A Million Million Needles: A "Tall" Tale of the Cumberlands

A Million Million Needles A "Tall" Tale of the Cumberlands by HENRY P. SCALF Henry P. Scalf has icritten perhaps a million or more words—history, folk tale and legend, the result of his long and abiding interest in the area—about eastern Kentucky and the adjacent hill country. He has taught school, "politicked", stood for old time teacher examinations, farmed and helped his wife run a country store—among other activities— in the meantime. He is president of the Big Sandy Valley Historical Society and edits A Journal of Geneaology and History and is a descendent of the earliest settlers in the area. The "tale" of the needles and its humor need no explanation. The drummer laid his order pad down, stared at the old storekeeper and said slowly: "Mr. Bevins, that's a lot of needles." "Oh, I know it's a lot but let me tell you something," the merchant said, peering over his glasses across the counter. "This is the confoundest place around here you ever saw. 'Pears like every woman in ten miles is a quilting. I want needles, plenty of needles. If you won't sell 'em to me, some other man will." "Now, Mr. Bevins, of course I'll sell you the needles, all you want," the drummer affirmed. "But let me explain. The needles come packed a dozen on a card, 12 dozen cards to a package, 12 dozen packages to a box. Now that's a lot of needles. But to facilitate shipments to a really big distributor we pack 12 dozen boxes to a carton. That's more needles than I ever saw or sold but here you are ordering a great gross of cartons. You'll never sell that many needles in this store nor any other store or a gross of stores for that matter." "You don't know this place, I tell you. I'm out of needles all the time and customers are always out so you ship me them needles." The drummer tried again. "Mr. Bevins, let's go over this thing again. The needles are packed a dozen on a card, a gross of cards to a box and . . ." Bevins interrupted, frowning. "I jest told you if you don't want to sell "Oh, all right," the drummer said resignedly , picking up his order pad. "I'll take your order for a great gross of cartons of needles but you'll have to sign the order . I'll have to have your signature to prove to the boss that you aren't fooling." The merchant, frowned again, spat across the counter at the stove. "I'll sign," he said laconically. The drummer scribbled on his pad, stuck the order and pencil under Bevin's nose. The required signature was scrawled and the drummer took the pad back, put it in his pocket and extended his hand. He was obviously in a hurry. As he went out the door to get on his horse one of the loafers at the front door bench always swore he heard him mutter as he swung into the saddle: "I better get away from here before the old coot doubles the order." A few days later Mr. Bevins received a letter postmarked Cincinnati. He jerked it open with a tear and read slowly, a frown spreading over his face. "Well, the derned wholesaler," he said to himself but audible to the loafers. "They want to confirm my order for them needles. 75 Let me get a pencil. Shore, I'll confirm it. I want them needles." He got paper and pencil, adjusted his spectacles higher on his nose, and patiently wrote an answer. "How many needles did you order, Mr. Bevins?" a loafer asked. "I ordered a lot," he said, throwing a hard stare which became a stem reminder it was none of the other fellow's business. The loafer was undeterred by the stare and frown. "How many's a lot?" he persisted. "I ordered a lot of needles, I told you, but jest exactly how many I ain't sure. When I get needles this time the women ain't going to catch me short no more...