That feechie was a bold’un.
He only stood about waist-high
To the bear, and yet he told him:
“I want your hide, you ugly bear,
And a necklace from your claws,
A pot of your grease to slick my hair
And steaks for one and all.”
Give him chase, boys, give him chase.
Don’t let Bruin win the race.
Through the thickets, through the brakes,
Give him chase, boys, give him chase.
He raised his spear behind his ear,
And hollered out, “Let fly!”
Our points rained thick upon the bear
Like hailstones from the sky.
But don’t you cry for that old bear.
Spears can’t break his stride.
Half he swatted from the air.
The rest bounced off his hide.
Give him chase, boys, give him chase.
Don’t let Bruin win the race.
Through the thickets, through the brakes,
Give him chase, boys, give him chase.
So Mungo charged; they did collide,
And here commenced the drama.
Old Bruin stretched his big arms wide
And hugged him like a mama.
The bear mashed Mungo good and thin
And rearranged his stuffin’.
His eyes bulged out, his chest caved in.
(This hug was none too lovin’.)
Give him chase, boys, give him chase.
Don’t let Bruin win the race.
Through the thickets, through the brakes,
Give him chase, boys, give him chase.
Mungo managed to free a thumb.
He poked old Bruin’s eye.
The bear let go to rub it some,
And Mungo slipped on by.
He clumb up Bruin’s brawny rear
And hugged his hairy neck.
Bru bucked and rared and spun and veered,
But Mungo wouldn’t shake.
The bear tore out across the swamp With Mungo in a clench. The last we saw was Bruin’s rump, And they ain’t been back since.
Give him chase, boys, give him chase. Don’t let Bruin win the race. Through the thickets, through the brakes, Give him chase, boys, give him chase.
The feechies whooped and cheered and stomped like thunder. Aidan was spellbound. When Doyno dismounted the singstump, Aidan caught him by the arm. “Was that story true?” he asked.
“’Course it’s true,” answered Doyno. He seemed surprised anyone would question the truth of a feechie ballad. “Happened about five winters ago. I seen the whole thing myself.”
“And your cousin Mungo”-Aidan tried to put it as delicately as possible-“what became of him?”
“Can’t say I know,” answered Doyno in a very matter-of-fact tone. “Somebody said they thought he’d took up with the bear and his family. Said they saw somebody looked a lot like Mungo raiding a bee tree with some bears.”
Aidan gave Doyno a doubtful look, but Doyno didn’t appear to notice. “I don’t believe it though,” continued Doyno. “Mungo’s so mean and aggravating, I don’t reckon any bears would put up with him. Besides,” he added, by way of emphasis, “Mungo always stunk something terrible.”
By this time the feechies were growing impatient for the next song. “Let’s hear something new,” called Branko.
“Yeah, something we ain’t heard yet,” agreed Tombro. “Dobro, you always pirooting around all over the place. I wager you’ve heard some new ballads.”
“Sure, I know a new ballad,” answered Dobro. “I learnt it from the beach feechies. But it’s terrible sad, and I’m fearsome it would bust up the merriment.”
“Sing on, Dobro,” encouraged Odo. “The sadder the better. I could use a good cry.”
“I don’t mind singing it,” continued Dobro, “but I ought to warn you, it’s terrible long.”
“Sing on,” shouted a voice from the crowd. “We got nowhere to be.”
So Dobro mounted the big singstump. “This here sad-ballad is called ‘The Thing That I Done,’” he explained. Then, as was customary for the singer of a sadballad, he pulled a long face, closed his eyes, and began to sing in a keening voice as high and as lonesome as a tree frog’s: Now listen up children to my tale of woe. I used to be happy a long time ago. Now everyone calls me the miserable one. It’s all on account of the thing that I done.
I hope that you’ll learn from the mistakes I’ve made. I hope that you won’t play the games that I played. I done what I done with no thought of tomorrow. And now I got nothing but mis’ry and sorrow.
Pobo, already primed for a good cry, tuned up at the first mention of misery and woe. By the end of the second stanza, he was leaning on Doyno, his face buried in his hands, wailing as if his best friend had died. After a brief pause, Dobro carried on with his ballad. Such outbursts were to be expected at a feechiesing. My mama, she learnt me the things I should know. My daddy, he showed me the way I should go. But I wouldn’t be an obedient son. I went out and I done the thing that I done.
Now that a mother was involved, there were sniffles all around. A few sobs could be heard in the crowd.
“I miss my mama,” wailed Branko. “She’s the finest she-feechie ever swung on a vine.” Doyno pushed Branko from behind. “She ain’t neither,” he blubbered. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying for his own mother. “My mama could whup your mama any day!” For a moment it appeared a fistfight was about to break out, but the other feechies shushed Doyno and Branko, anxious to hear what awful thing had ruined the balladeer’s life. Soon it was quiet enough for Dobro to continue. I once was so jolly, but now I just suffer. Things has got rough, and they’ll only get rougher. My troubles and worries and distress begun When I did that thing that I shouldn’t have done.
Oh, this thing that I done, at the time I enjoyed it. But listen to me, child, you better avoid it. It ain’t worth the heartache, it ain’t worth the strife. The thing that I done has done ruint my life.
By now the whole swamp council was dissolved in tears. Some had their arms around one another, sobbing on each others’ shoulders. Others were laid out flat on the sand, literally wallowing in pity for the poor soul in the ballad whose whole life had collapsed, whose happiness was shattered because of one mistake. They were desperate for more details. What was this one thing that had caused so much heartache? How might they avoid a similar fate? They hung on Dobro’s every word. Lean in here close, and I’ll tell you my tale. It’ll straighten your hair, it’ll cause you to wail. But if my sad story can save even one, I don’t mind your knowing this thing that I done.
Except for a few involuntary sobs, the feechies were perfectly silent. All eyes were on Dobro. Their anticipation grew almost unbearable as Dobro launched into a stanza of heartfelt humming, a sort of instrumental interlude: “Hmmm, hmmmm, hmmm, hmmmm, hmmm…”
Dobro launched into a second stanza of humming, his eyes still shut tight as if he were lost in the music. But his audience’s patience was starting to fray. “Any day now,” grumbled a feechie named Beppo.
“Come on, Dobro,” whined Branko. “Ain’t it time you moved this here story along?”
