CHAPTER III.

WARRICK’S WEDDING.

Described in a letter by an “old flame” of his.

Piney Bottom, this July 9, of 1844.

Miss Polly Stroud,

Dere Maddam.—I now take my pen in hand of the presence oppertunity to

let you know how we are all well, but I am purry in sperits hopin’ this

few lines may find you the same by gods mercy as I have been so

mortfiyde I could cry my eyes out bodily. Bill Warrick, yes Bill

Warrick, is married to Barbry Bass! I seed it done—a mean triflin;

deceevinist creetur—but never mind—Didn’t I know him when we went to

old field skool—a little raggid orflin Boy, with nobody to patch his

close torn behin a makin of a dicky-dicky-dout of himself—cause his old

nigger oman Venus was too lazy to mend ’em? Didn’t I know him when he

couldn’t make a pot-hook or a hanger in his copy book to save his life,

as for makin of a S he always put it tother way, jist so S backwards.

And then to say I were too old for him, and that he always conceited I

was a sort of a sister to him! O Polly Stroud, he is _so_ likely,

perticlar when he is dressed up of a Sunday or a frolick—and what is

worser his wife is prutty too, tho I don’t acknowlige it here. Only too

think how I doated on him, how I used to save bosim blossoms for him,

which some people call sweet sentid shrubs—and how I used to put my

hand in an pull them out for him, and how I used to blush when he sed

they was sweeter for comin’ from where they did? Who went blackberryin’

and huckleberryin’ with me? who always rode to preechun with me and

helped me on the hoss? who made Pokebery stains in dimons and squares

and circles and harts and so on at quiltins for me?—and talkin’ of

Poke—I do hope to fathers above that Poke will beat Clay jist to spite

Bill, for he is a rank distracted Whig and secreterry to the Clay

Club—who always threaded my nedle and has kissed me in perticler, in

playin’ of kneelin’ to the wittyist, bowin’ to the puttyist, and kissin’

of them you love best, and play in Sister Feebe, and Oats, Peas-Beans

and Barley grows—at least one hundred times? Who wated as candil holder

with me at Tim Bolins weddin’, and sed he knowd one in the room hed heap

rather marry, and looked at me so oncommon, and his eyes so blue that I

felt my face burn for a quarter of a hour? who I _do_ say was it but

Bill Warrick?—yes, and a heap more! If I haven’t a grate mind to sue

him, and would do it, if it wasn’t I am feared hed show a Voluntine I

writ to him Feberary a year ago. He orter be exposed, for if ever he is

a widderer hell fool somebody else the same way he did me. It’s a

burnin’ shame, I could hardly hold my head up at the weddin’. If I

hadn’t of bin so mad and too proud to let him see it I could cried

severe.

Well, it was a nice weddin’; sich ice-cakes and minicles, and raisins,

and oringis and hams, flour doins and chickin fixins, and four oncommon

fattest big goblers rosted I ever seed.

The Bryde was dressed in a white muslin figgured over a pink satin

pettycote, with white gloves and satin shoes, and her hair a curlin’

down with a little rose in it, and a chain aroun her neck. I don’t know

whether it was raal gool or plated. She looked butiful, and Bill did

look nice, and all the candydates and two preechers and Col. Hard was

there, and Bills niggers, the likeliest nine of them you ever looked at,

and when I did look at em and think, I raly thought I should or broke my

heart.

Well, sich kissin’—several of the gals sed that there faces burnt like

fire, for one of the preechers and Col. Hard wosn’t shaved clost.

Bimeby I was a sittin’ leanin’ back, and Bill he come behin me and

sorter jerked me back, and skeared me powerful for fear I was fallin’

backwards, and I skreamed and kicked up my feet before to ketch like,

and if I hadn’t a had on pantalets I reckon somebody would of knowd

whether I gartered above my knees or not. We had a right good laff on

old Parson Brown as he got through a marryin’ of em—says he:

“I pronounce you, William Warrick and Barbry Bass, man and oman,”—he

did look so when we laffed, and he rite quick sed—“man and wife—salute

your Bryde,” and Bill looked horrid red, and Barbry trimbled and blushed

astonishin’ severe.

Well, it’s all over, but I don’t keer—there’s as good fish in the sea

as ever come outen it. I’m not poor for the likes of Bill Warrick,

havin’ now three sparks, and one of them from Town, whose got a good

grocery and leads the Quire at church, outer the Suthern Harmony, the

Missonry Harmony is gone outer fashion.

Unkle Ben’s oldest gal Suky is gwine to marry a Virginny tobacker roler,

named Saint George Drummon, and he says he is a kin to Jack Randolf and

Pokerhuntus, who they is the Lord knows. Our Jack got his finger cut

with a steal trap catchin’ of a koon for a Clay Club, and the boys is

down on a tar raft, and ole Miss Collis and mammy is powerful rumatic,

and the measly complaint is amazin! I jist heard you have got two twins

agin—that limestone water must be astonishin’ curyous.

What is the fashuns in Tennysee, the biggest sort of Bishups is the go

here. My love to your old man,

Your friend,

Nancy Guiton.

To Miss Polly Stroud,

Nigh Noxvil in the State of Tennysee,

Close by where the French Broad and Holsin jines.

Old Miss Collis and mammy is jist come home. Betsy Bolin is jist had a

fine son and they say she is a doin’ as well as could be expected, and

the huckleberry crop is short on account of the drouth.

IX.

OUR TOWN.[9]

I spent a summer in the Eastern States, for the purpose of studying

Yankee character, and picking up such peculiarities of dialect and

expression as I could, from constant communication with the “critters”

themselves. In Boston, I was thus invited by a countryman to visit the

town in which he lived.

“Wal, stranger, can’t you come down our way, and give us a show?”

“Where do you live?” inquired I.

“Oh, abeout half way between this ere and sunrise.”

“Oh, yes,” said I, adopting at once the style of the countryman, “I

know; where the trees grow under-ground, and galls weigh two hundred

pounds. Where some on ’em are so fat, they grease the cart-wheels with

their shadow, and some on ’em so thin, you’re obliged to look at ’em

twice afore you can see ’em at all.”

“Wal, I guess you’ve been there,” says he, saying which, the countryman

departed.

-----

[9] By G. H. Hill.

X.

“FALLING OFF A LOG,” IN A GAME OF “SEVEN UP.”

“Hoss and hoss!”

“Yes; ‘hoss and hoss,’ and my deal!”

“I’ll double the bet and have the whole bottle or none.”

“Let me cut, and I’ll stand it.”

“S’pose we both take a _little_ drink first,” said Chunkey.

“No: darned if I do! thar ain’t enough for us both—if I win I’ll drink

it, and you must wait till a boat comes, if you die! If you win, I’ll

wait, if I die!”

Such was the conversation between Jim and Chunkey, as they were sitting

across a log on the banks of the Yazoo River, surrounded by a cloud of

musquitoes, playing “seven-up” for a remaining bottle of whisky, which

was not enough for the two, and “wouldn’t set one forward” _much_. They

were just returning from Bear Creek, in Township 17, Range 1, where they

had some hands deadening timber, preparatory to opening a plantation in

the Fall. They had sent the negroes to the river to take a steam-boat,

whilst they, with their furniture, and the remains of a forty-two gallon

“red-head,” came down Deer Creek in a day, out into False Lake, through

False Lake into Wasp Lake, and down that to where it empties into the

Yazoo, and here on the banks of that river our scene opens.

“Go ahead, then,” said Chunkey, “shuffle, deal, and win, if you can, but

take out that Jack what’s torn!”

I took the Jack out, shuffled, dealt, and at it we went. Chunkey looked

mighty scared; his eye was sorter oneasy, and dartin’ about, and he

seemed to be choked as he kept tryin’ to swaller somethin’—the long

beard on his face looked powerful black, or else his face looked

powerful white, one or the ’yether. We both played mighty slow and

careful. The first hand I made “high, low,” and Chunkey “game;” the

second hand I made “low, Jack,” and Chunkey “high, game.”

“Four to three,” says I.

“Yes, and my deal,” said Chunkey.

He gin ’em the Sunflower “shuffle,” and the Big Greasy “cut,” and pushed

’em back. Chunkey dealt ’em mighty slow, and kept tryin’ to see my

cards, but I laid my hand on ’em as fast as they fell on the log, to

prevent him from seein’ the marks. He turned up the Ace of Clubs. When I

looked at my hand, thar was the King, Jack, Nine, and Deuce,—I led my

King——

“High!” says I.

“Low!” said Chunkey, poppin’ down the Tray.

“Not edzactly,” said I, hawlin’ in the trick, and leadin’ the Deuce, and

jist as I done so, I seed Chunkey starin’ over my shoulder, lookin’

wilder nor a dyin’ bar. I never seed a man look so awful in my life. I

thought he were gwine to have a fit.

“Ya, ya!” said he, “fallin’ off the log,” cryin’ “_Snake! snake!_”

I never took time to look, but made a big he-spring about twenty feet in

the cane, the har on my head standin’ stiff as bristles and ratlin’ like

a raftsman’s bones, with the Sky lake ager, and the bad feelins runnin’

down to my toes. I reckon you never seed a man so frightened of snakes

as I is, and I’ve been so all my life; I’d rather fight the biggest bar

in the swamp with his own weapons, teeth and claws, takin’ it rough and

tumble, dependin’ on my mind and knowledge of a bar’s character, than

come in contact with a big rusty highland mocassin or rattlesnake, and

that’s the reason I never hunts in the summer time. When I lived up on

Deer Creek, thar was a perfect cord of all sorts, and I used to wear all

summer the thickest kind of cow-hide boots, reachin’ up to my hips, and

I _never_ went into the field, ’ceptin on a mule, with a

double-barrelled gun at that. This, Chunkey knowed; and whenever he seed

one he gin me warnin’. Chunkey ain’t afraid of snakes; he’d jist as soon

eat of a gourd with a snake, as not, if the snake would help himself and

not meddle with his licker.

Well, arter lookin’ about a spell I couldn’t see no snake-sign, and I

then hollered to Chunkey, but darned a word did he say. It then flashed

across my mind that as Chunkey fell on the side of the log whar the

licker lay, he _might_ sorter taste it, as he were dry enough to be able

to swaller a little at a time; so I struck a lick back to the log and

looked over, and thar he lay, jist curled up like a ’coon in the

sunshine, _and the bottle jist glued to his lips_, and the licker

runnin’ down his throat like a storm! darn him, I hadden’t no time to

think afore I bounced at him! I struck across his snout, and he nailed

my thumb in his jaws, and rostled up a handful of dirt and throwed it in

my eyes, and that sot me to gwine, and I throwed the licks into him

right and left, and I made the fur fly, _I tell you_; but Chunkey stood

it like a man! Darned the word did he say; he wouldn’t holler, he was

_perfectly game_!

“No, that’s a fact! I didn’t holler; I didn’t have time; while you were

working away on that gum-knot, I were standin’ up agin a little dog-wood

finishin’ the licker!”

“How comes it that you never wrung in that part of the story about the

knot before?”

“’Cause, I’d done got the licker, and I was satisfied; you thought you’d

gin me some mighty big licks, and you was satisfied; and it would have

been mean in me to crow over you then: you was out of licker, tobacco,

and had your fist all skinned and beat as soft as a bar’s foot! Oh no,

Jim, I’m reasonable, _I is_.”

“Well, _go along_; if I don’t set you to gnawin’ somethin’ harder than

that knot afore long, then my name ain’t nothin’ to me, and I don’t car

for nobody, that’s all.”

“All sot,” says Chunkey, “let’s licker. You wanted to know what ‘_fallin

off a log_’ meant, and I thought I’d show you; but, my honey, I’ll jist

let you know if you’d a hit _me_ any of them licks what you struck

‘right and left’ into that knot, I’d a gin you a touch of panter

fistcuffs—a sort of cross of the scratch on the bite—and a powerful

strong game it is, in a close fight. Come, gents, let’s licker, and then

I can beat any man that wars har, for a mighty nice chunk of a poney, at

any game of short cards:

Oh, the waggoner was a mighty man, a mighty man was he:

He’d pop his whip, and stretch his chains, and holler ‘wo, gee!’”

XI.

A YANKEE CARD-TABLE.[10]

When I was about leaving New Orleans, standing upon the Levee, waiting

for my luggage, I was thus addressed by a long, lean, down-Easter:

“Say yeou, which of these things slips up fust?”

“What?” said I.

“Which of these things slips up fust?”

“Do you mean which steam-boat goes up the river first?”

“Yes, I’ll be darned if I don’t.”

“That one,” said I pointing to the nearest.

“I’m in an awful hurry to git eout of this. It is so thundering hot, and

I smell the yeller fever all reound.”

This individual had a very intellectual forehead, measuring about an

inch and a quarter in height, and punched in at the sides to match. His

eyes were set deep in their sockets, and something like a pig’s, only

the colour was not as good. His nose pushed boldly out, as it started

from the lower part of his forehead, as though it meant to be something,

but when it had reached half its destination, it bent suddenly in like a

parrot’s beak. His upper lip was long and thin, and was stretched on a

sort of rack, which was made by a couple of supernumerary teeth, which

stuck out very prominently. His chin, too modest to attempt a rivalry

with his projecting lip, receded backwards towards the throat, so that,

to look at him in front, you did not perceive that he had any chin at

all. His hair was very light and bristly. A snuff-coloured coat of

domestic manufacture adorned the upper part of his person. It was an

ancient affair. The velvet was worn from the collar in several places,

but which was carefully patched with red flannel, being the nearest

approach to the original colour of the collar that could be found in his

domestic menagerie of reserved rags. The buttons, which one would

naturally look for at the bottom of the waist, had wandered up between

his shoulders. The coat was remarkably long, extending from high up on

the shoulders to the lower part of the calves of his legs. He was

slightly round-shouldered, so that when he stood right up, a small lady

might have found shelter in a rain storm in the vacancy left beween the

coat and the back. His pants, to common observers, would have been

called too short, but he denied this, averring that his legs were too

long for his trowsers. On his arm hung an old-fashioned camblet cloak,

with the lining of green baize hanging about a quarter of a yard below

the edge of the camblet. He said this was no fault of the lining,

anyhow; “it got wet, and t’other shrunk a leetle, but the lining stuck

to it like blazes.” The Yankee was exceedingly anxious to secure his

passage by the first boat, and he sang out to some person:

“Say, yeou, where is the Captain of this consarn. Say, yeou, (to some

one else,) I want the Captain. Look here, Nigger, show a feller the

Captain. Look here, you black sarpint, don’t stick out your lips at me.

Wal, I swow, I’ll give anybody three cents that will show me the

Captain.”

The Captain, hearing the noise, stepped forward, and told the Yankee if

he wished to see the Captain, he was commander of the boat.

“Dew tell? Wal, I swan, you have got a kind of commanding way about you,

that’s a fact.”

“What do you wish?” said the Captain.

“Wal, I want a bathe.”

“Very well, jump into the river, there is plenty of water.”

“I tell you, I want a bathe.”

“Well, don’t I tell you to jump in, you can swim across if you like; we

shall not start just yet.”

“I want a bathe to lie down in. Now do you know what I mean, darn you?”

“Oh, you want a berth?”

“Wal, darn you, didn’t I say bathe? I know what I’m about, I guess.”

“I will accommodate you as far as I can,” said the Captain, “but I’ve

nothing but a mattrass to offer, and that is upon the cabin floor.”

“Dew tell.”

“It is the only one that is vacant, and the cabin floor is covered with

them, so you had better secure it at once.”

“Wal, then, I guess I’d better turn right in.”

I omitted to mention that he carried a valise in his hand. Some one

rather impertinently asked him what he had in it.

“Wal,” said he, “I don’t know that it’s any of your business, but I

don’t mind telling on you. There is two shirts, one clean, t’other

dirty; a pair of pants about as good as new, only a leetle worn here and

there, and a pair of pistols. D’ye want I should take ’em out and show

you?”

When he went down to turn in, he put the valise under his head, wrapped

his old cloak around him, and threw himself, as he said, “into the arms

of omnibus.” The mattrasses on the other side of him, were occupied by

some rough Kentucky boatmen. In the middle of the night, these men got

up and commenced playing cards. No table being handy, they made use of

the back of our Yankee friend for one, and chalked the reckoning of the

game upon the camblet cloak, which surrounded the body of the

unconscious sleeper. They became interested in the game, and began to

lay down their cards with a might of fist, and earnestness of manner,

which soon roused up our sleeping friend. He attempted to rise, but was

held down by one of the party, who exclaimed:

“Lie still, stranger, I’ve only got three to go, and I hold the Jack.”

“Never mind, I’m a most smothered here, but go ahead, darn you, play

quick and I’ll go you halves.”

He according lay still, until they had finished their game, but whether

the Kentucky gambler divided his gains with his table, was never

satisfactorily ascertained.

-----

[10] By G. H. Hill.

XII.

DICK M’COY’S SKETCHES OF HIS NEIGHBOURS.

Last summer, I determined to visit the battle-ground of the

_Horse-Shoe_, to see if any vestiges remained of _Old Hickory’s_ great

fight with the Indians of the Tallapoosa. Fond of all sorts of aquatic

diversion, I concluded to take the river four or five miles above, and

descend to the “Shoe,” and I therefore employed an old crony of mine,

Dick M’Coy, to take me down in a canoe. Dick lives on the bank, and has

all the qualifications of an otter, for river explorations.

For some miles above the battle-ground, the river is a succession of

shallows, broken every mile or two by lovely patches of smooth, still

water, generally bedecked with a green islet or two, around which the

trout love to play. The banks are generally large, irregular hills, that

look as if they were struggling to pitch themselves, with their huge

pines, into the stream; but, once in a while, you find a level strip of

alluvial in cultivation, or a beautiful and fertile declivity, shaded by

magnificent poplars, beech-trees, and walnut. Now and then you may see

the cabin of a squatter, stuck to the side of a hill, like a fungus

against a wall; but, generally, the Tallapoosa retains the wild,

pristine features of the days when the Creek hunted on its banks, or

disported himself upon its waters. A little way out from the river, on

either side, among the “hollows” formed by little creeks and smaller

streams, live a people, half-agricultural, half-piscatorial—a sinewy,

yellow-headed, whiskey-loving set. Those south of the river, are the

inhabitants of “’Possum-Trot,” while those on the north are the citizens

of “Turpentine.” Dick M’Coy is a ’Possum-Trotter, a fishing fellow,

fishy in his stories, but always _au fait_ in regard to matters of

settlement gossip.

Seated on a clap-board, a little aft of the centre of the boat, and

facing Dick, I was amused for several hours with his conversation, as we

threaded the intricate passages of the shoals, now whizzing by and

barely touching an ugly rock, now spinning round in a little whirlpool,

like a tee-totum. The skill of my Palinurus, however, seemed equal to

any emergency; and we alternately twisted and tumbled along, at the rate

of two miles and a half an hour.

As we came into a small, deep sheet of water, Dick pointed with his

paddle to a smoke issuing from among the trees, on the “Turpentine” side

of the river, and remarked:

“Thar’s whar our _lazy_ man lives—Seaborn Brown.”

“Ah! is he lazy much?”

“Powerful.”

“As how?”

“Onct he went out huntin’, and he was so lazy he ’cluded he wouldn’t. So

he laid down in the sand, close to the aidge of the water. It come on to

rain like the devil, and I, seen him from t’other side, tho’t he was

asleep, and hollered to him.

“Ses I, ‘it’s rainin’ like wrath, Seab, and why don’t you git up?’

“Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘I’m wet any how, and thar’s no use.’

“After a little, the river begun to rise about five foot an hour, and I

hollers to him agin.

“Ses I, ‘Seaborn, the river’s a-risin’ on to your gun; the but’s half

way in the water now.’

“Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘The water ain’t gwine to hurt the wood part.’

“I waited a few minutes, and sung out:

“‘Seaborn, you’re half under water yourself, and your gun-lock is in the

river!’

“Ses he, ‘I never ketches cold, and thar’s no load in the gun, and

besides, she needs a washin’ out.’

“And Squire,” continued Dick, “the last I seen of him that day, he tuck

a flask out of his pocket, _as he lay_, drinkt, ketcht some water in the

flask, and drinkt again, _as he lay; and then throw’d his face back_,

this way, like, _to keep the river out of his mouth and nose_!”

Amused at Dick’s anecdote of his lazy neighbour, I solicited some

information about the occupant of a cabin nearly in the water, on the

’Possum Trot side.

At the very door of the dwelling commenced a fish-trap dam; and on the

trap stood a stalwart fellow in a red flannel shirt, and pantaloons that

were merely breeches—the legs being torn off entirely.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Wait till we pass him, and I’ll tell you.”

We tumbled onward a few yards.

“That’s Jim Ed’ards; _he loves cat-fish, some! Well_, he does! Don’t do

nothin’ but ketch ’em. Some of the boys says he’s got slimy all over,

_like_ unto a cat—don’t know about that; all I know is, we ketcht one

in the seine, that weighed over forty pounds. Thar was a _mocassin_ tuk

out of it longer than my arm. And nobody wouldn’t have it then, but Jim.

As we was goin’ home, Jim a totin’ the fish—ses I, ‘Jim, you ain’t

agwine to eat _that_ cat, sure_ly_!’

“Ses he, ‘Pshaw! that mocassin warn’t nothin’.’

“Ses I, ‘Jim, enny man that’ll eat that cat, would eat a bull-frog.’

“And with that, he knocked me down and liked to a killed me: and that

was the reason I didn’t want to tell you about him twell we’d passed

him.”

As we neared a pretty little island, on which were a house and two or

three acres in cultivation:

“Thar,” said Dick, “is Dock Norris’s settle_ment_. I guess he won’t

‘_play horse_’ agin in a hurry. He claims ’Possum Trot for his beat, but

we’d all rather he’d take Turpingtine.”

“What game was that he played?” I asked.

“Oh! playin’ horse. See, thar was a crowd of boys come down and kamped

on Turpingtine side, to seine. They was but a little ways from the

river—leastways thar camp-fire was—and between the river and it, is a

pretty knoll, whar the river’s left a pretty bed of white sand as big as

a garden spot, and right at it the water’s ten foot deep, and it’s about

the same from the top of the bluff to the water.

“A big, one-eyed fellow named Ben Baker, was at the head of the town

crowd, and as soon as they’d struck a camp, Ben and his fellers, except

one (a lad like), tuck the seine and went away down the river, fishin’,

and was gone a’most all day. Well, Dock bein’ of a sharp,

splinter-legged, mink-face feller, gits some of his boys, and goes over

in the time, and they drinks all Ben’s whiskey and most all his coffee,

and eats up all his bacon-meat—’sides bein’ sassy to the boy. Arter a

while here comes Ben and his kump’ny, back, wet and tired, and hungry.

The boy told ’em Dock Norris and his crowd had eat and drunk up

everything, and Ben’s one eye shined like the ev’ning star.

“‘Whar’s he?’ axed Ben; and then he turned round and seed Dock and his

boys, on thar all-fours squealin’ and rearin’, _playin’ horse_, they

called it, in that pretty sandy place. Ben went right in amongst ’em,

and ses he, ‘I’ll play horse, too,’ and then he came down to his

all-fours, and here they had it, round and round, rearin’, pitchin’, and

cavortin’! Dock was might’ly pleased that Ben didn’t seem mad; but

bimeby, Ben got him close to the bank, and then, in a minute, gethered

him by the seat of his breeches and the har of the head and slung him

twenty foot out in the current. About the time Dock ris, Ben had another

of the crowd harnessed, and he throw’d _him_ at _Dock_! Then he pitched

another, and so on, twell he’d thrown ’em all in. You oughter ’a seen

’em swim to the shoals and take that bee-line for home!”

“Why didn’t they turn on him and thrash him?” I asked.

“Oh, you see he was a great big fellow, weighed two hundred, and was as

strong as a yoke of oxen; and you know, ’squire, most of the people is

mighty _puny-like_, in the _Trot_. Well, _playin’ horse_ got broke up

after that.”

When the next clearing came into view, I inquired of M’Coy, whose it

was.

“_Don’t_ you know, ’squire? Ain’t you never _seen_ him? Why, it’s old

Bill Wallis’s place, and he’s _our ugly man_! The whole livin’,

breathin’ yeth ain’t got the match to his picter! His mouth is split

every way, and turned wrong-side out, and when he opens it, it’s like

spreadin’ an otter trap to set it. The skin’s constant a pealin’ from

his nose, and his eyes looks like they was just stuck on to his face

with pins! He’s got hardly any skin to shet his eyes with, and not a

sign of _har_ to that little! His years is like a wolf’s, and his

tongue’s a’most allers hangin’ out of his mouth! His whole face looks

like it was half-roasted! Why, he’s obleeged to stay ’bout home; the

nabor women is afraid their babies ’ill be like him!”

Just after this last story, we reached a fall of two feet, over which

Dick’s plan was to descend bow-foremost, with a “ca-souse,” as he

expressed it. But we ran upon a rock, the current swayed us round, and

over we went, broadside.

“This is an ugly scrape, Dick,” said I, as soon as we got ashore.

“Yes, ’squire, but not so ugly as old Wallis; thar’s nuthin but deth can

eekal him. Howsever, less leave bailin’ the boat twell mornin’, and go

and stay with old Billy to-night, and then you’ll see for yourself.”

So, instead of sleeping at the Horse-shoe, we spent the night with old

Billy and his folks; and we had a rare time there, I assure you.

XIII.

KICKING A YANKEE.[11]

A very handsome friend of ours, who a few weeks ago was _poked_ out of a

comfortable office up the river, has betaken himself to Bangor, for a

time, to recover from the wound inflicted upon his feelings by our

“unprincipled and immolating administration.”

Change of air must have had an instantaneous effect upon his spirits;

for, from Galena, he writes us an amusing letter, which, among other

things, tells us of a desperate quarrel that took place on board of the

boat between a real live dandy tourist, and a real live Yankee settler.

The latter trod on the toes of the former; whereupon the former

threatened to “Kick out of the cabin” the latter.

“You’ll kick me out of this cabing?”

“Yes Sir, I’ll kick you out of this cabin!”

“You’ll kick _me_, Mr. _Hitchcock_, out of this cabing?”

“Yes, Sir, I’ll kick _you_, Mr. Hitchcock!”

“Wal, I guess,” said the Yankee, very coolly, after being perfectly

satisfied that it was himself who stood in such imminent peril of

assault—“I guess’ since you talk of kicking, you’ve never heard me tell

about old Bradley and my mare, there, to hum?”

“No, Sir, nor do I wish—”

“Wal, guess it won’t set you back much, any how, as kicking’s generally

best to be considered on. You see old Bradley is one of these

sanctimonious, long-faced hypocrites, who put on a religious suit every

Sabbath morning, and with a good deal of screwing, manage to keep it on

till after sermon in the afternoon; and as I was a Universalist, he

allers picked me out as a subject for religious conversation—and the

darned hypocrite would talk about sacred things, without ever winking.

Wal, he had an old roan mare that would jump over any fourteen-rail

fence in Illinois, and open any door in my barn that hadn’t a padlock on

it. Tu or three times I found her in my stable, and I told Bradley about

it, and he was ‘very sorry’—‘an unruly animal’—‘would watch her,’ and

a hull lot of such things, all said in a very serious manner, with a

face twice as long, as Deacon Farrar’s on Fast day. I knew all the time

he was lying, and so I watched him and his old roan tu; and for three

nights regular, old roan came to my stable about bed time, and just at

daylight Bradley would come, bridle her, and ride off. I then just took

my old mare down to a blacksmith’s shop, and had some shoes made with

‘corks’ about four inches long, and had ’em nailed on to her hind feet.

Your heels mister, ain’t nuthing to ’em. I took her home, give her about

ten feet halter, and tied her right in the centre of the stable, fed her

well with oats about nine o’clock, and after taking a good smoke, went

to bed, knowing that my old mare was a truth-telling animal, and that

she’d give a good report of herself in the morning. I hadn’t got fairly

to sleep before the old ’oman hunched me and wanted to know what on

airth was the matter out at the stable.

“Says I, ‘Go tu sleep, Peggy, it is nothing but Kate—she is kicking off

flies, I guess!’

“Purty soon she hunched me again, and says she:

“‘Mr. Hitchcock, du git up and see what in the world is the matter with

Kate, for she is kicking most powerfully.’

“‘Lay still, Peggy, Kate will take care of herself, I guess.’

“Wal, the next morning, about daylight, Bradley, with bridle in hand,

cum to the stable, as true as the book of Genesis; when he saw the old

roan’s sides, starn, and head, he cursed and swore worse than you did,

mister, when I came down on your toes. Arter breakfast that morning Joe

Davis cum to my house, and says he:

“‘Bradley’s old roan is nearly dead—she’s cut all to pieces and can

scarcely move.’

“‘I want to know,’ says I, ‘how on airth did it happen?’

“Now, Joe Davis was a member of the same church with Bradley, and whilst

we were talking, up cum that everlastin’ hypocrite, and says he:

“‘Mr. Hitchcock, my old roan is ruined!’

“‘Du tell,’ says I.

“‘She is cut all to pieces,’ says he; ‘do you know whether she was in

your stable, Mr. Hitchcock, last night?’

“Wal, mister, with this I let out:

“‘Do I _know_ it?’—(the Yankee here, in illustration, made a sudden

advance upon the dandy, who made way for him unconsciously, as it

were)—‘Do I know it? you no-souled, shad-bellied, squash-headed, old

night-owl you!—you hay-hookin’, corn-cribbin’, fodder-fudgin’,

cent-shavin’, whitlin’-of-nuthin’ you!—Kate kicks like a mere dumb

beast, but I’ve reduced the thing to a _science_!’” The Yankee had not

ceased to advance, or the dandy, in his astonishment, to retreat; and

now, the motion of the latter being accelerated by an apparent

demonstration on the part of the former to “suit the action to the

word,” he found himself in the “social hall,” tumbling backwards over a

pile of baggage, and tearing the knees of his pants as he scrambled up,

a perfect scream of laughter stunning him from all sides.

The defeat was total: a few moments afterwards he was dragging his own

trunk ashore, while Mr. Hitchcock finished his story on the boiler deck.

-----

[11] By J. M. Field.

XIV.

WHY MR. SELLUM DISPOSED OF THE HORSE.

A MATTER OF FACT STORY.

Mr. Sellum is a horse-jockey; that is, when he is not more profitably

employed, he is not ashamed, so he says, to “try his fort’n in that very

respectable callin’.” He dropped in at Bailey’s bazaar a few weeks

since; and very soon after Sellum arrived, a superb-looking charger,

mounted by a graceful rider, pranced up the court, and entered the

arena, to be sold at public vendue.

“There he is, gents,” said the auctioneer; “there he is! a splendid

beast! Look at him, and judge for yourselves. There’s an ear, a forearm,

a nostril, an eye for you! That animal, gentlemen, was ‘knocked down’ to

a gentleman under the hammer, less than three months ago, for two

hundred and eighty dollars. But I am authorized to-day to sell that

horse—let him bring more or less. He’s a beauty; fine figure, splendid

saddle-beast, natural gait fourteen miles to the hour, trots a mile in

2′ 42″; and altogether he’s a great horse,” which last remark no one

could doubt, for he weighed eleven hundred pounds. “How much am I

offered for that beautiful beast?” continued the auctioneer. “Move him

round the ring once, John. That’s it; elegant motion.”

There the horse stopped short, and refused to budge an inch, though John

buried the rowels to the shoulder in his ribs.

“Give me a bid, gentlemen, if you please. The horse must be sold.”

“Twenty dollars,” was heard from one corner of the room.

“_Twenty dollars!_” screamed the auctioneer, with a seemingly ironical

laugh. “I’m offered the stupendous sum of twenty dollars, gentlemen, for

that horse. Are there no sausage-makers in this congregation? I’m

offered only twenty dollars! But, as I said before, the horse is here to

be sold, so I shall accept the bid. Twenty dollars. I’m offered twenty

dollars—twenty—twenty—give me thirty? Twenty dollars—twenty—did I

hear thirty? Twenty dollars—give _five_? Twenty dollars—say _one_?

Shall I have twenty-one? If that’s the best bid, down he must go,

gentlemen! Twenty dollars! going! Twenty, only. Who’s the fortunate

buyer?”

“Sellum, John Sellum,” said our friend.

“John Sellum, twenty dollars,” says the auctioneer; “you’ve got a horse

as is a horse, Mr. Sellum.”

And the fortunate John bore his magnificent charger away in triumph. A

few days subsequently, an old acquaintance met John in the cars, and

inquired about his purchase.

“Got that horse yet, John?”

“No, I sold him.”

“So soon—what for?”

“Wal, nothin’ in particular; but I didn’t fancy the critter, all things

considered.”

“He was sound; wasn’t he?”

“Wall, I reckon he wasn’t; that is to say, I cal-k’late he wasn’t.

Show’d very good pluck, till I got him down into Washington Street,

after I left the baz-a-r, but just opposite the Old South, he fell slap

down on the pavement.”

“Pshaw! you don’t say so!”

“Yaas. Blindstaggers—wust kind. But I didn’t mind that, so I took him

home, and nussed him up a little. Put him in the gig next day; wouldn’t

start a peg! Coax’d him, draw’d him, run a hot wire in his ear, wollup’d

him, and so forth; and finally, I built a fire under him. All no use;

cunning cuss, sot rite down on the pile o’ lighted shavins, and put it

out.”

Here his friend smiled.

“That wasn’t nothin’ tho’. Went to git inter the wag’n, and he started

’fore I gath’red up the ribbins. Went ’bout three rods for’ard, and

stopped agin quicker’n lightnin’. Brought him back, put him in the

stall—low stable—got out of his reach, and then begun to whale him.

Then he kicked up agin; knocked the floorin’ all through over head,

stove his shoes off, broke his halter, and then run back inter the

stable-floor. Trap-door happened to be open, and down went his hind

legs, clear to the hips. There I had him foul.”

“Yes, you did,” replied his friend.

“I got a piece o’ plank, an’ I lam’d ’im for ’bout ten minutes, w’en, I

be hanged, if he didn’t _git mad_! and kick hisself out o’ the hole.

Next mornin’ found him swelled up big as four hogs-heads. Rub’d sperrets

o’ turpentine all over ’im, an the ungrateful rascal kep tryin’ to kick

me for’t. Give him nothin to eat for eight days, and the swellin’ went

down. Took him out o’ the stable, and found him lame _behind_.”

“Very likely.”

“But on a closer examination, see he was full as lame for’ard; one

balanced t’other, so’s he couldn’t limp. One eye had been knocked out in

the fight, but the head-stall kivered that misfort’n. Brushed ’im up

kerefully, and put on the shiny harness. Led him down the street, an’

met an old gent in search of a ‘spirited’ beast. Asked me if, I wanted

to sell?

“‘No, Sir,’ sez I.

“‘Wot’ll you take for’m?’ sez he.

“‘He’s high strung,’ sez I.

“‘He is,’ sez he; ‘wot’s he wuth?’

“‘I never warrants hosses,’ sez I. ‘If you wa’t’m jest as he is. You’re

a good judge o’ hosses, no doubt?’ sez I.

“‘Wal, I am,’ sez he.

“‘Very well, then; you may have’m for two hundred dollars.’

“The old gent pecked in his mouth, stroked his neck, looked very

knowin’, and replied:

“‘I’ll give you a hundred and fifty.’

“‘Split the difference,’ sez I.

“‘Done!’ sez he.

“‘The hoss is yourn,’ sez I.

“He give me the money, took the animal, an’ that’s the last I’ve heene

o’ him or that hoss.”

“Possible!” exclaimed his friend.

“Yaas, under all the circumstances, I thort it wan’t best to keep the

beast, you see, so I let him go.”

“Where are you going now?” asked his friend.

“To York.”

“When do you return?”

“_Not at present_,” said Mr. Sellum, slyly; and I reckon he didn’t.

XV.

METAPHYSICS.[12]

Most people are of opinion that whatever is, is right; but, strange to

say, an acquaintance with pen and ink and that sort of thing is very apt

to reverse this opinion. No sooner do we begin to study metaphysics,

than we find how egregiously we have been mistaken, in supposing that

“Master Parson is really Master Parson.”

I, for my part, have a high opinion of metaphysical studies, and think

the science a very useful one, because it teaches people what sheer

nobodies they are. The only objection is, they are not disposed to lay

this truth sufficiently to heart, but continue to give themselves airs,

just as if some folks were really some folks.

Old Doctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, where I lived in my

youth, was one of the metaphysical divines of the old school, and could

cavil upon the ninth part of a hair about entities and quiddities,

nominalism and realism, free will and necessity, with which sort of

learning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his learned hearers,

the bumpkins. They never doubted that it was all true, but were apt to

say with the old woman in Molière:

“Il parle si bien que je n’entend goutte.”

I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather’s, in which

the Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all “as clear

as preaching.” There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the greatest

hand at raising onions in our part of the country, but “not knowing

metaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad;” my

Aunt Judy Keturah Titterwell, who could knit stockings like all possest,

but could not syllogize; Malachi Muggs, our hired man, that drove the

oxen, and Isaac Thrasher, the district schoolmaster, who had dropped in

to warm his fingers and get a drink of cider. Something was under

discussion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it; but the Doctor

said it was “metaphysically true.”

“Pray, Doctor,” said Uncle Tim, “tell me something about metaphysics; I

have often heard of that science, but never for my life could find out

what it was.”

“Metaphysics,” said the Doctor, “is the science of abstractions.”

“I’m no wiser for that explanation,” said Uncle Tim.

“It treats,” said the Doctor, “of matters most profound and sublime, a

little difficult perhaps for a common intellect or an unschooled

capacity to fathom, but not the less important, on that account, to all

living beings.”

“What does it teach?” asked the schoolmaster.

“It is not applied so much to the operation of teaching,” answered the

Doctor, “as to that of inquiring; and the chief inquiry is, whether

things are, or whether they are not.”

“I don’t understand the question,” said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe out

of his mouth.

“For example, whether this earth on which we tread,” said the Doctor,

giving a heavy stamp on the floor, and setting his foot slap on the

cat’s tail, “whether this earth does really exist, or whether it does

not exist.”

“That is a point of considerable consequence to settle,” said my

grandfather.

“Especially,” added the schoolmaster, “to the holders of real estate.”

“Now the earth,” continued the Doctor, “may exist——”

“Who the dogs ever doubted that?” asked Uncle Tim.

“A great many men,” said the Doctor, “and some very learned ones.”

Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill up his pipe, whistling

the tune of High Betty Martin, while the Doctor went on:

“The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond

all possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case is

clear; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it or

not.”

“And how,” asked Uncle Tim, “is all this to be found out?”

“By digging down to the first principles,” answered the Doctor.

“Ay,” interrupted Malachi, “there is nothing equal to the spade and

pickaxe.”

“That is true,” said my grandfather, going on in Malachi’s way, “’tis by

digging for the foundation that we shall find out whether the world

exists or not; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find a

foundation—why then we are sure of it. But if we find no foundation, it

is clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in other words, that it

does not stand at all; therefore, it stands to reason—”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the Doctor, “but you totally mistake

me; I use the word _digging_ metaphorically, meaning the profoundest

cogitation and research into the nature of things. That is the way in

which we may ascertain whether things are or whether they are not.”

“But if a man can’t believe his eyes,” said Uncle Tim, “what signifies

talking about it?”

“Our eyes,” said the Doctor, “are nothing at all but the inlets of

sensation, and when we see a thing, all we are aware of is, that we have

a sensation of it; we are not sure that the thing exists. We are sure of

nothing that we see with our eyes.”

“Not without spectacles,” said Aunt Judy.

“Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of any object is

produced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits

streaming off from the object to the organs of sensation. Descartes,

too, has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs.”

“But does the world exist?” asked the schoolmaster.

“A good deal may be said on both sides,” replied the Doctor, “though the

ablest heads are for non-existence.”

“In common cases,” said Uncle Tim, “those who utter nonsense are

considered blockheads.”

“But in metaphysics,” said the Doctor, “the case is different.”

“Now all this is hocus pocus to me,” said Aunt Judy, suspending her

knitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles. “I

don’t understand a bit more of the business than I did at first.”

“I’ll be bound there is many a learned professor,” said Uncle Tim,

“could say the same after spinning a long yarn of metaphysics.”

The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favourite science.

“That is as the case may be,” said he; “this thing or that thing may be

dubious, but what then? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom.”

“No doubt of that,” said my grandfather, beginning to poke the fire,

“but when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin to

build upon in the metaphysical way?”

“Why, he begins by taking something for granted,” said the Doctor.

“But is that a sure way of going to work?”

“’Tis the only thing he can do,” replied the Doctor, after a pause, and

rubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that his

foundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him with

another question, but he poked the fire and let him go on.

“Metaphysics, to speak exactly—”

“Ah,” interrupted the schoolmaster, “bring it down to vulgar fractions,

and then we shall understand it.”

“’Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence

of things.”

“Come, come,” said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, “now I see into

it.”

“Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence or

capability of being; for a man metaphysically, or to metaphysical

purposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality and that of corporeity,

which may be considered separate.”

“What man?” asked Uncle Tim.

“Why any man; Malachi there, for example, I may consider him as Malachi

spiritual or Malachi corporal.”

“That is true,” said Malachi, “for when I was in the militia, they made

me a sixteenth corporal, and I carried grog to the drummer.”

“That is another affair,” said the Doctor, in continuation, “we speak of

man in his essence; we speak also of the essence of locality, the

essence of duration—”

“And essence of peppermint,” said Aunt Judy.

“Pooh!” said the Doctor, “the essence I mean is quite a different

concern.”

“Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm of a still,” said my

grandfather.

“Then I am all in the dark again,” rejoined Aunt Judy.

“By the spirit and essence of things I mean things in the abstract.”

“And what becomes of a thing when it gets into the abstract?” asked

Uncle Tim.

“Why, it becomes an abstraction.”

“There we are again,” said Uncle Tim; “but what the deuce is an

abstraction?”

“It’s a thing that has no matter; that is, it cannot be felt, seen,

heard, smelt or tasted; it has no substance or solidity; it is neither

large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short.”

“Then what is the long and short of it?” asked the schoolmaster.

“Abstraction,” replied the Doctor.

“Suppose, for instance,” said Malachi, “that I had a pitchfork—”

“Ay,” said the Doctor, “consider a pitchfork in general; that is,

neither this one nor that one, nor any particular one, but a pitchfork

or pitchforks divested of their materiality—these are things in the

abstract.”

“They are things in the hay-mow,” said Malachi.

“Pray,” said Uncle Tim, “have there been many such things discovered?”

“Discovered!” returned the Doctor, “why all things, whether in heaven or

upon the earth, or in the waters under the earth, whether small or

great, visible or invisible, animate or inanimate; whatever the eye can

see, or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers touch;

finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in _rerum natura_, past,

present or to come, all may be abstractions.”

“Indeed!” said Uncle Tim, “pray what do you make of the abstraction of a

red cow?”

“A red cow,” said the Doctor, “considered metaphysically, or as an

abstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones nor

flesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these

parts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no

colour at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of

such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the

accidental properties of all the animals of its tribe, for it has no

locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives

milk, chews the cud, nor performs any other function of a horned beast,

but is a mere creature of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy,

and nourished by a conceit of the imagination.”

“A dog’s foot!” exclaimed Aunt Judy. “All the metaphysics under the sun

wouldn’t make a pound of butter.”

“That’s a fact!” said Uncle Tim.

-----

[12] Anonymous.

XVI.

A TIGHT RACE CONSIDERIN’.

During my medical studies, passed in a small village in Mississippi, I

became acquainted with a family named Hibbs, residing a few miles in the

country. The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Hibbs and son. They were

plain, unlettered people, honest in intent and deed, but overflowing

with that which amply made up for all their deficiencies of education,

namely, warm-hearted hospitality, the distinguishing trait of southern

character. They were originally from Virginia, from whence they had

emigrated in quest of a clime more genial, and a soil more productive

than that in which their fathers toiled.

Their search had been rewarded, their expectations realized, and now, in

their old age, though not wealthy in the “Astorian” sense, still they

had sufficient to keep the “wolf from the door,” and drop something more

substantial than condolence and tears, in the hat that poverty hands

round for the kind offerings of humanity.

The old man was like the generality of old planters, men whose ambition

is embraced by the family or social circle, and whose thoughts turn more

on the relative value of “Sea Island” and “Mastodon,” and the

improvement of their plantations, than the “glorious victories of

Whiggery in Kentucky,” or the “triumphs of democracy in Arkansas.”

The old lady was a shrewd, active dame, kind-hearted and long-tongued,

benevolent and impartial, making her coffee as strong for the poor

pedestrian, with his all upon his back, as the broadcloth sojourner,

with his “up-country pacer.”

She was a member of the church, as well as the daughter of a man who had

once owned a race-horse: and these circumstances gave her an

indisputable right, she thought, to “let on all she knew,” when religion

or horse-flesh was the theme.

At one moment, she would be heard discussing whether the new “circus

rider,” (as she always called the preacher,) was as affecting in Timothy

as the old one was pathetic in Paul, and anon, protecting dad’s horse

from the invidious comparisons of some visitor, who, having heard,

perhaps, that such horses as Fashion and Boston existed, thought himself

qualified to doubt the old lady’s assertion that her father’s horse

“Shumach” had run a mile on one particular occasion.

“Don’t tell _me_,” was her never-failing reply to their doubts, “don’t

tell _me_ ’bout Fashun or Bosting, or any other beating ‘Shumach’ a fair

race, for the thing was unfesible: didn’t he run a mile a minute by

Squire Dim’s watch, which always stopt ’zactly at twelve, and didn’t he

start a minute afore, and git out, jis as the long hand war givin’ its

last quiver on ketchin’ the short leg of the watch? And didn’t he beat

everything in Virginny ’cept once? Dad and the folks said he’d beat

then, if young Mr. Spotswood hadn’t give ‘old Swaga,’ Shumach’s rider,

some of that ‘Croton water,’ and jis ’fore the race Swage or Shumach, I

don’t ’stinctly ’member which, but one of them had to ‘_let down_,’ and

so dad’s hoss got beat.”

The son I will describe in a few words. Imbibing his parents’ contempt

for letters, he was very illiterate, and as he had not enjoyed the

equivalent of travel, was extremely ignorant on all matters not relating

to hunting or plantation duties. He was a stout, active fellow, with a

merry twinkling of the eye, indicative of humour, and partiality for

practical joking. We had become very intimate, he instructing me in

“forest lore,” and I, in return, giving amusing stories, or, what was as

much to his liking, occasional introductions to my hunting-flask.

Now that I have introduced the “Dramatis Personæ,” I will proceed with

my story. By way of relaxation, and to relieve the tedium incident more

or less to a student’s life, I would take my gun, walk out to old

Hibbs’s, spend a day or two, and return refreshed to my books.

One fine afternoon I started upon such an excursion, and as I had, upon

a previous occasion missed killing a fine buck, owing to my having

nothing but squirrel shot, I determined to go this time for the

“antlered monarch,” by loading one barrel with fifteen “blue whistlers,”

reserving the other for small game.

At the near end of the plantation was a fine spring, and adjacent, a

small cave, the entrance artfully or naturally concealed, save to one

acquainted with its locality. The cave was nothing but one of those

subterranean washes so common in the west and south, and called

“sink-holes.”

It was known only to young H. and myself, and we, for peculiar reasons,

kept secret, having put it in requisition as the depository of a jug of

“old Bourbon,” which we favoured, and as the old folks abominated

drinking, we had found convenient to keep there, whither we would repair

to get our drinks, and return to the house to hear them descant on the

evils of drinking, and “vow no ‘drap,’ ’cept in doctor’s truck, should

ever come on their plantation.”

Feeling very thirsty, I took my way by the spring that evening. As I

descended the hill o’er-topping it, I beheld the hind parts of a bear

slowly being drawn into the cave.

My heart bounded at the idea of killing a bear, and my plans were formed

in a second. I had no dogs—the house was distant—and the bear becoming

“small by degrees, and beautifully less.” Every hunter knows, if you

shoot a squirrel in the head when it’s sticking out of a hole, ten to

one he’ll jump out; and I reasoned that if this were true regarding

squirrels, might not the operation of the same principle extract a bear,

applying it low down in the back.

Quick as thought I levelled my gun and fired, intending to give him the

buckshot when his body appeared; but what was my surprise and horror,

when, instead of a bear rolling out, the parts were jerked nervously in,

and the well-known voice of young H. reached my ears.

“Murder! Ingins! snakes and kuckle-burs! Oh! Lordy! ’nuff!—’nuff!—take

him off! Jis let me off this wunst, dad, and I’ll never run mam’s colt

again! Oh, Lordy! Lordy! _all my brains blowed clean out!_ Snakes!

snakes!” yelled he, in a shriller tone, if possible, “Old Scratch on the

outside and snakes in the sink-hole! I’ll die a Christian, anyhow, and

if I die before I wake,” and out scrambled poor H., pursued by a large

black-snake.

If my life had depended on it, I could not have restrained my laughter.

Down fell the gun, and down dropped I shrieking convulsively. The hill

was steep, and over and over I went, until my head striking against a

stump at the bottom, stopped me, half senseless. On recovering somewhat

from the stunning blow, I found Hibbs upon me, taking satisfaction from

me for having blowed out his brains. A contest ensued, and H. finally

relinquished his hold, but I saw from the knitting of his brows, that

the bear-storm, instead of being over, was just brewing.

“Mr. Tensas,” he said with awful dignity, “I’m sorry I put into you

’fore you cum to, but you’re at yourself now, and as you’ve tuck a shot

at me, it’s no more than far I should have a chance ’fore the hunt’s

up.”

It was with the greatest difficulty I could get H. to bear with me until

I explained the mistake; but as soon as he learned it, he broke out in a

huge laugh:

“Oh, Dod busted! that’s ’nuff; you has my pardon. I ought to know’d you

didn’t ’tend it; ’sides, you jis scraped the skin. I war wus skeered

than hurt, and if you’ll go to the house and beg me off from the old

folks, I’ll never let on you cuddent tell copperas breeches from

bar-skin.”

Promising that I would use my influence, I proposed taking a drink, and

that he should tell me how he had incurred his parent’s anger. He

assented, and after we had inspected the cave, and seen that it held no

other serpent than the one we craved, we entered its cool recess, and H.

commenced:

“You see, Doc, I’d heered so much from mam ’bout her dad’s Shumach and

his nigger Swage, and the mile a minute, and the Croton water what was

gin him, and how she bleved that if it wara’t for bettin’, and the

cussin’ and fightin’, runnin’ race-hosses warn’t the sin folks said it

war; and if they war anything to make her ’gret gettin’ religion and

jinin’ the church, it war cos she couldn’t ’tend races, and have a

race-colt of her own to comfort her ’clinin’ years, sich as her daddy

had afore her; so I couldn’t rest for wantin’ to see a hoss-race, and go

shares, p’raps, in the colt she war wishin’ for.

“And then I’d think what sort of a hoss I’d want him to be—a quarter

nag, a mile critter, or a hoss what could run (fur all mam says it can’t

be did) a whole four mile at a stretch. Sometimes I think I’d rather own

a quarter nag, for the suspense wouldn’t long be hung, and then we could

run up the road to old Nick Bamer’s cow-pen, and Sally is almost allers

out thar in the cool of the evenin’; and in course we wouldn’t be so

cruel as to run the poor critter in the heat of the day. But then agin,

I’d think I’d rather have a miler; for the ’citement would be greater,

and we could run down the road to old Withers orchard, an his gal Miry

is frightfully fond of sunnin’ herself thar, when she ’spects me ’long,

and she’d hear of the race, certain; but then thar war the four-miler

for my thinkin’, and I’d knew’d in such case the ’citement would be

greatest of all, and you know, too, from dad’s stable to the grocery is

jist four miles, an’ in case of any ’spute, all hands would be willin’

to run over, even if it had to be tried a dozen times.

“So I never could ’cide on which sort of a colt to wish for. It was fust

one, then t’others, till I was nearly ’stracted. So I found the best way

was to get the hoss fust, and then ’termine whether it should be Sally

Bamers, and the cow-pen; Miry Withers, and the peach orchard; or

Spillman’s grocery, with the bald face.

“You’ve seed my black colt, that one that dad’s father gin me in his

will when he died, and I ’spect the reason he wrote that will war, that

he might have wun then, for it’s more then he had when he was alive, for

granma war a monstrus overbearin’ woman. The colt would cum up in my

mind, every time I’d think whar I was to git a hoss. ‘Git out!’ said I

at fust—_he_ never could run, and ’sides if he could, mam rides him

now, an he’s too old for anything, ’cept totin her and bein’ called

mine; for you see, though he war named Colt, yet for the old lady to

call him old, would bin like the bar ’fecting contempt for the rabbit,

on account of the shortness of his tail.

“Well, thought I, it does look sorter unpromisin’, but it’s colt or

none; so I ’termined to put him in trainin’ the fust chance. Last

Saturday, who should cum ridin’ up but the new circut preacher, a

long-legged, weakly, sickly,

never-contented-on-less-the-best-on-the-plantation-war-cooked-fur-him

sort of a man; but I didn’t look at him twice, his hoss was the critter

that took my eye; for the minute I looked at him, I knew him to be the

same hoss as Sam Spooner used to win all his splurgin’ dimes with, the

folks said, and wot he used to ride past our house so fine on. The hoss

war a heap the wuss for age and change of masters; for preachers, though

they’re mity ’ticular ’bout thar own comfort, seldom tends to thar

hosses; for one is privit property and ’tother generally borried.

“I seed from the way the preacher rid, that he didn’t know the animal he

war straddlin’; but I did, and I ’termined I wouldn’t lose sich a chance

of trainin’ Colt by the side of a hoss wot had run real races. So that

night, arter prayers and the folks was a-bed, I and Nigger Bill tuck the

hosses and carried them down to the pastur’. It war a forty-aker lot,

and consequently jist a quarter across—for I thought it best to promote

Colt, by degrees, to a four-miler. When we got thar, the preacher’s hoss

showed he war willin’; but Colt, dang him! commenced nibblin’ a

fodder-stack over the fence. I nearly cried for vexment, but an idea

struck me; I hitched the critter, and told Bill to get on Colt and stick

tight wen I giv’ the word. Bill got reddy, and unbeknownst to him I

pulled up a bunch of nettles, and, as I clapped them under Colt’s tail,

yelled, ‘Go!’ Down shut his graceful like a steel-trap, and away he shot

so quick an’ fast that he jumpt clean out from under Bill, and got

nearly to the end of the quarter ’fore the nigger toch the ground: he

lit on his head, and in course warn’t hurt—so we cotched Colt, an’ I

mounted him.

“The next time I said ‘go’ he showed that age hadn’t spiled his legs or

memory. Bill ’an me ’greed we could run him now, so Bill mounted

Preacher and we got ready. Thar war a narrer part of the track ’tween

two oaks, but as it war near the end of the quarter, I ’spected to pass

Preacher ’fore we got thar, so I warn’t afraid of barkin’ my shins.

“We tuck a fair start, and off we went like a peeled ingun, an’ I soon

’scovered that it warn’t such an easy matter to pass Preacher, though

Colt dun delightful; we got nigh the trees, and Preacher warn’t past

yet, an’ I ’gan to get skeered, for it warn’t more than wide enuf for a

horse and a half; so I hollered to Bill to hold up, but the imperdent

nigger turned his ugly pictur, and said, ‘he’d be cussed if he warn’t

goin’ to play his han’ out.’ I gin him to understand he’d better fix for

a foot-race when we stopt, and tried to hold up Colt, but he wouldn’t

stop. We reached the oaks, Colt tried to pass Preacher, Preacher tried

to pass Colt, and cowollop, crosh, cochunk! we all cum down like

’simmons arter frost. Colt got up and won the race; Preacher tried hard

to rise, but one hind leg had got threw the stirrup, an’ tother in the

head stall, an’ he had to lay still, doubled up like a long nigger in a

short bed. I lit on my feet, but Nigger Bill war gone entire. I looked

up in the fork of one of the oaks, and thar he war sittin’, lookin’ very

composed on surroundin’ nature. I couldn’t git him down till I promised

not to hurt him for disobeyin’ orders, when he slid down. We’d ’nuff

racin’ for that night, so we put up the hosses and went to bed.

“Next morning the folks got ready for church, when it was diskivered

that the hosses had got out. I an’ Bill started off to look for them; we

found them cleer off in the field, tryin’ to git in the pastur’ to run

the last night’s race over, old Blaze, the reverlushunary mule, bein’

along to act as judge.

“By the time we got to the house it war nigh on to meetin’ hour; and dad

had started to the preachin’, to tell the folks to sing on, as preacher

and mam would be ’long bimeby. As the passun war in a hurry, and had

been complainin’ that his creetur war dull, I ’suaded him to put on

uncle Jim’s spurs what he fotch from Mexico. I saddled the passun’s

hoss, takin’ ’ticular pains to let the saddle-blanket come down low in

the flank. By the time these fixins war threw, mam war ’head nigh on to

a quarter. ‘We must ride on, passun,’ I said, ‘or the folks’ll think we

is lost.’ So I whipt up the mule I rid, the passun chirrupt and chuct to

make his crittur gallop, but the animal didn’t mind him a pic. I ’gan to

snicker, an’ the passun ’gan to git vext; sudden he thought of his

spurs, so he ris up, an’ drove them _vim_ in his hoss’s flanx, till they

went through his saddle-blanket, and like to bored his nag to the

holler. By gosh! but it war a quickener—the hoss kickt till the passun

had to hug him round the neck to keep from pitchin’ him over his head.

He next jumpt up ’bout as high as a rail fence, passun holdin’ on and

tryin’ to git his spurs—but they war lockt—his breeches split plum

across with the strain, and the piece of wearin’ truck wot’s next the

skin made a monstrous putty flag as the old hoss, like drunkards to a

barbacue, streakt it up the road.

“Mam war ridin’ slowly along, thinkin’ how sorry she was, cos Chary

Dolin, who always led her off, had sich a bad cold, an’ wouldn’t be able

to ’sist her singin’ to-day. She war practisin’ the hymns, and had got

as far whar it says, ‘I have a race to run,’ when the passun huv in

sight, an’ in ’bout the dodgin’ of a diedapper, she found thar war truth

in the words, for the colt, hearin’ the hoss cumin’ up behind, began to

show symptoms of runnin’; but when he heard the passun holler, ‘wo wo!’

to his horse, he thought it war me shoutin’ ‘go!’ and sure ’nuff off

they started jis as the passun got up even; so it war a fair race.

Whoop! git out, but it war egsitin’—the dust flew, and the rail-fence

appeered strate as a rifle. Thar war the passun, his legs fast to the

critter’s flanx, arms lockt round his neck, face as pale as a rabbit’s

belly, and the white flag streemin’ far behind—and thar war Mam, fust

on one side, then on t’other, her new caliker swelled up round her like

a bear with the dropsy, the old lady so much surprized she cuddent ride

steddy, an’ tryin’ to stop her colt, but he war too well trained to stop

while he heard ‘go!’

“Mam got ’sited at last, and her eyes ’gan to glimmer like she seen her

daddy’s ghost axin’ ‘if he ever trained up a child or a race-hoss to be

’fraid of a small brush on a Sunday,’ she commenced ridin’ beautiful;

she braced herself up in the saddle, and began to make calkerlations how

she war to win the race, for it war nose and nose, and she saw the

passun spurrin’ his critter every jump. She tuk off her shoe, and the

way a number ten go-to-meetin’ brogan commenced givin’ a hoss particular

Moses, were a caution to hoss-flesh—but still it kept nose and nose.

She found she war carryin’ too much weight for Colt, so she ’gan to

throw off plunder, till nuthin’ was left but her saddle and close, and

the spurs kept tellin’ still. The old woman commenced strippin’ to

lighten till it wouldn’t bin the clean thing for her to have taken off

one dud more; an’ then when she found it war no use while the spurs

lasted, she got cantankerous.

“‘Passun,’ said she, ‘I’ll be cust if it’s fair or gentlemanly for you,

a preacher of the gospel, to take advantage of an old woman this way,

usin’ spurs when you know _she_ can’t wear ’em—’taint Christian-like

nuther,’ and she bust into cryin’.

“‘Wo! Miss Hibbs! Wo! Stop! Madam! Wo! Your son!’ he attempted to say,

when the old woman tuck him on the back of the head, and fillin’ his

mouth with right smart of a saddle-horn, and stoppin’ the talk, as far

as his share went for the present.

“By this time they’d got nigh on to the meetin’-house, and the folks

were harkin’ away on ‘Old Hundred,’ and wonderin’ what could have become

of the passun and Mam Hibbs. One sister in a long beard axt another

brethren in church, if she’d heerd anything ’bout that New York preecher

runnin’ way with a woman old enough to be his muther. The brethrens gin

a long sigh an’ groaned:

“‘It ain’t possible! marciful heavens! you don’t ’spicion?’ wen the

sound of the hosses comin’, roused them up like a touch of the agur, an’

broke off their sarpent-talk.

“Dad run out to see what was to pay, but when he seed the hosses so

close together, the passun spurrin’, and mam ridin’ close war skase whar

she cum, he knew her fix in a second, and ’tarmined to help her; so

clinchin’ a saplin’, he hid ’hind a stump ’bout ten steps off, and held

on for the hosses. On they went in beautiful style, the passun’s spurs

tellin’ terrible, and mam’s shoe operatin’ ‘no small pile of

punkins,’—passun stretched out the length of two hosses, while mam sot

as stiff and strate as a bull yearling in his fust fight, hittin’ her

nag fust on one side, next on t’other, and the third for the passun, who

had chawed the horn till little of the saddle, and less of his teeth war

left, and his voice sounded as holler as a jackass-nicker in an old

saw-mill.

“The hosses war nose and nose, jam up together so close that mam’s last

kiverin’ and passun’s flag had got lockt, an’ ’tween bleached domestic

and striped lindsey made a beautiful banner for the pious racers.

“On they went like a small arthquake, an’ it seemed like it war goin’ to

be a draun race; but dad, when they got to him, let down with all his

might on Colt, scarin’ him so bad that he jumpt clean ahead of passun,

beatin’ him by a neck, buttin’ his own head agin the meetin’-house, an’

pitchin’ mam, like a lam for the sacryfise, plum through the winder

’mongst the mourners, leavin’ her only garment flutterin’ on a nail in

the sash. The men shot their eyes and scrambled outen the house, an’ the

woman gin mam so much of their close that they like to put themselves in

the same fix.

“The passun quit the circut, and I haven’t been home yet.”

XVII.

A SHARK STORY.

“Well, gentlemen, I’ll go ahead, if you say so. Here’s the story. It is

true, upon my honour, from beginning to end—every word of it. I once

crossed over to Faulkner’s island to fish for _tautaugs_, as the

north-side people call black fish, on the reefs hard by, in the Long

Island Sound. Tim Titus (who died of the dropsy down at Shinnecock

point, last spring) lived there then. Tim was a right good fellow, only

he drank rather too much.

“It was during the latter part of July; the sharks and the dog-fish had

just began to spoil sport. When Tim told me about the sharks, I resolved

to go prepared to entertain these aquatic savages with all becoming

attention and regard, if there should chance to be any interloping about

our fishing ground. So, we rigged out a set of extra large hooks, and

shipped some rope-yarn and steel chain, an axe, a couple of clubs, and

an old harpoon, in addition to our ordinary equipments, and off we

started. We threw out our anchor at half ebb-tide, and took some

thumping large fish; two of them weighed thirteen pounds—so you may

judge. The reef where we lay was about half a mile from the island, and,

perhaps, a mile from the Connecticut shore. We floated there, very

quietly, throwing out and hauling in, until the breaking of my line,

with a sudden and severe jerk, informed me that the sea attorneys were

in waiting, down stairs; and we accordingly prepared to give them a

retainer. A salt pork cloak upon one of our magnum hooks forthwith

engaged one of the gentlemen in our service. We got him alongside, and

by dint of piercing, and thrusting, and banging, we accomplished a most

exciting and merry murder. We had business enough of the kind to keep us

employed until near low water. By this time, the sharks had all cleared

out, and the black fish were biting again; the rock began to make its

appearance above the water, and in a little while its hard bald head was

entirely dry. Tim now proposed to set me out upon the rock, while he

rowed ashore to get the jug, which, strange to say, we had left at the

house. I assented to this proposition; first, because I began to feel

the effects of the sun upon my tongue, and needed something to take, by

the way of medicine; and secondly because the rock was a favourite spot

for rod and reel, and famous for luck: so I took my _traps_, and a box

of bait, and jumped upon my new station. Tim made for the island.

“Not many men would willingly have been left upon a little barren reef

that was covered by every flow of the tide, in the midst of a waste of

waters, at such a distance from the shore, even with an assurance from a

companion more to be depended upon than mine, that he would return

immediately and take him off. But somehow or other, the excitement of

the sport was so high, and the romance of the situation was so

delightful, that I thought of nothing else but the prospect of my fun,

and the contemplation of the novelty and beauty of the scene. It was a

mild, pleasant afternoon, in harvest time. The sky was clear and pure.

The deep blue sound, heaving all around me, was studded with craft of

all descriptions and dimensions, from the dipping sail-boat to the

rolling merchantman, sinking and rising like sea-birds sporting with

their white wings in the surge. The grain and grass on the neighbouring

farms were gold and green, and gracefully they bent obeisance to a

gently breathing south-wester. Farther off, the high upland, and the

distant coast, gave a dim relief to the prominent features of the

landscape, and seemed the rich but dusky frame of a brilliant fairy

picture. Then, how still it was! not a sound could be heard, except the

occasional rustling of my own motion, and the water beating against the

sides, or gurgling in the fissures of the rock, or except now and then

the cry of a solitary saucy gull, who would come out of his way in the

firmament, to see what I was doing without a boat, all alone, in the

middle of the sound; and who would hover, and cry, and chatter, and make

two or three circling swoops and dashes at me, and then, after having

satisfied his curiosity, glide away in search of some other food to

scream at.

“I soon became half indolent, and quite indifferent about fishing; so I

stretched myself out at full length upon the rock and gave myself up to

the luxury of looking and thinking. The divine exercise soon put me fast

asleep. I dreamed away a couple of hours, and longer might have dreamed,

but for a tired fish-hawk who chose to make my head his resting place,

and who waked and started me to my feet.

“‘Where is Tim Titus?’ I muttered to myself, as I strained my eyes over

the now darkened water. But none was near me to answer that interesting

question, and nothing was to be seen of either Tim or his boat. ‘He

should have been here long ere this,’ thought I, ‘and he promised

faithfully not to stay long—could he have forgotten? or has he paid too

much devotion to the jug?’

“I began to feel uneasy, for the tide was rising fast, and soon would

cover the top of the rock, and high water-mark was at least a foot above

my head. I buttoned up my coat, for either the coming coolness of the

evening, or else my growing apprehensions, had set me trembling and

chattering most painfully. I braced my nerves, and set my teeth, and

tried to hum ‘Begone, dull care,’ keeping time with my fists upon my

thighs. But what music! what melancholy merriment! I started and

shuddered at the doleful sound of my own voice. I am not naturally a

coward; but I should like to know the man who would not, in such a

situation, be alarmed. It is a cruel death to die to be merely drowned,

and to go through the ordinary common-places of suffocation; but to see

your death gradually rising to your eyes, to feel the water rising, inch

by inch, upon your shivering sides, and to anticipate the certainly

coming, choking struggle for your last breath, when, with the gurgling

sound of an overflowing brook taking a new direction, the cold brine

pours into mouth, ears, and nostrils, usurping the seat and avenues of

health and life, and, with gradual flow,

stifling—smothering—suffocating! It were better to die a thousand

common deaths.

“This is one of the instances in which, it must be admitted, salt water

is not a pleasant subject of contemplation. However, the rock was not

yet covered, and hope, blessed hope, stuck faithfully by me. To beguile,

if possible, the weary time, I put on a bait, and threw out for fish. I

was sooner successful than I could have wished to be, for hardly had my

line struck the water, before the hook was swallowed, and my rod was

bent with the dead hard pull of a twelve foot shark. I let him run about

fifty yards, and then reeled up. He appeared not at all alarmed, and I

could scarcely feel him bear upon my fine hair line. He followed the

pull gently and unresisting, came up to the rock, laid his nose upon its

side, and looked up into my face, not as if utterly unconcerned, but

with a sort of quizzical impudence, as though he perfectly understood

the precarious nature of my situation. The conduct of my captive renewed

and increased my alarm. And well it might; for the tide was now running

over a corner of the rock behind me, and a small stream rushed through a

cleft, or fissure, by my side, and formed a puddle at my very feet. I

broke my hook out of the monster’s mouth, and leaned upon my rod for

support.

“‘Where is Tim Titus?’ I cried aloud. ‘Curse on the drunken vagabond!

Will he never come?’

“My ejaculations did no good. No Timothy appeared. It became evident

that I must prepare for drowning, or for action. The reef was completely

covered, and the water was above the soles of my feet. I was not much of

a swimmer, and as to ever reaching the island, I could not even hope for

that. However, there was no alternative, and I tried to encourage

myself, by reflecting that necessity was the mother of invention, and

that desperation will sometimes insure success. Besides, too, I

considered and took comfort from the thought that I could wait for Tim,

so long as I had a foothold, and then commit myself to the uncertain

strength of my arms and legs for salvation. So I turned my bait-box

upside down, and mounting upon that, endeavoured to comfort my spirits,

and to be courageous, but submissive to my fate. I thought of death, and

what it might bring with it, and I tried to repent of the multiplied

iniquities of my almost wasted life; but I found that that was no place

for a sinner to settle his accounts. Wretched soul, pray I could not.

“The water had not got above my ankles, when, to my inexpressible joy, I

saw a sloop bending down towards me, with the evident intention of

picking me up. No man can imagine what were the sensations of gratitude

which filled my bosom at that moment.

“When she got within a hundred yards of the reef, I sung out to the man

at the helm to luff up, and lie by, and lower the boat; but to my

amazement, I could get no reply, nor notice of my request. I entreated

them, for the love of heaven, to take me off; and I promised, I know not

what rewards, that were entirely beyond my power of bestowal. But the

brutal wretch of a captain, muttering something to the effect of ‘that

he hadn’t time to stop,’ and giving me the kind and sensible advice to

pull off my coat and swim ashore, put the helm hard down, and away bore

the sloop on the other tack.

“‘Heartless villain!’ I shrieked out, in the torture of my

disappointment; ‘may God reward your inhumanity.’

“The crew answered my prayer with a coarse, loud laugh; and the cook

asked me through a speaking trumpet, ‘If I was not afraid of catching

cold.’—The black rascal!

“It now was time to strip; for my knees felt the cool tide, and the wind

dying away, left a heavy swell, that swayed and shook the box upon which

I was mounted, so that I had occasionally to stoop, and paddle with my

hands against the water in order to preserve my perpendicular. The

setting sun sent his almost horizontal streams of fire across the dark

waters, making them gloomy and terrific, by the contrast of his amber

and purple glories.

“Something glided by me in the water, and then made a sudden halt. I

looked upon the black mass, and, as my eye ran along its dark outline, I

saw, with horror, that it was a shark; the identical monster out of

whose mouth I had just broken my hook. He was fishing now for me, and

was evidently only waiting for the tide to rise high enough above the

rock, to glut at once his hunger and revenge. As the water continued to

mount above my knees, he seemed to grow more hungry and familiar. At

last, he made a desperate dash, and approaching within an inch of my

legs, turned upon his back, and opened his huge jaws for an attack. With

desperate strength, I thrust the end of my rod violently at his mouth;

and the brass head, ringing against his teeth, threw him back into the

deep current, and I lost sight of him entirely. This, however, was but a

momentary repulse; for in the next minute he was close behind my back,

and pulling at the skirts of my fustian coat, which hung dipping into

the water. I leaned forward hastily, and endeavoured to extricate myself

from the dangerous grasp; but the monster’s teeth were too firmly set,

and his immense strength nearly drew me over. So, down flew my rod, and

off went my jacket, devoted peace-offerings to my voracious visitor.

“In an instant, the waves all round me were lashed into froth and foam.

No sooner was my poor old sporting friend drawn under the surface, than

it was fought for by at least a dozen enormous combatants! The battle

raged upon every side. High black fins rushed now here, now there, and

long, strong tails scattered sleet and froth, and the brine was thrown

up in jets, and eddied and curled, and fell, and swelled, like a

whirlpool in Hell-gate.

“Of no long duration, however, was this fishy tourney. It seemed soon to

be discovered that the prize contended for contained nothing edible but

cheese and crackers, and no flesh; and as its mutilated fragments rose

to the surface, the waves subsided into their former smooth condition.

Not till then did I experience the real terrors of my situation. As I

looked around me to see what had become of the robbers, I counted one,

two, three, yes, up to twelve, successively, of the largest sharks I

ever saw, floating in a circle around me, like divergent rays, all

mathematically equidistant from the rock, and from each other; each

perfectly motionless, and with his gloating, fiery eye, fixed full and

fierce upon me. Basilisks and rattlesnakes! how the fire of their steady

eyes entered into my heart! I was the centre of a circle, whose radii

were sharks! I was the unsprung, or rather _unchewed_ game, at which a

pack of hunting sea-dogs were making a dead point!

“There was one old fellow, that kept within the circumference of the

circle. He seemed to be a sort of captain, or leader of the band; or,

rather, he acted as the coroner for the other twelve of the inquisition,

that were summoned to sit on, and eat up my body. He glided around and

about, and every now and then would stop, and touch his nose against

some one of his comrades, and seem to consult, or to give instructions

as to the time and mode of operation. Occasionally, he would skull

himself up towards me, and examine the condition of my flesh, and then

again glide back, and rejoin the troupe, and flap his tail, and have

another confabulation. The old rascal had, no doubt, been out into the

highways and byways, and collected this company of his friends and

kin-fish, and invited them to supper.

“I must confess, that horribly as I felt, I could not help but think of

a tea-party, of demure old maids, sitting in a solemn circle, with their

skinny hands in their laps, licking their expectant lips, while their

hostess bustles about in the important functions of her preparations.

With what an eye have I seen such appurtenances of humanity survey the

location and adjustment of some especial condiment, which is about to be

submitted to criticism and consumption.

“My sensations began to be, now, most exquisite indeed; but I will not

attempt to describe them. I was neither hot nor cold, frightened nor

composed; but I had a combination of all kinds of feelings and emotions.

The present, past, future, heaven, earth, my father and mother, a little

girl I knew once, and the sharks, were all confusedly mixed up together,

and swelled my crazy brain almost to bursting. I cried, and laughed, and

spouted, and screamed for Tim Titus.

“In a fit of most wise madness, I opened my broad-bladed fishing-knife,

and waved it around my head with an air of defiance. As the tide

continued to rise, my extravagance of madness mounted. At one time, I

became persuaded that my tide-waiters were reasonable beings, who might

be talked into mercy and humanity, if a body could only hit upon the

right text. So, I bowed, and gesticulated, and threw out my hands, and

talked to them, as friends, and brothers, members of my family, cousins,

uncles, aunts, people waiting to have their bills paid; I scolded them

as my servants; I abused them as duns; I implored them as jurymen

sitting on the question of my life; I congratulated, and flattered them

as my comrades upon some glorious enterprise; I sung and ranted to them,

now as an actor in a play-house, and now as an elder at a camp-meeting;

in one moment, roaring,

“‘On this cold flinty rock I will lay down my head,’—

and in the next, giving out to my attentive hearers for singing, a hymn

of Dr. Watts so admirably appropriate to the occasion:

“‘On slippery rocks I see them stand,

While fiery billows roll below.’”

“What said I, what did I not say! Prose and poetry, scripture and drama,

romance and ratiocination—out it came. ‘_Quamdiu, Catalina, nostra

patientia abutere?_’—I sung out to the old captain, to begin with: ‘My

brave associates, partners of my toil,’—so ran the strain. ‘On which

side soever I turn my eyes,’—‘Gentlemen of the jury,’—‘I come not here

to steal away your hearts,’—‘You are not wood, you are not stones,

but’—‘Hah!’—‘Begin, ye tormentors, your tortures are vain,’—‘Good

friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up to any sudden

flood,’—‘The angry flood that lashed her groaning sides,’—‘Ladies and

gentlemen,’—‘My very noble and approved good masters,’—‘Avaunt! and

quit my sight; let the earth hide ye,’—‘Lie lightly on his head, O

earth!’—‘O, heaven and earth, that it should come to this!’—‘The

torrent roared, and we did buffet it with lusty sinews, stemming it

aside and oaring it with hearts of controversy,’—‘Give me some drink,

Titinius,’—‘Drink, boys, drink, and drown dull sorrow,’—‘For liquor it

doth roll such comfort to the soul,’—‘Romans, countrymen and lovers,

hear me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear,’—‘Fellow

citizens, assembled as we are upon this interesting occasion, impressed

with the truth and beauty,’—‘Isle of beauty, fare thee well,’—‘The

quality of mercy is not strained,’—‘Magna veritas et

prevalebit,’—‘Truth is potent, and’—‘Most potent, grave, and reverend

seigniors,’—

“‘Oh, now you weep, and I perceive you feel

The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.

Kind souls! what! weep you when you but behold

Our Cæsar’s vesture wounded,’—

Ha! ha! ha!—and I broke out in a fit of most horrible laughter, as I

thought of the mincemeat particles of my lacerated jacket.”

“In the meantime, the water had got well up towards my shoulders, and

while I was shaking and vibrating upon my uncertain foothold, I felt the

cold nose of the captain of the band snubbing against my side.

Desperately, and without a definite object, I struck my knife at one of

his eyes, and, by some singular fortune, cut it out clean from the

socket. The shark darted back, and halted. In an instant, hope and

reason came to my relief; and it occurred to me, that if I could only

blind the monster, I might yet escape. Accordingly, I stood ready for

the next attack. The loss of an eye did not seem to affect him much, for

after shaking his head once or twice, he came up to me again, and when

he was about half an inch off, turned upon his back. This was the

critical moment. With a most unaccountable presence of mind, I laid hold

of his nose with my left hand, and with my right scooped out his

remaining organ of vision. He opened his big mouth, and champed his long

teeth at me, in despair. But it was all over with him. I raised my right

foot and gave him a hard shove, and he glided off into deep water, and

went to the bottom.

“Well, gentlemen, I suppose you’d think it a hard story, but it’s none

the less a fact, that I served every remaining one of those nineteen

sharks in the same fashion. They all came up to me, one by one,

regularly and in order, and I scooped their eyes out, and gave them a

shove, and they went off into deep water, just like so many lambs. By

the time I had scooped out and blinded a couple of dozen of them, they

began to seem so scarce that I thought I would swim for the island, and

fight the rest for fun, on the way; but just then, Tim Titus hove in

sight, and it had got to be almost dark, and I concluded to get aboard

and rest myself.”

XVIII.

A BEAR STORY.

“What a lie!” growled Daniel, as soon as the shark story was ended.

“Have my doubts;” suggested the somnolent Peter Probasco, with all the

solemnity of a man who knows his situation; at the same time shaking his

head and spilling his liquor.

“Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!” roared all the rest of the boys together.

“Is he done?” asked Raynor Rock.

“How many shirks was there?” cried long John, putting in his unusual

lingual oar.

“That story puts me in mind,” said Venus Raynor, “about what I’ve heerd

tell on Ebenezer Smith, at the time he went down to the North Pole on a

walen’ voyage.”

“Now look out for a screamer,” laughed out Raynor Rock, refilling his

pipe. “Stand by, Mr. Cypress, to let the sheet go.”

“Is there anything uncommon about that yarn, Venus?”

“Oncommon! well, I expect it’s putty smart and oncommon for a man to go

to sea with a bear, all alone, on a bare cake of ice. Captain Smith’s

woman used to say she couldn’t bear to think on’t.”

“Tell us the whole of that, Venus,” said Ned—“that is, if it is true.

Mine was—the whole of it—although Peter has his doubts.”

“I can’t tell it as well as Zoph can; but I’ve no ’jections to tell it

my way, no how. So, here goes—that’s great brandy, Mr. Cypress.” There

was a gurgling sound of “something-to-take,” running.

“Well, they was down into Baffin’s Bay, or some other o’ them cold

Norwegen bays at the north, where the rain freezes as it comes down, and

stands up in the air, on winter mornens, like great mountens o’ ice, all

in streaks. Well, the schooner was layen at anchor, and all the hands

was out into the small boats, looken out for wales—all except the

capting, who said he wa’n’t very well that day. Well, he was walken up

and down, on deck, smoken and thinking, I expect, mostly, when all of a

sudden he reckoned he see one o’ them big white bears—polar bears, you

know—big as thunder—with long teeth. He reckoned he see one on ’em

sclumpen along on a great cake o’ ice, that lay on the leeward side of

the bay, up agin the bank. The old capting wanted to kill one o’ them

varments most wonderful, but he never lucked to get a chance. Now tho’,

he thought, the time had come for him to walk into one on ’em at laast,

and fix his mutton for him right. So he run forrard and lay hold onto a

small skiff, that was layen near the forc’stal, and run her out and

launched her; then he tuk a drink, and—here’s luck—and put in a stiff

load of powder, a couple of balls, and jumped in, and pulled away for

the ice.

“It wa’n’t long ’fore he got ’cross the bay, for it was a narrer piece

of water—not more than haaf a mile wide—and then he got out on to the

ice. It was a smart and large cake, and the bear was ’way down to the

tother end on it, by the edge o’ the water. So, he walked fust strut

along, and then when he got putty cloast he walked round

catecorned-like—like’s if he was drivin’ for a plain plover—so that

the bear wouldn’t think he was comen arter him, and he dragged himself

along on his hands and knees, low down, mostly. Well, the bear didn’t

seem to mind him none, and he got up within ’bout fifty yards on him,

and then he looked so savage and big—the bear did—that the captain

stopped and rested on his knees, and put up his gun, and was agoin’ to

shoot. But just then the bear turned round and snuffed up the

captin—just as one of Lif’s hounds snuffs up an old buck, Mr.

Cypress—and begun to walk towards him, slowly like. He come along, the

captin said, clump, clump, very slow, and made the ice bend and crack

again under him, so that the water come up and putty much kivered it all

over. Well, there the captin was all the time squat on his knees, with

his gun pinted, waiten for the varment to come up, and his knees and

legs was mighty cold by means of the water that the bear riz on the ice

as I was mentionen. At last the bear seemed to make up his mind how the

captin _would_ taste, and so he left off walkin’ slow, and started off

on a smart swift trot, right towards the old man, with his mouth wide

open, roaren, and his tail sticken out stiff. The captin kept still,

looken out all the time putty sharp, I should say, till the beast got

within about ten yards on him, and then he let him have it. He aimed

right at the fleshy part of his heart, but the bear dodged at the flash,

and rared up, and the balls went into his two hind legs, just by the

jynt, one into each, and broke the thigh bones smack off, so that he

went right down aft, on the ice, thump, on his hind quarters, with

nothen standen but his fore legs, and his head riz up, a growlen at the

captin. When the old man see him down, and tryen to slide along the ice

to get his revenge, likely, thinks he to himself, thinks he, I might as

well get up and go and cut that ere creter’s throat. So he tuk out his

knife and opened it.

“But when he started to get up, he found, to his astonishment, that he

was fruz fast to the ice. Don’t laugh: it’s a fact; there an’t no doubt.

The water, you see, had been round him a smart and long while, whilst he

was waiten for the bear, and it’s wonderful cold in them regions, as I

was sayen, and you’ll freeze in a minit if you don’t keep moven about

smartly. So the captin he strained first one leg, and then he strained

tother, but he couldn’t move ’em none. They was both fruz fast into the

ice, about an inch and a half deep, from knee to toe, tight as a Jersey

oyster perryauger on a mud flat at low water. So he laid down his gun,

and looked at the bear, and doubled up his fists.

“‘Come on, you bloody varmint,’ says the old man, as the bear swalloped

along on his hinder eend, comen at him.

“He kept getten weaker, tho,’ and comen slower and slower all the time,

so that at last, he didn’t seem to move none; and directly, when he’d

got so near that the captin could jist give him a dig in the nose by

reachen forrard putty smart and far, the captin see that the beast was

fruz fast too, nor he couldn’t move a step further forrard no ways. Then

the captin burst out a laughen, and clapped his hands down on to his

thighs, and roared. The bear seemed to be most onmighty mad at the old

man’s fun, and set up such a growlen that what should come to pass, but

the ice cracks and breaks all around the captin and the bear, down to

the water’s edge, and the wind jist then a shiften, and comen off shore,

away they floated on a cake of ice about ten by six, off to sea, without

the darned a biscot or a quart o’ liquor to stand ’em on the cruise!

There they sot, the bear and the captin, just so near that when they

both reached forrards, they could jist about touch noses, and nother one

not able to move any part on him, only excepten his upper part and fore

paws.”

“By jolly! that was rather a critical predicament, Venus,” cried Ned,

buttoning his coat. “I should have thought that the captain’s nose and

ears and hands would have been frozen too.”

“That’s quite naytr’l to suppose, Sir, but you see the bear kept him

warm in the upper parts, by being so cloast to him, and breathen hard

and hot on the old man whenever he growled at him. Them polar bears is

wonderful hardy animals, and has a monstrous deal o’ heat into ’em, by

means of their bein’ able to stand such cold climates, I expect. And so

the captin knowed this, and whenever he felt chilly, he just tuk up his

ramrod and stirred up the old rascal, and made him roar and squeal, and

then the hot breath would come pouren out all over the captin, and made

the air quite moderat and pleasant.”

“Well, go on, Venus. Take another horn first.”

“Well, there a’nt much more on’t. Off they went to sea, and sometimes

the wind druv ’em nothe, and then agin it druv ’em southe, but they went

southe mostly; and so it went on until they were out about three weeks.

So at last, one afternoon—”

“But, Venus, stop: tell us, in the name of wonder, how did the captain

contrive to support life all this time?”

“Why, Sir, to be sure, it was a hard kind o’ life to support, but a

hardy man will get used to almost—”

“No, no: what did he eat? what did he feed on?”

“O—O—I’d liked to’ve skipped that ere. Why, Sir, I’ve heerd different

accounts as to that. Uncle Obe Verity told me he reckoned the captin cut

off one of the bear’s paws, when he lay stretched out asleep one day,

with his jack-knife, and sucked that for fodder, and they say there’s a

smart deal o’ nourishment in a white bear’s foot. But if I may be

allowed to spend my ’pinion, I should say my old man’s account is the

rightest, and that’s—what’s as follows. You see after they’d been out

three days abouts, they begun to grow kind o’ hungry, and then they got

friendly, for misery loves company, you know; and the captin said the

bear looked at him several times, very sorrowful, as much as to say,

‘Captin, what the devil shall we do?’ Well, one day they was sitten

looken at each other, with the tears ready to burst out o’ their eyes,

when all of a hurry, somethin’ come floppen up out o’ the water onto the

ice. The captin looked and see it was a seal. The bear’s eyes kindled up

as he looked at it, and then, the captin said, he giv him a wink to keep

still. So there they sot, still as starch, till the seal not thinken

nothin’ o’ them no more nor if they was dead, walked right up between

’em. Then slump! went down old whitey’s nails into the fish’s flesh, and

the captin run his jack-knife into the tender loin. The seal soon got

his bitters, and the captin cut a big hunk off the tale eend, and put it

behind him, out o’ the bear’s reach, and then he felt smart and

comfortable, for he had stores enough for a long cruise, though the bear

couldn’t say so much for himself.

“Well, the bear, by course, soon run out o’ provisions, and had to put

himself onto short allowance; and then he begun to show his natural

temper. He first stretched himself out as far as he could go, and tried

to hook the captin’s piece o’ seal, but when he found he couldn’t reach

that, he begun to blow and yell. Then he’d rare up and roar, and try to

get himself clear from the ice. But mostly he rared up and roared, and

pounded his big paws and head upon the ice, till by-and-by (jist as the

captin said he expected) the ice cracked in two agin, and split right

through between the bear and the captin and there they was on two

different pieces o’ ice, the captin and the bear! The old man said he

raaly felt sorry at parten company, and when the cake split and

separate, he cut off about a haaf o’ pound o’ seal and chucked it to the

bear. But either because it wan’t enough for him, or else on account o’

his feelen bad at the captin’s goen, the beast wouldn’t touch it to eat

it, and he laid it down, and growled and moaned over it quite pitiful.

Well, off they went, one, one way, and t’other ’nother way, both feel’n

pretty bad, I expect. After a while the captin got smart and cold, and

felt mighty lonesome, and he said he raaly thought he’d a gi’n in and

died, if they hadn’t pick’d him up that arternoon.”

“Who picked him up, Venus?”

“Who? a codfish craft off o’ Newfoundland, I expect. They didn’t know

what to make o’ him when they first see him slingen up his hat for ’em.

But they got out all their boats, and took a small swivel and a couple

o’ muskets aboard, and started off—expecten it was the sea-sarpent, or

an old maremaid. They wouldn’t believe it was a man, until he’d told ’em

all about it, and then they didn’t hardly believe it nuther; and they

cut him out o’ the ice and tuk him aboard their vessel, and rubbed his

legs with ile o’ vitrol; but it was a long time afore they come to.”

“Didn’t they hurt him badly in cutting him out, Venus?”

“No, Sir, I believe not; not so bad as one might s’pose: for you see

he’d been stuck in so long, that the circulaten on his blood had kind o’

rotted the ice that was right next to him, and when they begun to cut,

it crack’d off putty smart and easy, and he come out whole like a hard

biled egg.”

“What became of the bear?”

“Can’t say as to that, what became o’ him. He went off to sea

somewheres, I expect. I should like to know, myself, how the varment got

along right well, for it was kind in him to let the captin have the

biggest haaf o’ the seal, any how. That’s all, boys. How many’s asleep?”

XIX.

THE BEST-NATURED MAN IN THE WORLD.[13]

A yielding temper, when not carefully watched and curbed, is one of the

most dangerous of faults. Like unregulated generosity, it is apt to

carry its owner into a thousand difficulties, and, too frequently, to

hurry him into vice, if not into crimes. But as it is of advantage to

others while inflicting injury upon its possessor, it has, by the common

consent of mankind, received a fine name, which covers its follies and

promotes its growth. This easiness of disposition, which is a compound

of indolence, vanity, and irresolution, is known and applauded as

“good-nature;” and, to have reached the superlative degree, so as to be

called the “best-natured fellow in the world—almost too good-natured

for his own good,” is regarded as a lofty merit.

The “best-natured fellow in the world” is merely a convenience; very

useful to others, but worse than useless to himself. He is the bridge

across the brook, and men walk over him. He is the wandering pony of the

Pampas, seeking his own provender, yet ridden by those who contribute

not to his support. He giveth up all the sunshine, and hath nothing but

chilling shade for himself. He waiteth at the table of the world,

serveth the guests, who clear the board, and, for food and pay, give him

fine words, which culinary research hath long since ascertained cannot

be used with profit, even in the buttering of parsnips. He is, in fact,

an appendage, not an individuality; and when worn out, as he soon must

be, is thrown aside to make room for another, if another can be had.

Such is the result of excessive compliance and obsequious good-nature.

It plundereth a man of his spine, and converteth him into a flexible

willow, to be bent and twisted as his companions choose, and, should it

please them, to be wreathed into a fish-basket.

Are there any who doubt of this? Let them inquire for one Leniter Salix,

and ask his opinion. Leniter may be ragged, but his philosophy has not

so many holes in it as might be inferred from the state of his wardrobe.

Nay, it is the more perfect on that account; a knowledge of the world

penetrates the more easily when, from defective apparel, we approach the

nearer to our original selves. Leniter’s hat is crownless, and the clear

light of knowledge streams without impediment upon his brain. He is not

bound up in the strait jacket of prejudice, for he long since pawned his

solitary vest, and his coat, made for a Goliath, hangs about him as

loosely as a politician’s principles, or as the purser’s shirt in the

poetical comparison. Salix has so long bumped his head against a stone

wall, that he has knocked a hole in it, and like Cooke, the tragedian,

sees through his error. He has speculated as extensively in experience

as if it were town lots. The quantity of that article he has purchased,

could it be made tangible, would freight a seventy-four;—were it

convertible into cash, Crœsus would be a Chelsea pensioner to Salix. But

unluckily for him, there are stages in life when experience itself is

more ornamental than useful. When, to use a forcible expression—when a

man is “done,”—it matters not whether he has as much experience as

Samson had hair, or as Bergami had whisker—he can do no more. Salix has

been in his time so much pestered with _duns_, “hateful to gods and

men,” that he is _done_ himself.

“The sun was rushing down the west,” as Banim has it, attending to its

own business, and, by that means, shedding benefit upon the world, when

Leniter Salix was seen in front of a little grocery, the _locale_ of

which shall be nameless, sitting dejectedly upon a keg of mackerel,

number 2. He had been “the best-natured fellow in the world,” but, as

the geologists say, he was in a state of transition, and was rapidly

becoming up to _trap_. At all events, he had his nose to the grindstone,

an operation which should make men keen. He was houseless, homeless,

penniless, and the grocery man had asked him to keep an eye upon the

dog, for fear of the midsummer catastrophe which awaits such animals

when their snouts are not in a birdcage. This service was to be

recompensed with a cracker, and a glass of what the shopman was pleased

to call _racky mirackilis_, a fluid sometimes termed “railroad,” from

the rapidity with which it hurries men to the end of their journey. Like

many of the best-natured fellows in the world, Salix, by way of being a

capital companion, and of not being different from others, had acquired

rather a partiality for riding on this “railroad,” and he agreed to keep

his trigger eye on the dog.

“That’s right, Salix. I always knowed you were the best-natured fellow

in the world.”

“H-u-m-p-s-e!” sighed Salix, in a prolonged, plaintive, uncertain

manner, as if he admitted the fact, but doubted the honour;

“h-u-m-p-s-e! but, if it wasn’t for the railroad, which is good for my

complaint, because I take it internally to drive out the perspiration,

I’ve a sort of a notion Carlo might take care of himself. There’s the

dog playing about without his muzzle, just because I’m good-natured;

there’s Timpkins at work making money inside, instead of watching his

own whelp, just because I’m good-natured; and I’m to sit here doing

nothing instead of going to get a little job a man promised me down

town, just because I’m good-natured. I can’t see exactly what’s the use

of it to me. It’s pretty much like having a bed of your own, and letting

other people sleep in it, soft, while you sleep on the bare floor, hard.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you could have half, or quarter of the bed; but

no—these good friends of mine, as I may say, turn in, take it all, roll

themselves up in the kivering, and won’t let us have a bit of sheet to

mollify the white pine sacking bottom, the which pleasant to whittle

with a sharp knife—quite soft enough for that purpose—but the which is

not the pink of feather-beds. I don’t like it—I’m getting tired.”

The brow of Salix began to blacken—therein having decidedly the

advantage of his boots, which could neither blacken themselves, nor

prevail on their master to do it—when Mrs. Timpkins, the shopman’s

wife, popped out with a child in her arms, and three more trapesing

after her.

“Law, Salix, how-dee-doo? I’m so glad—I know you’re the best-natured

creature in the world. Jist hold little Biddy a while, and keep an eye

on t’other young ’uns—you’re such a nurse—he! he! he!—so busy—ain’t

got no girl—so busy washing—most tea time—he! he! he! Salix.”

Mrs. Timpkins disappeared, Biddy remained in the arms of Salix, and

“t’other young ’uns” raced about with the dog. The trigger eye was

compelled to invoke the aid of its coadjutor.

“Whew!” whistled Salix; “the quantity of pork they give in this part of

the town for a shilling is amazin’—I’m so good-natured! That railroad

will be well earnt any how. I’m beginning to think it’s queer there

ain’t more good-natured people about besides me—I’m a sort of mayor and

corporation all myself in this business. It’s a monopoly where the

profit’s all loss. Now, for instance, these Timpkinses won’t ask me to

tea, because I’m ragged; but they ar’n’t a bit too proud to ask me to

play child’s nurse and dog’s uncle—they won’t lend me any money,

because I can’t pay, and they’re persimmony and sour about cash

concerns—and they won’t let me have time to earn any money, and get

good clothes—that’s because I’m so good-natured. I’ve a good mind to

strike, and be sassy.”

“Hallo! Salix, my good fellow!” said a man, on a horse, as he rode up;

“you’re the very chap I’m looking for. As I says to my old woman, says

I, Leniter Salix is the wholesoul’dest chap I ever did see. There’s

nothing he won’t do for a friend, and I’ll never forget him, if I was to

live as old as Methuselah.”

Salix smiled—Hannibal softened rocks with vinegar, but the stranger

melted the ice of our hero’s resolution with praise. Salix walked

towards him, holding the child with one hand as he extended the other

for a friendly shake.

“You’re the best-natured fellow in the world, Salix,” ejaculated the

stranger, as he leaped from the saddle, and hung the reins upon Salix’s

extended fingers, instead of shaking hands with him; “you’re the

best-natured fellow in the world. Just hold my horse a minute. I’ll be

back in a jiffey, Salix; in less than half an hour,” said the dismounted

rider, as he shot round the corner.

“If that ain’t cutting it fat, I’ll be darned!” growled Salix, as soon

as he had recovered from his breathless amazement, and had gazed from

dog to babe—from horse to children.

“Mr. Salix,” screamed Miss Tabitha Gadabout from the next house, “I’m

just running over to Timpson’s place. Keep an eye on my street

door—back in a minute.”

She flew across the street, and as she went, the words “best-natured

soul alive” were heard upon the breeze.

“That’s considerable fatter—it’s as fat as show beef,” said Salix. “How

many eyes has a good-natured fellow got, anyhow? Three of mine’s in use

a’ready. The good-natureder you are, the more eyes you have, I s’pose.

That job up town’s jobbed without me, and where I’m to sleep, or to eat

my supper, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to tell. Ain’t paid

my board this six months, I’m so good-natured; and the old woman’s so

good-natured, she said I needn’t come back. These Timpkinses and all of

’em are ready enough at asking me to do things, but when I ask

them—There, that dog’s off, and the ketchers are coming—Carlo! Carlo!”

The baby began squalling, and the horse grew restive, the dog scampered

into the very teeth of danger; and the three little Timpkinses, who

could locomote, went scrabbling, in different directions, into all sorts

of mischief, until finally one of them pitched head foremost into a

cellar.

Salix grew furious.

“Whoa, pony!—hush, you infernal brat!—here, Carlo!—Thunder and

crockery!—there’s a young Timpkins smashed and spoilt!—knocked into a

cocked hat!”

“Mr. Salix!” shouted a boy, from the other side of the way, “when you’re

done that ’ere, mammy says if you won’t go a little narrand for her,

you’re so good-nater’d.”

There are moments when calamity nerves us; when wild frenzy congeals

into calm resolve; as one may see by penning a cat in a corner. It is

then that the coward fights; that the oppressed strikes at the life of

the oppressor. That moment had come to Salix. He stood bolt upright, as

cold and as straight as an icicle. His good-nature might be seen to drop

from him in two pieces, like Cinderella’s kitchen garments in the opera.

He laid Biddy Timpkins on the top of the barrel, released the horse,

giving him a vigorous kick, which sent him flying down the street, and

strode indignantly away, leaving Carlo, Miss Gadabout’s house, and all

other matters in his charge, to the guardianship of chance.

* * * * *

The last time Salix was seen in the busy haunts of men, he looked the

very incarnation of gloom and despair. His very coat had gone to relieve

his necessities, and he wandered slowly and dejectedly about, relieving

the workings of his perturbed spirit by kicking whatever fell in his

way.