"My stars," my mother said, bending over. "Wherever did you come from?"
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Trembling violently, a wet and frightened little poodle lay wedged between the door and the screen.
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Suddenly it was over. The quietness felt unnatural and an eerie, uneasy felling gripped us. Opening the door, my mother stood transfixed as she gazed upon the awful scene. Debris lay everywhere. The street was impassable. People, some obviously in shock, milled around like cattle, unsure of what to do. The strange silence was suddenly broken by a subdued, pitiful whining at Mother's feet.
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March 18, 1925. Though only five years of age, I well remember the day the great tornado swept over "Little Egypt", as the southern tip of Illinois is called. The little coal-mining town in which we lived lay directly in its path. The howling wind sounded as if a dozen locomotives were roaring past. We huddled in the kitchen as the roaring filled our ears and seemed to shake our very bones.
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The bedraggled little dog timidly wagged his tail and began licking Mother's hand.
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"You little rascal," he said, calling him by some strange sounding name. "What are you doing here?"
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Jacky, as we named him, accepted our large family without reservation. We in turn lavished our love upon the displaced but lucky little poodle.
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Almost immediately we realized Jacky was an exceptional dog -- a very smart one. Surrounded by masses of curly hair, his dark inquisitive eyes sparkled with life.
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The little dog had been a part of our family for about two years when a hobo knocked at the back door and asked if we could give him something to eat. The request wasn't at all unusual. In those days, many hobos stopped at our cornet. Mother brought a plate of food to the porch where he waited. As he sat down to eat, we boys gathered around him. He began telling us all the places he'd been and the many things he'd seen. We were spell-bound by his tales.
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All of a sudden he stopped. We looked in the direction he was staring, and there stood Jacky. For several moments they looked at one another. Then a huge smile came across the old hobo's face.
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"We found him lodged between the door and the screen during the big tornado of '25'," said my brother.
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"Boys, where did you get this dog?" asked the hobo.
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The little dog became hysterical with joy. He was all over the hobo, barking and jumping as if he would never stop. There was no doubt he knew the hobo and knew him well. After caressing and talking to Jacky, the old hobo uttered a brief command. Immediately, Jacky controlled his enthusiasm and lay down obediently at the old man's feet.
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"Yes, sir. It adds up," said the hobo. "I was with a circus in Missouri in March of '25'. That was sure some blow. The big tent was ripped to shreds. Everything was demolished."
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"This poodle was the number-one top show dog. He's so valuable he was insured for hundreds of dollars. Lucky dog, he is blowed all that distance and not getting hurt."
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Suddenly the hobo asked, "Do you have a barrel hoop, boy?"
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"Sure, I'll get you one," said my brother, running quickly to an old barrel, he lifted off one of the steel bands. He deshed back and handed it to the hobo.
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Then the hobo paused. Looking down at Jacky, he said, "Our circus days is over, friend. Over and done. And the tramping life's no life for you. You best stay here." Jacky stood, watching the hobo walk away, still poised to follow.
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From beneath his old battered hat the hobo's blue eyes sparkled. A smile broke through his heavy gray beard.
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Then with a forlorn look about him, he straightened up. "I guess I best be gone," he mumbled and headed slowly towards the gate. Without hesitation, Jacky followed at his heels.
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"Watch this," he said. "Les you boys been to a circus you ain't never seen anything like this."
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He walked out into the yard and held the loop a couple of feet above the ground.
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"Get ready," he said to Jacky, again using that strange-sounding name. Jacky trembled with excitement. On command he sprang forward and leaped through the loop -- forward, then backward. As commands continued, he hurled through the hoop, turning end over end. He danced on his hind legs, then on his front legs. My brothers and I stared in awe as the knowledgeable old hobo put Jacky through his circus tricks.
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"Jacky, come back!" all three of us called. But it did no good. Tears trickled down our cheeks. We knew we had lost him.
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Reaching the gate the man stood motionless for several seconds, and then slowly turned around. "Boys, a circus dog never forgets the big top," he said. "You'd better lock him in the house till morning. I'd hate to see you lose him."
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So we did. Jacky lived with us for many years, and although he was the smartest dog we ever had, we could never persuade him to perform circus tricks again. We figured he'd taken the hobo's words to heart and put his circus days behind him once and for all.
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