Read Online My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George - Free Book Online
Authors: Jean Craighead George
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sailor.”
“No, I am not.”
“Nor do you dig ditches.”
“I do not.”
“Well . . .”
“Guess.”
Suddenly I wanted to know for sure. So I said it.
“You are a murderer or a thief or a racketeer; and you are hiding out.”
Bando stopped looking for the pewee. He turned and stared at me. At first I was frightened. A bandit might do anything. But he wasn’t mad, he was laughing. He had a good deep laugh and it kept coming out of him. I smiled, then grinned and laughed with him.
“What’s funny, Bando?” I asked.
“I like that,” he finally said. “I like that a lot.” The tickle deep inside him kept him chuckling. I had no more to say, so I ground my heel in the dirt while I waited for him to get over the fun and explain it all to me.
“Thoreau, my friend, I am just a college English teacher lost in the Catskills. I came out to hike around the woods, got completely lost yesterday, found your fire and fell asleep beside it. I was hoping the scoutmaster and his troop would be back for supper and help me home.”
“Oh, no.” My comment. Then I laughed. “You see, Bando, before I found you, I heard squad cars screaming up the road. Occasionally you read about bandits that hide out in the forest, and I was just so sure that you were someone they were looking for.”
We gave up the pewee and went back to the raft-making, talking very fast now, and laughing a lot. He was fun. Then something sad occurred to me.
“Well, if you’re not a bandit, you will have to go home very soon, and there is no point in teaching you how to live on fish and bark and plants.”
“I can stay a little while,” he said. “This is summer vacation. I must admit I had not planned to eat crayfish on my vacation, but I am rather getting to like it.
“Maybe I can stay until your school opens,” he went on. “That’s after Labor Day, isn’t it?”
I was very still, thinking how to answer that.
Bando sensed this. Then he turned to me with a big grin.
“You really mean you are going to try to winter it out here?”
“I think I can.”
“Well!” He sat down, rubbed his forehead in his hands, and looked at me. “Thoreau, I have led a varied life—dishwasher, sax player, teacher. To me it has been an interesting life. Just now it seems very dull.” He sat awhile with his head down, then looked up at the mountains and the rocks and trees. I heard him sigh.
“Let’s go fish. We can finish this another day.”
That is how I came to know Bando. We became very good friends in the week or ten days that he stayed with me, and he helped me a lot. We spent several days gathering white oak acorns and groundnuts, harvesting the blueberry crop and smoking fish.
We flew Frightful every day just for the pleasure of lying on our backs in the meadow and watching her mastery of the sky. I had lots of meat, so what she caught those days was all hers. It was a pleasant time, warm, with occasional thundershowers, some of which we stayed out in. We talked about books. He did know a lot of books, and could quote exciting things from them.
One day Bando went to town and came back with five pounds of sugar.
“I want to make blueberry jam,” he announced. “All those excellent berries and no jam.”
He worked two days at this. He knew how to make jam. He’d watched his pa make it in Mississippi, but we got stuck on what to put it in.
I wrote this one night:
“August 29
“The raft is almost done. Bando has promised to stay until we can sail out into the deep fishing holes.
“Bando and I found some clay along the stream bank. It was as slick as ice. Bando thought it would make good pottery. He shaped some jars and lids. They look good—not Wedgwood, he said, but containers. We dried them on the rock in the meadow, and later Bando made a clay oven and baked them in it. He thinks they might hold the blueberry jam he has been making.
“Bando got the fire hot by blowing on it with some homemade bellows that he fashioned
“No, I am not.”
“Nor do you dig ditches.”
“I do not.”
“Well . . .”
“Guess.”
Suddenly I wanted to know for sure. So I said it.
“You are a murderer or a thief or a racketeer; and you are hiding out.”
Bando stopped looking for the pewee. He turned and stared at me. At first I was frightened. A bandit might do anything. But he wasn’t mad, he was laughing. He had a good deep laugh and it kept coming out of him. I smiled, then grinned and laughed with him.
“What’s funny, Bando?” I asked.
“I like that,” he finally said. “I like that a lot.” The tickle deep inside him kept him chuckling. I had no more to say, so I ground my heel in the dirt while I waited for him to get over the fun and explain it all to me.
“Thoreau, my friend, I am just a college English teacher lost in the Catskills. I came out to hike around the woods, got completely lost yesterday, found your fire and fell asleep beside it. I was hoping the scoutmaster and his troop would be back for supper and help me home.”
“Oh, no.” My comment. Then I laughed. “You see, Bando, before I found you, I heard squad cars screaming up the road. Occasionally you read about bandits that hide out in the forest, and I was just so sure that you were someone they were looking for.”
We gave up the pewee and went back to the raft-making, talking very fast now, and laughing a lot. He was fun. Then something sad occurred to me.
“Well, if you’re not a bandit, you will have to go home very soon, and there is no point in teaching you how to live on fish and bark and plants.”
“I can stay a little while,” he said. “This is summer vacation. I must admit I had not planned to eat crayfish on my vacation, but I am rather getting to like it.
“Maybe I can stay until your school opens,” he went on. “That’s after Labor Day, isn’t it?”
I was very still, thinking how to answer that.
Bando sensed this. Then he turned to me with a big grin.
“You really mean you are going to try to winter it out here?”
“I think I can.”
“Well!” He sat down, rubbed his forehead in his hands, and looked at me. “Thoreau, I have led a varied life—dishwasher, sax player, teacher. To me it has been an interesting life. Just now it seems very dull.” He sat awhile with his head down, then looked up at the mountains and the rocks and trees. I heard him sigh.
“Let’s go fish. We can finish this another day.”
That is how I came to know Bando. We became very good friends in the week or ten days that he stayed with me, and he helped me a lot. We spent several days gathering white oak acorns and groundnuts, harvesting the blueberry crop and smoking fish.
We flew Frightful every day just for the pleasure of lying on our backs in the meadow and watching her mastery of the sky. I had lots of meat, so what she caught those days was all hers. It was a pleasant time, warm, with occasional thundershowers, some of which we stayed out in. We talked about books. He did know a lot of books, and could quote exciting things from them.
One day Bando went to town and came back with five pounds of sugar.
“I want to make blueberry jam,” he announced. “All those excellent berries and no jam.”
He worked two days at this. He knew how to make jam. He’d watched his pa make it in Mississippi, but we got stuck on what to put it in.
I wrote this one night:
“August 29
“The raft is almost done. Bando has promised to stay until we can sail out into the deep fishing holes.
“Bando and I found some clay along the stream bank. It was as slick as ice. Bando thought it would make good pottery. He shaped some jars and lids. They look good—not Wedgwood, he said, but containers. We dried them on the rock in the meadow, and later Bando made a clay oven and baked them in it. He thinks they might hold the blueberry jam he has been making.
“Bando got the fire hot by blowing on it with some homemade bellows that he fashioned
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