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Tales from Pigeon Inlet Examples. Smokeroom on the Kyle. Tall are the tales that fishermen tell when summer’s work is done, Of fish they’ve caught, of birds they’ve shot, of crazy risks they’ve run. But never did a fisherman tell a tale, so tall by a half a mile,
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Smokeroom on the Kyle Tall are the tales that fishermen tell when summer’s work is done, Of fish they’ve caught, of birds they’ve shot, of crazy risks they’ve run. But never did a fisherman tell a tale, so tall by a half a mile, As Grampa Walcott told one night in the Smokeroom on the Kyle.
Smokeroom on the Kyle With ‘baccy smoke from twenty pipes, the atmosphere was blue. There was many a “Have another boy” and “Don’t mind if I do.” When somebody suggested that each in turn should spin, A yarn about some circumstance he’d personally been in.
Smokeroom on the Kyle Then tales were told of gun barrels bent to shoot around the cliff, Of men thawed out and brought to life that had been frozen stiff, Of bark pots carried off by flies, of pathways chopped through fog, Of woodsman Bill who, barefoot, kicked the knots out of a twelve inch log.
Smokeroom on the Kyle The loud applause grew louder still when Uncle Mickey Shea, Told of the big potato he grew in Gander Bay. Too big to fit through the cellar door, it lay at rest nearby, Until, one rainy night that fall, the pig drowned in it’s eye.
Smokeroom on the Kyle But meanwhile in a corner, his grey head slightly bowed, Sat Grampa Walcott, eighty-eight, the oldest of the crowd. Upon his weatherbeaten face there beamed a quiet grin, When someone shouted, “Grampa, ‘tis your turn to chip in.”
Smokeroom on the Kyle “Oh, no boys, leave me out,” said Grampa. “Oh thanks, don’t mind if I do. Ah, well alright boys, if you insist, I’ll tell you one that’s true. It’s a story about jigging squids I’m going to relate, And it happened in Pigeon Inlet in Eighteen eighty-eight.
Smokeroom on the Kyle Me, I was just a bedlamer then, fishin’ with my Dad, And prospects for the that season, they were looking pretty bad. Now, the caplin scull was over and that hadn’t been too bright, And here was August come and gone and nar a squid in sight.
Smokeroom on the Kyle Day after day we searched for squid, ‘til dark from the crack of dawn. We dug up clams and cock n’ hens ‘til even these were gone. And still no squids so, in despair, we give it up for good, Took our gear ashore and went cutting firewood.
Smokeroom on the Kyle Now, one morning, while out in the woods with all the other men, And wondering if we’d ever see another squid again. Father broke his axe that day so we were the first ones out, And as we neared the landwash, we heard the women shout.
Smokeroom on the Kyle “Come hurry boys, the squids are in.” Well, we jumped aboard our boat, And started out the harbour, the only crew afloat. But soon our keel began to scrunch like scrapin’ over skids. “Father,” says I, “we’ve run aground.” “Me son,” says he, “that’s squids.”
Smokeroom on the Kyle Said he, “The jigger, heave it out,” and quick as a flash I did, And soon as it struck the water, ‘twas grappled by a squid. I hauled it in and what do you think? As soon as he crossed the rail, I’ll be darned if there wasn’t a second squid clung on to the first one’s tail.
Smokeroom on the Kyle And another clung to that one and so on in a string. I tried to shake ‘em loose but Father said “You foolish thing. You’ve got something was never seen before in Newfoundland. Drop the jigger, grab the string and haul hand over hand.”
Smokeroom on the Kyle I hauled that string of squids aboard ‘til the boat could hold no more, And then we hitched it in the risings and rowed for the shore. Now the men were coming from the woods, they’d heard the women bawl, But Father said, “Don’t hurry boys, we’ve squid enough for all.”
Smokeroom on the Kyle So Uncle Jimmy, he took the string until he had enough, And, neighbour-like, he handed it on to Skipper Levi Cuff. Well, from stage to stage that string was passed throughout the whole night long, ‘Til daylight found it on Eastern Point with Uncle Billy Strong.
Smokeroom on the Kyle Now Uncle Bill, quite thoughtfully, before he went to bed, Took two half-hitches of that string ‘round the grump on his stagehead. Next morning Hartley’s Harbour heard the news and up they come, In a trap skiff with three pair of oars to tow the string down home.
Smokeroom on the Kyle And when Hartley’s Harbour had enough, the following afternoon, That string went on from place to place until it reached Quirpon. Now, what happened to it after that, well I don’t exactly know. But some folks say that it crossed the Straits and ended in Forteau.
Smokeroom on the Kyle Yes, tall are the tales that fishermen tell when summer’s work is done, Of fish they’ve caught and birds they’ve shot and crazy risks they’ve run. But never did a fisherman tell a tale, so tall be a half a mile, As Grampa Walcott told that night in the Smokeroom on the Kyle.
Geese Now, I personally can’t vouch for the truth of all of Grampa Walcott’s stories, on account of most of ’em happened before my time. All I can say is that Grampa is as truthful a man as you’ll find in Pigeon Inlet and that’s why today I don’t think I can do better than tell you Grampa’s story about the geese.
Geese ’Twas one fall’s day about sixty year ago, says Grampa, that he took his seven-eighths muzzle loader and went in on the barrens hoping to get a goose before they all left for the South’ard. Now, he didn’t see a thing until all at once he spotted this big black cloud rising in the Nor’west and headed straight for him. Thundercloud? No, ’twas geese, sure enough, but about two gunshots over his head. Anyway, he up gun, hoping he’d get a cripple or two, and fired.
Geese Well, for the next few minutes, he said, there was a shower of geese falling on all sides of him. They were only stunned and the best he could do, he thought, was to secure as many of them as he could before they come to.
Geese He had a ball of fishing line and he cut it into lengths and tied one end of each length to a goose’s neck and the other end to his belt, intending to finish ’em off when he got around to it. But he was too greedy. In all he had twenty-five of ’em fastened that way when they come to all at once and next thing Grampa knowed they were lifting him off the ground and flying away with him.
Geese In the excitement he dropped his knife so he couldn’t cut himself loose and in less time than it takes to tell it, there he was, up off the ground with twenty-five tow ropes stretched out ahead of him, headed for Florida, or Jamaica, or wherever it is geese go to spend their winters.
Geese Now, Grampa says he personally got nothing against Florida, likewise Jamaica, but with forty quintals of fish in his stage at that time needing a few more hours sun, he just couldn’t afford the trip. So he started to figure a way to get down out of there. After all, a man who could handle his own schooner ought to able to steer a flock of geese. Grampa decided to take his bearings. He was flying face down, stretched as comfortable as on a feather bed and Red Indian Lake was just coming up on the skyline, so Grampa decided he’d try something.
Geese Now, there was one big gander with a longer tow rope than the others so Grampa found the right string and give it a little jerk to starboard. Sure enough, the gander slewed and the others followed suit and a minute later Grampa was headed north straight for Pigeon Inlet. ’Twas only then, he says, that it dawned on him that here he was the first man ever to fly an airplane and if he could somehow turn it into a helicopter he might come through it alright.
Geese He looked right down at his own house as he passed over Pigeon Inlet and there was Liz, Grandma she is now but they’d only been married a year or two then, and Liz was looking up at him making some kind of motions with her hands. Now, he was sure Liz was giving him some kind of signal, if only he could make out what it was. Well, by this time he was almost down off Belle Isle, so he twigged his gander hard aport and headed back towards Pigeon Inlet again.
Geese Well now, by this time he was getting the hang of his steering gear, so he circled around a few times watching Liz until he made out her signal. She was making motions like ringing necks. Now, that was it. Why hadn’t he thought of it before. So he hauled in one goose by his painter and wrung his neck; then two more. Now there were only twenty-two tow ropes out ahead while he and the three dead ones were strung out behind and sure enough he was slowing down, a little bit, and dropping lower.
Geese Well, he kept circling around and looked down at Liz again and now he could make out a patch of something white on the ground right by her and he figured she had it there to guide him in making a landing. So he wrung more geese’s necks and kept circling lower and slower.
Geese “At last,” says Grampa, “ I manouevered them until I was right fair over my house, then I wrung all their necks excepting three and there we hung. That old gander, what a bird, he and his two helpers were pointed straight up in the sky by this time and hardly holding up the weight of all the rest of us. I had one bad minute when Lige Bartle, seeing this strange thing up in the sky, started to come with his swiling gun. But Liz told him who it was.”
Geese “Finally, I looked down again. The white patch was right below me. So I wrung the other two necks and me and that old gander fluttered down so gentle that I wouldn’t have cracked an egg if there’d been one on that white patch where my feet landed.” “There I stood,” said Grampa, “chock to my waist in dead geese and glad to be back home again. ‘Liz, my dear,’ said I, ‘bless your heart for saving me.’ ‘Ben,’ said she, ‘take your dirty mucky boots off my clean tablecloth.’
Geese ‘But Liz,’ said I, ‘you did save me, you know, by advising me to wring their necks.’ ‘Ben,’ said she, ‘I was only telling you what I’d like to be doing to your neck, up there playing around with a lot of foolish geese. But,’ she said, ‘seeing as how you’re home again after all, wring that other one’s neck and let’s start picking ’em.’”
Geese Well, Grampa untied the twenty-four geese from his belt and was just about to wring the gander’s neck too when something in that old bird’s expression made him change his mind. To hurt that bird, why it would be like hurting an old shipmate. So Grampa untied him and let him go. He circled around overhead a few times and then took off for Florida, or Jamaica, or wherever it is that geese go to spend their winters.
Geese “And that,” said Grampa, “was my first and only helicopter trip. I was tempted to try it again,” he said, “more than once, ’cause that old gander used to pitch in front of my door every fall for years after with a length a string in his bill. But after eight or nine falls he give it up and I never seen him afterwards. Ah, but he was a wonderful, knowing bird.”