and when he came up again he had the very axe that had been lost. The Woodsman was so happy his axe had been found he couldn’t thank his wise oldest brother enough.”

“Did he buy him a nice cool beer?”

“No. However, the wise oldest brother did admire the Woodsman and commended him on his honesty thus giving him all three axes, the gold one, the silver one and the one that had been lost.”

“Damn generous big brother. I would a bought him a drink. Moral a the story - never look a gift horse in the mouth. Buy ‘em a beer. The end.”

“No. Not the moral. Not the end. This next part is very important so pay attention.”

“All ears, wise oldest brother.” Puffed checks slowly deflating questioned Johnny’s commitment to listening.

“I can see that. So, the Woodsman gathered up his treasures and went home. It didn’t take long before the story of his unexpected fortune spread throughout the village.”

“Green River.”

“Right. Green River. Now, there happened to be a rather dodgy woodsman in town who heard of the honest woodsman’s turn of good luck and wanted to cash in.”

“McCutcheon. Sold the ol’ man that useless wagon. Fella has to be McCutcheon.” 

“Fair enough. The next day, Woodsman McCutcheon went to Martin’s Lake and hid his ordinary axe in the bushes. Standing on the lake's banks he wept and wrung his hands until the wise oldest brother came along. Hearing a similar tale, he dove into the waters and surfaced with a golden axe. Is this your axe asked the brother to which Woodsman McCutcheon replied indeed it is.”

“Yep. That’d be McCutcheon.”

“Well, the wise oldest brother wasn’t fooled. Instead, he whacked Woodsman McCutcheon on the head and sent him running back to town.” 

“What we shoudda done to McCutcheon over that broken down wagon.”

“True, but he did buy us a round at Henry’s using Murdoch’s twenty dollars and we’re straying off the story’s path.”

“Just thought it needed mentioning.”

“Later, when Woodsman McCutcheon returned to the bushes he discovered his own axe was nowhere to be found and thus was left with nothing. The end.”

“Hold up. Thought this was a moral-a-the-story.”

“Indeed it is.” A throat cleared for a resonating climax. “And the moral of this fine story: Honesty is the best policy.”

“Jelly!”

“Jelly?”

“I shoulda known he wouldn’t keep his damn yammer shut.” Johnny pulled on the reins bringing their wagon to a halt. “Look, Scott… hell… what could beat four aces?”

“A royal flush comes to mind.”

“I’ll win back the five silvers I borrowed… I mean… it’s bad practice leavin’ coins layin’ around… in your room… and… ” The confessor eyeballed his traveling companion’s dipped brow. “This isn’t what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Well, it wasn’t up to this point.” Squinting at a passing cloud helped refill the patience bucket. “The Honest Woodsman was my introduction on how we handle Will Jenkins and our poor decision of a dime novel.” 

“We hit Jenkins over the head with an axe?” 

The patience bucket quickly sprung a leak as Scott signaled for his younger brother chauffeur to slap the reins. Wagon wheels protested and the journey home resumed. “So those five silvers…” The teller of tales tugged at his hat brim to shade eyes from the rising sun, crossed arms and leaned back. “Little brother, did I ever tell you the story about The Spendthrift and the Swallow?”