A Little Gunpowder
In the mid 1930’s it was not uncommon to find a news story with the descriptive heading of “Chicken Thieves” or Hog Rustlers Steal Fifteen Head.” Food was a serious problem during the depression days and it was a daily struggle for some to keep sustenance on the table. Losing forty seven Plymouth Rock hens valued at $50.00 was a loss to any farmer.
What made it such a sweet piece of thievery was the scoundrel could carry the chickens home in a gunny sack and turn them loose with an existing flock. He would then have eggs to sell or he could put them in the pot for Sunday dinner. He could also take them to the poultry house in town to be sold for the necessities of life.
The theft of the hogs was down in the fall of the year which leads me to suspect that a couple of men stocked their smoke houses for the coming winter.
In August of 1899, the Editor of the Cole Camp Courier was steamed enough over petty thievery to place the following statement in his paper: “Perhaps it would be well to take up a collection for the benefit of some people living on one of the lower streets in the west part of town. It seems that they can not find work or else do not want to work for a living and consequently go into the alley, put their long arms over the fences and help themselves to their neighbor’s melons, cucumbers, wood or anything else they can get their dishonest fingers on. This kind of business was started last winter and still continues.”
The Editor of the Tipton Mail complained to the Cole Camp Editor that he too was plagued by fire wood thieves and was at his wits end on how to put a stop to it.
In the late 1800’s, ninety percent of all the people living in the Ozark Hills were wholly illiterate, but they could have given the Editors a bit of advice on handling firewood thieves. They related a tale to Vance Randolph, noted Ozark folklorist, which was later shared in one of his books. The book, “Who blowed up the church house?”, speaks of a mean, ill-tempered old Bachelor who lived across the road from the Baptist Church.
He had once been a strong and self-sufficient man but old age had overtaken him and he was now forced to buy his firewood. He complained that the wood cutters shorted him. He also swore that the neighbors were stealing his wood, saying: “There’s folks in this town that ain’t got no woodpile at all, but they got smoke coming out their chimney.”
The old man went fishing one afternoon and while he was gone the new preacher showed up. The church was too chilly for comfort so he decided to start a fire. But alas, no wood. Looking across the street he spied the old man’s woodpile. He “borrowed” a few sticks and started a fire but all of a sudden the stove blew up.
Live coals scattered all over the building and only the quick action of the townspeople prevented the church from burning down. People claimed the old man laced the firewood with gunpowder. The old man in his own defense accused the neighbors of trying to kill him. And some even speculated that the wood cutters were trying to get even with the old cuss for his ornery treatment of them.
Whatever happened and whoever did it, it was a sure way to find your stolen woodpile. And all the Editor really needed was a little gunpowder.
