Legend of Micah Rood - A Connecticut Story
Bainbridge Republican, Bainbridge, NY, October 10, 1878
The following story was furnished by Mr. T.L. Marshall of Sidney Plains [Delaware Co. NY]. The tree of which the story is about, is still in existence [In 1878] and up to this time when fruit is grown upon it there is still a drop of blood in each apple. The farm upon which the tree is situated was at one time owned by Mr. Marshall's grandfather, and his mother who is how living with him, well remembers the circumstances of the story.
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A stranger, turning over the musty archives of one of our Connecticut towns a few years since, found the following record: "November 16, 1760, Micah Rood died awfully."
Well, how did he die? The record nowhere told. The question was propounded to the town clerk who was a newcomer and not a native resident and could tell nothing of a circumstance which took place so long before his time. But the stranger's curiosity would not rest satisfied. "Died awfully" was ringing in his mind continually until another question suggested itself.
"Have you any very aged persons in town?" was his next inquiry.
"Some I reckon," was the answer of the parish notary. "There's Simon Backus, who's an old Revolutioner - and they are gitting scarce. Then there's the Widder Carver, who's amazin old, and nobody's fool nuther. She remembers back into colony times and tells heaps of stories to the youngsters round here. She'll talk forever without stopping. Zeb Spicer says when she goes up, she'll astonish them there and their time will be none too long for her stories."
"Where does she live?" the stranger asked.
"Two mile, more nor less, on the Providence Turnpike. Next house but one arter you've passed the gate. Low, brown house, gambrel roof." Thus, definitely directed, the gentleman started for the abode of Molly Carver which he readily found, introduced himself and made known his inquiry.
'Lor sakes! Have I ever hearn tell how Mike Rood died? Why, man alive! I remember about it myself same as though 'twas yesterday, though I warn't any bigger than this great-grandchild of mine here, when it happened. It had been kinder snowin' and rainin' all day, and not much of either; but a plenty of howlin' wind, sich as the mouth of no month in all the year can blow like November. Tis the most disagreea blest of all months to my mind, and always makes a body think of suthin' dreadful.
Father'd ben to town arter a pipe for granny; and when he come back, says he--"Ther'e the orfullest thing happened you ever did hear on mother!"
"And when is it?" said she, turin' dreadful white, while I stood looking up at him, all ears you may depend.
"Mike Rood's hung himself" he said, "on that very arly apple tree there's been so much talk about in his mother's orchard."
"Did he leave any confession!" granny asked.
"Not's I heard tell on; though the jury hadn't got back when I was downtown. He must have did the work very arly in the morning, for when they found him he was cold and stiff [...unreadable...] [I stayed] up close to granny half afeard I should see the dead man, or something else orful; for children's mighty easily scared in them days, though dear knows taint so now.
"There ain't nothin' to be afeared on, Molly" my grandmother said, "though I guess if the truth was all told, there has been them that feared Mike Rood living."
"What for granny?" I asked her. "Never mind tonight child. Some long winter evening, when there's snow on the ground, I'll tell you all I've hearn about it."
I didn't let her forget her promise, I'll warrant ye; for I was mighty fond of terrible stories in them days.
"And what did you hear?" the stranger inquired, determined to learn the whole story.
That's what I'm goin' to tell you, soon as ever I git my breath a little; for you see I can't talk right on as I could fifty years ago. It's a queerish story; but everybody believed it in these parts. We'd jest ben in the midst of the old French war, and folks had reason to be afraid of their own shadows. Mike was a strange chap, and nobody never knew exactly what to make on him. Some folks thought he warn't very cunnin'; others said he had wit a plenty; and I guess they was both partly right, for he used to do and say a great many smart things in a very foolish way.
"He lived alone with his mother, who was a widder. His father died a few years afore, fightin' French and Injuns; arter which all the sperit Mike had in him was turned agin the French.
In the Fall of '59 a pedlar come into town, bringin' all sorts of foreign notions and everybody set to wonderin' who he was, and where he come from.
"I know" said Mike, who overheard the talk "He's a Frenchman and a spy - that's jest what he is; and I dare warrant if the truth was known, he come straight down here from Canada." but--Mike went away whispering to himself the unfinished sentence, "Dead men tell no tales! Likely's not, mother's like some o' his toggery. Anyhow, I'll ask him to call."
Nothin' was ever seen of the foreign peddler arter he went to the Widder Rood's that night. Some said he'd got all the information he wanted out o' folks and was gone where he come from; others whispered it among themselves that Mike Rood might have use him unfair. But afore winter was over everybody would have done talkin' about it, only Mike himself could never let the subject rest.
"What makes the blows on the arly apple tree look so red this spring?" he would ask the little children, as they went to school. It was one of Mike's foolish questions. How should the children know? Then he went away whistling laughing an looking very wise.
"Why didn't the old robin come back to her tree this year as she always did afore?" he inquired of them another day. "There ain't another sich crotch for a nest in the whole orchard." The children couldn't tell that nuther; and when they told their parents, they said Mike didn't know himself - he was half-witted."
"When the apples was ripe, the fust of August, all the children went up, one noon from the school to beg some."
"The apples is pizen this year Mike said, shakin' his head when they asked him.
"I know better; we'll resk 'em said Betsy Forrud.
"I'll bet a copper you darsen't eat one on 'em," said Mike. "There's drop o' blood in 'em all!"
"Show it, and then we'll believe it" Betsey said, "and not afore."
So, Mike went and brought his hands full of great meller apples and begun to cut 'em up. "There! Look now, he said when he come to the red spot; didn't I tell ye? You may eat 'em all ef you want to, I don't."
Not a child dared to put a tooth into an apple, for sure's I'm alive, every single one had a drop of fresh blood in it just as Mike said.
The young ones all went home and told the story; but no person believed a word on't till they went and examined them for themselves. Then everybody, from the minister down, said 'twas a special mericle. Maybe 'twas cause the hand that planted the tree was cut off by the blood thirsty innemy Mike said he knew suthin' uncommon was the matter when he saw the red blows [blossoms] in the spring, for the arly tree always blossomed white as snow afore.
Toward the last of October suthin' turned up that set all the town thinkin' and talkin' too, for the matter of that. A reward of forty pounds was posted up for any information of Hank Karner, a young German who left Philadelphy with an assortment of fancy goods the fall afore. The last time his friends heard from him he was traveling with his trunks in eastern Connecticut. His person and dress was both described, and the above reward was to be paid for any news on him, dead or alive.
Everybody that read the notice said straight off, "That was the forrin peddler." But what had become on him was another thing. Nobody like to make a stir about it, whatever they might think. But when [suspicion came] upon him, he said to himself, "They'll hang me now, sure's fate, and get the forty pounds besides, which is a heap o' money. I never should have touched the feller, only I thought he was a cussed Frenchman - one o' the very same as knocked down the old man. Ef I could only manage how to get that forty pounds for poor old mother and then tie the knot in my own halter, they might call Mike Rood half-witted as long as they have a mind to!"
Revolving the matter in his own mind, Mike went home. That night, as the winds blew and howled round the old house, and his mother sat paring apples and stringing them up on strings to dry, he cut a leaf out of his father's account book, got down the lead inkstand and sat down to write - and the [most curious] writin' you ever did see, I guess. It looked so the letters was everyone copied off of a tea chest, and yet, as the Widder Rood looked up from her work, now and then to watch her only child, she had a feelin' a though he was kinder smart. Not a bit of the managin' and schemin' part of Mike's nature did he inherit from his mother, who was as mild as a May morning, and could be made to believe a'most anything her friends wanted her to. Mike could lead her with a tow string - though never to do wrong, if she knew it, for there warn't a better meanin' woman, or one with more friends in the whole town.
"Look here mother, now. You just write your name down here." Mike said, holding out the goosquill with which he had been figuring for a long time. "I've a'most forgot how it looks written, it's so long since I've seen it." and the woman sot down her dish of apples, right pleased to grant his request.
"I declare," said Mike examinin' the really fair hand writin' 'ef you ain't the best writer of your age in town, mother!"
The widder smiled on him pleased by his praise and said, as she went again to her apples, "That's what your father used to say, Micah."
When he'd amuse himself long enough with his writin' he folded up the paper and put it in his pocket.
"Got any arrent up street?" he then asked.
"Not tonight" his mother answered. "What makes you go out, Micah, when 'tis so cold and windy? The air feels as though we was a goin' to git snow."
"Left one of my cowhides at the shoemaker's this mornin," mother, and he promised to have it done by eight o'clock."
Then Micah went out and sat his face toward the town, talkin' to himself all the way as he went. "Now," say he, "tis all fixed right and mother'll git that forty pounds a surd's my name is Mike Rood; for didn't they promise it for any information on him, dead or alive? And ain't she told them ef they'll come and dig under her arly apple tree, the fust on the right-side o the house and ask her no questions, they'll find what they're looking for - dead enough I guess, too! I'm awful sorry I hurt the wrong feller; but it can't be helped now and there's no use in cryin' about it. Let me see. The post ride will get my letter to Philadelphy in about a week, and by that time I'll get all mother's wood cut for the winter and be ready to step out afore they're here to sarch."
Poor Mike, like all boys, bad or good, foolish or witty, loved his mother; and ef she'd only mistrusted what was in his mind all that week as he went round doing everything he could find to do for her, her tears would have dropped for sorrow instead of joy. But the sorrow came soon enough to her poor, loving, broken heart, and the joy never came back at all after her boy was found dead on the arly apple tree hung by his own hands for that was the way Micah Rood died.
The stranger thanked the widow for her story and went away satisfied.
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The "Rood apple" is still a great favorite in many parts of New England; and the curious may yet find in every one the mysterious red drop which has given rise to many homely stories. In one of the small towns of New London County, Micah lived and died in the manner above described.
