The regular evening’s session of story telling from the “deacon’s seat” was in full swing again this evening. Swan Gullickson, a tall Norwegian, held the seat of honor. “Yentleman”, he was saying, “dis bane true story, I tell you. Many bluffs stand by my hame, so high dat I skal not see the sun afore de clock go round, so de dam’ hand stand at clock dree. So de dark coom, but gude Scandahoovian man is not afraid for dark.
Yust four mile from my house live bunch of dose Irishers, who are very queer, you know. Val, you see, dis here golly hey talk some bad t’ings about. De Irishers call it de hanted golly and it hey bad name. I say, ‘by yiminy, dis dam’ banshee cat. I am not scare for fear.’
Some of my Tronjam people dat coom from de fjords and de rock boun’ coast of Norway, bane dam’ gude fellows yust de same, but dey skal say to me, ‘Gullickson, you vatch dem Irishers.’ Val, I don’t know, yen a man is deat he is deat, but de Irisher, yen he is deat, you skal hey to vatch him dree nights yet and den you ain’t sure.
Val, dis big Irisher hey cow and calf for sell. He stan’ by my house to town, so he meet gude fellas in tavern, who help him yolly oop de panga for his cow and calf. Val, about clock two in morning, I hear some bad noise in dark road. My Christene, she say, ‘Swan, I tink I hear Banshee cat cry! She was pretty scare for fear. Val, I hear so much about dose Leprachaun fairies and banshees dat belong to de Irish people, I skal say, I vas scare for fear. But I yump my shoulders, and Christene holler, ’Swan, you stay in hame, I skal die har, dis banshee cry’.
Val, I call my dog Ole, he bane gude dog too but he bane awful scare too. He no gude, he so scare. His tail bane so tight between his leg, he bane hey no tail. Dis blood of mine, coom running long tam, from viking king and god Thor, so I say, Ton Stracha’, I vill not fear for dam and I rush out. Val, I hey as gude eye as any yumping Scandahoovian. Dis banshee cat, she lean on fence. She hey hair on forehead, plenty long hair under nose, lak Russian man, tail two feet tick and long as ral fence. And such movement, I skal not dream afore.
Dis moon from skay, she bane scare too, she bane yump behind cloud and yump in again. Dis dog Ole, he bane run to Christine. Val I gif gude prayer to de god of good viking, and de vorld, she seem to burst. I cannot say in jankee vat I saw, but it shmel’ lak sulphur, fire and shmoke. My ear and eye, dey don’t seem mine.
Val, I hear moan and den I see a burst of flame, a jell lak tousand cat call from hell. De ground, she yump in my face, my nose, she bane on fire, a long jell and I lay on ground and smell so bad. And den I kneel and moon coom out and I tank, ‘viii dese leg stan’ oop for Swan?’ Dis moan, she coom from some one. I bane scare for fear, and strong shmel’ of sulphur and brimstone coom, but I hear de moan some more.
De moon pick out and I see somet’ing lay in fence corner, and I yust stan’ and look. Dis t’ing be move some. I look some more and dat t’ing sat oop and shak his head, and I see he vas big Irisher from top of hill. He say, ’I hey awful big dream. His breat’ not shmel’ gude and he ask vere he is.’ I tel’ him, ‘right har’, and he stan’ on his leg and try to find his head. I say, ’you pass my hame wid cow and calf.’ He look lak dream and his mout’ shmel’ some more. He find his pocket and bring out penga and start to count. But de moon, she yump behin’ cloud and we spreng hame.
Christene, she feel lak one dead and my dog Ole, he growl and snarl lak he vas madt. Dis big Irisher, he count his penga, vich vas a dollar half, I skal say, his voman skal say, dat vas shmal’ penga for one cow and calf. He tink of his dream and yank his head and say he bane one fool man.
‘Swan’, he say, ‘you see somet’ing?’ Val, my head vas gone, so I yust open my mout’. He say, ‘I dream of banshee cat coom oop from hell. Swan, do I look bad?’
“Val I don’t care to kiss a face lak dat,” I say.
“Swan,” he say, I hey one big fire inside. For de love of Brian Bru, give me somet’ing. Val, I hey gude heart. I guess dis Brian Bru bane big banshee fellow. Me and Christene bane scare for fear of dis cellar. You see dis bane free country, but dis cellar of mine, she belong to Bolstead. Val, I go down and steal somet’ing from Bolstead and we hey somet’ing Christene make, and I can say it vas gude too.
Dis Irisher, he vipe his mout’ and open his eye and he say, ’Swan, you bane relationed to fella dat coom from Rock Bound coast of Norway, wid carpet bag on back filled wid plenty ludevisk and snuce? He skal not shmil’ even in jankee.
’Vat do you mean by dat man?’ I ask. ’Val,’ he say, `dis man, Kittie’s Paw, he bane hey shady back trail. He try many yobs, he vork as gate keeper in House of David, and try to get yob in nursing home and could not stay put, so he get pass from Bolstead to shmel’ cellars of Jankees in U. S. A. Val, he bane scare for fear, so he yump on boat for England and he get his eye nock out by divinity student, and he look lak he bane fight wid banshee cat.’
Christene, she give us plenty to drink and he pass on and say, ‘Swan, dis big vorld var, she coom and dree of my boys, dey lay now in poppy field over dere.’ Big tear roll down his face. Den he say, ‘we pay plenty penga for thar funeral.’
He tink a vile, den he say, `val, dis fella Bolstead, he hey bad mind and he is not of de U. S. A. Den dis fella Bolstead, ven everyt’ing is dark, he bane see in dark, so he yump in wid de one hundred and eighteent’ amendment, so to make it safe for de boys dat have no legs, to keep dem from staggering when dey coom home.’
’Val, he vrite to a lutevisk voman in Copenhagen to send her boy to coom to vat vas left of de country, dat dere vas gude picking yet. He vould give him yob pulling back curtains in Jankee’s homes so Kittie’s Paw could look in and see vat de families had in dere homes. Dis fella’s name vas Tin Pan Kettleson.’
Val, we take one more drink and Christene, she hey plenty tear in her eye. ’Val’, he say, ’Swan, dis time we stay here is short and I hope we hey no banshee brindle cat, vere ye go next.’
Den he t’ink and t’ink for some time, den he say, `val, I sell my cow and calf and drink somet’ing dey call Bostead number one and dream of banshee cat and hey yust one dollar half left. Swan, ve took dis country from de Indians and I t’ink it is going back to dem soon. De young man and de girls hey to hey hippers now to go to barn dances. Dey skal say dat dey skal hey companionate marriage and I know de man’s dat change dis country viii hey plenty people vaiting for dem. Swan, don’t you Vink dis beautiful country dat has changed so by dose few men, and has sent so many souls to perdition viii be scare for fear yen dey coom to de Judgment seat?’ I not say anyt’ng but yust sit dere and t’ink. Den he get oop and say, ’Aral, good-bye, Swan, I hope ye some more again yen de banshee cat bane not around’. My Christene and I t’ink he did not dream of de banshee cat, vor vhy did ye hear him too, if de Irisher yust dreamed it? Tell me dat, hah?”
