Uncle shooed him off three or four times. Finally
uncle made a grab at him, caught him by the legs, whacked him down on
the block and with his axe cut off his head close to his body, and then
threw it out on the grass right in front of me. Was that rooster dead? I
thought not. It got up on its legs, ran right towards where I was
sitting, and before I could get away I was covered with the blood that
came from its neck. I don't know how far the rooster ran, but I know I
never stopped until I was safe in my mother's arms. The balance of the
time I stayed there you couldn't get me within forty yards of my uncle,
for every time I met him I could see myself running around without my
head."
"That made a lasting impression on you," remarked Quincy.
"Yes," said Uncle Ike, "it has lasted me sixty-eight years, one month,
and thirteen days," pointing to a calendar that hung on the wall.
As Quincy looked in the direction indicated he saw something hanging
beside it that attracted his attention.
It was a sheet of white paper with a heavy black border. Within the
border were written these words, "Sacred to the memory of Isaac
Pettengill, who was killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 4th, 1863,
aged twenty-nine years.
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