Stories of Erskine Caldwell Read Free

of theirs for two-three years at a time. That’s what they do. And they’ve been doing it for the past thirty-forty years, ever since I can remember, and they haven’t changed none in all that time. I can recall the first time they came to East Joloppi; they built that house across the road then, and if you’ve ever seen a sight like Swedes building a house in a hurry, you haven’t got much else to live for. Why! Stan, those Swedes built that house in four-five days — just like that! I’ve never seen the equal of it. Of course now, Stan, it’s the damnedest-looking house a man ever saw, because it’s not a farmhouse, and it’s not a city house, and it’s no kind of a house an American would erect. Why! Those Swedes threw that house together in four-five days — just like that! But whoever saw a house like that before, with three stories to it, and only six rooms in the whole building! And painted yellow, too; Good God, Stan, white is the only color to paint a house, and those Swedes went and painted it yellow. Then on top of that, they went and painted the barn red. And of all of the shouting and yelling, at all times of the day and night, a man never saw or heard before. Those Swedes acted like they were purely crazy for the whole of four-five days, and they were, and they still are. But what gets me is the painting of it yellow, and the making of it three stories high, with only six rooms in the whole building. Nobody but Swedes would go and do a thing like that; an American would have built a farmhouse, here in the country, resting square on the ground, with one story, maybe a story and a half, and then painted it lead-white. But Good God, Stan, those fool Swedes had to put up three stories, to hold six rooms, and then went and painted the building yellow.”
    “Swedes are a little queer, sometimes,” I said. “But Finns and Portuguese are too, Jim. And Americans sometimes —”
    “A little queer!” Jim said. “Why! Good God, Stan, the Swedes are the queerest people on the earth, if that’s the right word for them. You don’t know Swedes, Stan. This is the first time you’ve ever seen those Swedes across the road, and that’s why you don’t know what they’re like after being shut up in a pulpwood mill over to Waterville for four-five years. They’re purely wild, I tell you, Stan. They don’t stop for anything they set their heads on. If you was to walk out there now and tell them to move their autos and trucks off of the town road so the travelers could get past without having to drive around through the brush, they’d tear you apart, they’re that wild, after being shut up in the pulp mill over to Waterville these three-four, maybe four-five, years.”
    “Finns get that way, too,” I tried to tell Jim. “After Finns have been shut up in a woods camp all winter, they make a lot of noise when they get out. Everybody who has to stay close to the job for three-four years likes to act free when he gets out from under the job. Now, Jim, you take the Portuguese —”
    “Don’t you sit there, Jim, and let Stanley keep you from putting the tools away,” Mrs. Frost said. “Stanley doesn’t know the Swedes like we do. He’s lived up in the Back Kingdom most of his life, tucked away in the intervale, and he’s never seen Swedes —”
    “Good God, Stan,” Jim said, standing up, he was that nervous and upset, “the Swedes are overrunning the whole country. I’ll bet there are more Swedes in the town of East Joloppi than there are in the rest of the country. Everybody knows there’s more Swedes in the State of Maine than there are in the old country. Why! Jim, they take to this state like potato bugs take to —”
    “Don’t you sit there and let Stanley keep you back, Jim,” Mrs. Frost put in again. “Stanley doesn’t know the Swedes like we do. Stanley’s lived up there in the Back Kingdom most of his life.”
    Just then one of the big Swedes started yelling at some of the little