I felt more magnanimous than ever.

“I shan’t accept,” says I. (The Lord pardon me for lying).

“Shan’t accept!” screamed out Isaac in the greatest amazement, his great

goggle eyes starting out of his head. “Shall I go back and tell them

so?”

“I mean I’ll take it into consideration,” said I, trying to look as

important as I could. “It’s an office of great responsibility, Isaac,” I

said; “but I’ll think of it, and after mature deliberation, if my

constituents insist upon my going—Isaac, what’ll you take to drink?”

I could not shut my eyes to sleep all that night; and did nothing but

think of the General Court, and how I should look in the great hall of

the State House, marching up to my seat to take possession. I determined

right off to have a bran new blue coat with brass buttons; but on second

thoughts, I remembered hearing Colonel Crabtree say that the Members

wore their wrappers. So I concluded that my pepper and salt coat, with

the blue satinet pantaloons, would do very well. I decided though, to

have my drab hat new ironed, and countermanded the orders for the

cow-hide boots, because kip skin would be more genteel. In addition to

this, because public men should be liberal, and make a more respectable

appearance than common folks, I didn’t hesitate long in making up my

mind about having a watch-chain, and an imitation breast-pin. “The check

handkerchief,” thinks I to myself, “is as good as new; and my pigtail

queue will look splendidly if the old ribbon is a little scoured!”

It can’t be described how much the affairs of the nation occupied my

attention all the next day, and three weeks afterwards. Ensign Shute

came to me about the Byfield pigs, but I couldn’t talk of anything but

my legislative responsibilities.

“The critters beat all natur for squealing,” says he, “but they cut

capitally to pork.”

“Ah!” says I, “there must be a quorum, before we can do business.”

“The old grunter,” says he, “will soon be fat enough to kill.”

“Yes,” says I, “the Speaker has the casting vote.”

“Your new pig-pen,” says he, “will hold ’em all.”

“I shall take my seat,” said I, “and be sworn in according to the

Constitution.”

“What’s your opinion of corn-cobs?” says he.

“The Governor and Council will settle that,” says I.

The concerns of the whole commonwealth seemed to be resting all on my

shoulders, as heavy as a fifty-six; and everything I heard or saw made

me think of the dignity of my office. When I met a flock of geese on the

school-house green, with Deacon Dogskin’s old gander at the head,

“There,” says I, “goes the Speaker, and all the honourable members.”

This was talked of up and down the town, as a proof that I felt a proper

responsibility; and Simon Sly said the comparison was capital. I thought

so too. Everybody wished me joy of my election, and seemed to expect

great things; which I did not fail to lay to heart. So having the eyes

of the whole community upon me, I saw that nothing would satisfy them,

if I didn’t do something for the credit of the town. Squire Dobbs, the

chairman of our select men, preached me a long lecture on

responsibility:

“Lieutenant Turniptop,” says he, “I hope you’ll keep up the reputation

of Squashborough.”

“I hope I shall, Squire,” says I, for I felt my dignity rising.

“It’s a highly responsible office, this going to the Gineral Court,”

says he.

“I’m altogether aware of that,” says I, looking serious. “I’m aware of

the totally and officially.”

“I’m glad you feel responsible,” says he.

“I’m bold to say, that I _do_ feel the responsibility,” says I; “and I

feel more and more responsible, the more I think of it.”

“Squashborough,” says the Squire, “has always been a credit to the

commonwealth.”

“Who doubts it?” says I.

“And a credit to the Gineral Court,” says he.

“Ahem!” says I.

“I hope you’ll let ’em know what’s what,” says he.

“I guess I know a thing or two,” says I.

“But,” says the Squire, “a representative can’t do his duty to his

constituents, without knowing the Constitution. It’s my opinion that you

ought not to vote for the dog-tax.”

“That’s a matter that calls for due deliberation,” says I. So I went

home and began to prepare for my legislative duties.

I studied the statute on cart-wheels, and the act in addition to an act

entitled an act.

People may sit at home in their chimney-corners, and imagine it is an

easy thing to be a representative; but this is a very great mistake. For

three weeks I felt like a toad under a harrow, such a weight of

responsibility as I felt on thinking of my duty to my constituents. But

when I came to think how much I was expected to do for the credit of the

town, it was overwhelming. All the representatives of our part of the

country had done great things for their constituents, and I was

determined not to do less. I resolved, therefore, on the very first

consideration, to stick to the following scheme:

To make a speech.

To make a motion for a bank in Squashborough.

To move that all salaries be cut down one half, except the pay of the

representatives.

To second every motion for adjournment.

And—_always_ to vote against the Boston members.

As to the speech, though I had not exactly made up my mind about the

subject of it, yet I took care to have it all written beforehand. This

was not so difficult as some folks may think; for as it was all about my

constituents and responsibility, and Bunker Hill and heroes of

Seventy-six, and dying for liberty; it would do for any purpose—with a

word tucked in here and there. After I had got it well by heart, I went

down in Cranberry Swamp, out of hearing and sight of anybody, and

delivered it off, to see how it would go. It went off in capital style

till I got nearly through, when just as I was saying: “Mr. Speaker, here

I stand for the Constitution,” Tom Thumper’s old he-goat popped out of

the bushes behind, and gave me such a butt in the rear, that I was

forced to make an adjournment to the other side of the fence to finish

it. After full trial, I thought best to write it over again and put in

more responsibility, with something more about “fought, bled and died.”

When the time came for me to set off to Boston, you may depend on it, I

was all of a twitter. In fact, I did not altogether know whether I was

on my head or my heels. All Squashborough was alive; the whole town came

to see me set out. They all gave me strict charge to stand up for my

constituents and vote down the Boston members. I promised them I would,

for “I’m sensible of my responsibility,” says I. I promised besides, to

move heaven and earth to do something for Squashborough. In short, I

promised everything, because a representative could not do less.

At last I got to Boston, and being in good season, I had three whole

days to myself, before the Session opened. By way of doing business, I

went round to all the shops, pretending I wanted to buy a

silk-handkerchief. I managed it so as not to spend anything, though the

shopkeepers were mighty sharp, trying to hook me for a bargain; but I

had my eye-teeth cut, and took care never to offer within ninepence of

the first cost. Sometimes they talked saucy, in a joking kind of a way,

if I happened to go more than three times to the same shop; but when I

told them I belonged to the General Court, it struck them all up of a

heap, and they did not dare do anything but make faces to one another. I

think I was down upon them there.

The day I took my seat, was a day of all the days in the year! I shall

never forget it. I thought I had never lived till then. Giles

Elderberry’s exaltation, when he was made hog-reeve, was nothing to it.

As for the procession, that beat cock-fighting. I treated myself to half

a sheet of gingerbread, for I felt as if my purse would hold out for

ever. However, I can’t describe everything. We were sworn in, and I took

my seat, though I say it myself. I took my seat: all Boston was there to

see me do it. What a weight of responsibility I felt!

It beats all natur to see what a difficulty there is in getting a chance

to make a speech. Forty things were put to the vote, and passed, without

my being able to say a word, though I felt certain I could have said

something upon every one of them. I had my speech ready, and was waiting

for nothing but a chance to say, “Mr. Speaker,” but something always put

me out.

This was losing time dreadfully, however I made it up seconding motions,

for I was determined to have my share in the business, out of regard to

my constituents.

It’s true I seconded the motions on both sides of the question, which

always set the other members a laughing, but says I to them:

“That’s my affair. How do you know what my principles are?”

At last two great questions were brought forward, which seemed to be too

good to lose. These were the Dog-town turnpike, and the Cart-wheel

question.

The moment I heard the last one mentioned, I felt convinced it was just

the thing for me. The other members thought just so, for when it came up

for discussion, a Berkshire member gave me a jog with the elbow.

“Turniptop,” says he, “now’s your time, Squashborough for ever!”

No sooner said than done. I twitched off my hat, and called out:

“Mr. Speaker!”

As sure as you live I had caught him at last. There was nobody else had

spoken quick enough, and it was as clear as preachen I had the floor.

“Gentleman from Squashborough,” says he, I heard him say it.

Now, thinks I to myself, I must begin, whether or no. “Mr. Speaker!”

says I, again, but I only said it to gain time, for I could hardly

believe I actually had the floor, and all the congregated wisdom of the

commonwealth was listening and looking on: the thought of it made me

crawl all over. “Mr. Speaker!” says I, once more. Everybody looked round

at me. Thinks I to myself, “there’s no clawing off this hitch. I must

begin, and so here goes!”

Accordingly I gave a loud hem! said, “Mr. Speaker!” for the fourth time.

“Mr. Speaker, I rise to the question——” though it did not strike me I

had been standing up ever since I came into the house. “I rise to the

question, Mr. Speaker,” says I. But to see how terribly strange some

things work. No sooner had I fairly rose to the question, and got a

chance to make my speech, than I began to wish myself a hundred miles

off.

Five minutes before I was as bold as a lion, but now I should have been

glad to crawl into a knot-hole. “Mr. Speaker, I rise to the question,”

says I again, but I am bound to say, the more I rose to the question,

the more the question seemed to fall away from me. And just at that

minute, a little fat round-faced man, with a bald head, that was sitting

right before me, speaks to another member, and says:

“What squeaking fellow is that?”

It dashed me a good deal, and I don’t know but I should have sat right

down without another word, but Colonel Crabapple, the member for

Turkeytown, gave me a twitch by the tail of my wrapper:

“That’s right, Turniptop,” says he, “give them the grand touch.”

This had a mighty encouraging effect, and so I hemmed and hawed three or

four times, and at last made a beginning.

“Mr. Speaker,” says I, “this is a subject of vital importance. The

question is, Mr. Speaker, on the amendment. I have a decided opinion on

that subject, Mr. Speaker. I’m altogether opposed to the last gentleman,

and I feel bound in duty to my constituents, Mr. Speaker, and the

responsibility of my office, to express my mind on this subject. Mr.

Speaker, our glorious forefathers fought, bled, and died for glorious

liberty. I’m opposed to this question, Mr. Speaker—my constituents have

a vital interest in the subject of cart-wheels.

“Let us take a retrospective view, Mr. Speaker, of the present condition

of all the kingdoms and tribes of the earth.

“Look abroad, Mr. Speaker, over the wide expansion of nature’s

universe—beyond the blazing billows of the Atlantic.

“Behold Buonaparte going about like a roaring thunderbolt! All the world

is turned topsy-turvy, and there is a terrible rousing among the sons of

men.

“But to return to this subject, Mr. Speaker. I’m decidedly opposed to

the amendment: it is contrary to the principles of freemen and the

principles of responsibility. Tell it to your children, Mr. Speaker, and

to your children’s children, that freedom is not to be bartered, like

Esau, for a mess of potash. Liberty is the everlasting birthright of the

grand community of nature’s freemen. Sir, the member from Boston talks

of horse-shoes, but I hope we shall stand up for our rights. If we only

stand up for our rights, Mr. Speaker, our rights will stand up for us,

and we shall all stand uprightly without shivering or shaking. Mr.

Speaker, these are awful times; money is hard to get, whatever the

gentleman from Rowley may say about pumpkins.

“A true patriot will die for his country. May we all imitate the

glorious example and die for our country. Give up keeping cows! Mr.

Speaker, what does the honourable gentleman mean? Is not agriculture to

be cultivated? He that sells his liberty, Mr. Speaker, is worse than a

cannibal, a hottentot, or a hippopotamus. The member from Charlestown

has brought his pigs to a wrong market. I stand up for cart-wheels, and

so do my constituents. When our country calls us, Mr. Speaker, may we

never be backward in coming forward; and all honest men ought to

endeavour to keep the rising generation from falling. Not to dwell upon

this point, Mr. Speaker, let us now enter into the subject.”

Now it happened, that just at this moment the little fat, bald-headed,

round-faced man wriggled himself round just in front of me, so that I

could not help seeing him; and just as I was saying, “rising

generation,” he twisted the corners of his mouth into a queer sort of

pucker on one side, and rolled the whites of his little, grey, twinkling

eyes, right up in my face. The members all stared right at us, and made

a kind of snickering cluck, cluck, cluck, that seemed to run whistling

over the whole house.

I felt awfully bothered, I can’t tell how, but it gave me such a jerk

off the hooks, that I could not remember the next words, so that I felt

in my pocket for the speech, it was not there; then in my hat, it wasn’t

there; then behind me, then both sides of me, but lo! and behold, it was

not to be found. The next instant I remembered that I had taken it out

of my hat in a shop in Dock Square that morning, while I was comparing

the four corners of my check handkerchief with a bandanna. That was

enough—I knew as quick as lightning that I was a gone goose. I

pretended to go on with my speech, and kept saying “rising generation,”

“my constituents,” “enter into the subject, Mr. Speaker.” But I made

hawk’s-meat of it you may depend; finally, nobody could stand it any

longer. The little fat man with the round face, put his thumb to the

side of his nose, and made a sort of twinkling with his fingers; the

Speaker began to giggle, and the next minute the whole house exploded

like a bomb-shell. I snatched up my hat under cover of the smoke, made

one jump to the door and was down stairs before you could say, “second

the motion!”

II.

HOSS ALLEN, OF MISSOURI.

This celebrated gentleman is a recognised “_hoss_” certainly; and, we

are told, rejoices as much at his cognomination as he did at his

nomination for the chair gubernatorial, last election. He did not _run_

well enough to reach the chair, though it appears, from his own account,

that his _hoss_ qualities, “any how,” fall considerable below those of

the sure-enough animal. This is his story, which he is very fond of

relating up by Palmyry.

“You see, boys, I came to old river, and found I had to swim. Had best

clothes on, and didn’t know what to do. ‘What river?’ Why, Salt river.

Our Salt, here in Missouri, darned thing; always full when don’t want

it. Well, boys, you knows Hoss Allen—no back out in him, any how!

Stripped to the skin, just tied clothes up in a bundle, strapped it on

the critter’s head, and ’cross we swum together. Well, don’t you think,

while I was gittin’ up the bank, the wicked thing got away, and started

off with my clothes on his head; and the more I ran, and hollered, and

‘whoa’d,’ the more I couldn’t catch the cussed varmint. ’Way he’d go,

and I arter—hot as tophit, too, all the way, and yaller flies about;

and when I did get tol’ble near, he’d stop and look, cock his ears, and

give a snuff, as if he never smelt a man afore; and then streak it off

agin, as if I had been an Ingin.

“Well, boys, all I had to do was to keep a follerin’ on, and keep flies

off; and I did, till we came to a slough, and says I, ‘Now, old feller,

I got you;’ and I driv him in. Well, arter all, do you know, fellers,

the auful critter wouldn’t stick! He went in and in, and bimby came to a

deep place, and swum right across. A fact—true as thunder! Well, you

see, when I cum to the deep place, I swum too; and, do you know, that

the darned beast just nat’rally waited till I got out, and looked at me

all over, and I could act’ily see him laffin’; and I _was_ nasty enough

to make a hoss laugh, any how!

“Well, thinks I, old feller, recon you’v had fun enough with me _now_;

so I gits some sticks, and scrapes myself all over, and got tol’ble

white again, and then begins to coax the varmint. Well, I ‘whoa’d’ and

‘old boy’d,’ and cum up right civil to him, I tell ye—and he took it

mighty condescendin’ too; and jist when I had him sure, cussed if he

didn’t go right back into the slough agin, swum the deep place, walked

out, and stood on t’other side, waitin’ for me.

“Well, by this time, the yaller flies cum at me agin, and I jist

nat’rally went in arter the blasted beast, and stood afore him, on

t’other side, _just as nasty as before_—did, by thunder, boys! Well, he

_laffed_ agin, till he nearly shook the bundle off; and ’way he went,

back agin, three miles, to the river; and then he jest stopped dead, and

waited till I cum up to him, and jest kind a axed me to cum and take

hold of the bridle, and then guv a kick and a ’ruction, and went in

agin, laffin’ all the time; and, right in the middle, hang me! if he

didn’t shake my clothes off; and ’way they went, down stream, while he

swum ashore; and I, jest nat’rally, lay down on the bank, and cussed all

creation.

“Well, you see, boys, there I lays ’bove a hour, when I sees a feller

pullin’ up stream in a skift, a-tryin’ on a coat, and says I: ‘Stranger,

see here, when you’re done gittin’ my coat on, I’ll thank you for _my

shirt_!’ And the feller sees how it was, and pulls ashore, and helps me.

“I tell you what, boys, you may talk of hoss lafs; but when you want a

good one, just think of _Hoss Allen_!”

III.

THE WIDOW RUGBY’S HUSBAND.

Some ten or twelve years agone, one Summeval Dennis kept the “Union

Hotel,” at the seat of Justice of the county of Tallapoosa. The house

took its name from the complexion of the politics of its proprietor, he

being a true-hearted Union man, and opposed, as I hope all my readers

are, at all points, to the damnable heresy of _nullification_. In

consequence of the candid exposition of his political sentiments upon

his sign-board, mine host of the “Union” was liberally patronized by

those who coincided with him in his views.

In those days, party spirit was, in that particular locality,

exceedingly bitter and proscriptive; and had Summeval’s chickens been

less tender, his eggs less impeachable, his coffee more sloppy, the

“Union Hotel” would still have lost no guest, its keeper no dinners.

But, as Dennis was wont to remark, “The _Party_ relied on his honour, as

an honest man, but more especially as an honest _Union_ man, he was

bound to give them the value of their money.”

Glorious fellow was Summeval! Capital landlady was his good wife, in all

the plenitude of her _embonpoint_! Well-behaved children, too, were

Summeval’s, from the shaggy and red-headed representative of paternal

peculiarities, down to little Solomon of the sable locks, whose “favour”

puzzled the neighbours, and set at defiance all known physiological

principles. Good people, all, were the Dennises. May a hungry man never

fall among worse!

Among the political friends who had for some years bestowed their

patronage, semi-annually, during Court-week, upon the proprietor of the

“Union,” was Captain Simon Suggs, whose deeds of valour and strategy are

not known to the public. The Captain had “put up” with our friend

Summeval, time and again; had puffed the “Union,” both “before the face

and behind the back” of its owner, until it seemed a miniature of the

microcosm that bears the name of Astor; and, in short, was so generally

useful, accommodating, and polite, that nothing short of long-continued

and oft-repeated failures to _settle his bills_, could have induced

Summeval to consider Suggs in other light than as the best friend the

“Union,” or any other house, ever had. But, alas! Captain Suggs had,

from one occasion to another, upon excuses the most plausible, and with

protestations the most profound, invariably left the fat larder and warm

beds of the “Union,” without leaving behind the slightest pecuniary

remuneration with Summeval.

For a long time, the patient inn-keeper bore the imposition with a

patience that indicated some hope of eventual payment; but year in and

year out, and the money did not come. Mrs. Dennis at length spoke out,

and argued the necessity of a tavern-keeper’s collecting his dues, if he

was disposed to do justice to himself and family.

“Suggs is a nice man in his talk,” she said; “nobody can fault him, as

far as that is concerned; but smooth talk never paid for flour and

bacon;” and so she recommended to her leaner half, that the next time,

summary measures should be adopted to secure the amount in which the

Captain was indebted to the “Union Hotel.”

Summeval determined that his wife’s advice should be strictly followed;

for he had seen, time and again, that _her_ suggestions had been the

salvation of the establishment.

“Hadn’t she kept him from pitchin’ John Seagroves, neck and heels, out

of the window for sayin’ that nullification _warn’t_ treason, and John

C. Calhoun warn’t as bad as Benedict Arnold. And hadn’t John been a good

payin’ customer ever since? That was what he wanted to know.”

The next session of the Circuit Court after this prudent conclusion had

been arrived at in Dennis’s mind—the Circuit Court with all its

attractions of criminal trials, poker-playing lawyers, political

caucases and possible monkey shows, found Captain Suggs snugly housed at

the “Union.”

Time passed on swiftly for a week. The judge was a hearty liquor-loving

fellow; and lent the Captain ten dollars “on sight.” The Wetumpka and

Montgomery lawyers bled freely. In short, everything went bravely on for

the Captain, until a man with small-pox pits and a faro-box came along.

The Captain yielded to the temptation, yielded with a presentiment on

his mind that he should be “slain.” The “tiger” was triumphant, and

Suggs was left without a dollar!

As if to give intensity to his distress, on the morning after his losses

at the faro-bank, the friendly Clerk of the Court hinted to Suggs, that

the grand jury had found an indictment against him for gaming. Here was

a dilemma! Not only out of funds, but obliged to decamp before the

adjournment of the Court—obliged to lose all opportunity of redeeming

his “fallen fortunes,” by further plucking the greenhorns in attendance.

“This here,” said Simon, “is an everlastin’ fix! a mile and a quarter

square and fenced in all round. What’s a _reasonable_ man to do? Ain’t I

bin workin’ and strivin’ all for the best? Ain’t I done my duty? Cuss

that mahogany box. I wish the man that invented it had had his head

sawed off with a cross-cut, _just_ afore he thought on’t. Now thar’s the

sence _in short cards_. All’s fair, and cheat and cheat alike is the

order; and the longest pole knocks down persimmon. But whar’s the reason

in one of your darned boxes, full of springs and the like, and the

better _no_ advantages, _except_ now and then when he kin kick up a

squabble, and _the dealer’s afeard of him_.

“I’m for doin’ things on the square. What’s a man without his honour? Ef

natur give me a gift to beat a feller at ‘old sledge,’ and the like,

it’s all right! But whar’s the justice in a thing like farrer, that

ain’t got but one side! It’s strange what a horrir I have for the cussed

thing. No matter how I make an honest rise, I’m sure to ‘back it off’ at

farrer. As my wife says, ‘_farrer’s my besettin’ sin_.’ It’s a

weakness—a soft spot, it’s a—a—let me see!—it’s a way I’ve got of a

runnin’ agin Providence. But hello! here’s Dennis.”

When the inn-keeper walked up, Captain Suggs remarked to him, that there

was a “little paper out,” signed by Tom Garrett, in his _official

capacity_, that was calculated to hurt feelins’, if he remained in town,

and so he desired that his horse might be saddled and brought out.

Summeval replied to this by presenting to the Captain a slip of paper

containing entries of many charges against Suggs, and in favour of the

“Union Hotel.”

“All right,” said Suggs; “I’ll be over in a couple of weeks and settle.”

“Can’t wait; want money to buy provisions; account been standing two

years, thirty-one dollars and fifty cents is money these days,” said

Dennis, with unusual firmness.

“Confound your ugly face,” vociferated Suggs, “_I’ll give you my note!_

that’s enough among gentlemen, I suppose?”

“Hardly,” returned the inn-keeper, “hardly; we want the cash; your note

ain’t worth the trouble of writin’ it.”

“Dam you!” roared Suggs, “dam you for a biscuit-headed _nullifier_! I’ll

give you a mortgage on the best half section of land in the county;

_south_ half of 13, 21, 29!”

“Captain Suggs,” said Dennis, drawing off his coat, “you’ve called me a

nullifier, and that’s what I _won’t_ stand from _no_ man. Strip! and

I’ll whip as much dog out of you as’ll make a full pack of hounds. You

swindlin’ robber!”

This hostile demonstration alarmed the Captain, and he set in to soothe

his angry landlord.

“Sum, old fel,” he said, in his most honeyed tones, “Sum, old fel! be

easy. I’m not a fightin’ man—” and here Suggs drew himself up with

dignity, “I’m not a fightin’ man _except_ in the cause of my country!

_Thar_ I’m _allers_ found! Come, old fellow—do you reckon ef you’d been

a nullifier, I’d ever been ketched at your house? No, no! you _ain’t_ no

part of a nullifier, but you are rather hard down on your Union friends

that allers puts up with you. Say, won’t you take the mortgage?—the

land’s richly worth a thousand dollars, and let me have Old Bill.”

The heart of Dennis was melted at the appeal thus made. It was to his

good-fellowship and his party feelings. So, putting on his coat, he

remarked that he “rather thought he would take the mortgage. However,”

he added, seeing Mrs. Dennis standing at the door of the tavern watching

his proceedings, “he would see his wife about it.”

The Captain and Dennis approached the landlady and made known the state

of the case.

“You see, Cousin Betsey,”—Suggs always _cousined_ any lady whom he

wished to _cozen_—“you see, Cousin Betsey, the fact is, I’m down just

now, in the way of money, and you and Summeval bein’ afraid I’ll run

away and never come back—”

“T’aint that _I’m_ afraid of,” said Mrs. Dennis.

“What then?” asked Suggs.

“Of your comin’ back, eatin’ us out of house and home, and _never payin’

nothin’_!”

“Well,” said the Captain, slightly confused at the lady’s directness;

“well, seein’ that’s the way the mule kicks, as I was sayin’, I proposed

to Sum here, as long as him and you distrusts an old _Union_ friend

that’s stuck by your house like a tick even when the red-mouthed

nullifiers swore you was feedin’ us _soap-tails_ on _bull-beef_ and

_blue collards_—I say, as long as that’s the case, I propose to give

you a mortgage on the south half of 21, 13, 29. It’s the best half

section in county, and it’s worth forty times the amount of your bill.”

“It looks like that ought to do,” said Summeval, who was grateful to the

Captain for defending his house against the slanders of the nullifiers;

“and seein’ that Suggs has always patronized the Union and _voted the

whole ticket_—”

“Never _split_ in my life,” dropped in Suggs, with emphasis.

“I,” continued Dennis, “am for takin’ the mortgage, and lettin’ him take

Old Bill and go; for I know it would be a satisfaction to the nullifiers

to have him put in jail.”

“Yes,” quoth the Captain, sighing, “I’m about to be tuk up and made a

martyr of on account of the _Union_; but I’ll die true to my

prin_si_pples, see if I don’t.”

“They shan’t take you,” said Dennis, his long, lank form stiffening with

energy as he spoke; “as long as they put it on _that_ hook, hanged ef

they shall. Give us the mortgage and slope!”

“You ain’t got no rights to that land; I jist know it, or you wouldn’t

want to mortgage it for a tavern bill,” shouted Mrs. Dennis; “and I tell

you and Summeval _both_, that Old Bill don’t go out of that stable till

the money’s paid—mind, I say _money_—into _my_ hand,” and here the

good lady turned off and called Bob, the stable-boy, to bring her the

stable key.

The Captain and Summeval looked at each other like two children

school-boys. It was clear that no terms short of payment in money would

satisfy Mrs. Dennis. Suggs saw that Dennis had become interested in his

behalf; so acting upon the idea, he suggested:

“Dennis, suppose _you loan me the money_?”

“Egad, Suggs, I’ve been thinkin’ of that; but as I have only a fifty

dollar bill, and my wife’s key bein’ turned on that, there’s no chance.

Drott it, I’m sorry for you.”

“Well the Lord’ll purvide,” said Suggs.

As Captain Suggs could not get away that day, evidently, he arranged,

through his friend Summeval, with the Clerk, not to issue a capias until

the next afternoon. Having done this, he cast around for some way of

raising the wind; but the fates were against him, and at eleven o’clock

that night, he went to bed in a fit of the blues, that three pints of

whiskey had failed to dissipate. An hour or two after the Captain had

got between the sheets, and after every one else was asleep, he heard

some one walk unsteadily, but still softly, up stairs. An occasional

hiccup told that it was some fellow drunk; and this was confirmed by a

heavy fall, which the unfortunate took as soon as, leaving the railing,

he attempted to travel _suis pedibus_.

“Oh! good Lord!” groaned the fallen man; “who’d a thought it. Me, John

P. Pullum, drunk and fallen down! I never was so before. This world’s a

turnin’ over and over. Oh, Lord! Charley Stone got me into it. What will

Sally say if she hears it? Oh, Lord!”

“That thar feller,” said the Captain to himself, “is the victim of vice.

I wonder ef he’s got any money?” and the Captain continued his soliloquy

inaudibly.

Poor Mr. Pullum, after much tumbling about, and sundry repetitions of

his fall, at length contrived to get into bed, in a room adjoining that

occupied by the Captain, and only separated from it by a thin partition.

“I’m very—very—oh, Lord!—drunk! Oh! me, is this John P. Pullum

that—good Heavens! I’ll faint—married Sally Rugby, oh! oh!”

“Ah! I’m so weak!—wouldn’t have Sally—aw—owh—wha—oh, Lord!—to hear

of it for a hundred dollars! She said when she agreed for me to sell the

cotton, I’d be certain—oh, Lord! I believe I’ll die!”

The inebriate fell back on his bed, almost fainting, and Captain Suggs

thought he’d try an experiment. Disguising his voice, with his mouth

close to the partition, he said:

“You’re a liar! you didn’t marry Widow Rugby; your some thief tryin’ to

pass off for something.”

“Who am I then, if I ain’t John P. Pullum, that married the widdow Sally

Rugby, Tom Rugby’s widow, old Bill Stearns’s only daughter? Oh, Lord! ef

it ain’t me, who is it? Where’s Charley Stone—can’t he tell if it’s

John P. Pullum?”

“No, it ain’t you, you lyin’ swindler; you ain’t got a dollar in the

world, and never married no sich widow,” said Suggs, still disguising

his voice.

“I did—I’ll be hanged if I didn’t. I know it now; Sally Rugby with the

red head, all of the boys said I married her for her money, but it’s

a—oh, Lord I’m very ill.”

Mr. Pullum continued his maudlin talk, half asleep, half awake, for some

time; and all the while Captain Suggs was analysing the

man—conjecturing his precise circumstances, his family relations, the

probable state of his purse, and the like.

“It’s a plain case,” he mused, “that the feller married a red-headed

widow for her money—no man ever married sich for anything else. It’s

plain agin, she’s got the property settled upon her, or fixed some way,

for he talked about her ‘agreein’ for him to sell the cotton. I’ll bet

he’s the new feller that’s dropped in down thar by Tallassee, that

Charley Stone used to know. And I’ll bet he’s been down to Wetumpka to

sell the cotton—got on a bust thar—and now’s on another here. He’s

afeard of his wife too; leastways, his voice trembled like it, when he

called her red-headed, Pullum! Pullum! Pullum!” Here Suggs studied.

“That’s surely a Talbot county name—I’ll venture on it, anyhow.”

Having reached a conclusion, the Captain turned over in bed and composed

himself for sleep.

At nine o’clock the next morning, the bar-room of the “Union” contained

only Dennis and our friend the Captain. Breakfast was over, and the most

of the temporary occupants of the tavern were in the public square.

Captain Suggs was watching for Mr. Pullum, who had not yet come down to

breakfast.

At length an uncertain step was heard on the stairway, and a young man,

whose face showed indisputable evidence of a frolic on the previous

night, descended. His eyes were bloodshot, and his expression was a

mingled one of shame and fear. Captain Suggs walked up to him, as he

entered the bar-room, gazed at his face earnestly, and slowly placing

his hand on his shoulder, as slowly, and with a stern expression, said:

“Your—name—is—Pullum!”

“I know it is,” said the young man.

“Come this way then,” said Suggs, pulling his victim out into the

street, and still gazing at him with the look of a stern but

affectionate parent. Turning to Dennis as they went out, he said:

“Have a cup of coffee ready for this young man in fifteen minutes, and

his horse by the time he’s done drinking it.”

Mr. Pullum looked confounded, but said nothing, and he and the Captain

walked over to a vacant blacksmith’s shop across the street, where they

could be free from observation.

“You’re from Wetumpka last,” remarked Suggs with severity, and as if his

words charged a crime.

“What if I am?” replied Pullum, with an effort to appear bold.

“What’s cotton worth?” asked the Captain, with an almost imperceptible

wink.

Pullum turned white and stammered out:

“Seven or eight cents.”

“Which will you tell your wife you sold yours—_hers_ for?”

John P. turned blue in the face.

“What do you know about my wife?” he asked.

“Never mind about _that_. Was you in the habit of gettin’ drunk before

you left Talbot county, Georgy?”

“I never lived in Talbot; I was born and raised in Hanis,” said Pullum,

with something like triumph.

“Close to the line, though,” replied Suggs, confidently relying on the

fact that there was a large family of Pullums in Talbot; “most of your

connexions lived in Talbot.”

“Well, what of all that?” asked Pullum, with impatience; “what is it to

you whar I come from, or whar my connexion lived?”

“Never mind—I’ll show you—no man that married Billy Stearns’s daughter

can carry on in the way _you’ve been doin’_, without my interferin’ for

the intrust of the family!”

Suggs said this with an earnestness, a sternness, that completely

vanquished Pullum. He tremulously asked:

“How did you know that I married Stearns’s daughter?”

“That’s a fact ’most anybody could have known that was intimate with the

family in old times. You’d better ask how I knowed that you tuk _your

wife’s_ cotton to Wetumpka—sold it—got on a spree—after Sally give

you a caution too—and then came by here, _got on another spree_. What

do you reckon Sally will say to you when you get home?”

“She won’t know it,” replied Pullum, “unless somebody tells her.”

“Somebody _will tell her_,” said Suggs, “I’m going home with you as soon

as you’ve had breakfast. My poor Sally Rugby shall not be trampled on in

this way. I’ve only got to borrow fifty dollars from some of the boys,

to make out a couple of thousand. I need to make the last payment on my

land. So go over and eat your breakfast quick.”

“For God’s sake, Sir, don’t tell Sally about it; you don’t know how

unreasonable she is.”

Pullum was the incarnation of misery.

“The divil I don’t! she bit this piece out of my face,” here Suggs

pointed to a scar on his cheek, “when I had her on my lap a little girl

only five years old. She was always game.”

Pullum grew more nervous at this reference to his wife’s mettle.

“My dear Sir, I don’t even know your name.”

“Suggs, Sir—Captain Simon Suggs.”

“Well, my dear Captain, ef you’ll just let me off this time, I’ll lend

you the fifty dollars.”

“_You’ll—lend—me—the—fifty—dollars!_ _Who_ asked _you_ for your

money, or rather _Sally’s_ money?”

“I only thought,” replied the humble husband of Sally, “that it might be

an accommodation. I meant no harm; I know Sally wouldn’t mind my lending

it to an old friend of the family.”

“Well,” said Suggs, and here he mused, shutting his eyes, biting his

lips, and talking very slowly, “ef I knowed you would do better.”

“I’ll swear I will,” said Pullum.

“No swearin’, Sir!” roared Suggs, with a dreadful frown; “no swearin’ in

_my_ presence!”

“No, Sir, I won’t any more.”

“Ef,” continued the Captain, “I _knowed_ you’d do better—_go right

home_,” (the Captain didn’t wish Pullum to stay where his stock of

information might be increased); “and treat Sally like a wife all the

rest of your days, I might, _may be_, borrow the fifty, (seein’ it’s

Sally’s any way), and let you off this time.”

“Ef you will, Captain Suggs, I’ll never forget you; I’ll think of you

all the days of my life.”

“I ginnarally makes my mark, so that I’m hard to forget,” said the

Captain, _truthfully_. “Well, turn me over a fifty for a couple of

months, and go home.”

Mr. Pullum handed the money to Suggs, who seemed to receive it

reluctantly. He twisted the bill in his fingers, and remarked:

“I reckon I’d better not take this money; you won’t go home, and do as

you said.”

“Yes, I will,” said Pullum; “yonder’s my horse at the door. I’ll start

this minute.”

The Captain and Pullum returned to the tavern, where the latter

swallowed his coffee and paid his bill.

As the young man mounted his horse, Suggs took him affectionately by the

hand.

“John,” said he, “go home, give my love to cousin Sally, and kiss her

for me. Try and do better, John, for the futur’; and ef you have any

children, John, bring ’em up in the way of the Lord. Good-bye!”

Captain Suggs now paid _his_ bill, and had a balance on hand. He

immediately bestrode his faithful “Bill,” musing thus as he moved

homeward:

“Every day I git more insight into things. It used to be, I couldn’t

understand the manna in the wilderness, and the ravens feedin’ Elishy;

now, it’s clear to my eyes. Trust in Providence—that’s the lick! Here

was I in the wilderness, sorely oppressed, and mighty nigh despar,

Pullum come to me, like a ‘raven,’ in my distress—and a _fat_ one, at

that! Well, as I’ve _allers_ said, honesty and Providence will never

fail to fetch a man out! Jist give me that for a _hand_, and I’ll

‘stand’ agin all creation?”

IV.

THE BIG BEAR OF ARKANSAS.[7]

A steam-boat on the Mississippi frequently, in making her regular trips,

carries between places varying from one to two thousand miles apart; and

as these boats advertise to land passengers and freight at “all

intermediate landings,” the heterogeneous character of the passengers of

one of these up-country boats can scarcely be imagined by one who has

never seen it with his own eyes.

Starting from New Orleans in one of these boats, you will find yourself

associated with men from every state in the Union, and from every

portion of the globe; and a man of observation need not lack for

amusement or instruction in such a crowd, if he will take the trouble to

read the great book of character so favourably opened before him. Here

may be seen jostling together the wealthy Southern planter, and the

pedlar of tin-ware from New England—the Northern merchant, and the

Southern jockey—a venerable bishop, and a desperate gambler—the land

speculator, and the honest farmer—professional men of all creeds and

characters—Wolvereens, Suckers, Hoosiers, Buck-eyes, and Corncrackers,

beside a “plentiful sprinkling” of the half-horse and half-alligator

species of men, who are peculiar to “old Mississippi,” and who appear to

gain a livelihood simply by going up and down the river. In the pursuit

of pleasure or business, I have frequently found myself in such a crowd.

On one occasion, when in New Orleans, I had occasion to take a trip of a

few miles up the Mississippi, and I hurried on board the well-known

“high-pressure-and-beat-every-thing” steam-boat “Invincible,” just as

the last note of the last bell was sounding; and when the confusion and

bustle that is natural to a boat’s getting under way had subsided, I

discovered that I was associated in as heterogeneous a crowd as was ever

got together. As my trip was to be of a few hours’ duration only, I made

no endeavours to become acquainted with my fellow passengers, most of

whom would be together many days. Instead of this, I took out of my

pocket the “latest paper,” and more critically than usual examined its

contents; my fellow passengers at the same time disposed of themselves

in little groups.

While I was thus busily employed in reading, and my companions were more

busily still employed in discussing such subjects as suited their

humours best, we were startled most unexpectedly by a loud Indian whoop,

uttered in the “social hall,” that part of the cabin fitted off for a

bar; then was to be heard a loud crowing, which would not have continued

to have interested us—such sounds being quite common in that _place of

spirits_—had not the hero of these windy accomplishments stuck his head

into the cabin and hallooed out, “Hurra for the Big Bar of Arkansaw!”

and then might be heard a confused hum of voices, unintelligible, save

in such broken sentences as “horse,” “screamer,” “lightning is slow,”

&c.

As might have been expected, this continued interruption attracted the

attention of every one in the cabin; all conversation dropped, and in

the midst of this surprise, the “Big Bar” walked into the cabin, took a

chair, put his feet on the stove, and looking back over his shoulder,

passed the general and familiar salute of “Strangers, how are you?” He

then expressed himself as much at home as if he had been at “the Forks

of Cypress,” and “prehaps a little more so.”

There was something about the intruder that won the heart on sight. He

appeared to be a man enjoying perfect health and contentment: his eyes

were as sparkling as diamonds, and good-natured to simplicity. Then his

perfect confidence in himself was irresistibly droll.

“Prehaps,” said he, “gentlemen,” running on without a person speaking,

“prehaps you have been to New Orleans often; I never made _the first

visit before_, and I don’t intend to make another in a crow’s life. I am

thrown away in that ar place, and useless, that ar a fact. Some of the

gentlemen thar called me _green_—well, prehaps I am, said I, _but I

arn’t so at home_; and if I ain’t off my trail much, the heads of them

perlite chaps themselves wern’t much the hardest; for according to my

notion, they were _real know-nothings_, green as a

pumpkin-vine—couldn’t, in farming, I’ll bet, raise a crop of turnips:

and as for shooting, they’d miss a barn if the door was swinging, and

that, too, with the best rifle in the country. And then they talked to

me ’bout hunting, and laughed at my calling the principal game in

Arkansaw, poker, and high-low-jack.

“‘Prehaps,’ said I, ‘you prefer chickens and rolette;’ at this they

laughed harder than ever, and asked me if I lived in the woods, and

didn’t know what _game_ was? At this I rather think I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I

roared, and says, ‘Strangers, if you’d asked me _how we got our meat_ in

Arkansaw, I’d a told you at once, and given you a list of varmints that

would make a caravan, beginning with the bar, and ending off with the

cat; that’s _meat_ though, not game.’

“Game, indeed, that’s what city folks call it; and with them it means

chippen-birds and bitterns; maybe such trash live in my diggins, but I

arn’t noticed them yet: a bird any way is too trifling. I never did

shoot at but one, and I’d never forgiven myself for that, had it weighed

less than forty pounds. I wouldn’t draw a rifle on anything less than

that; and when I meet with another wild turkey of the same weight I’ll

drap him.”

“A wild turkey weighing forty pounds!” exclaimed twenty voices in the

cabin at once.

“Yes, strangers, and wasn’t it a whopper? You see, the thing was so fat

that it couldn’t fly far; and when he fell out of the tree, after I shot

him, on striking the ground he bust open, and the way the pound gobs of

tallow rolled out of the opening was perfectly beautiful.”

“Where did all that happen?” asked a cynical-looking Hoosier.

“Happen! happened in Arkansaw: where else could it have happened, but in

the creation state, the finishing-up country—a state where the _sile_

runs down to the centre of the ’arth, and Government gives you a title

to every inch of it? Then its airs—just breathe them, and they will

make you snort like a horse. It’s a state without a fault, it is.”

“Excepting mosquitoes,” cried the Hoosier.

“Well, stranger, except them; for it ar a fact that they are rather

_enormous_, and do push themselves in somewhat troublesome. But,

stranger, they never stick twice in the same place; and give them a fair

chance for a few months, and you will get as much above noticing them as

an alligator. They can’t hurt my feelings, for they lay under the skin;

and I never knew but one case of injury resulting from them, and that

was to a Yankee: and they take worse to foreigners, any how, than they

do to natives. But the way they used that fellow up! first they punched

him until he swelled up and busted; then he sup-per-a-ted, as the doctor

called it, until he was as raw as beef; then he took the ager, owing to

the warm weather, and finally he took a steam-boat, and left the

country. He was the only man that ever took mosquitoes at heart that I

know of. But mosquitoes is natur, and I never find fault with her. If

they ar large, Arkansaw is large, her varmints ar large, her trees ar

large, her rivers ar large, and a small mosquitoe would be of no more

use in Arkansaw than preaching in a cane-brake.”

This knock-down argument in favour of big mosquitoes used the Hoosier

up, and the logician started on a new track, to explain how numerous

bear were in his “diggins,” where he represented them to be “about as

plenty as blackberries, and a little plentifuler.”

Upon the utterance of this assertion, a timid little man near me

inquired if the bear in Arkansaw ever attacked the settlers in numbers.

“No,” said our hero, warming with the subject, “no, stranger, for you

see it ain’t the natur of bar to go in droves; but the way they squander

about in pairs and single ones is edifying. And then the way I hunt

them—the old black rascals know the crack of my gun as well as they

know a pig’s squealing. They grow thin in our parts, it frightens them

so, and they do take the noise dreadfully, poor things. That gun of mine

is a perfect _epidemic among bar_: if not watched closely, it will go

off as quick on a warm scent as my dog Bowie-knife will: and then that

dog—whew! why the fellow thinks that the world is full of bar, he finds

them so easy. It’s lucky he don’t talk as well as think; for with his

natural modesty, if he should suddenly learn how much he is acknowledged

to be ahead of all other dogs in the universe, he would be astonished to

death in two minutes. Strangers, that dog knows a bar’s way as well as a

horse-jockey knows a woman’s: he always barks at the right time, bites

at the exact place, and whips without getting a scratch. I never could

tell whether he was made expressly to hunt bar, or whether bar was made

expressly for him to hunt: any way, I believe they were ordained to go

together as naturally as Squire Jones says a man and woman is, when he

moralizes in marrying a couple. In fact, Jones once said, said he:

“‘Marriage, according to law, is a civil contract of divine origin; it’s

common to all countries as well as Arkansaw, and people fake to it as

naturally as Jim Dogget’s Bowie-knife takes to bar.’”

“What season of the year do your hunts take place?” inquired a

gentlemanly foreigner, who, from some peculiarities of his baggage, I

suspected to be an Englishman, on some hunting expedition, probably at

the foot of the Rocky mountains.

“The season for bar-hunting, stranger,” said the man of Arkansaw, “is

generally all the year round, and the hunts take place about as regular.

I read in history that varmints have their fat season, and their lean

season. That is not the case in Arkansaw: feeding as they do upon the

_spontenacious_ productions of the sile, they have one continued fat

season the year round: though in winter, things in this way is rather

more greasy than in summer, I must admit. For that reason, bar with us

run in warm weather, but in winter they only waddle. Fat, fat! it’s an

enemy to speed; it tames everything that has plenty of it. I have seen

wild turkeys, from its influence, as gentle as chickens. Run a bar in

this fat condition, and the way it improves the critter for eating is

amazing; it sort of mixes the ile up with the meat, until you can’t tell

t’other from which. I’ve done this often. I recollect one perty morning

in particular, of putting an old he fellow on the stretch, and

considering the weight he carried, he run well. But the dogs soon tired

him down, and when I came up with him, wasn’t he in a beautiful sweat—I

might say fever; and then to see his tongue sticking out of his mouth a

feet, and his sides sinking and opening like a bellows, and his cheeks

so fat he couldn’t look cross. In this fix I blazed at him, and pitch me

naked into a briar patch if the steam didn’t come out of the bullet-hole

ten foot in a straight line. The fellow, I reckon, was made on the

high-pressure system, and the lead sort of bust his biler.”

“That column of steam was rather curious, or else the bear must have

been _warm_,” observed the foreigner, with a laugh.

“Stranger, as you observe, that bar was _warm_, and the blowing off of

the steam show’d it, and also how hard the varmint had been run. I have

no doubt if he had kept on two miles farther, his insides would have

been stewed; and I expect to meet with a varmint yet of extra bottom,

who will run himself into a skinful of bar’s grease: it is possible;

much onlikelier things have happened.”

“Whereabouts are these bears so abundant?” inquired the foreigner, with

increasing interest.

“Why, stranger, they inhabit the neighbourhood of my settlement, one of

the prettiest places on old Mississipi—a perfect location, and no

mistake; a place that had some defects, until the river made the

‘cut-off’ at ‘Shirt-tail Bend;’ and that remedied the evil, as it

brought my cabin on the edge of the river—a great advantage in wet

weather, I assure you, as you can now roll a barrel of whiskey into my

yard in high water from a boat, as easy as falling off a log. It’s a

great improvement, as toting it by land in a jug, as I used to do,

_evaporated_ it too fast, and it became expensive. Just stop with me,

stranger, a month or two, or a year, if you like, and you will

appreciate my place. I can give you plenty to eat; for, beside hog and

hominy, you can have bar-ham and bar-sausages, and a mattrass of

bar-skins to sleep on, and a wildcat-skin, pulled off hull, stuffed with

corn-shucks, for a pillow. That bed would put you to sleep, if you had

the rheumatics in every joint in your body. I call that ar bed a

_quietus_. Then look at my land—the government ain’t got another such a

piece to dispose of. Such timber, and such bottom land! why, you can’t

preserve anything natural you plant in it, unless you pick it young;

things thar will grow out of shape so quick. I once planted in those

diggins a few potatoes and beets: they took a fine start, and after that

an ox-team couldn’t have kept them from growing. About that time, I went

off to old Kentuck on bisiness, and did not hear from them things in

three months, when I accidentally stumbled on a fellow who had stopped

at my place, with an idea of buying me out. ‘How did you like things?’

said I. ‘Pretty well,’ said he: ‘the cabin is convenient, and the timber

land is good; but that bottom land ain’t worth the first red cent.’

‘Why?’ said I. ‘’Cause,’ said he. ‘’Cause what?’ said I. ‘’Cause it’s

full of cedar stumps and Indian mounds,’ said he, ‘and _it can’t be

cleared_.’ ‘Lord!’ said I, ‘them ar “cedar stumps” is beets, and them ar

“Indian mounds” ar tater hills.’

“As I expected, the crop was overgrown and useless: the sile is too

rich, and _planting in Arkansaw is dangerous_. I had a good-sized sow

killed in that same bottom land. The old thief stole an ear of corn, and

took it down where she slept at night to eat. Well she left a grain or

two on the ground, and lay down on them: before morning, the corn shot

up, and the percussion killed her dead. I don’t plant any more: natur

intended Arkansaw for a hunting-ground, and I go according to natur.”

The questioner who thus elicited the description of our hero’s

settlement, seemed to be perfectly satisfied, and said no more; but the

“Big Bar of Arkansaw” rambled on from one thing to another with a

volubility perfectly astonishing, occasionally disputing with those

around him, particularly with a “live Sucker” from Illinois, who had the

daring to say that our Arkansaw friend’s stories “smelt rather tall.”

In this manner the evening was spent; but, conscious that my own

association with so singular a personage would probably end before

morning, I asked him if he would not give me a description of some

particular bear-hunt; adding, that I took great interest in such things,

though I was no sportsman. The desire seemed to please him, and he

squared himself round towards me, saying that he could give me an idea

of a bar-hunt, that was never beat in this world, or in any other. His

manner was so singular, that half of his story consisted in his

excellent way of telling it, the great peculiarity of which was, the

happy manner he had of emphasizing the prominent parts of his

conversation. As near as I can recollect, I have italicized them, and

given the story in his own words.

“Stranger,” said he, “in bar-hunts _I am numerous_; and which particular

one, as you say, I shall tell, puzzles me. There was the old she-devil I

shot at the Hurricane last fall—then there was the old hog thief I

popped over at the Bloody Crossing, and then—Yes, I have it! I will

give you an idea of a hunt, in which the greatest bar was killed that

ever lived, _none excepted_; about an old fellow that I hunted, more or

less, for two or three years; and if that ain’t a _particular bar-hunt_,

I ain’t got one to tell.

“But, in the first place, stranger, let me say, I am pleased with you,

because you ain’t ashamed to gain information by asking and listening;

and that’s what I say to Countess’s pups every day, when I’m home; and I

have got great hopes of them ar pups, because they are continually

_nosing_ about; and though they stick it sometimes in the wrong place,

they gain experience any how, and may learn something useful to boot.

“Well, as I was saying about this big bar, you see, when I and some more

first settled in our region, we were drivin’ to hunting naturally: we

soon liked it, and after that we found it an easy matter to make the

thing our business. One old chap, who had pioneered ’afore us, gave us

to understand that we had settled in the right place. He dwelt upon its

merits until it was affecting, and showed us, to prove his assertions,

more marks on the sassafras-trees than I ever saw on a tavern door

’lection time. ‘Who keeps that ar reckoning?’ said I. ‘The bar,’ said

he. ‘What for?’ said I. ‘Can’t tell,’ said he; ‘but so it is: the bar

bite the bark and wood too, at the highest point from the ground they

can reach; and you can tell by the marks,’ said he, ‘the length of the

bar to an inch.’ ‘Enough,’ said I; ‘I’ve learned something here a’ready,

and I’ll put it in practice.’

“Well, stranger, just one month from that time I killed a bar, and told

its exact length before I measured it, by those very marks; and when I

did that, I swelled up considerable—I’ve been a prouder man ever since.

So I went on, larning something every day, until I was reckoned a

buster, and allowed to be decidedly the best bar-hunter in my district;

and that is a reputation as much harder to earn than to be reckoned

first man in Congress, as an iron ramrod is harder than a toadstool. Did

the varmints grow over-cunning by being fooled with by green-horn

hunters, and by this means get troublesome, they send for me as a matter

of course; and thus I do my own hunting, and most of my neighbours’. I

walk into the varmints though, and it has become about as much the same

to me as drinking. It is told in two sentences—a bar is started, and he

is killed. The thing is somewhat monotonous now—I know just how much

they will run, where they will tire, how much they will growl, and what

a thundering time I will have in getting them home.

“I could give you this history of the chase, with all the particulars at

the commencement, I know the signs so well—_Stranger, I’m certain_.

Once I met with a match though, and I will tell you about it; for a

common hunt would not be worth relating.

“On a fine fall day, long time ago, I was trailing about for bar, and

what should I see but fresh marks on the sassafras-trees, about eight

inches above any in the forests that I knew of. Says I, ‘Them marks is a

hoax, or it indicates the d—t bar that was ever grown.’ In fact,

stranger, I couldn’t believe it was real, and I went on. Again I saw the

same marks, at the same height, and _I knew the thing lived_. That

conviction came home to my soul like an earthquake. Says I, ‘Here is

something a-purpose for me: that bar is mine, or I give up the hunting

business.’ The very next morning what should I see but a number of

buzzards hovering over my corn-field. ‘The rascal has been there,’ said

I, ‘for that sign is certain;’ and, sure enough, on examining, I found

the bones of what had been as beautiful a hog the day before, as was

ever raised by a Buck-eye. Then I tracked the critter out of the field

to the woods, and all the marks he left behind, showed me that he was

_the bar_.

“Well, stranger, the first fair chase I ever had with that big critter,

I saw him no less than three distinct times at a distance: the dogs run

him over eighteen miles and broke down, my horse gave out, and I was as

nearly used up as a man can be, made on _my_ principle, _which is

patent_. Before this adventure, such things were unknown to me as

possible; but, strange as it was, that bar got me used to it before I

was done with him; for he got so at last, that he would leave me on a

long chase _quite easy_. How he did it, I never could understand. That a

bar runs at all is puzzling; but how this one could tire down and bust

up a pack of hounds and a horse, that were used to overhauling

everything they started after in no time, was past my understanding.

Well, stranger, that bar finally got so sassy, that he used to help

himself to a hog off my premises whenever he wanted one; the buzzards

followed after what he left, and so, between _bar and buzzard_, I rather

think I was _out of pork_!

“Well, missing that bar so often took hold of my vitals, and I wasted

away. The thing had been carried too far, and it reduced me in flesh

faster than an ager. I would see that bar in everything I did: _he

hunted me_, and that, too, like a devil, which I began to think he was.

While in this fix, I made preparations to give him a last brush, and be

done with it. Having completed everything to my satisfaction, I started

at sunrise, and to my great joy, I discovered from the way the dogs run,

that they were near him; finding his trail was nothing, for that had

become as plain to the pack as a turnpike road. On we went, and coming

to an open country, what should I see but the bar very leisurely

ascending a hill, and the dogs close at his heels, either a match for

him this time in speed, or else he did not care to get out of their

way—I don’t know which. But wasn’t he a beauty, though? I loved him

like a brother.

“On he went, until he came to a tree, the limbs of which formed a crotch

about six feet from the ground. Into this crotch he got and seated

himself, the dogs yelling all around it; and there he sat eyeing them as

quiet as a pond in low water. A green-horn friend of mine, in company,

reached shooting distance before me, and blazed away, hitting the

critter in the centre of his forehead. The bar shook his head as the

ball struck it, and then walked down from that tree as gently as a lady

would from a carriage. ’Twas a beautiful sight to see him do that—he

was in such a rage that he seemed to be as little afraid of the dogs as

if they had been sucking-pigs; and the dogs warn’t slow in making a ring

around him at a respectful distance, I tell you; even Bowie-knife,

himself, stood off. Then the way his eyes flashed—why the fire of them

would have singed a cat’s hair; in fact that bar was in a _wrath all

over_. Only one pup came near him, and he was brushed out so totally

with the bar’s left paw, that he entirely disappeared; and that made the

old dogs more cautious still. In the meantime, I came up, and taking

deliberate aim, as a man should do, at his side, just back of his

foreleg, _if my gun did not snap_, call me a coward, and I won’t take it

personal. Yes, stranger, _it snapped_, and I could not find a cap about

my person. While in this predicament, I turned round to my fool

friend—says I, ‘Bill,’ says I, ‘you’re an ass—you’re a fool—you might

as well have tried to kill that bar by barking the tree under his belly,

as to have done it by hitting him in the head. Your shot has made a

tiger of him, and blast me, if a dog gets killed or wounded when they

come to blows, I will stick my knife into your liver, I will——’

“My wrath was up. I had lost my caps, my gun had snapped, the fellow

with me had fired at the bar’s head, and I expected every moment to see

him close in with the dogs, and kill a dozen of them at least. In this

thing I was mistaken, for the bar leaped over the ring formed by the

dogs, and giving a fierce growl, was off—the pack, of course, in full

cry after him. The run this time was short, for coming to the edge of a

lake the varmint jumped in, and swam to a little island in the lake,

which it reached just a moment before the dogs.

“‘I’ll have him now,’ said I, for I had found my caps in the _lining of

my coat_—so, rolling a log into the lake, I paddled myself across to

the island, just as the dogs had cornered the bar in a thicket. I rushed

up and fired—at the same time the critter leaped over the dogs and came

within three feet of me, running like mad; he jumped into the lake, and

tried to mount the log I had just deserted, but every time he got half

his body on it, it would roll over and send him under; the dogs, too,

got around him, and pulled him about, and finally Bowie-knife clenched

with him, and they sunk into the lake together. Stranger, about this

time I was excited, and I stripped off my coat, drew my knife, and

intended to have taken a part with Bowie-knife myself, when the bar rose

to the surface. But the varmint staid under—Bowie-knife came up alone,

more dead than alive, and with the pack came ashore.

“‘Thank God!’ said I, ‘the old villain has got his deserts at last.’

“Determined to have the body, I cut a grape-vine for a rope, and dove

down where I could see the bar in the water, fastened my queer rope to

his leg, and fished him, with great difficulty, ashore. Stranger, may I

be chawed to death by young alligators, if the thing I looked at wasn’t

a _she-bar, and not the old critter after all_. The way matters got

mixed on that island was onaccountably curious, and thinking of it made

me more than ever convinced that I was hunting the devil himself. I went

home that night and took to my bed—the thing was killing me. The entire

team of Arkansaw in bar-hunting, acknowledged himself used up, and the

fact sunk into my feelings like a snagged boat will in the Mississippi.

I grew as cross as a bar with two cubs and a sore tail. The thing got

out ’mong my neighbours, and I was asked how come on that individ-u-al

that never lost a bar when once started? and if that same individ-u-al

didn’t wear telescopes when he turned a she-bar, of ordinary size, into

an old he one, a little larger than a horse?

“‘Prehaps,’ said I, ‘friends’—getting wrathy—‘prehaps you want to call

somebody a liar?’

“‘Oh, no!’ said they ‘we only heard such things as being _rather common_

of late, but we don’t believe one word of it; oh, no,’—and then they

would ride off and laugh like so many hyenas over a dead nigger.

“It was too much, and I determined to catch that bar, go to Texas, or

die,—and I made my preparations accordin’. I had the pack shut up and

rested. I took my rifle to pieces, and iled it. I put caps in every

pocket about my person, _for fear of the lining_. I then told my

neighbours, that on Monday morning—naming the day—I would start _that

bar_, and bring him home with me, or they might divide my settlement

among them, the owner having disappeared. Well, stranger, on the morning

previous to the great day of my hunting expedition, I went into the

woods near my house, taking my gun and Bowie-knife along, just _from

habit_, and there sitting down also from habit, what should I see,

getting over my fence, but _the bar_! Yes, the old varmint was within a

hundred yards of me, and the way he walked _over that fence_—stranger,

he loomed up like a _black mist_, he seemed so large, and he walked

right towards me. I raised myself, took deliberate aim, and fired.

Instantly the varmint wheeled, gave a yell, and _walked through the

fence_ like a falling tree would through a cobweb. I started after, but

was tripped up by my inexpressibles, which, either from habit, or the

excitement of the moment, were about my heels, and before I had really

gathered myself up, I heard the old varmint groaning in a thicket near

by, like a thousand sinners, and by the time I reached him he was a

corpse. Stranger, it took five niggers and myself to put that carcass on

a mule’s back, and old long-ears waddled under his load, as if he was

foundered in every leg of his body, and with a common whopper of a bar,

he would have trotted off, and enjoyed himself. ’Twould astonish you to

know how big he was: I made a _bed-spread of his skin_, and the way it

used to cover my bar-mattress, and leave several feet on each side to

tuck up, would have delighted you. It was in fact a creation bar, and if

it had lived in Samson’s time, and had met him, in a fair fight, it

would have licked him in the twinkling of a dice-box. But, stranger, I

never liked the way I hunted him, _and missed him_. There is something

curious about it, I could never understand,—and I never was satisfied

at his giving in so _easy at last_. Prehaps, he had heard of my

preparations to hunt him the next day, so he jist come in, like Capt.

Scott’s coon, to save his wind to grunt with in dying; but that ain’t

likely. My private opinion is, that that bar was an _unhuntable bar, and

died when his time come_.”

When the story was ended, our hero sat some minutes with his auditors in

a grave silence; I saw there was a mystery to him connected with the

bear whose death he had just related, that had evidently made a strong

impression on his mind. It was also evident that there was some

superstitious awe connected with the affair,—a feeling common with all

“children of the wood,” when they meet with anything out of their

everyday experience. He was the first one, however, to break the

silence, and jumping up, he asked all present to “liquor” before going

to bed,—a thing which he did, with a number of companions, evidently to

his heart’s content.

-----

[7] By T. B. Thorpe.

V.

JOHNNY BEEDLE’S COURTSHIP.[8]

After my sleigh-ride last winter, and the slippery trick I was served by

Patty Bean, nobody would suspect me of hankering after the woman again

in a hurry. To hear me rave and take on, and rail out against the whole

femenine gender, you would have taken it for granted that I should never

so much as look at one again, to all etartinity. Oh, but I was wicked!

“Darn their ’ceitful eyes,” says I, “blame their skins, torment their

hearts, and drot them to darnation!”

Finally, I took an oath, and swore that if I ever meddled, or had any

dealings with them again—in the sparking line I mean—I wish I might be

hung and choked. But swearing off from woman, and then going into a

meeting-house chockfull of gals, all shining and glistening in their

Sunday clothes and clean faces, is like swearing off from liquor and

going into a grog-shop—it’s all smoke.

I held out and kept firm to my oath for three whole Sundays, forenoons,

a’ternoons, and intermissions complete: on the fourth there were strong

symptoms of a change of weather. A chap, about my size, was seen on the

way to the meeting-house, with a new patent hat on, his head hung by the

ears upon a shirt-collar, his cravat had a pudding in it, and branched

out in front into a double-bow knot. He carried a straight back, and a

stiff neck, as a man ought to when he has his best clothes on; and every

time he spit, he sprung his body forward like a jack-knife, in order to

shoot clear off the ruffles.

Squire Jones’s pew is next but two to mine, and when I stand up to

prayers, and take my coat-tail under my arm, and turn my back to the

minister, I naturally look quite straight at Sally Jones. Now Sally has

got a face not to be grinned at in a fog. Indeed, as regards beauty,

some folks think she can pull an even yoke with Patty Bean. For my part,

I think there is not much boot between them. Anyhow, they are so well

matched that they have hated and despised each other like rank poison,

ever since they were school-girls.

Squire Jones had got his evening fire on, and set himself down to read

the great Bible, when he heard a rap at his door.

“Walk in. Well, John, how der do? Git out, Pompey!”

“Pretty well, I thank you, Squire; and how do you do?”

“Why, so as to be crawling. Ye ugly beast will ye hold yer yop! Haul up

a chair and set down, John.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Jones?”

“Oh, middlin’. How’s yer marm?”

“Don’t forget the mat there, Mr. Beedle.”

This put me in mind that I had been off soundings several times in the

long muddy lane, and my boots were in a sweet pickle.

It was now old Captain Jones’s turn, the grandfather, being roused from

a doze by the bustle and racket; he opened both his eyes, at first with

wonder and astonishment. At last, he began to halloo so loud that you

might hear him a mile; for he takes it for granted that everybody is

just exactly as deaf as he is.

“Who is it, I say? Who in the world is it?”

Mrs. Jones, going close to his ear, screamed out:

“It’s Johnny Beedle!”

“Ho, Johnny Beedle; I remember he was one summer at the siege of

Boston.”

“No, no, father; bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that’s been

dead and gone this twenty years!”

“Ho! But where does he come from?”

“Daown taown.”

“Ho! And what does he foller for a livin’?”

And he did not stop asking questions after this sort, till all the

particulars of the Beedle family were published and proclaimed in Mrs.

Jones’s last screech. He then sunk back into his doze again.

The dog stretched himself before one andiron, the cat squat down before

the other. Silence came on by degrees, like a calm snow-storm, till

nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping time with a

sappy, yellow-birch forestick. Sally sat up, prim as if she were pinned

to the chair-back, her hands crossed genteely upon her lap, and her eyes

looking straight into the fire. Mammy Jones tried to straighten herself

too, and laid her hands across in her lap. But they would not lay still.

It was full twenty-four hours since they had done any work, and they

were out of all patience with keeping Sunday. Do what she would to keep

them quiet they would bounce up now and then, and go through the

motions, in spite of the Fourth Commandment.

For my part, I sat looking very much like a fool. The more I tried to

say something, the more my tongue stuck fast. I put my right leg over

the left, and said, “Hem!” Then I changed, and put the left over the

right. It was no use, the silence kept coming on thicker and thicker.

The drops of sweat began to crawl all over me. I got my eye upon my hat,

hanging on a peg, on the road to the door, and then I eyed the door. At

this moment, the old Captain all at once sung out:

“Johnny Beedle!”

It sounded like a clap of thunder, and I started right up an eend.

“Johnny Beedle, you’ll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did,

if you live to the age of Methuseler. He would toss up his drumstick,

and while it was whirlin’ in the air, take off a gill er rum, and then

ketch it as it come down, without losin’ a stroke in the tune. What d’ye

think of that, ha? But scull your chair round close alongside er me, so

you can hear. Now, what have you come arter?”

“I arter? Oh, jist takin’ a walk. Pleasant walkin’, I guess. I mean,

jest to see how ye all do.”

“Ho, that’s another lie! You’ve come a courtin’, Johnny Beedle; you’re

a’ter our Sal. Say, now, d’ye want to marry, or only to court?”

This is what I call a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump, and landed

in the middle of the kitchen; and then she skulked in the dark corner,

till the old man, after laughing himself into a whooping-cough, was put

to bed.

Then came apples and cider, and the ice being broke, plenty chat with

Mammy Jones about the minister and the “sarmon.” I agreed with her to a

nicety upon all the points of doctrine, but I had forgot the text and

all the heads of the discourse, but six. Then she teazed and tormented

me to tell who I accounted the best singer in the gallery, that day.

But, mum! there was no getting that out of me.

“Praise to the face, is open disgrace,” says I, throwing a sly squint at

Sally.

At last, Mrs. Jones lighted tother candle, and after charging Sally to

look well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered

up his shoes and stockings, and followed.

Sally and I were left sitting a good yard apart, honest measure. For

fear of getting tongue-tied again, I set right in, with a steady stream

of talk. I told her all the particulars about the weather that was past,

and also made some pretty ’cute guesses at what it was like to be in

future. At first, I gave a hitch up with my chair at every full stop;

then, growing saucy, I repeated it at every comma and semicolon; and at

last, it was hitch, hitch, hitch, and I planted myself fast by the side

of her.

“I swore, Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome to-day, that I wanted to

eat you up!”

“Pshaw! get along you,” said she.

My hand had crept along, somehow, upon its fingers, and begun to scrape

acquaintance with hers. She sent it home again, with a desperate jerk.

Try it again—no better luck.

“Why, Miss Jones, you’re gettin’ upstropulous; a little old-maidish, I

guess.”

“Hands off is fair play, Mr. Beedle.”

It is a good sign to find a girl sulky; I knew where the shoe

pinched—it was that are Patty Bean business. So I went to work to

persuade her that I had never had any notion after Patty, and to prove

it, I fell to running her down at a great rate. Sally could not help

chiming in with me; and I rather guess Miss Patty suffered a few. I now

not only got hold of her hand without opposition, but managed to slip an

arm round her waist. But there was no satisfying me; so I must go to

poking out my lips after a buss. I guess I rued it. She fetched me a

slap in the face, that made me see stars, and my ears rung like a brass

kettle for a quarter of an hour. I was forced to laugh at the joke, tho’

out of the wrong side of my mouth, which gave my face something the look

of a gridiron. The battle now began in the regular way.

“Ah, Sally, give me a kiss, and ha’ done with it, now.”

“I won’t, so, there: nor tech to—”

“I’ll take it, whether or no.”

“Do it if you dare!”

And at it we went, rough and tumble. An odd destruction of starch now

commenced: the bow of my cravat was squat up in half a shake. At the

next bout, smash went shirt-collar; and at the same time, some of the

head fastenings gave way, and down came Sally’s hair in a flood, like a

mill-dam broke loose, carrying away half a dozen combs. One dig of

Sally’s elbow, and my blooming ruffles wilted down to a dish-cloth. But

she had no time to boast. Soon her neck tackeling began to shiver; it

parted at the throat, and whorah came a whole school of blue and white

beads, scampering and running races, every which way about the floor.

By the hookey, if Sally Jones is not real grit, there’s no snakes. She

fought fair, however, I must own, and neither tried to bite or scratch;

and when she could fight no longer, she yielded handsomely. Her arms

fell down by her sides, her head back over her chair, her eyes closed,

and there lay her little plump mouth, all in the air. Lord, did ye ever

see a hawk pounce upon a young robin, or a bumble-bee upon a clover top?

I say nothing.

Consarn it, how a buss will crack of a still, frosty night! Mrs. Jones

was about half way between asleep and awake.

“There goes my yeast bottle,” says she to herself, “burst into twenty

hundred pieces; and my bread is all dough agin.”

The upshot of the matter is, I fell in love with Sally Jones, head over

ears. Every Sunday night, rain or shine, finds me rapping at Squire

Jones’s door; and twenty times have I been within a hair’s breadth of

popping the question. But now I have made a final resolve, and if I live

till next Sunday night, and I don’t get choked in the trial, Sally Jones

will hear thunder.

-----

[8] By W. J. McClintoch.

VI.

THE MARRIAGE OF JOHNNY BEEDLE.[9]

Since I came out in print about my sleigh-riding, and frolicing, and

courting, I have entered into the matrimonial state, and left off

dabbling in the newspapers: for a married man has a character to take

care of. But folks tease and torment me so much to let ’em know the

particulars about my marriage, that I don’t know that I had best sit

down once for all, and tell the rest of my experience.

When I left off, I believe I was spunking up to Sally Jones like all

vengeance, and threatening to give her the butt-end of my sentiments,

wasn’t I? Well, I was as good as my word. The next Sabbath-day I went

right to work, after meeting, upon the outer man, as Deacon Carpenter

says, and by sundown, things looked about right. I say nothing; but when

I stood up to the glass to finish, and thought of titivating hair and

wiskers, and so forth, I saw a little fellow there that looked wicked,

and says I, “If Sally Jones knows which side her bread is buttered—but

no matter, she shan’t say I didn’t give a chance.”

“Well, I went over to the Squire’s, pretty well satisfied in my own

mind; so, after flattering and crowing about her a little while, I up

and shew the cloven foot.

“Sally,” says I, “will you take me for better or worser?”

This put her to considering, and I gave a flourishing about the room,

and cut a carly-cue with my right foot, as much as to say, “Take your

own time.”

At last, says she, “I’d as liv’s have you as anybody in the world, John,

but—I declare I can’t.”

“You can’t, ha! And why?”

“Cause—”

“Cause what?”

“Cause I can’t, and that’s enough. I would in a minute, John, but for

only one reason, and that I’m afraid to tell ye.”

“Poh, poh!” says I, “don’t be bashful. If there’s only one stump in the

way, I guess here’s a fellow—”

“Well, then, look tother way, John; I can’t speak if you look at me.”

“O, yes; there, now’s your time,” says I, with a flert.

“The reason is—Joe Bowers, the stage-driver. Now, you shan’t tell

nobody, John, will ye?”

Who would have thought this of Sally Jones!

It seemed to me the very Old Boy had got into the women: they fairly put

me to nonplush! All this time, my popularity with the ladies was

amazing. To see them flattering and soft-soaping me all at once, you

would have sworn I had nothing to do but pick and choose. I had as much

gallantry to do as I wanted everywhere; and for politeness and gentility

I never turned my back to no man. Then they were so thick and familiar

with me, that they didn’t care what they said or did before me; and,

finally, whenever they had errands or chores to, who but I was the

favourite bird to fetch and carry? I was for ever and ever racing and

cantering from post to pillar, to do their bidding. Rain or shine, snow

or mud, nothing stopping me; and, I may say, I fairly earned their

smiles by the sweat of my brow. Then it was, “O, Mr. Beedle! what should

we do without Mr. Beedle!” But when I caught one alone, and began to

touch upon the matrimonial sentiments, then how quick the tune was

changed! O, the ways of women are curious!

Patty Bean was not the first I run against, by a long short. I never

lost anything for the want of asking; and I was plagy apt to talk turky

always when I get sociable, if it was only out of politeness. Now and

then one would promise, and then fly off at the handle; but most all

contrive some reason or other for giving me the bag to hold. One had

taken a firm resolve never to marry—“No, never, never!” and the next

Sunday morning she was published! Another chicken thought she was a

great deal too young to undertake to manage a family. At last, I took a

great shine to the school-marm, Huldah Hornbeam, though she was ten

years older than I, and taller by half a yard of neck; and when I

offered her heart and hand, she fixed up her mouth, and, says she, “I’ve

a great respect and esteem for you, Mr. Beedle, but—” and so forth.

Nothing will cool a man quicker than respect and esteem, unless it is a

wet blanket. But let Huldah alone, she had her eyes upon Deacon

Carpenter all the time.

Well, as I was going moping along home, from Squire Jones’s, I fell in

with Doctor Dingley. The Doctor saw in a minute that something was the

matter, and he went to work and pumped the whole secret out of me. Then

he seemed so friendly, that I up and told him all my experience with the

women, from the beginning to the end.

“Well, John,” says he, “I advise you now to wait till the twenty-ninth

of February, when the gals turn round and courted the fellows. It’s none

of my business, but, I wouldn’t let the women make a fool of me any

more.”

Well, I took a resolution, and I stuck to it firm; for when I once set

up my ebenezer, I am just like a mountain. I stuck to it along pretty

well into January, when I had to go to singing school. I must go to

singing school, for I was leader in treble, and there was no carrying on

the parts without me. But this was nothing, if it hadn’t fell to my lot

to go home with Hannah Peabody, four times running. Politeness before

everything. Well, she kept growing prettier and prettier every time, but

I only grit my teeth and held on the harder.

By and by, Sabbath-day night came round, and I felt a sort of uneasy,

moping about home; and, says I, this resolution will never set well on

my stomach without air and exercise; and before I had done thinking of

this, I was more than half way to Captain Peabody’s. It was about

daylight down as I was passing by the kitchen; but hearing a sort of

snickering inside, I slipped up and peeped into the window, just out of

curiosity.

There was no candle burning, for Mrs. Peabody is saving of tallow, but I

could see Hannah and Pol Partridge, the help, telling fortunes in the

ashes by firelight. I turned round to go off, and run right against Jack

Robinson. Jack was come to sit up with the help, and would insist upon

it, I should go in and see Hannah—“She hasn’t had a spark this month,”

says he, “and in you shall go, or I’ll lick ye.”

Well, there was no dodging here, and all I had to do was to grin and

bear it. So in I went, and once in, good bye to resolution. The short

and the long of it, I was soon as deep in the mud as I had been in the

mire. But I had another guess chap to deal with than Sally Jones now.

And here was now the difference between them. Where you got a slap in

the chops from Sal, Hannah kep ye off with a scowl and a cock up of the

nose. And Madam couldn’t bear handling. With her, it was talk is talk,

but hands off, Mister.

But I rather guess I had cut my eye-teeth by this time. If I hadn’t

learnt something about the nature of the women, the kicks I had taken

from all quarters fell upon barren ground. There is no way to deal with

them but to coax and flatter; you gain nothing, let me tell ye, by

saving of soft soap; and you must be sly about it. It is no way to catch

a wicked devil of a colt, in a pasture, to march right up, bridle in

hand; you must sort of sidle along as if you was going past, and

whistle, and pretend to be looking tother way; and so round and round,

till at last you corner him up; then jump and clench him by the

forelock. O! I’m not so great a fool as I might be.

But it was a long tedious business before Hannah and I could come to any

sort of understanding. There was old Captain Peabody was a stump in my

way. He was a man that had no regard for politeness; he travelled

rough-shod through the town, carrying a high head and a stiff upper lip,

as much as to say: “I owes nobody nothing, by ——.” He had been a

skipper and sailed his schooner all along ashore, till he had got

forehanded; then went back, up country, and set down to farming. But I

never tuckle to man, if he’s as big as all out-doors. And after he poked

his fist in my face, one ’lection, we never hitched horses together.

Well, as I was afeard to go to the house, and court Hannah in the

regular way, I had to carry on the war just when and where I could;

sometimes of a dark night, I could steal into the kitchen. But my safest

plan was, to track her to the neighbour’s house, where she went to spend

the evenings; skulk about till she started home, then waylay her on the

road. Pretty poor chance this, you’ll say. But if this wasn’t enough,

Hannah herself must join in to plague me half to death.

You see I wanted to let her know what I was after in a sort of a

delicate under-hand way, and keep myself on the safe side of the fence

all the time, if there was to be any kicking. But Hannah had no notion

of riddles; she would not understand any sort of plain English. I hinted

plagy suspicions about true love, and Cupid’s darts, and all that. Then

I would breathe a long sithe, and say: “What does that mean, Hannah?”

But no, she couldn’t see, poor soul; she looked as simple an’ innocent

all the while as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

She was plaguy close, too, as to her goings and comings; and if she

happened any time by accident to let drop the least word that show’d me

where to find her next time, she was so mad with herself that she was

ready to bite her tongue off.

One day she was going to her Aunt Molly’s to spend the evening, and she

went all the way round to Dr. Dingley’s to tell Mrs. Dingley not to tell

me. “For,” says she, “I don’t want him to be dodging me about

everywhere.” Well, Mrs. Dingley, she promised to keep dark, but she told

the Doctor, and what does the Doctor do, but comes right straight over

and tells me, “Gone all stark alone,” says he, “but it’s none of my

business.”

This is the day that I have marked with a piece of chalk. Hardly was

daylight down before I was snug in my skulking nest, in Aunt Molly’s

barn. It was on the hay-mow, where there was a knot-hole handy to look

through and see all that went in or out of the house. I had a scheme in

my head that Hannah little dreamt of; and I lay and I thought it over

till she came out; and when I got her under my arm, and walking down the

lane, thinks I, I’ll set the stone a-rolling anyhow, let it stop where

it will.

So I set on to talking about this and that and tother thing, and

happened (by mere chance, you know) to mention our old hatter shop, that

stands at the corner, that my father used to work in when he was alive.

“And,” says I, “speaking of the shop, always puts me in mind of you,

Hannah.”

“Of me, John?” says she. “Why?”

“O! it’s just the thing for a store,” says I.

“Well?”

“Sweep out the dirt, and old hat pairings, and truck—”

“Well?”

“Take the sign; rub out ‘Hatter,’ and put in ‘Merchant;’ and that spells

‘John Beedle, Merchant—’”

“Well, John?”

“Then get rum and molasses, and salt-fish, and ribbonds and calicoes—”

“O!” says she, “it’s my new calico gownd you was a-thinking of. Ain’t it

pretty?”

“Oh!” says I “’tis a sweet pretty gownd,” says I. “But—I finally

concluded to set up store and get married, and settle myself down as a

merchant for life—”

At this, Hannah hung down her head and gave a snicker. “And how does all

that put you in mind of me, John?” says she.

“Guess.”

“I won’t guess to touch to, so there now—I never!”

What I said, and what she said next, is all lost, for I’ll be shot if I

can remember. It’s all buz, buz, in my head, like a dream. The first

thing I knew, we were right again Captain Peabody’s barn, walking as

close together as we could with comfort, and our arms crossed round each

other’s waist. Hannah’s tongue had got thawed out, and was running like

a brook on a freshet, and all one steady stream of honey. I vow, I was

ready to jump out of my skin.

It was a mile and a half from Aunt Molly’s to Captain Peabody’s, and I

thought we had been about a minute on the road. So says I: “Hannah,

let’s go set down under the great apple-tree and have-a little chat,

just to taper off the evening.” We now sat down and began to talk

sensible. We settled all the predicaments of the nuptial ceremony, and

then talked over the store till we thought we saw ourselves behind the

counter; I weighing and measuring, and dickering and dealing out, and

she, at the desk, pen in hand, figuring up the accounts. “And mind,

John,” says she, “I’m not a-going to trust everybody at the corner, I

tell ye.” But just as we were beginning to get sociable, as I thought,

Hannah looks up, and says she: “What can that ’ere great red streak be,

in the sky, away down there beyond Sacarrap?”

“I rather guess,” says I, “it’s a fire in the woods.”

“Fire in the woods! I’ll be skinned if it isn’t daylight a-coming.

Quick, John, help me into the window before father’s a-stirring, or

here’ll be a pretty how d’ye do.”

The next job was to tell the news to Captain Peabody. Hannah had settled

it that she should speak to her mother, and said she could manage her

well enough, and it was my business to ask her father. This was a thing

easier said than done. It stuck in my crop for days, like a raw onion. I

tried to persuade Hannah to marry fust, and ask afterwards. Says I: “You

are twenty-four, and free according to law.” But she wouldn’t hear to

it. She had no notion of doing anything clandestinely. Then I asked

Doctor Dingley to go and break the ice for me. But no: he would not

meddle with other folks’ business—he made it a point.

“Well,” says I, “if I have got to come to the scratch, the less I

consider on it the better.” So one stormy day I put my head down against

a north-easter, and set my feet a-going; and the next thing I was

standing right before Captain Peabody. He was in his grain-house,

shelling corn, sitting on a tub, with an old frying-pan stuck through

the handles; and he made the cobs fly every which way, hit or miss—he

didn’t care. But it tickled him so to see me dodge ’em, that he got into

uncommon good humour.

“Well, Johnny Beedle, what has bro’t you up here, right into the wind’s

eye, this ere morning?”

“Why, Cap’m, I’ve got an idea in my head.”

“No! how you talk!”

“Ye see, the upshot of the matter is, I’ve a notion of setting up a

store, and getting a wife, and settling myself down as a merchant.”

“Whoorah, John, there’s two ideas—a store and a wife.”

“But I want a little of your help,” says I.

“Well, John,” says he, “I’ll do the handsome thing by ye. If you keep

better goods than anybody else, and sell cheaper, you shall have my

custom, and welcome, provided you’ll take pay in sauce and things. Isn’t

that fair?”

“O, yes, Cap’m.”

“And I wish you success, on the other tack. No fear of that, I’ll

warrant. There’s lots of silly girls afloat; and such a fine,

taught-rigged gen’man as you are, can run one down in no time.”

“O, yes, Cap’m; I have run down Hannah already.”

“My Hannah?”

“O, yes, Cap’m; we have agreed, and only want your consent.”

With this the old Cap’m ris right up on eend, upset the tub and

frying-pan, and pointed with a great red ear of corn in his hand,

towards the door, without saying a word; but his eyes rolled like all

creation!

This raised my blood, that I felt so stuffy, that I marched right

straight off, and never turned my head to the right or left, till I was

fairly home and housed.

“Well now,” says I, “my apple-cart is upset in good earnest.” And when I

went to Doctor Dingley for comfort, says he, “John, I wash my hands of

this whole affair, from beginning to end. I must support my character. I

am a settled doctor in this town; and the character of a doctor, John,

is too delicate a flower to go poking round, and dabbling into

everybody’s mess. Then,” says he, “Mrs. Dingley, I warn you not to

meddle nor make in this business. Let everybody skin their own eels.

Hold your tongue, you fool, you. Did you ever hear of me burning my

fingers?”

Howsomever, there was some under-hand work carried on somewhere, and by

somebody. I don’t tell tales out of school. I had no hand in it, till

one day, Dr. Dingley, says he, “John, if you happen to be wanting my

horse and shay, this afternoon, about three o’clock, go and take it. I

never refused to lend, you know. And I hope Captain Peabody will gain

his law-suit with Deacon Carpenter, that he has gone down to Portland to

see to. But that’s none of my business.”

Somebody, too—I don’t say who—there was a certain Squire Darling,

living in a certain town, about ten miles off, that did business, and

asked no questions. Well, in the said town, just after sundown, a young

man, named Joseph Morey, was walking near the meeten-house, with a sort

of cream-coloured book under his arm; and he heard something in the

woods, this side, that, if it wasn’t a hurricane, he’d give up guessing.

Such a cracking, and squeaking, and rattling!—such a thrashing, and

grunting, and snorting!—you never! He stopped, and looked back, and all

soon came to light. There was an old white-faced horse came scrabbling

along out of the woods, reeling and foaming, with an old wooded top shay

at his tail, and a chap about my size flourishing a small beach-pole,

pretty well boomed up at the end. And, says I, “Mister, can you tell me

where one Squire Darling lives?”

“Which Squire Darling?” says he; “there’s two of the name.”

“His name is John,” says I.

“Faith,” says he, “they are both Johns too; but one is a lawyer, and the

other a cooper.”

“O, it must be the lawyer that I want,” says I.

With this, the young man gave a squint at Hannah, and a wink at me; and

“Come along,” says he, “I am going right there now, and I’ll show you

the Squire, and fix things for ye.”

“Hannah,” says I, “that’s lucky.”

Well, he carried us into a small, one-story house, a little further on,

full of books and dust, and smelling of strong, old dead tobacco-smoke.

Here we sat down, while he went out about our business. We waited and

waited, till long after dark, and were glad enough to see him come back

at last with a candle. “The Squire is very sick,” says he, “but I have

over-persuaded him.” And the next minute, Squire came grunting along in,

all muffled by in a great-coat, and spectacles on, and a great tall

woman, as witness for the bride.

Well, he went to work, and married us, and followed up with a right down

sensible sermon, about multiplying and increasing on the earth; and I

never felt so solemn and serious. Then followed kissing the bride all

round, the certificate; and then I gave him two silver dollars, and we

got into the shay again, and off.

After this, nothing happened, to speak of, for about a month. Everything

was kept snug, and Captain Peabody had no suspicion; but one morning, at

break of day, as I was creeping softly down Captain Peabody’s

back-stairs, with my shoes in my hand, as usual, I trod into a tub of

water, standing on the third step from the bottom, and down I came, slam

bang. The Captain was going to kill his hogs, and had got up betimes;

put his water to heat, and was whetting his butcher-knife in the

kitchen.

The first thing I saw, when I looked up, there stood Captain Peabody,

with a great butcher-knife in his hand, looking down upon me like a

thundercloud! I want to know if I didn’t feel streaked! He clinched me

by the collar, and stood me up; and then raised his knife over me, as

far as he could reach. I thought my last moment was come. Blood would

have been shed, as sure as rats, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Peabody. She

stepped up behind, and laid hold of his arm; and says she, “It’s no

matter, Mr. Peabody; they are married.”

“Married to that puppy?” roared the Captain.

“Yes, Sir,” said I; “and here’s the certificate.”

And I pulled it out of my jacket-pocket, and gave it to him; but I

didn’t stay for any more ceremony. As soon as I felt his gripe loosen a

little, I slid off like an eel, and backed out-doors, and made track

home, about as fast as I could leg it. I was in a constant worry and

stew all the forenoon, for fear the Captain would do anything rash; and

I could neither sit still, nor stand still, eat, drink, or think.

About the middle of the afternoon, Dr. Dingley came bouncing in, out of

breath, and says he, “John, you have been cheated and bamboozled. Your

marriage ain’t worth that. It was all a contrivance of Jack Darling, the

lawyer, and his two imps, Joe Morey and Peter Scamp.” This was all he

could say, till he had wiped his face, and taken a swig of cider, to

recover his wind; and then he gave me all the particulars.

When Captain Peabody had read my certificate, he could not rest, but

tackled up, and drove right down, to let off his fury upon his old

friend, Squire Darling. The moment he got sight of the Squire, he turned

to and called him all the foul names he could lay his tongue to, for

half an hour.

The Squire denied everything. The Captain downed the certificate, and

says he, “There’s black and white against ye, you bloody old sculpen.”

The Squire knew the hand-writing was his nephew’s, as soon as he saw it,

and the truth was brought to light; but as the storm fell in one

quarter, it rose from the other. Squire Darling had smelt tar in his

day, and hadn’t forgot how to box the compass; and as soon as the saddle

was on the right horse, he set in and gave the Captain his own back

again, and let him have it about nor-nor-west, right in his teeth, till

he was fairly blown out. They shook hands then, and seeing Hannah and I

had got under-weigh together, they said we must go to the Vice, and no

time must be lost in making all fast in the lashings, with a good, fine

square knot, before a change in the weather. So the Squire slicked up a

little, got into the shay, and came home with the Captain, to hold the

wedding that very night.

How Dr. Dingley happened to be in town, just at the time, I don’t know.

It was his luck; and as soon as he saw which way the wind was, he licked

up and cantered home in a hurry. After he had got through with the

particulars, says he, “Now, Mr. Beedle, it’s none of my business; but if

I had such a hitch upon Captain Peabody, I would hang back like a stone

dray, till he agreed to back my note for two hundred dollars, in the

Portland Bank, to buy goods with, enough to set you up in the store.”

I thought strong on this idea, as I was going over to Captain Peabody’s;

but the moment I show the least symptoms of packing, such a storm was

raised as never was seen. Father, and mother-in-law, and Squire Darling,

set up such a yell altogether; and, poor Hannah, she sat down and cried.

My heart failed me, and I made haste to give in and plead sorry, as

quick as possible; and somehow, in my hurry, I let out that Dr. Dingley

had set me on; and so was the innocent cause of his getting a most

righteous licking, the first time Captain Peabody caught him. It wasn’t

settled short of thirty dollars.

Well, Squire Darling stood us up, and married us about right, and here

was an end of trouble. Mother-in-law would not part with Hannah, and she

made father-in-law give us a settling out in the north end of his house.

He could not stomach me very well for a while, but I have managed to get

on the blind side of him. I turned right in to work on his farm, as

steady and industrious as a cart-horse. And I kept on pleasing him in

one way and another, more and more, till he has taken such a liking to

me, that he wouldn’t part with me for a cow. He owns that I save him the

hire of a help—out and out—the year round.

There—now I have done. I can’t patronise the newspapers any more. I

have enough to do that is more profitable about home. Betwixt hard work

in the fields, and chores about house and barn, and hog pens, I can’t

call a minute my own, summer nor winter. And just so sartain as my wife

sees me come in and set down to take a little comfort, just so sartain

is she to come right up and give me a baby to hold.

Noty Binny. The stories that are going the rounds, from mouth to mouth,

about my fust marriage, are all packs of lies, invented by Joe Morey and

Peter Scamp, jest to make folk laugh at my expense.

-----

[9] By W. J. McClintoch.

VII.

JOHNNY BEEDLE’S THANKSGIVING.[10]

“I says,” says I, “Hannah, sposin we keep thanksgivin’ to home this

year,” says I, “and invite all our hull grist o’ cousins, and aunts and

things—go the hull figure, and do the thing genteel.”

“Well, agreed,” says she, “it’s just what I was a thinkin’, only I

consate we’d better not cackliate too fur ahead, for I didn’t never no

it to miss somethin’ happenin’ so sure as I laid out for the leastest

thing. Though it’s as good a time now, far’s I know, as any—for I’ve

just weanen Moses, and tend to take comfort a spell, ’cause a

troublesomer cryiner critter niver come into life.”

“Exactly so,” says I, “and if I’d a known everything afore I was married

that I do now,” says I—

“Hold your tongue for a goney, Johnny Beedle,” says she, “and mind your

thanksgivin’.”

“Poh!” says I, “Hannah, don’t be miffy; I was only jeestin’—and you

jist go and put on a kittle of water, and I’ll go out and stick a pig

for you; two if you like.” So away I went and murdered the pigs out o’

love and good-will to Hannah. I rather guess the critters wished I

warn’t so good-natured.

Well, things went on swimmingly, and what was best of all, we had the

luck to invite the minister and deacon afore anybody got a chance; for

the very moment the proklimation was read, I watched for em comin’ out

of meeting, and nailed ’em both. But as I was a tellin’, Hannah, she

went at it—she got some of her galls to help her, and they made all

smoke. In the first place she went to work reg’lar, and turned the house

inside out, and then t’other side in again, all the same as darnin’ a

stocking. Hannah is a smart willin’ gall, and a rael worker, and a prime

cook into the bargain; let her alone in the doughnut line, and for

pumpkin pies—lick! So the day afore the thanksgivin’ she called me into

the t’other room, that Marm Peabody christened the parlour, to see what

a lot o’ pies and cakes, and sausage-meat and doughnuts she’d got made

up, and charged me not to lay the weight of my finger upon one on ’em. I

telled her I guessed she cackelated to call in the whole parish, paupers

and all, to eat up sich a sight of vittles; so I grabbed a handful of

doughnuts, and went out to feed the hogs, and to see to things in the

field. I was gone all the fore part o’ the day, and when I went home I

found Hannah all hoity toity, in a livin’ pucker cryin’, and taken on to

kill, and poor little Moses tottling arter her and cryin’ too. I declare

if I didn’t feel streaked.

“What in the name o’ natur,” says I, “is the matter? who’s dead, and

what’s to pay now?”

With that she fetched a new screech, and down she whopped into a cheer.

“Johnny Beedle, Johnny,” says she, and with that she boohood agin.

“What ails the woman?” says I, “are you possest, or what?”

“The child is ruined!” says she, “Moses Beedle is ruined.”

I kitched up the child, and turned him eend for eend, every which way,

but I couldn’t see nothin’ extraordinary. I began to think that the

woman was bewitched, and by this time was a good mind to feel mad. I

don’t know of nothin’ that’ll raise a feller’s dander quicker than to

skeer him out of his seven senses. So I giv Hannah a reg’lar breezin’,

for actin’ so like a raven distracted bed bug; and what with jarrin’ a

spell and coaxin’ a spell, at last I got the whole on’t out of her.

It appears that about an hour or thereabouts arter I’d gone out, there

was a man rid up to the door a horseback, got down, and come in and

asked for a drink o’ water or beer, I ain’t sartain which—but anyhow he

was a raal dandified chap, and dreadful civel spoken withal. So my wife

and he soon got into a chat about the weather and sich things. Well,

while he set, the young one squalled in the room; he’d been asleep, you

know, with his mornin’s nap; my wife went and fetched him into the room,

and she obsarved that the man looked considerable hard at him, as if he

see’d somethin’ queer; tho’ she didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time,

but recollected arterwards.

She was quite tickled to see the man take him and set him on his knee;

but while he was a playin’ with him—for Moses is a raal peeler, he

ain’t afeered of the biggest stranger that ever was—directly he fell to

pawin’ about his head in sich a comical style, and talking to himself,

and withal acted so curious, that Hannah got skeery, and went to take

him away, but he wouldn’t let her take him just then; he said, “he

wanted to examine his head.”

“His head!” says Hannah, “nothin’ ails his head.”

“Nothin’ ails it?” says he, “why it’s the most remarkable head that I’ve

ever seen.” And then he went on with sich a string of long words, there

was no memberin’ or understandin’ half—then he clapped his hand on the

side of the little fellow’s sconce-box, “there,” says he, “do you see

that _divilupment_;” or some sich word that sounded awful.

“That’s what?” says Hannah.

“Vulgarly called a bump,” continued he.

“It ain’t a bump too, nyther,” says his mother. “It’s his nat’rul

shape.”

“No doubt of that,” said the villin.

“Well now, if ever I heard the beat o’ that,” says she, “that bump’s

come nat’rul.”

So he told her they was only called bumps, ’cause they looked like ’em;

and the bigger they were, and the more there was on ’em, the more

different sorts of capacities and idees folks had—and so on.

At first she thought the man was stark mad; but he seemed entirely

harmless, and so she let him go on with his stuff, and somehow he e’en a

most persuaded her it was all gospel. He said little Moses had got the

bump of destruction to an all-fired degree, tho’ it was in the mother’s

power to help it considerable. But when Hannah asked him if she must

swathe up his head he snortered right out; and then went on to say, that

Moses had jist got sich a shaped head as the man had that was hung down

to Boston last September. He finally talked her into a livin’

fidgit—polite as a stage-driver, all the time too, and so larnt,

besides, that Hannah couldn’t do nothin’ but paraphrase. So arter he’d

drinked a quart o’ beer, and Hannah cut a mince-pie for him, he cleared,

leaving Hannah in such a stew, that kept workin’ up and workin’ up till

she heered me comin’ into the house, and then it all burst out to once.

A tempestical time there was, I tell you.

Now, by the time Hannah had finished her lockrum, you may depend I was

in an almighty passion; and it was amazin’ lucky for the feller that he

was out of arm’s length that minit. But then I understood it all better

than she, for I’d seen, in the prints, pieces about Franology or

Cranology, or some such stuff that seemed to explain to my mind what the

feller meant. But poor Hannah don’t get much time to read newspapers, so

that she hadn’t hearn a word. No wonder she took the man for a crazy

critter.

Yet, somehow, when I looked at Moses, I couldn’t help consatin’ that his

head looked sort o’ queer, tho’ I wouldn’t say nothin’ nyther; but, says

I, “Hannah, look here, that feller that’s been treatin’ you to sich a

rigmarole of nonsense is a rotten fool, and you’re another. If iver I

should light ’pon him, I gess I would give his head a bump that would

save him from the gallows. All is, if you think anything is the matter

with the young one, why I’ll go arter the docter, and that’ll settle

it.”

“Do, John,” says she.

So off I starts for Doctor Eldrich; but by the time I got to the house,

I begun to think what a tarnation goose I was to go on such a tomfool’s

arrent. By good luck, howsomever, the doctor was out; so I jist left

word for him to come to our house in the course iv the day, if he had

nothin’ else to do.

Thinks I, as I trudged back, here’s an end to thanksgiving. Well, to

rights, Doctor Hosannah Eldrich, he’s a deacon of our church, and sings

thro’ his nose a few. I declare, when I see him ridin’ up the lane I

couldn’t help feelin’ like a thunderin’ calf; so I jist made excuse to

split up some kindlin’, and left Hannah to give him the chapter and the

varse. Our wood-house is short of a mile from the house; but I could

hear the doctor’s haw-haw clear out there. So I dropped axe, and in I

went. S’niver the Doctor see me he giv’ me a hunch.

“Ain’t yew a pretty considerable queer chap,” sez he, “to send for me on

such a beautiful bizness as this?” With that he haw-haw’d agin; and my

wife she laughed till she cried, jist to see the figer the Doctor cut,

for he’s as long as the moral law, and couldn’t stand up for laughin’.

Then I laughed tu, till the house rung; luckily our nearest neighbour

lives a half a mile off, and is stone deaf into the bargain. So I tipt

the wink to Hannah, and tell’d Hosannah ’twas all a joke of our’n to

send for him; (for I thought I should look corner ways and skwywoniky if

he should tell the company about us nixt day. Besides, I know’d the

Deacon liked a joke pretty well, even if he got rubbed sometimes). So,

says I, “How did Hannah carry it out?” Consarn it, if he didn’t jump

right into the trap.

“Capital! capital!” said he. “Botheration, if I didn’t think she was in

raal arnest!”

-----

[10] By W. L. McClintoch.

VIII.

AUNT NABBY’S STEWED GOOSE.

It was my Aunt Nabby’s birthday, and she was bent upon having a stewed

goose, stewed in onions, and with cabbage and salt pork to match.

“Pollijah,” said she to me, “ain’t we got a goose ’bout the farm?”

“No,” said I, “we eat the old gander at Christmas, and he was the last

of the patriarchs.”

Aunt Nabby went down to Sue, who was getting breakfast.

“Susanna,” said she, “the boy tells how we ain’t got a goose in

creation. Now what shall we do?”

“Go without,” replied Susanna, with that amiable tone which father said

had worn off her teeth to the gums.

But Aunt Nabby was bent upon a goose, and when such a stiff and straight

person gets bent upon anything, you may consider the matter settled, and

I saw that a goose of some kind would be had at some rate or other.

“Here, you crittur,” cried Aunt Nabby to the little black specimen of

the human family which was digging potatoes in the garden, “here, I want

you to go along to the neighbours, and borra a goose.” Cato laid down

his hoe, got over the fence, and shovelled off on his broad pedestals to

get a goose.

The first house that Cato came to was that of Sam Soap, the tailor,

commonly called Soft Soap. Into the shop went the Yankeefied negro, and

making a leg to Mr. Soap, who sat like a Hindoo idol, busily employed in

patching an old blue coat with still older brown rags, and humming most

mournfully the air of “Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon,” giving it a

nasal twang that came direct from Jedediah Soap, who was a member of the

Long Parliament.

“Soap,” says Cato, “you haan’t got no goose, nor nothin’, haan’t ye, for

Aunt Nabby?”