490 
FOREST AND STREAM, 
[June 30, 1896. 
A GANDER PULL IN ARKANSAW. 
BY FRED MATHER. 
"Hadn't yo' better stop an' see the gander pull this 
evenin'?" asked the landlord, after my bill for supper, 
lodging and breakfast had been paid, and inquiries made 
as to the road that struck the nearest stream which, if 
followed, led to a branch of the Bodeau River. 
"A gander pull?" 
"Yes, we're gwine to have a gander pull, an' if yo' never 
see none yo' better stop and see the fun, f o' they'll be a 
heap of it, an' as yo' seem fond o' spo't I reckon yo'll 
inj'y it," and he stretched his huge form in the doorway 
as he remarked on the prospect of a fine day for the 
"pull." 
It was my plan to follow some small stream to Lewis- 
ville, where the alcohol tanks for such fishes as could be 
collected in southwestern Arkansas were stored, and then 
to follow the little river down into Louisiana to Bodeau 
Lake; but the landlord's suggestion was tempting, and a 
day could be profitably devoted to the study of birds, for 
surely I had heard old darky Sam say that the birds were 
as fine as he "ever see," and the "gander pulling" related 
to some sport with geese. A question to the landlord 
would betray ignorance, Sam was the one to get informa- 
tion from. 
"So the birds are fine ones, are they, Sam?" 
" 'Deed dey is, sah, as good as I ever hung, sahl" - 
They were to be hung; that fact was recorded, and a 
look at the "birds" proved them to be "sure enough" gan- 
ders, common every-day ganders, such as lead the flock on 
all occasions; and now that they hung them the questions 
how, where, and what the nature of the Bport might be 
after they were hung, outweighed the number and kind 
of fishes that were in all the rivers of the State. Old Sam 
sat on an upturned pail washing a piece of harness in an- 
other pail, humming an old melody as he soaped the 
sponge, and was absorbed in contemplation of the coming 
sport. It was evident that he must be humored in order 
to get at a knowledge of the rules governing the sport of 
gander pulling without exciting a suspicion that I was 
ignorant of a thing which seemed to be so common that 
mere mention of it was enough to satisfy ordinary minds, 
and a random shot was fired to draw him out. 
"I reckon you've hung a great many ganders in your 
time, Sam." 
"'Deed I has, sahl I'se reckoned de bes' han' aroun' 
dese parts, suah, an' dey sen' fo' me all obah, sari Dey 
say I makes 'em slicker dan any ob 'em." 
Beyond the fact that it was desirable that the ganders 
should be made ' 'slick" the question was a failure. Besides 
the tavern the place had a dwelling and a blacksmith 
shop, and a sign over the latter told that Jo Bevins was a 
first-class horseshoer, and the ring of his anvil announced 
that he was within. Perhaps he could help to unravel 
the problem, and on the impulse I left old Sam singing: 
"De hen an' chickens dey gwine for to roos\ 
De hawk flew down an' he bit de ole goose, 
He hit de ole hen in de middle ob de back, 
An 1 1 r'ahy bTeve dat am a fac\ 
Den git along, John," etc. 
Mr. Bevins was a short man with a development of 
chest and arms much too great for his legs and he seemed 
top-heavy. His keen eyes and ready response to my salu- 
tation showed a natural curiosity in a stranger who was 
evidently hot a native, and in reply to my remark that 
there was to be a gander pull in the evening, for I had 
learned to drop the Northern term "afternoon," he said: 
"Yes, and there'll be a good turnout of the boyB from 
Prescott, Bourland's Store and Falcon, and lots o' fun. I 
reckon you're a stranger in these parts." This latter re- 
mark was partly in the form of a question and he was 
told that a little pleasure trip and a desire to attend the 
"pull" brought me there and I switched him off with: 
"They say that Old Sam is a smart hand at hanging 
ganders." 
"Yes, he is, an' he ought to be; he's done enough of it 
fo' the last fawty year." 
"He seems to make 'em slick, from what I hear." 
" 'Deed he does; he's got some secret o' making grease 
that's slipperier'n most grease, and he picks the feathe's 
offen the neck so careful that not a pin f eathah is left, an' 
last year Bill Turley, one of the best gandah pullahs in 
this county, took his turn with eight othe's and pulled 
foah times, an' his hoss slowed down each time afore he 
could twist that ganda's head off, an' it wa'n't an old ean- 
da' at thatl" s 
Here I had it, without any display of ignorance. Bill 
Turley was a champion gander puller and had pulled four 
tunes m his turn, the eight others had pulled three times 
each, or twenty-eight pulls on the picked and greased 
neck of a live gander before his obdurate head was in- 
duced to leave his body. Surely, this was an intellectual 
treat of a new kind, before which bull fighting, with its 
disemboweled horses, was a degrading spectacle. Here 
was something which a horse might enjoy with his mas- 
ter, and who could say that the gander might not also 
enjoy the tournament and imagine himself the highlv 
honored object for which renowned knights were con- 
tending and by skillfully dodging some and resigning 
his head to more favored ones he could choose the knight 
upon whose banner victory should perch. Such a roval 
game was never thought of by Richard Coeur de Lion 
Ivanhoe, or the Black Knight! We would witneas this 
grand game, which was fit for princes, if they had ever 
been blessed with wit enough to discover it. 
Returning to the old darky, I proceeded to impress 
upon him the fact that a gander pull had been an everv- 
day thing in my experience by saying: "Sam, Jo Bevins 
says that you don't make the geese as slick as you used to 
he thinks you put in too much butter and not enough tar 
and the butter melts and runs off. Now, up in Izard 
county, m the north part of this State, where I saw the 
last gander pull, the man who handled the birds said that 
he did not use any butter, and — " 
"What Jo Bevins been tellin' you? What he know 
bout how I make my slush? No man know dat. Butter! 
lips and hanging up the harness he pulled out a peculiar 
strap about an inch wide with a slit in one end and a hole 
in the other, and carefully oiled it; I ventured to ask: 
"What part of a harness is that, Sam?" He looked up 
with a grin and said: 
"I reckon you neber seed many gander pulls, sho'. 
Dat's de h'istin' strap w'at dey's h'iated by so's it doan 
hurt dere laigs like a string do. I spected dat dey doan 
hab gander pulls in de Norf— you is fum de Norf , so 
Misser Wilson said, an' my boy Jake he went off up dat 
a-way two yeah ago, Boss'on dey calls de place. I spec' 
you nebber seen him?" 
Assuring Sam that I had somehow missed seeing his 
boy, and feeling defeated at my game, I strolled off up 
the road and into the fields to pass the time until dinner. 
It was a perfect autumn day, the maples on the higher 
ground just showing the different yellows, while those 
near a swamp were glowing red; in the shaded spots the 
grass was hung with spider svebs which still held the dew 
and made them gorgeous with a wealth of diamonds. 
The quail were calling from the stubble; gaudy jays 
screamed from the thickets and flocks of blackbirds chat- 
tered in the alders. A large fox squirrel ran up a per- 
simmon tree that was red with fruit not yet palatable to 
man, and if it was to him he gave no evidence of it. A 
hawk moving in graceful circles next claimed attention, 
and while I was pondering on his mysterious power of 
soaring he descended and skirted the wood— poised, 
plunged and bore off a half-grown rabbit whose pitiful 
cries turned my thought into another channel. Nature 
had shown her beautiful, holiday side, and at once turned 
to show how pitiless and unrelenting are her laws! 
Hawks are hungry, rabbits are good food; and so the 
train of thought led to man and the fact that ganders are 
good food, and so to dinner. 
While chatting with the blacksmith after dinner a tall, 
powerful man of about 40 years, with a well-trimmed 
beard, in which streaks of gray began to show, rode up 
on a clean-limbed iron gray horse, dismounted and 
Hitched him to the pole. 
"That," said Bevins, "is Old Bill Turley and he's one 
of them quiet kind that 'tends his own business, but it 
won't do for any of the smart fellahs to go projectin' 
'round him, an' they know it." 
Turley nodded as he passed in to the bar room, and a 
glance in his clear blue eye confirmed the blacksmith's 
words, and I certainly should not "go projectin' 'round 
him." New arrivals were confidentially announced to 
me as follows: 
"That old feller is Sile Johnson; he fit in the war, and 
never gits drunk only at a rifle shoot or a gander pull; 
says he likes to see young men fight, but his fightin' day 
is done past. Yere's George Washington Simpkins, him 
on the gray; he's in for everything like fun, but allers 
gets too full to inj'y it; them fellahs just hitchin' now is 
Ben Kellum with the bay mare and Pete Murphy with 
the black hoss; they are young sprouts just comin' up 
and both keepin' company with the same gal over near 
Bourland's. Excuse me, I want to see Turley." 
From the seat outside could be heard the clink of 
glasses, greetings, laughter at some joke, mainly personal, 
more glasses and reminiscences until the question of time 
bout it." 
His game worked if mine failed, and after wiping his 
dey can git limb'd up propah, and den Misser Wilson he 
doan make nufiin' on de birds. Lordy! sometime defust 
man get de gander fo' a nickel, an' as dey's all in I'se got 
to put up anudder one. Doan make a nickel on dat work 
an' doan 'spect to; it's de bar pays, but I got de work to 
do and dey doan gi' me no drink till I'se done." 
A low-set brindle dog lay on the step near old Sam, 
taking no further interest in worldly affairs than to snap 
at the flies which chose his ears as a tryst or to dislodge a 
flea from its chosen spot, when down the road came a big 
yellow dog tracking some boys who had arrived a while 
before. Brindle dropped his ears and raised the hair on 
his back, as the stranger turned to the house, and rose with 
great dignity. The stranger stopped, moved obliquely 
forward as if to get in the rear of the slowly advancing 
brindle; a pause, a spring, and the battle was on. At the 
first sound of the conflict there was a rush from the bar- 
room. "Form a ring!" "Give 'em fair play!" "Go in, 
yaller!" "Shake him, Turk!" All this in one breath. 
The yellow dog was heavier than Turk and had him by 
the throat and under him. "Five dollars on yaller!" 
shouted Ben Kellum, "I never seed him afore, but 
he's a winner!" and before he could flourish his money 
Turley quietly said: "Young man, I don't want yo' 
money, but he can't lick that brindle for the drinks; will 
you go it?" "Sure, all right, yaller wins for the drinks." 
All this time the hold of the yellow dog was imbroken 
and the brindle was using his legs trying to get a tooth 
hold on an ear or elsewhere, when with a twist he got 
hold of a forefoot and toyed with it until "yaller" let go 
his hold and lif .ed up his voice in a manner that signified 
that fighting was not just what he wanted, and after 
brindle was forced to let go there was a yellow streak 
down the road and Bill Turley tapped Ben on the,shoulder 
saying, "Young man, the drinks are on you," and all 
hands went inside. Old Sam remarked to me: "Dat fool 
boy bet on dat yalla' dog, he he! I know that ole Turk, 
seen him fight afo'. He's Bill Turley 's dog; two yalla'e 
nebber lick him, nebber." 
The time had come when in the opinion of the landlord 
everybody was in prime condition for sport and he gave 
Sam a look that he understood, for he went to a shed and 
soon trundled a barrow down the road to a big oak tree 
which stretched a great arm across the road and spread 
its branches beyond the opposite fence. The barrow car- 
ried a box which contained ten strong ganders with their 
necks neatly divested of every feather. Throwing a light 
line over the limb, he tied in his leather noose, gave a 
gander's neck a thick coating of grease and swung him 
up by both feet at the proper height. Meanwhile the 
landlord's son had set his business table at the starting 
point, just 100yds. away, and under the Bhade of a maple. 
The men were mounted and each had paid his entry and 
drawn straws for turn. The gander had ceased flopping 
and was hanging head down awaiting the fun. 
Sile Johnson, the ex-Oonfed., came first on a bay plow 
horse with four white feet. With a yell that scared a 
buzzard from a feast half a mile away he plied the whip 
and started. His coat was off and his right arm bare to 
the elbow, his hat left him the first few rods and his hair 
streamed out behind. Nearing his quarry, he shifted the 
whip to his bridle hand, raised his right and grabbed. 
The gander dodged and the crowd yelled. Simpkins fol- 
lowed on a big gray and greased his hand on the bird, 
Kellum on a bay maie and Pete Murphy on a black horse 
made clean misses. Then came Bill Turley on a strong 
iron-gray. "BUI," said a small boy, "he's a-waitin' fer 
you, an' ef you don't git him he'll git tired." As he started 
he pulled his pocket handkerchief, and cries of "Foul!" 
went up; buc he merely wiped fcis eye and returned it just 
in time to grip the gander close to the head, and left the 
bird neatly decapitated in the air. Cheers went up, and 
as he joined the crowd he remarked, "Let's take some- 
thing on the first goose," and the motion was carried 
unanimously. So far I had held aloof and escaped special 
notice, and continued to do so until five tournaments had 
been run, the second gander to Murphy, third to Turley, 
fourth to Kellum and fifth to Sile Johnson. By this time 
the drinks had begun to tell on Sile, and Jo Bevins said to 
me in confidence that the old man was "beginnin' to feel 
tol'able numerous." But Sile proposed to celebrate his 
skill and invited all hands to the bar. He noticed me for 
the first time. My light overcoat had been laid off and 
his eye struck a Grand Army button. "Hello, Yank!" 
yelled he, to which I replied with the old picket-line 
greeting, "Hello, Johnny!" 
"Put it thah," said he, extending his hand. "What 
corps was yo' with?" 
"Second Corps, Army of the Potomac, First Division, 
campaign of '64." 
"Why, yo' pizen old Yank ! That was Hancock's corps. 
I knowed 'em fust rate, ought to, met 'em offen 'nuff . 
Say! I was with old Jube Early; ever heah o' him? Bet 
yo' did, f o' we kep' yo' all busy sometimes, druv yo' outen 
the Wilde'ness an' doubled yo' up at Cold Harbor, hey? 
But you uns got squah at Pete'sburg an' we won't talk 
about Gettysburg, but say! if you fit with Hancock you've 
got to take a drink with me, Yank, yo' have, fo' a fac'." 
The crowd had been increased by about forty men and 
boys of all complexions, and they formed a circle about 
us, apparently interested in the "Yank," who in addition 
to that distinction was a stranger and therefore a legiti- 
mate object of curiosity, and with open mouths they 
awaited his reply. I took the proffered hand and hesi- 
tated. It would not do to refuse; and while not a total 
abstainer there were strong reasons for declining; the 
first was that the drink would be only the beginning of a 
series whereof the end could not be foreseen, and in which 
under no circumstances would I engage; and the second 
was the quality of the stuff that was being sold by land- 
lord Wilson. Running this over rapidly while holding 
his hand I said: "I am very glad to meet you now, 
much more so than I was in the places that you have 
named, and I am only sorry that my kidneys will not 
allow me to take a drink with you in memory of auld 
lang syne." 
"Durn yo' kidneys! I didn't ask them to take a drink, 
but ef yo' fit with Hancock, an' in the first division of his 
corps, red clover leaf, wa'n't it; yes, red clover, le's see, 
Barlow, yes, Barlow's division. O, I ain't dun forgot 
everything. Say, Yank, don't yo' think I'm drunk, Pm 
gwine win some ganda's yet, butyo' gwine drink with me, 
yo' is, sho'; here, boys, hyar's a Yank fit ag'in me an' 
mebbe the one 'at shot me in my laig; say, Yank, did yo' 
shoot me? Ef you did yo' got to take a drink, an' ef yo' 
didn't yo' got to drink with the old reb, ain't that so, boys?" 
The crowd was unanimous, vociferously so, and to re- 
sist further would evidently give offense; so with the plea 
that ill health would not allow of liquid indulgences I 
capitulated on condition that "just ooe, in memory of 
the Wilderness campaign," should be all that I would be 
expected to take. Turley remarked that I made a poor 
looking sick man, and "he'd seen lots wuss." 
"Whoop," yelled George Washington Simpkins, lifting 
his glass, "I diden get no ganda', but here's to nex' time; 
keep yo' good eye awn the ole gray an' me ef yo' want to 
see a ole ganda's head fotched offen him in fust-class 
shape." 
"Spec' yo' didn' hoi' sand 'nuff in yo' han'," said old 
black Sam. "Ho, Miss'r Wilson! I'se des a-honin' fo' a 
drink, I is, fo' a fac'." 
"Yes, let ole Sam have a drink," said Turley, " 'twon't 
hurt him none; he's all right an' he hangs the birds to the 
Queen's taBte; give him one awn me." 
"He's right enough," said Wilson, "and I want to 
keep him so until the spo't is ovah and then he can have 
all he wants. Here vo are, Sam." 
"Fo' de lawd, Miss r Wilson, but dat ah glass am small; 
Bpec' he's dun shrunk in de wash. Say, gimme bigga' 
glass en dat, I ain't had no drink dis ebenin'." 
"Hurry up, the glass is big enough!" But when the 
landlord's back was turned Sam filled the second time 
and drained it with the remark, "Dat ah glass am 'ceed- 
in'ly small, it am, fo' a fac'." 
The old darky was in good humor now, and went out 
singing: 
"De jaybird sot awn de hickory lim', 
He wink at me an 1 1 wink at him ; 
Says I, 'Missa Jaybird, how de do?' 
Says he, Tm well, an' how am you?' 
Den get along, John, yah-ha-hal" 
Old Bill Turley arose to a point of order and remarked : 
"Wal, gentlemen, ef yo' all got yo' thirst quenched, I 
reckon it's time to feel the necks o' them ganders." 
"No hurry," said the landlord, "the evenin's young yet, 
an' the ganda's ain't in no hurry. How's that, Sam, ah 
they all right?" 
"Dey is, fo' a fac', Missa Wilson, an' dey doan git in no 
weavin' way 'bout gittin' dey necks puiled. Yah, hal 
Dey ain' honin' fo' yo' all to git in de saddle, yah, ha!" 
This gave the host a chance to say: "Now, gentlemen, 
yo' heah what Sam says, an' yo' all's got time to take one 
with me;" and without question as to choice of beverage 
the glasses were set out and the bottle followed. Sile John- 
son, the ex-Confederate, was in the middle as they lined 
up, and, catching my eye, called: "Guide center! Heah, 
yo! dress awn the colors! you uns on the right touch 
elbows on the left! Gi' me that bottle! Wait fo' awdahs! 
Begin fiahing awn the left! Fire!" and he sent the bottle 
spinning down the sodden bar without accident. "Come 
up heah, yo' ole Yank," he continued, "yo' got to take 
one awn the house, 'deed yo' have; yo' kidneys must be 
dry by this time; heah, take the right o' the line!" It 
was the easiest, so I filled up with water and we all drank 
to the house. 
As the party filed out they passed me in review, with 
Jo Bevins, the blacksmith, acting as my aid and advisor, 
a trifle exuberant but suppressed while commenting, and 
his criticism was: "Thah's Old Bill, straight as a string, 
