Soap was a literal (not literary) man, who as he called his daughter

Propriety, and having but one eye, was likewise called Justice, that is

by some that were classical. “Priety,” says he, “gin Cato the largest

goose.”

Priety, like a good girl, went into the other room, and arter some time

returned with one, well enveloped and carefully wrapped up in paper,

telling Cato to be as careful as everlasting not to get it wet; and away

went the web-footed mortal to deliver his charge to Susanna.

“My gracious!” said Sue, “if that are niggar ain’t brought me a tough

feller to stew!”

But nevertheless, as her business was to stew the goose and ask no

questions, at it she went, and pretty soon the tailor’s treasure was

simmering among onions, and carrots, and cabbages, and turnips, and

spices, all as nice as need be. After breakfast, Aunt Nabby had gone

abroad to ask in the neighbours, and when she came home, she went of

course directly into the kitchen to see how the goose came on.

“Is it tender, Susanna?” said she.

Susanna smiled so sweetly, that the old house-clock in the corner next

the cupboard stopped and held up its hand. “Oh, Ma’am,” replied Susanna,

“it’s so tender, that I guess it won’t be the more tender arter being

biled.”

“And fat?”

“Oh, bless you! it’s so broad across the back.”

My Aunt’s mouth watered so, that she was forced to look at Susanna, to

correct the agreeable impression.

Well, noon came and the neighbours began to drop in. First came the

parson, who being a man of vast punctuality, took out his watch as soon

as he came in, and for the purpose of seeing how it chimed, as he said,

with the old clock, walked into the kitchen, bade Miss Susanna good day,

hoped she continued well in body, and snuffed up the sweet flavours of

the preparing sacrifice with expanded nostrils. Next to the Minister

came the Squire, he opened the front door, and seeing no one but me.

“Pollijah,” he said, “when ’ill that are goose be done? ’cause I’m

everlastin’ busy, settlin’ that hay-mow case, and I’d like to know—”

“Ready now, Squire,” answered the Parson, opening the kitchen-door; “and

I guess it’s an uncommon fine one too, so walk in and let’s have a

chat.”

The Squire entered, and he and the Minister had a considerable spell of

conversation about the hay-mow case. The case was this: Abijah Biggs got

leave to carry his hay across Widow Stokes’s field to the road; well,

this hay-mow had dropped off the poles, and Widow Stokes claimed it as a

waif and stray.

“Now,” says the Squire, “I conceit the chief pint in the case is this

here; has Widow Stokes a right to this hay? Now this ’ill depend, ye

see, ’pon t’other point, to wit, _videlicet_, does the hay belong to

Bijah? Now the Widow says, says she, ‘every man in this country’s free,

and therefore every man in this country is a king, jist as far as his

farm goes. Now the king, all allow, has a right to waifs and strays; and

so,’ says Widow Stokes, ‘that are hay is mine.’ ‘But,’ says Bijah—and

by jinks, it’s a cute argument; ‘but,’ says he, ‘tho’ every man in this

land of liberty is a free man, yet that doesn’t prove that every woman

is, and _per contra_, we know that women don’t vote, and of course ain’t

free; so,’ says he, ‘the Widow Stokes ain’t a king; so,’ says he, ‘the

hay ain’t hern.’ But’s a puzzlin’ case, ain’t it?”

“Well, now,” answered the minister, “it strikes me that hay ain’t

astray.”

“Well,” said the Squire, “there’s a pint I never thinked of.”

Just then in came the Deacon, and after him the sexton, and so on till

pretty much all the aristocratic democracy of the village had assembled.

And then in bustled Aunt Nabby, awful fine I tell you; and then Susanna

and Cato began to bring in dinner. And while they were doing that, the

company all took a stiff glass of grog by way of appetite, and then

stroked down their faces and looked at the table, and there was a pig

roast and stuffed, and a line of veal, and two old hens, and an

everlastin’ sight of all kinds of sarce, and pies, and puddins, and

doughnuts, and cider, and above all, at the head of the table, the dish

in which lay the hero of the day—that are goose, smothered in onions,

and utterly hid beneath the load of carrots and cabbages. The seat next

the goose was assigned to the Minister, and all sat down.

The Squire flourished his fork, and pounced upon the pig; the Deacon he

tackeled to at the veal, while the sexton went seriously to work to

exhume a piece of pork from amid an avalanche of beans. The Minister,

with a spoon, gently stirred away a few carrots and onions, in hopes of

thus coming at the goose.

“It smells remarkably fine,” says he, to Aunt Nabby.

“It’s particularly fine and tender,” says she; “I picked it myself from

a whole heap.”

And still the Minister poked, till at last his spoon grated upon a hard

surface.

“A skewer, I guess!” and plunging his fork into the onion mass, he

struggled to raise the iron handle with which he had joined issue.

“Bless me!” cried Aunt Nabby, “what’s that are?”

“I should judge,” said the Squire, “that are was an old goose.”

“Gracious me!” exclaimed the Deacon.

Still the Minister struggled, and still the goose resisted. Aunt Nabby

grew nervous, and the more the Minister struggled, the more the goose

would not come. I saw my Aunt’s eye dilating, her hand moved ugly, and

then pounce, just when the Minister thought he had conquered the enemy,

my Aunt drove the round steel through the onions into the eye of the

skewer as she thought, and dragging forth the tailor’s goose, held it at

arm’s length before the company. The Squire had just raised the pig upon

his fork, when seeing my Aunt’s discovery, he dropped it and the dish

was knocked all to smash. The sexton had drawn his beans to the edge of

the table, another pull as he saw the goose, and over it went. My Aunt

dropped the cause of all this evil, and there went another plate. The

company dined elsewhere, and the next Sunday the Minister declined

preachin’, on account of a domestic misfortin. My Aunt Nabby died soon

arter, and the sexton buried her, observing as he did so, that she

departed, the poor critter, in consequence of an iron goose, and broken

crockery!

IX.

DECLINE AND FALL OF THE CITY OF DOGTOWN.

Dogtown is a beautiful place, in the interior of this State. There is

plenty of land around it, so that nothing can hinder it from growing in

every direction, and thus becoming a great city. In fact, Dogtown has

already a one-story church, part of a school-house, and an elegant

pound. Nobody can see Dogtown without being reminded of that celebrated

town in France, named Grandville, of which we have the following

description:

Grandville, grand vilain,

Une église et un moulin

Voilà Grandville tout à plein.

Which we may translate thus:

Grandville, great Grandville,

Has a meeting-house and mill.

Nothing else in all Grandville.

Dogtown is finely and advantageously situated. It stands on Eel River, a

stream of water which runs into another stream, and that into a third,

which runs into Connecticut River, which running into Long Island Sound,

finally reaches the Atlantic. Who does not see, therefore, that Dogtown

may become a great sea-port?

The territory in the neighbourhood of Dogtown is remarkable for its

fertility, bating that part of it which is covered with rocks, the salt

meadow, the pine woods, the clay-ponds, and the swamps. It is past a

doubt, therefore, that the territory, if well cleared, drained, peopled,

and cultivated, would become a perfect garden, abounding with the

richest productions of nature, and affording a mine of wealth to the

country. As to the facilities of communication with the great Atlantic

cities and commercial marts, they are admirable.

Dogtown has Boston on one side, and New York on the other: Montreal and

Quebec are in the north, while in the east is the rich and thriving

State of Maine, with Bangor and Owl’s Head to boot. Rail-roads can be

made to connect Dogtown with all these places, and they will certainly

form such a connection, _when they are built_. That the place will be a

great focus of trade, when this is done, nobody, I think, will deny.

The neighbourhood of Dogtown has all the advantages that can be desired

in a young country. There will be as many large towns within thirty

miles of the place, as people choose to build. The population cannot

fail to increase rapidly for a man can get married for seventy-five

cents, town clerk’s fees included. The attraction for settlers must,

therefore, be considered very great.

The Dogtowners are remarkably industrious, for they get a living,

although constantly grumbling of hard times. They are moreover

ingenious, for they manufacture axe-handles, wooden bowls, birch brooms,

and white oak cheese, and invent mousetraps and washing machines. Last

of all, the inhabitants of Dogtown are literary and intellectual; for

they talk a great deal of the march of improvement, and the minister and

the lawyer take the “Penny Magazine” between them.

All these attractions together, form a combination truly wonderful; but

the reader will be astonished when I inform him, that the inhabitants of

this favoured spot lived a great many years without the smallest

suspicion of what I have been describing. They thought very little of

themselves, or of the town they lived in, and continued to vegetate from

year to year without imagining they were better off than other folks. In

fact, the world might have continued to this day in utter ignorance that

Dogtown was such a wonderful place, but for an accident—an accident I

call it—for the Dogtowners having lived for so many years without

opening their eyes, the fact that they _did_ open them of a sudden, on a

certain day, in the year of grace 1834, must be considered purely

accidental. Some people are inclined to ascribe it to the approach of

the comet, which had a powerful influence in opening people’s eyes, to

say nothing of its effect in driving them stark mad. But that is neither

here nor there. The people of Dogtown opened their eyes, and _saw_; that

was enough: they saw in an instant their immense advantages, and were

astonished that they never had seen them before. They saw their

advantages, I say, and were determined to turn them to account.

Straightway Dogtown was all alive: everybody was confident that Dogtown

must become a great place; and as everybody told everybody else so,

there was no doubt about the matter. Every man went to buying land who

could pay for it; and those who could not pay, bought upon credit, sure

of selling it at ten times the cost within the year. Nothing was talked

of but the immense advantages of the place. The riches of Dogtown were

indeed immense; and how they could have been overlooked so long, was a

mystery that no one could understand. The land within the limits of the

town was computed at seven hundred and twenty million square feet,

which, at only one cent per square foot, which is cheap enough in all

conscience, would amount to seven million two hundred thousand dollars.

What a sum! But this was not all. Half of this land was covered with

trees, at the rate of one tree to every five feet square, or quadrangle

of twenty-five feet: this gave a computation of ten million four hundred

thousand trees; and as each tree, on an average, contained seventy-five

cubic feet of timber, it followed that there was actually within the

town seven hundred and eighty million feet of timber, worth, on the

lowest calculation, five cents per foot, which would amount to

thirty-nine million dollars. This, added to the value of the land, as

above, made a grand total of _forty-six millions two hundred thousand

dollars_!

The mention of these sums almost drove the good people of Dogtown

distracted with joy; they could hardly believe their eyes or ears, but

there it was in black and white; figures could not lie. They were amazed

to think of their own stupidity and that of their ancestors in letting

forty-six millions two hundred thousand dollars lie totally idle and

unproductive; but they were determined not to allow their wealth to be

neglected any longer. A grand scheme of speculation and improvement was

started, and all rushed headlong into it. Every man in Dogtown was now

rich, or, what was the same thing, was sure of being so before long.

Immense tracts were laid out in building lots, and speculators flocked

in from all quarters; from Catsville and Weazletown and Buzzardsborough,

and Ganderfield and Crow Corner and Upper Bugbury and East Punkinton,

and Black Swamp and the Bottomless Bogs. Such a busy time as the

Dogtowners had of it! Nothing was talked of but buying land, building

houses, laying out roads, streets, squares, avenues, railroads, canals,

&c. &c. &c. People left off ploughing and hoeing, because agriculture

was too slow a method of making money; for who would think of raising

turnips to sell, at twenty cents a bushel, when he could make a hundred

times the profit by speculating in land?

First of all, it was determined that Dogtown should be a city. The want

of population was found to be a serious obstacle here; the constitution

of the state requires ten or twelve thousand inhabitants for a city; and

as Dogtown, including the suburbs of Puppyville and Skunk’s Misery,

contained a population of only six hundred and thirty-one, it was

thought there might be some difficulty in getting a charter without

anticipating the returns of the next census. However, a city it must be,

some time or other, in this all were agreed, and it might as well have

the name first as last, so they concluded to _call_ it a city. It is

astonishing what a spirit of enterprise these prospects infused into the

people of Dogtown. The school-house door was painted green: uncle Joe

Stubbins mended the top of his chimney; and it was voted in town-meeting

to purchase three wheel-barrows for the public use;—and all in

consequence of these projected improvements. Nay, so widely did their

views of business expand, that Aminidab Figgins, the grocer, determined

to give up retailing, and declared he wouldn’t split crackers nor cut

candles any longer.

Such was the thriving condition of the City of Dogtown when I left the

place in the autumn of that year. I continued to hear of it through the

medium of the Dogtown Daily Advertiser, a newspaper established there by

an enterprising printer from Connecticut at the first dawning of the

commercial prosperity of the city. It appeared to go ahead rapidly. The

newspaper spoke of the Exchange, the Town Hall, the Bank, the New Post

Office, the Railroad, Canal, &c. House lots were advertised in

Washington Square, Merchants Row, State Street, Market Street, &c.

Contracts were proposed for building churches, manufactories, &c. This

was Dogtown in all its glory.

Last August I determined to make a visit to this celebrated place, in

order to feast my eyes with the splendour of a city that had sprung up

as it were by enchantment. When I reached the foot of Blueberry Hill,

which overlooks the whole place, I walked eagerly to the top, in order

to catch a view, at a single glance, of the city in all its

magnificence. To my utter astonishment, instead of spires and domes, I

saw nothing but Deacon Stumpy’s old mansion, with five other ragged and

dingy-looking edifices, which stood exactly where I had always known

them. I entered the city through State Street, but discovered nothing

new except a small house without a chimney. Not a living thing was to be

seen in Washington Square, but three geese, who were lazily picking a

mouthful of grass among the mud-puddles. I inquired for the Exchange,

and found it in use by the Deacon as a cow-pen. The new church, however,

I was told had actually proceeded as far as the raising of the timbers;

but it was subsequently sold by auction to pay for digging the cellar.

I had a cheque upon the Dogtown Bank for three dollars, and wishing to

draw the money, I was directed to No. 19, Tremont Street. This turned

out to be the identical building formerly occupied by old Kit Cobble,

the shoemaker. It was bank hours, but the bank was shut, and there was

not a soul to be seen. Just as I was going away, I spied a tin horn by

the door, with a paper hanging over it, on which was written, “Persons

having business at the bank, are requested to blow the horn.” I put the

horn to my lips and blew a blast both long and loud. After waiting about

ten minutes, I spied Isaac Thumper coming slowly down the road: he

proved to be cashier of the Dogtown Bank, and after some difficulty I

convinced him of the safety of cashing the cheque.

Upon inquiring of Isaac what use had been made of the forty-six millions

two hundred thousand dollars, he informed me that most of it remained

invested in notes of hand. Money was scarce, and was expected to

continue so until the onion crop had been got in. It was easy to see

that the city had sadly declined from its meridian splendour. In fact,

Dogtown has suffered a complete downfall, for hardly anybody now speaks

of it as a city. They have as much land as ever, and so long as it

continued to be valued at their own price, they were as rich as Jews;

but, unfortunately, it fell in value the moment they expected the

purchasers to pay for it. The Dogtowners are poor enough at present, but

they are not the first, and probably will not be the last people who

have ruined themselves by building a city on speculation.

X.

THE COON-HUNT; OR, A FENCY COUNTRY.

’Tis really astonishin’ what a monstrous sight of mischief there is in a

pint of rum! If one of ’em was to be submitted to an analization, as the

doctors call it, it would be found to contain all manner of devilment

that ever entered the hed of man, from cussin’ and stealin’, up to

murder and whippin’ his own mother, and nonsense enuff to turn all the

men in the world out of their senses. If a man’s got any badness in him,

it’ll bring it out, jest as sassafras-tea does the measles, and if he’s

a good-for-nothin’ sort of a feller, without no bad traits in

pertikeler, it’ll bring out all his greenness. It affects different

people in different ways—it makes some men monstrous brave and full of

fight, and some it makes cowards; some it makes rich and happy, and some

poor and miserable; and it has a different effect on different people’s

eyes—some it makes see double, and some it makes so blind that they

can’t tell themselves from a side of bacon. One of the worst cases of

rum-foolery that I’ve heard of for a long time, tuk place in Pineville

last fall.

Bill Sweeney and Tom Culpepper is the two greatest old coveys in our

settlement for ’coon-huntin’. The fact is, they don’t do much of

anything else, and when _they_ can’t ketch nothin’ you may depend ’coons

is scarce. Well, one night they had everything reddy for a regular hunt,

but owin’ to some extra good fortin’, Tom had got a pocket-pistol, as he

called it, of reglar old Jimmakey, to keep off the rumatics. After

takin’ a good startin’ horn, they went out on their hunt, with their

lite-wood torch a-blazin’, and the dogs a-barkin’ and yelpin’ like forty

thousand. Ev’ry now and then stoppin’ to wait for the dogs, they would

drink one another’s helth, till they begun to feel very comfortable, and

chatted away ’bout one thing and another, without mindin’ much which way

they was gwine. Bimeby they cum to a fence. Well, over they got, ’thout

much difficulty.

“Who’s fence is this?” ses Bill.

“’Taint no matter,” ses Tom, “let’s take suthin’ to drink.”

After takin’ a drink they went on, wonderin’ what on yearth had cum of

the dogs. Next thing they cum to was a terrible muddy branch. After

pullin’ through the briers and gettin’ on tother side, they tuck another

drink, and after gwine a little ways they cum to another branch, and a

little further they cum to another fence—a monstrous high one this

time.

“Whar upon yearth is we got to, Culpepper?” ses Bill, “I never seed sich

a heap of branches and fences in these parts.”

“Why,” ses Tom, “it’s all old Sturlin’s doins—you know he’s always

bildin’ fences and making infernal improvements, as he calls ’em. But

never mind, we’s through them now.”

“Guess we is,” ses Bill; “here’s the all-firedest tall fence yet.”

Shure enuff, thar they was right agin another fence. By this time, they

begun to be considerable tired and limber in the gints, and it was sich

a terrible high fence!—Tom drapped the last piece of the torch, and

thar they was in the dark.

“Now you is done it,” ses Bill.

Tom know’d he had, but he thought it was no use to grieve over spilled

milk, so ses he, “Never mind, old hoss, cum a-head, and I’ll take you

out,” and the next minit kerslash he went into the water.

Bill hung on to the fence with both hands, like he thought it was

slewin’ round to throw him off.

“Hellow, Tom!” ses he, “whar in the world is you got to?”

“Here I is,” ses Tom, spoutin’ the water out of his mouth, and coffin’

like he’d swallowed something. “Look out, thar’s another branch here.”

“Name o’ sense, whar is we?” ses Bill. “If this isn’t a fency country,

dad fetch my buttons.”

“Yes, and a branchy one, too!” ses Tom; “and the highest, and deepest,

and thickest that I ever seed in my born days.”

“Which way is you?” ses Bill.

“Here, rite over the branch.”

The next minit in Bill went, up to his middle in the branch.

“Cum a-head,” ses Tom, “let’s go home.”

“Cum thunder! in such a place as this, whar a man hain’t more’n got his

cote tail unhitched from a fence, fore he’s over his head and ears in

the water.”

After gettin’ out and feelin’ about in the dark a little, they got

together agin. After takin’ another drink, they sot out for home,

denouncin’ the fences and the branches, and helpin’ one another up now

and then; but they hadn’t got more’n twenty yards fore they brung up all

standin’ in the middle of another branch. After gettin’ thro’ the branch

and gwine about ten steps, they was brung to a halt by another fence.

“Dad blame my pictur,” ses Bill, “if I don’t think we is bewitched. Who

upon yearth would bild fences all over creation this way?”

It was but a ower’s job to get over this one; but after they got on the

top, they found the ground on tother side ’thout much trouble. This time

the bottle was broke, and they come monstrous near having a fight about

the catastrophy. But it was a very good thing, it was; for, after

crossin’ two or three more branches, and climbin’ as many more fences,

it got to be daylight, and they found out that they _had been climbin’

the same fence all night_, not more’n a hundred yards from whar they

first cum to it.

Bill Sweeney ses he can’t account for it no other way but that the

licker sort o’ turned their heads; and he says he does really believe,

if it hadn’t gin out, they’d been climbin’ the same fence, and wadin’

the same branch, till yet. Bill promised his wife to jine the Temperance

Society, if she won’t never say no more ’bout that coon-hunt.

XI.

A RIDE WITH OLD KIT KUNCKER.

Our old friend, Kit Kuncker, as he put us to bed on the night of a big

frolic at his house, exacted a promise that we would visit him again,

shortly thereafter; promising us, on his part, that he would ride all

over the settlement with us; and more especially, that he would go with

us to the house of Jim Kent, whose sister, Beck, was so ugly “that the

flies wouldn’t light on her face,” and about whose going to mill, he

assured me, there was a very pleasant story to be told.

Poor old Kit! But the other day we saw him—and how altered by the lapse

of a few years! His head has become white, his figure more bent, and his

laughing old face—merry still!—was furrowed with an hundred additional

wrinkles. His eye, too, was dull—had lost the twinkle that used so

mischievously to light up his countenance. And then, too, he walked with

a staff; and when he went to mount “Fiddler Bill,” he said, “Help me,

Squire,” instead of vaulting into the saddle, as of yore! “Thank you,

Squire. God bless your Union heart—old Hickory and the Union for ever!

I’m gittin’ old now, Squire, and can’t git about, like I used to”—the

old man sighed—“Fiddler Bill is old, too—notice how gray his face

is—we’re all gittin’ old—yer Aunt Hetty as well’s the rest; and, God

bless yer soul, Squire,” (here the old man warmed into animation),

“_she’s uglier than ever—uglier than the devil_—he! he! ya! ya! It’s

wuth while coming, jist to take a look at her! With that old long bonnet

on”—here the old fellow bent down on his horse’s neck, in a paroxysm of

laughter—“he! he! hea! ya! ya! and her mouth skrootched up, ya! ya! the

go-to-meetin’ way; I’ll be cust, ef she ain’t so bad to look at, it’s

enuff to fotch sickness in the family! But,” he added, wiping the tears

from his eyes, “Squire, I’m old now, yer Aunt Hetty’s old, and Fiddler

Bill is old—all old! old! old! Ah, me!”

But we are digressing. It was of our Ride with old Kit, in 1840, that we

began to write—and not of his chattering in 1849.

We went to old Kit’s house on the day appointed, at a very early hour,

and found the old fellow waiting for us, with “Fiddler Bill” hitched at

the gate.

“You can’t see yer Aunt Hetty, Squire,” he said, “for she’s laid up with

a pain in her jaw. It’s swelled mighty bad, enny how, and makes her look

so much better, ’twouldn’t be no curiosity to see her now—so we may as

well ride. Another time when she’s at herself—and her ‘ugly’ out in

_full bloom_, I’ll show her to you—he! he! yah! That bonnet o’ hern,

too, hit’s some. ’Tain’t like nothin’ ever growed, except the baskets

the Injin wimmin makes to tote their young ones in!” And the old rascal

laughed at his wife and her bonnet, until the woods rang again.

Walking our horses leisurely along the road leading down the creek to

the river, Uncle Kit, tapping his steed lightly across the neck with his

switch, began, as he had promised, to tell us how he obtained him.

“You see, Squire, me and my Jim was a haulin’ a load of whiskey up from

Wetumpky, in the spring of ’36, and we had a mighty dull old horse under

the saddle. The like of him never was on the yeth for hard trottin’. He

was _powerful_ hard. You’ve set and watched a saw-mill gate jerk up and

down, havn’t you—up and down, up and down, like it was goin’ into fits?

Well, _that was his motion adzactly_. Ses Jim, one day, ‘daddy I’m gwine

to swop ‘old Hoss’ off, fust chance I git.’ Ses I, ‘Nobody’s fool enough

to give you anything better’n an old cow for him.’ Ses he, ‘You’ll see.’

Well ’twarn’t long afore we ketcht up with a traveller—it was in the

piney woods ’twixt Oakfuskee and Dudleyville—walkin’ and leadin’ his

horse, which was Fiddler Bill. I’ll tell you, Squire,”—old Kit raised

his voice and gesticulated vehemently—“_he was a horse then_—none o’

your little grays—as Homer Hinds ses—but a reg’lar horse, with head

and legs like a deer, a body like a barrel, and put up like a

jack-screw. He wos jist risin’ four year old, fat, _and hilt his head

like the Queen of Sheby_!

“So Jim bantered the stranger purty quick for a swap—but fust we found

out he was walkin’ bekase he was afeard of his horse. He was a Norrud

raised man and talked mighty proper—he said his horse was ‘very

rested’—which you might see he had been layin’ by corn and fodder for

some time—and had throwed him and disculpated his shoulder a’most! Then

he axed us about the Injuns—this was jist afore the infernal devils

began their devilment, and the thing had leaked out and was talked of,

all over the country—and Jim seein’ he was _afeared of them_ too, let

on like they was mighty thick and hostile in them woods.

“‘Stranger,’ says he, ‘what would you do ef you was to see a red-skin

peepin’ from behind that big pine yonder—and you afeared o’ your

horse?’

“‘God only knows,’ ses the Yanky.

“‘Well now I’ll tell you,’ ses Jim, ‘_thar’s_ a crittur under that

saddle’—p’intin’ to ‘old Hoss’—‘that could take you outen the way like

goose-grease! How’ll you trade?’

“The Yanky let on like he tho’t his horse was the most vallyble, but Jim

out-talked him to deth. He praised old one, ’twell I had to go behind

the wagin and laugh. Bimeby ses he, ‘ain’t that a _Injun holler_?’ and

with that the stranger looked white, and axed Jim how _he’d_ trade?

“‘You must give me ten dollars to boot,’ ses Jim.

“‘But my horse is the most vallyble,’ ses the Yanky.

“‘He ain’t half-broke,’ ses Jim, ‘and I’d be most afeard to ride

him—let’s see!’

“With that Jim gits on the roan, and tetched him in the flank with the

heel that was on t’other side from the stranger, and the horse bein’

naterally playful, you see, went to kickin’ up and rearin’ and

squealin’; Jim holdin’ on to the mane, and the Yanky hollerin’ ‘wo! wo!’

Presently Jim come to the ground, ca-whop! And with that he riz from the

ground, complainin’ mightly ’bout his side, and ’lowed he wouldn’t have

the horse on no terms—that ef the Injuns was to come on us of a sudden,

we shouldn’t have but one horse that could be rid; and then he axed me

ef I had enny opydildock in the wagin box, that he could rub his side

with! he! he! Jim is a rascal, that’s a fac, but I can’t tell whar he

got it from, onless it’s a judge_ment_ on his mammy for bein’ so cussed

ugly! yah! yah!

“Seein’ the stranger was aggravated ’bout the Injuns, I draps in then,

myself, and tells him I’d give him ‘old Coon,’ even drag, for the roan;

and we made the trade mighty quick, for he had the Injun ager ’twell his

eyes was big as sassers! Well, we changed saddles and bridles, and while

I was gearin’ up Fiddler Bill, he couldn’t—but, Squire, what _do_ you

reckon it was he couldn’t do?”

“Can’t guess,” we replied.

“Well, bust me wide open, _ef he knowed how to put the bridle on his

horse_! I’ve seen men that was ig’nant before, but he was the wust off

with it I _ever_ seed. He didn’t know whether the bits went behind the

years, or into the mouth—blamed ef he did!

“Finally, at last, he got mounted, and jogged off—you remember what I

told you ’bout the saw-mill gate—well that’s the way old Cuss rattled

his buttons. He was the most _lonesome-lookin’_ critter, a-settin’ on

that old horse, with his new saddle and bridle, that ever I seed! As

soon as he got cleverly out o’ sight, Jim gin two or three Injun whoops,

and people did say in Dudleyville, whar he stopped that night, that he

got thar in mighty reasonable good time! So that’s the way, Squire, I

come by Fiddler Bill . . . . . ain’t it, Bill?” whereupon Fiddler

pricked up his ears, but said nothing.

About this time, we arrived at a mean-looking shanty, and calling, were

answered by a man who came out to us. It was Jim Blake.

“Here’s the _sensis_-taker,” said Uncle Kit.

“Hang the _sensis_-taker,” was the blunt reply.

“Don’t say that, Jim,” returned Uncle Kit; “he’s a good little Union

Squire Mr. Van Buren’s sent round to take ’count of the cloth and

chickens, jist to see ef the wimmin’s sprightly.”

“I don’t care a dried apple for him nor Mr. Van Buren nother,” said Mr.

Blake; “Mr. Van Buren is gittin’ too cussed smart, enny way—my opinion

is, he’s a _measly hog_!”

“Son! son!” exclaimed old Kit, deprecatingly, “don’t talk that way. Van

Buren’s the _Union_ President, and old Hickory says he’ll do!”

“I don’t care who says he’ll do—I’m gwine to vote for Harrison—see ef

I don’t!”

Uncle Kit was struck dumb, and after obtaining a list of the family with

much difficulty, we rode away.

“Squire,” said the old man, after a long silence, “that fellow’s talk

goes to my heart. _A little more_, and _he’d a cussed old Hickory!_ and

ef he _had_, I’d a tore his liver out!”

Old Kit was highly excited—he continued:

“To think that a boy I’ve raised in a manner, that I’ve told all about

old Hickory, and the Union, and New Orleens, and the Horse-Shoe, should

’a turned round and come to be a _Nullifier_! Ain’t thar no way,” he

asked, as if musing, “we could fix to git that poor fool boy straight

agin?”

We soon got into the thickest of the Union Creek settlement, and from

house to house, through the Smiths, the Hearns, the Folsoms, the Narons,

the Dabbses and the Rollinses, Uncle Kit carried us with a speed that

was most gratifying. He joked the old women, kissed the girls and

fondled the children; and where the slightest indisposition was

manifested to give the desired information, he settled the difficulty at

once, by the magic words, “Union—old Hickory.”

“It’s a blessed thing, Squire,” he said, “to have a man’s friends all of

the right sort. Here’s my people that I brought from Georgy—confound

that boy Blake, I’ll give him a reg’lar talk next Sunday; and ef that

don’t do I’ll make his wife quit him—all my people, as I was sayin’,

love the Union and vote like one man! I tell you, it’s old Union Crick

that keeps the Nullifiers down in Tallapoosy!”

As old Kit was indulging in these pleasant reflections and remarks, we

reached the ford of the creek, where we were to cross to get into the

river settlement.

“Right here,” said the old man, as we reached the middle of the stream,

“was where Becky Kent ketched it; but she lives right up thar, a piece,

and I’ll see ef I can’t devil her into tellin’ you ’bout it. She’s as

old and as ugly—mighty nigh—as yer Aunt Hetty; but she has a mighty

notion of courtin’, and ef you’ll sidle up to her, it’ll please her so

well, her tongue will git to goin’, and she couldn’t hold that story

back ef she wanted to.”

A very few minutes brought us to the residence of Mr. James Kent, the

brother of the spinster Becky. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately for

our heart—the presiding goddess was not at home; and having made the

proper entries on our books, from information furnished by Mr. Kent, we

again mounted and pursued our way.

“Did you see,” asked Uncle Kit, “that old snuff-bottle and them nasty

breshes, stickin’ in the cracks of the logs? Well, it’s on the ’count of

sich, that Becky got in the crick, that time. I’ll tell you ’bout it

myself, ’long as we didn’t see her.

“See, I had allers ’cused Becky of snuff, but the lyin’ heifer never

would own to it. So one day, as I was ridin’ ’long the road, t’other

side of the crick, I hearn a noise betwixt the bray of the jack and the

squeal of the pea-fowl, and in a minit I knowed it was somebody in

distress—so I hurried on. When I got to the crick, what should it be

but scrawny Becky Kent, settin’ on a bag o’ corn, on her old blind

horse, and him a standin’ stock-still in the middle of the ford.”

“‘Becky,’ ses I, ‘what in natur are you doin’ thar? Why don’t you come

along out?’

“Ses she, ‘_I can’t_—don’t you see how I’m fixed?’

“Then I looked more pertickler, and seed how ’twas. The horse had

stopped to drink, and Becky had let go the bridle, and when she tried to

git it agin, the bag slipped furder over to the side she _warn’t_ a

settin’ on—so when I got thar, she had let all go _but the bag_, and

she was a settin’ on one eend o’ that, leanin’ forward, and with her

hands behind her, one to each side o’ the bag, a pullin’ agin the weight

of the big eend, ’twell her face was as red as a gobbler’s snout. ’Twas

a reg’lar _dead strain_—the weight of Beck and the _little_ eend of the

bag, agin the _big_ eend—and, I tell you, she had to lean _well_

forward to keep from goin’ over backwards!

“I bulged into the crick and got purty close to Becky; but it was so

funny, I couldn’t fetch myself to help her, but tho’t I’d devil hur a

little, as she set. So ses I, making a fine bow:

“‘My honey, my love,

My turkle-dove,

Will you take it amiss,

Ef I give you a kiss?’

“But I hadn’t no idee of kissin’ of her—but only wanted to devil her a

little. At last, I seen an old mustard-bottle stickin’ from out her

bosom; and ses I, Miss Becky, will you give your Uncle Kit a pinch of

snuff?’ Ses she, ‘help me for the Lord’s sake—I’m mighty nigh gin

out’—and Squire, she _was_ on a _tremenjus_ strain! But I tho’t I’d

plague her some: and after cutting of some few shines, I made a motion

to snatch at the bottle o’ snuff! She gin a little jerk back!—the _big

eend_ got a start!—still she hilt her grip with both hands!—and the

next thing, _somethin’ riz in the air, like a small cloud of calico and

dry corn-stalks_! and the durndest _ca-slosh_ on t’other side o’ the

horse, that ever you heerd! A—WAUGH! _What sloshin’!_”

“‘Horraw, Becky! rise gall! I was lookin’ t’other way!’ ses I, _for I

knowed she was ’shamed!_! I laughed, however, and she _mighty nigh_

cussed!

“‘Oh! you’re a sweet little _mare-maid_ now,’ ses I.

“‘You’re a drotted old hog,’ ses she.

“‘My honey, my love, my turkle-dove; don’t git mad with yer Uncle Kit,’

ses I; but it all wouldn’t do, and the heiffer never got in a good

humour with me ’twell I met her in the road one Sunday, and persuaded

her I was goin’ to send Jim to see her.”

“Did you send him?”

“Yes, and the fust thing the fool said to her was: _he’d a gin his years

to ’a seen her somerset that time, in the crick!_ he! he! yah! yah! That

busted things to pieces again, and me and Becky ain’t more’n half

friendly now!”

After going through the entire settlement, with great ease and

celerity—thanks to Uncle Kit’s assistance—we took the back-track to

Mr. Kuncker’s. It was quite dark when we arrived. As Uncle Kit threw

down our saddles in his porch, said he: “Come in, and we’ll take a sip

of _branch-water_. Hello! old woman—is yer face swelled _enny better_

yet?—Here’s the Squire—the little blessed Union Squire—come to see

you! Ef you can’t git out’n bed to come yerself, make one of the gals

fetch yer _old bonnet_ out—_that_’ll be _some_ amuse_ment_! Walk in,

Squire, and take a seat in yer old Union Uncle’s house!”

XII.

SETH WILLET: THE ELK COUNTY WITNESS.

In the spring of 1845, after the close of a long, tiresome session of

the Pennsylvania Legislature, the writer was invited by Colonel A——,

then Clerk of the House of Representatives, to accompany him to his home

in the backwoods of Elk—a new county, that had been partitioned off

from Jefferson, Clearfield, and McRean, that session. The object of the

visit was twofold; first, to enjoy the fine trout fishing of that

prolific region; and secondly, to assist the Colonel in getting the seat

of justice where he wanted it.

The Colonel owned a mill and store at Caledonia, on one edge of the

county, and a very fine mill at Ridgeway, but was not inclined to pay

anything for it, as Mr. John Ridgeway, a millionaire of Philadelphia,

owned nearly all the land about it, and the county seat would greatly

increase its value. My friend’s plan was to put in strong for Caledonia;

and he did. He offered to build the court-house and gaol, and gave bonds

therefore, if Caledonia should be chosen.

Ridgeway became frightened, and made a similar proposition, for his

town; which was of course accepted by the commissioners, who were all

personal friends of the Colonel.

It was long before the _ruse_ was discovered, and Ridgeway found he was

sold.

One day, the Colonel and myself rode over to Caledonia, to see how

things flourished there, and eat some of Aunt Sally Warner’s pumpkin

pies, and venison steaks; and on arriving at the store, found a

justice’s court in full blast. The suit grew out of a lumber

speculation; and as near as I could tell by the testimony of the

witnesses generally, the matter stood about six for one, a half-dozen

for the other. One of the parties was a man of considerable ready cash,

while the other was not worth a continental dime. Harris, the man of

means, had not been long in these parts, and little was known of him

except what had dropped from Seth Willet one night at Warner’s store. He

was rather in for it at the time; but enough was said to make the good

people of Elk form a bad opinion of Harris.

As the time of the trial drew nigh, some who were in the store when Seth

was “blowing” about Harris, began to try to recollect what he said, and

the other party in the case was informed that he had a first-rate

witness in the green lumberman, as Seth was generally called.

Seth was forthwith waited upon, and pumped by a young man named Winslow,

who acted as attorney for the prosecutor. All the information he

possessed of Harris was freely and unsuspectingly given, and Winslow

noted it down as correctly as he could.

The day previous to the trial, the prosecutor and Harris met at the

store.

“Well, you’re goin’ on with the law-suit, I s’pose?” asked Harris.

“Tu be sure I am; and I’ll make you smell cotton.”

“Bah!” said Harris; “you can’t touch bottom.”

“Tech bottom? Ca—ant hey? Jest you wait till I git Seth Willet on the

stand, an’ swore on the Bible, and see if I ca—ant. P’raps I ha’nt

heer’d nothin’ about them sheep over to Tiog county, and the robbin’ of

Jenkinse’s store, down tu Painted Post, hey?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Harris, apparently perfectly in a

fog as to the purport of the language he had heard.

“I know, an’ that’s ’nuff;” said the plaintiff, “but let’s licker,

anyheow.”

Harris lost no time in finding out Seth.

“Did you ever live in Tioga county?”

“Anything abeout sheep—?”

“No, no, I mean Painted Post.”

“Oh! Jenkinse’s store!” said Seth, with great gravity.

“Two hundred wouldn’t be a bad pile, Seth, here in Elk?”

“No—o, t’wouldn’t, that’s a fact. Get that amount tu lend on a slow

note?”

“Well, I might scrape it up—could give you a hundred down and the rest

after the Court’s adjourned.”

Harris counted out the hundred, and rolling it up, held it temptingly in

his hand. Seth’s eyes stuck out like peeled onions, and his mouth fairly

watered at the display. It was more money than he had ever owned in his

life.

“Have you ever heard that I steal sheep in Tioga county, Seth?”

“Not’s I know on.”

“You’re sure? mind you’ll have to swear in Court.”

Seth looked at Harris, and then at the bills.

“_Sure_—p_a_rfectly sure.”

“Nor anything about my being implicated in the robbery of Jenkins’s

store?” Still holding the roll of bills in his hand, and turning over

the ends, exhibiting the V’s and X’s most tantalizingly.

“No; I’ll swear I never heeard nobody say you had anything to do with

it.”

“You’re an honest man, Seth; here’s a hundred on account. The other

hundred you shall have after the Court.”

The Court had been in session some time, when the Colonel and myself

arrived, and Seth had just been sworn. He was to destroy the character

of Harris, by testifying in regard to the sheep-stealing, and the

robbery at Painted Post.

“Han’t no knowledge on the pint.”

“Have you never heard, while living at Painted Post, that he was

suspected of being engaged in the robbery?”

“I do-no. I never take no notice about what people say _suspiciously_

about their neighbours.”

“Really you’re a very singular witness. Let me jog your memory a little.

Do you remember having said anything about Harris’s connection with the

Tioga sheep-stealing, and the Jenkins’s store robbery, while you were at

Gillis’s store one night last April?”

“As fer’s my reck’lection serves, I ha—ant.”

“Were you at Gillis’s store on the night of the 17th of April?”

“I do-no for sartin.”

“Were you in Ridgeway at all on the 17th of April?”

“Yeeas, I was.”

“How do you fix the time? Proceed, and tell the justice, (we shall get

at the truth of this story yet,” aside to the plaintiff.) “Come Sir,

proceed Sir.”

“Wall, on the mornin’ of the 17th, Dickson says he to me, says he,

‘Seth, go down to Mr. Dill’s, and get the nails clenched in the brown

mare’s off-hind foot.’ So I jist put a halter on an’, cantered down to

Ridgeway, and stopt tu Gileses’ store, an’ bort some thread an’ needles

for Ant Jerusha, an’ Gilleses’ clark ast me ef I wouldn’t like to taste

sum new rum he had jest got up from Bellefonte, an’ I said, ‘Yis,’ an’

he poured out abeout have a tumbler, an’ I drinkt it right deown.”

“Well, Sir, go on.”

“Well, then I led the brown mare over tu Dill’s, an ast Miss Dill—”

“You mean Mrs. Dill, his wife?”

“Yeas, Miss Dill. I ast Miss Dill ef Mr. Dill was tu hum, an’ she sed,

“‘No, he’s deown tu the lick b’low Andrewses’ mill, arter deer. What you

want?’ says she.

“‘I want to get the nails clenched to the mare’s off-hind foot,’ sez I.

“‘Wal,’ sez she, ‘can’t yeu du it yerself?’

“‘Wal,’ says I, ‘I guess I can.’

“So she showed me whar the horse-nails war, an’ giv’ me the hammer, an’

I put on Dill’s leather apron, an’ at it I went. I got in three nails

right snug, and clenched them, an’ was drivin’ deown the third, when the

mare shied at suthen, and shoved her foot a-one side, an’ the hammer cum

deown caslap! right on this there thumb-nail. You see” (holding it up)

“it’s not growed eout yit.”

“But what has that to do with the talk at Gillis’s store?”

“I’m goin’ on tu tell you. Lor! heow I did yel! you’d a thought thar was

fifty painters abeout. Miss Dill, she cum a-runnin’ out, an’ ast what

was the matter.

“‘Look here,’ sez I, holdin’ up my thumb, which was bleedin’ like all

Jehu. ‘What shall I do?’ sez I.

“‘I’ll tell you what,’ says Miss Dill, an’ she run an’ got a leaf of

live-for-ever, an’ sez she, ‘peel off the skin, an’ put the peth on.’

“‘Peel it yerself,’ sez I, a-cryin’ with the exhuberant pain.

“So she peeled it and tied it on, an’ in tu days thar wan’t a bit of

soreness in it; but the nail cum off.”

“But come to Gillis’s store. What did you say about Harris that night?”

“Wal, all I recollect is, that Thompson an’ a lot of fellers was thar;

an’ Thompson and I shot at a mark for whiskey, an’ Thompson he win, and

we drinkt at my expense. Then Bill Gallager and Dill they shot, an’ Dill

beat Bill, an’ we drinkt at his expense. Then Charley Gillis he shot

agin Frank Souther, an’ Frank win; and we drinkt at Charley’s expense;

an’ then Frank he sung a song, an’ then Thompson he sung a song; and the

next I recollect was—”

“Well, Sir, was what?”

“Why, I waked up next mornin’ on Gillis’ counter the sickest critter yeu

ever see. I didn’t get over that spree for tu long weeks.”

“Well, is that all you have to say?”

“All I recollect at present. If I think of any more, I’ll come in an’

tell ye.”

“You may go, Sir.”

Harris won the suit.

XIII.

THE TWO FAT SALS.[11]

If every man were to relate the little romances of love in which he

becomes involved, at some time or other of his life, novelists or

farce-writers would be supplied with plots and incidents enough to

supply publishers and managers with a continual run of novelties for all

times.

In the story of the “Two Fat Sals” is recorded the experience of one man

only, but it affords a very useful lesson on the evils of a mind divided

in the matter of love, and another illustrious example of the truth of

the aphorism, that “the course of true love never did run smooth.”

“There was two Sals livin’ in our town—Sal Stebbins and Sal Babit; real

corn-fed gals, I swow. Sal Stebbins would lift a barrel of cyder out of

the eend of a cart as quick as any other feller, and drink it tew. Sal

Babit, she was so fat, she’d roll one way jest as easy as t’other, and

if anything, a little _easier_. Well, there was a corn-husking, and I

went along with Sal Stebbins: there was all the gals and boys settin’

reound, and I got sot down so near Sal Babit, that I’ll be darned if I

didn’t kiss her afore I know’d what I was abeout. Sal Stebbins, she

blushed: the blood rushed right up into her hair: she was the best _red_

critter I ever did see. I thought it was all up with me, and sure enough

it was, for when I asked her if she would go hum with me, she said:

“‘No; you needn’t trouble yourself nothin’ ’tall ’bout it.’

“‘Well, if you’re mind to get spunky, I guess I can git a gal that will

let me see her hum. Sal Babit, shall I go hum with you?’

“‘Well,’ says she, ‘I don’t mind if you dew.’

“Arter that, Sal Stebbins married a feller in our town, by the name of

_Post_,—blind in one eye, and deaf in one ear,—jest to spite me,

nothin’ else: so I thought if she was a mind to take a feller that

couldn’t see or hear any tew well, I’d better let her slide: so I went

away from hum, and was gone about three—four—five years?—yes, jest

about five years, ’cause I know when I got back she had four little

_Posts_. I went to see how she got along. She asked me to come in and

set down; so I tuck a cheer and squatted; then she tuck another cheer

and squatted; and we both squatted there together. Her young ones was

all runnin’ reound on the floor: she pinted to them, and said, in a sort

of bragging way,

“‘You see them, don’t you?’

“‘Yes,’ says I, squintin’ up one eye, ‘I see, they’re all jest like

their daddy, blind in one eye.’

“She was bilin’ dumplings at the time, and as soon as she see me shut up

one eye, she out with a hot dumplin’, and let me have it in t’other,

which made me shut it up a darn’d sight quicker than I ever did afore,

and I haint been in love since that time.”

-----

[11] By G. H. Hill.

XIV.

WAR’S YURE HOSS?

Some years since, when the State of Missouri was considered “Far West,”

there lived on the bank of the river of the same name of the State, a

substantial farmer, who, by years of toil, had accumulated a tolerable

pretty pile of castings; owing, as he said, principally to the fact that

he didn’t raise much taters and unyuns, but rite smart of corn. This

farmer, hearing that good land was much cheaper farther south, concluded

to move there. Accordingly, he provided his eldest son with a good

horse, and a sufficiency of the needful to defray his travelling and

contingent expenses, and instructed him to purchase two hundred acres of

good land, at the lowest possible price, and return immediately home.

The next day Jeems started for Arkansas, and after an absence of some

six weeks, returned home.

“Well, Jeems,” said the old man, “how’d you find land in Arkensaw?”

“Tolerable cheap, dad.”

“You didn’t buy mor’n two hundred acres, did yu, Jeems?”

“No, dad, not _over_ tu hundred, _I reckon_.”

“How much money hev yu got left?”

“Nary red, dad; cleaned rite out!”

“Why, I had no idee travellin’ was so ’spensive in them parts, Jeems.”

“Wal, just you try it wonst, an’ you’ll find out, I reckon.”

“Wal, never mind that, let’s hear ’bout the land, an’—_but war’s yure

hoss?_”

“Why, yu see, dad, I was a goin’ along one day—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Yu hole on, dad, an’ I’ll tell yu all ’bout it. Yu see, I was agoin’

along one day, an’ I met a feller as said he was goin’ my way tu—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Dod darn mi hide, ef yu don’t shut up, dad, I’ll never git tu the hoss.

Wal, as we was both goin’ the same way, me an’ this feller jined

cumpenny, an’ ’bout noon, we hitched our critters, an’ set down aside uv

a branch, and went to eatin’ a snack. Arter we’d got thru, this feller

sez tu me, ‘Try a drap uv this ere red-eye, stranger.’ ‘Wal, I don’t

mind,’ sez I—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Kummin’ tu him bime-by, dad. So me an’ this feller sot thar, sorter

torkin’ an’ drinkin’, an’ then he sez, ‘Stranger, let’s play a leetle

game uv Seven-up,’ a takin’ out uv his pocket a greasy, roun’-cornered

deck uv _kerds_. ‘Don’r keer ef I du,’ sez I. So we sot up side uv a

stump, and kummenced tu bet a quorter up, an’ I was a _slayin’ him

orful_—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Kummin’ tu him, dad. Bimeby, luck changed, an’ he got tu winnin’, an’

pretty sune I hadn’t not nary nuther doller. Then sez he, ‘Stranger,

I’ll gin yu a chance to git even, an’ play yu one more game.’ Wal, we

both plaid rite tite that game, I sware, an’ we was both six an’ six,

an’—”

“_War’s yure hoss?_”

“Kummin’ tu him, dad. We was six an’ six, dad, an’ ’twas his deal—”

“Will yu tell me _war’s yure hoss_?” said, the old man, getting riled.

“Yes, we was six an’ six, an’ _he turned up the Jack_!”

“_War’s yure hoss?_”

“The stranger won him, _a-turnin’ that Jack_!”

XV.

BOB LEE.

A TALE.

In a remote region of the Hoosac Mountains is a little place called

Turkeytown. It is a straggling assemblage of dingy, old-fashioned houses

surrounded by the woods, and the inhabitants are as old-fashioned as

their dwellings. They raise corn and pumpkins, believe in witches, and

know nothing of railroads or the march of intellect. There has never

been more than one pair of boots in the town: these are called “the town

boots,” and are provided at the public expense, to be worn to Boston

every winter by the representative. I had the satisfaction last week of

actually seeing these venerable coriaceous integuments in official duty

upon the long shanks of Colonel Crabapple of the General Court, and was

struck with becoming awe at their veteran looks. They seemed to be

somewhat the worse for wear, but the Colonel informed me the town had

lately voted to have them heel-tapped, and the vote would probably be

carried into effect before the next session.

The present story, however, is not about boots, but about Bob Lee, who

was an odd sort of a fellow, that lived upon the skirts of Turkeytown,

and got his living by hook and by crook. He had neither chick nor child,

but kept a bachelor’s hall in a ricketty old house, without any

companion except an old black hen, whom he kept to amuse him because she

had a most unearthly mode of cackling that nobody could understand. Bob

used to spend his time in shooting wild ducks, trapping foxes and

musquashes, catching pigeons, and other vagabond and aboriginal

occupations, by means of which he contrived to keep his pot boiling, and

a ragged jacket upon his back. Nothing could induce him to work hard and

lay up something for a rainy day. Bob left the rainy days to take care

of themselves, and thought of nothing but sunshine. In short, the

incorrigible vagabond was as lazy, careless, ragged and happy as any man

you ever saw of a summer’s day.

And it fell out upon a summer’s day, that Bob found himself without a

cent in his pocket or a morsel of victuals in the house. His whole

disposable wealth consisted of a single fox-skin nailed against his back

door, drying in the sun. Something must be had for dinner, and Bob took

down the fox-skin, and set off for Deacon Grabbit’s store to sell it. As

luck would have it, before he had gone a quarter of a mile, he met old

Tim Twist, the Connecticut pedlar, a crony and boon companion of many

years’ standing. Tim, who was glad to see his old gossip, invited him

into Major Shute’s tavern to take a glass of New-England. Bob, who had

never signed the temperance pledge, accepted the invitation nothing

loth. They sat down over half a pint, and discussed the news. No drink

tastes better than that which a man gets for nothing. It was a hot day,

and both were very thirsty. Tim was very liberal for a Connecticut man.

What will you have? In the upshot they found they had made an immense

potation of it; and Bob took leave of his old friend, clearly satisfied

that he had not taken so heavy a pull for many a day.

He had hardly got out of sight of the tavern before he found the road

too crooked to travel; he sat down under an apple-tree to take a little

cool reflection, but the more he reflected, the more he could not

understand it: his eyes began to wag in his head, and he was just on the

point of falling asleep, when a bob o’link alighted on a branch over his

head and began to sing “Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link!” Bob Lee’s

brains were by this time in such a fog, that his eyes and ears were all

askew, and he did not doubt somebody was calling on him.

“Hollo, neighbor;” says Bob Lee.

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! what ye got? what ye got? what ye got?”

chattered the bird—as Bob thought.

“Got a fox-skin,” answered he. “D’ye want to buy?”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! what’ll ye take? what’ll ye take?” returned the

little feathered chatterer.

“Half a dollar,” replied Bob, “and it’s worth every cent of the money.”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link! two and threepence! two and

threepence! two and threepence!” was the reply from the apple-tree.

“Won’t take it,” said Bob; “it’s a real silver-grey: half a dollar is

little enough for it. Can’t sell it for two and threepence.”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! you’d better, you’d better, you’d better; two

and threepence, two and threepence, two and threepence; now or never,

now or never, now or never.”

“Can’t ye say any more? Well, take it then. I won’t stand for ninepence.

Hand us over the money,” said Bob, twisting his head round and round,

endeavouring to get a sight of the person with whom he was bargaining.

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link! let’s have it! let’s have it, let’s

have it: quick or ye’ll lose it! quick or ye’ll lose it!”

Bob turned his head toward the quarter from which the sound proceeded,

and imagining he saw somebody in the tree, threw up the fox-skin,

exclaiming, “There it is, and cheap enough too, at two and threepence.”

Mr. Bob o’link started and flew away, singing “Bob o’link, bob o’link!

catch a weasel, catch a weasel, catch a weasel!” for Bob Lee made clear

English of every thing that the bird said, and never doubted all the

while that he was driving a regular bargain with a country trader. At

the same time, spying a toadstool growing at the foot of the tree, he

imagined it to be a half dollar, and made a grasp at it. The toadstool

was demolished under his hand, but Bob happening to clutch a

pebble-stone at the same moment, thrust it into his pocket, fully

persuaded he had secured his coin. “Can’t make change,—remember it next

time!” said he, and so turning about, he made the best of his way

homewards.

When he awoke the next morning, he felt in his pocket for the half

dollar, but his astonishment cannot be described at finding it

metamorphosed into a stone. He rubbed his eyes, but the more he rubbed

them, the more like a stone it looked:—decidedly a stone! He thought of

witchcraft, but presently recollecting that he had taken a drop too

much, just before the bargain under the apple-tree, he became of opinion

that he had been cheated, and that the crafty rogue who had bought his

fox-skin, had taken advantage of his circumstances to palm off a stone

upon him for silver. Bob started upon his legs at the very thought. “A

rascal!” he exclaimed, “I’ll catch him if he’s above ground!” No sooner

said than done. Out he sallied in a tremendous chafe, determined to

pursue the rogue to the further end of the state. He questioned every

person he met, whether he had not seen a crafty-looking caitiff sharking

about the town and buying fox-skins, but nobody seemed to know any such

creature. He ran up and down the road, called at Major Shute’s tavern,

at Deacon Grabbit’s store, at Colonel Crabapple’s grocery, at Tim

Thumper’s shoemaker’s shop, at Cobb’s bank and at Slouch’s corner, but

not a soul had seen the man with the fox-skin. Bob was half out of his

wits at being thus baulked in his chase, never imagining he was all the

while in pursuit of an innocent little bob o’link.

In great vexation at this disappointment, he was slowly plodding his way

homeward, when he came in sight of the spot where he had made this

unfortunate traffic with the roguish unknown. “Oh apple-tree!” he

exclaimed, “if thou bee’st an honest apple-tree, tell me what has become

of my fox-skin.” He looked up as he uttered these words, and to his

astonishment, there was his fox-skin, dangling in the air at the end of

a branch! He knew not what to make of so strange an adventure, but he

was nevertheless overjoyed to recover his property, and climbing the

tree, threw it to the ground. The tree was old and hollow; in

descending, he thrust his foot into an opening in the trunk, some

distance above the ground, and felt something loose inside. He drew it

out and found it was a heavy lump, which he imagined at first to be a

stone wrapped round with a cloth. It proved, however, on examination, to

be a bag of dollars!

He could hardly believe his eyes, but after turning them over and over,

ringing them upon a stone and cutting the edge of some of them with a

knife, at length satisfied himself that they were true silver pieces.

The next inquiry was, how they came there, and to whom they belonged.

Here he was totally in the dark. The owner of the land surely could not

be the proprietor of the money, for he had no need of a strong-box in

such a sly place. The money had lain in the tree some years, as was

evident from the condition of the bag, which was nearly decayed. Was it

stolen? No—because nobody in these parts had lost such a sum. Was it

the fruit of a highway robbery? No robbery had been committed in this

quarter, time out of mind. There were no imaginable means of accounting

for the deposit of money in such a place. The owner or depositor had

never returned to claim it, and was now probably dead or gone away,

never to return.

Such were the thoughts that Bob revolved in his mind as he gloated over

his newly-gotten treasure. At first he thought of making the discovery

public, but reflecting on the many annoyances which this would bring

upon him in the inquisitive curiosity of his neighbours, and more

especially considering that the cash must in consequence lie a long time

useless, ere he could be legally allowed to apply it as his own

property, he resolved to say nothing about it, but to consider the money

his own immediately. It was therefore conveyed the same evening to his

house, and snugly lodged in his chest.

From that day forward it began to be remarked among the neighbours, that

Bob Lee was mighty flush of money, and though he had no visible means of

subsistence, spent a great deal more than he was wont. More especially

it excited their wonder that his pockets always contained hard dollars,

while other people had little besides paper. There is nothing equal to

the prying curiosity of the inhabitants of a country village, and the

buzzing and stir which an insignificant matter will arouse among a set

of inquisitive gossips. Everybody began to talk about the affair, but

nobody knew how to account for it. All sorts of guesses and conjectures

were put upon the rack, but nothing was able to explain the mystery. All

sorts of hints, inquiries and entreaties were put in requisition. Bob

was proof against all their inquisitiveness and seemed resolved to let

them die in the agonies of unsatisfied curiosity.

Bob stood it out for a long while; but human endurance has its limits,

and after being worried with guesses and questions till he despaired of

ever being left in quiet possession of his own secret, he began to cast

about for a method of allaying the public curiosity in some measure, or

at least of turning it aside from himself. An old gossip, named Goody

Brown, had laid siege to him about the affair from the first moment. One

afternoon she dropped in as usual, and after some preliminary tattle,

recommenced the attack by inquiring, with a significant look and shake

of the head, whether money was as scarce as ever with him. Bob had been

for some time thinking of a trick to play the old lady, and thought this

a good moment to begin his mystification: so putting on a look of great

seriousness, knitting his brows, and puckering up his mouth, as if big

with a mighty secret about to be communicated, he replied:

“Really, Mrs. Brown—I have been thinking, whether—now you are a

prudent woman, I am certain.”

“A prudent woman, indeed! who ever thought of calling me imprudent?

Everybody calls me a prudent woman, to be sure. You need not doubt it,

though I say so.”

“You are a prudent woman, no doubt, and I have been thinking, I say,

whether I might trust you with a secret!”

“A secret! a secret! a secret! Oh, Mr. Bob, then there is a secret?”

stud the old lady aroused into great animation by the prospect of

getting at the bottom of the mystery at last.

“Yes, Mrs. Brown, to confess the truth, there is a secret.”

“Oh! I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was a secret. I always said

there was a secret—I was always sure there was a secret! I told

everybody I knew there must be a secret.”

“But Mrs. Brown, this must be kept a secret; so perhaps I had better

keep it to myself. If you cannot keep a secret, why then—”

“Good lack! Mr. Lee, I am sure you are not afraid. Never fear me: I can

keep a secret. Everybody knows how well I can keep a secret.”

“Everybody knows, to be sure, how well you can keep a secret; that is

just what I am thinking about.”

“Sure, Mr. Bob, you don’t mean to keep me out of the secret now you have

begun. Come, come, what is it? You know I can keep a secret; you know I

can.”

“But this, recollect, Mrs. Brown, is a very particular secret; and if I

tell it to you—hey, Mrs. Brown, it must be in confidence you know.”

“Oh, in confidence! to be sure in confidence—certainly in confidence. I

keep everything in confidence.”

“But now I recollect, Mrs. Brown, that story about Zachary Numps—they

say you blabb’d.”

“Oh law! now Mr. Lee, no such thing! I only said one day in company with

two or three people—altogether in confidence—that some folks might, if

they chose, say so and so about some folks. It was all in confidence,

but somehow or other it got out.”

“If you are sure you can keep the secret then, I think I may trust you

with it; but you must promise.”

“Oh, promise! certainly I will promise, Mr. Bob; nobody will promise

more than I will—that is, I certainly will promise to keep the secret.”

“Then let me tell you,” said he, in a low, solemn voice, hitching his

chair at the same time nearer to the old woman, who sat with open mouth

and staring eyes, eager to devour the wished-for secret: “These dollars

of mine, you know, Mrs. Brown—” here he stopped, keeping her in the

most provoking suspense imaginable.

“Yes, yes; the dollars, the dollars.”

“These dollars of mine, you know, Mrs. Brown, why they are

dollars—hey?”

“Yes, the dollars, the dollars; go on, go on—where do they come from?

Mr. Bob, where do you get them?—where do you get them?”

“Why, I get them somewhere, you know; but where do you think?”

“Yes, yes, you get them somewhere; I always thought you got them

somewhere: I always told everybody I knew you must get them somewhere.”

“Very well, Mrs. Brown.”

“Very well, Mr. Lee; but where do you get them? that is the

question—you have not told me.”

“Where do I get them,” said Bob, slowly and solemnly, and rubbing his

hands together, screwing up his mouth, rolling his eyes and shaking his

head, while the old lady was on the tenter-hooks of suspense and

expectation. “Where do I get them? Now what do you think, Mrs. Brown, of

my old black hen?”

“Your old black hen! What do you mean?”

“There’s the thing now! Then you never guessed, hey? Is it possible you

never heard the story of the goose with the golden egg?”

“To be sure,” replied Goody, opening her eyes wider than ever; “to be

sure I have, to be sure, Mr. Bob—to be sure. But your hen, you know, is

not a goose.”

“That is very true, Mrs. Brown; but here is another question. If a goose

can lay a golden egg, why can’t a hen lay a silver one?”

“Sure enough, Mr. Lee, sure enough, sure enough,” said the old woman,

beginning to get some light on the subject.

“Sure enough, as you say. Now this black hen of mine—every day I go to

the nest and find a silver dollar there!”

“You amaze me, Bob!” said she, in the greatest astonishment. “Who would

have thought it! Indeed! indeed! indeed! and is it true?”

“Why, Mrs. Brown, if I do not get them there, where do I get them?”

“Sure enough. Well, my stars! I almost knew it—I always thought there

was something strange in the looks of that black hen.”

“Ah, you are a cunning woman—but be sure you keep it a secret.”

“To be sure, never fear me. A dollar a day! Who would have thought it!

Bless me, what a lucky man! Do, Mr. Lee, let me see the nest; it must be

very curious: I am dying to see it.”

“Certainly, with all my heart; but let us see if there is nobody coming.

Ah, step this way; I keep her in a snug place, you see, because if she

should run away, what should I do for cash?”

So saying, he led the way, and the old woman trotted after him. He

carried her in at one door and out at another, up this passage and down

that, over, under and through, zig-zag and round about, through all the

rigmarole turnings and twistings upon his premises, in order to give the

whole affair an appearance of greater mystery. At last coming to a

little nook in the corner of his barn, he told her that was the place.

She gazed at it with staring eyes and uplifted hands, exclaiming,

“Was there ever anything like it!”

Bob, to carry on the trick, concealed a dollar in his sleeve, and thrust

his hand into the nest, drew it forth, and exhibited it to the old

woman, who was now fully convinced, because she had actually seen the

dollar in the nest, and who could doubt after such a proof?

It is needless to add that within two days, the story was trumpeted all

over the town, and Bob was beset with greater crowds than ever; so far

from diminishing the curiosity of his neighbours by the stratagem, he

found he had augmented it tenfold. It is not to be supposed that every

one believed the story, but there were enough who did, and the remainder

fell to wondering, guessing and questioning with more pertinacity than

ever. Bob’s house was besieged from morning till night, and the

unfortunate man, under these redoubled annoyances, found he had got out

of the frying-pan into the fire. He now denied the whole story, and

declared that he had been only sporting with the credulity of the old

Goody; but unluckily they would not believe him; people do not like to

have their belief in the marvellous disturbed; they could not believe

his tale of finding the money in an oak tree, but that the dollars were

got from a hen’s nest, was something worth believing. Bob, at a loss

what to do in this emergency, applied to many people for advice, and at

last was struck with the following counsel from Deacon Grabbit.

“If I were in your place,” said the Deacon, “I think I would make the

hen turn me a penny:—for why? If folks believe she gives you a dollar a

day, they will be willing to give a good price for her, and if they buy

her and find themselves mistaken, that is their look-out. Now I would

put her up at auction and sell her for the most she will bring: it will

be a fair bargain, provided you warrant nothing!”

This advice seemed excellent, and Bob was not long in making up his mind

to follow it. He accordingly gave public notice, that he should expose

his hen at auction in front of the Meeting-house on Saturday afternoon

next, at four of the clock. This announcement made a great stir, and

when the time arrived, he found a prodigious crowd assembled. Bob

mounted the top of a hogshead with his hen in one hand and a stick of

wood in the other, and began the following harangue—

“Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong! Ahoy, ahoy, ahoy! Know all men by

these presents. Whereas, nevertheless, notwithstanding. Gentlemen,

please to come to order and attend to the sale. Here we are in the name

of the commonwealth, and here is the fowl all the world is talking

about, now to be sold to the highest bidder. Whoever buys her will get a

black pullet for his pay, but as to silver dollars, that is neither here

nor there; I warrant no such thing, but it may be, and it may not be;

nobody knows all the pickings and scratchings of the hen creation. I’ll

warrant the creature to be sound of wind and limb, but whether her eggs

are round or flat, I shan’t be flat enough to swear quite so roundly:

that is the buyer’s affair, not mine. Gentlemen, I moreover warrant her

to be a black hen, and that no washing can make her white, except

whitewashing. But whether black or white, nobody can say black is the

white of her eye, for she is as honest a soul as ever picked up a crumb,

and if she deals in dollars, you may depend upon it they are not

counterfeit. Whoever buys her will get his money’s worth if he does not

give too much; and he may reckon on any reasonable number of chickens,

provided he does not reckon them before they are hatched. Gentlemen, I

won’t be certain as to her age, but I will assure you this, that if she

is too young, it is a fault will grow less and less every day. Here she

goes. What’ll ye give me? What’ll ye give me? What’ll ye give me? Come

bid away, gentlemen, and make your fortunes. Some folks say I have made

my fortune by her, and good luck betide them while they speak the truth,

say I. People say this and that, but I say nothing. So, who buys my

hen?—Going—going, going!”

The old hen set up a loud cackling, and fluttered her wings

prodigiously, at the conclusion of this speech, much to the astonishment

of the crowd of spectators, who gaped, stared and scratched their heads,

imagining that the creature understood every word of what was uttered,

and never suspecting that Bob had given her a smart pull by the tail to

make her squall out. They shook their heads and observed that the

creature looked as if she saw something: Bob called out for bidders, but

his customers, with true Yankee caution, bid slowly, and made very low

offers: at last, however, she was knocked off to a credulous bumpkin,

named Giles Elderberry, for six dollars, to be paid in corn and potatoes

at a fair price the next fall. Bob delivered him the hen, and took

Giles’s note of hand for the pay.

Giles took his purchase home in great glee, hugging himself with the

prospect of having a heap of silver ere many days. He bestowed her

snugly in his hencoop, and was hardly able to shut his eyes that night,

by thinking of the fortune that awaited him. Next morning he ran to the

nest, but was disappointed in not finding the dollar. He waited all day

and saw the night approach, but nothing rewarded his patience. He began

to scratch his head, but presently bethought himself that it was Sunday,

and the hen being orthodox, would not lay till the next day. So he went

to bed again with undiminished hopes. But Monday came and there was no

dollar to be seen: he cudgelled his brain, and suspected there might be

witches in the case; thereupon he nailed a horse-shoe on the door of the

hencoop, and waited another day, but nothing came of it. He now sat down

upon a log of wood, and fell to pondering upon the matter with all his

might; finally another thought struck him, and he imagined a nest-egg

might be wanting. Straightway he procured a dollar and lodged it in the

nest, but it did not bring him even six per cent. interest, for the next

day there was a dollar and no more. He tried various other expedients,

but they all failed in the same manner. The neighbours inquired about

his success, but he informed them that the hen put it off terribly. He

consulted Bob Lee about it, and got only a bantering answer and a hint

about the note of hand. Giles was not to be bantered out of his belief,

but laid the case before sundry of his acquaintance, who were notorious

for their credulity in all marvellous affairs. Most of them gave it as

their opinion that the hen was bewitched, and Giles was already inclined

to the same belief: his only solicitude now was to discover some means

of disenchantment.

At length a waggish fellow of the town, who had got a scent of the

affair, meeting Giles one day, informed him that he knew of a scheme

that would do the job for him. Giles begged earnestly to know it, and

promised as a recompense to give him the first dollar the hen should

lay, in case the plan succeeded, “for you know,” said he, “it is a fair

bargain, no cure, no pay.”

“You’ll find that next fall,” replied the fellow.

He then communicated the scheme, by which Giles was instructed to go to

the top of Blueberry Hill the next morning at six o’clock, mark out a

circle on the ground, set up a tall pole in the centre with the hen at

the top: he was then to walk three times round it, heels foremost, say

the A B C backwards, sing a stave of Old hundred, cry cock-a-doodle-doo,

and sneeze three times—all which he was assured would break the spell.

Giles took all this for gospel, and the next morning he was on the spot

ready prepared at the hour. He set his fowl up in the air and went to

work with the incantation; all was going on prosperously and according

to rule: he had got through the psalm tune, crowed as exactly like an

old rooster as one could wish, and was just taking a thumping pinch of

Scotch yellow to enable him to sneeze with more effect, when casting his

eyes aloft he descried a monstrous hen-hawk upon the wing in the act of

making a stoop at his enchanted fowl. Giles blurted out a tremendous

sternutation, but the hawk was not to be sneezed out of his prey, for

before he could rub away the tears which this explosion shook into his

eyes, souse came the hawk upon the hen, and both were out of sight among

the woods!

Giles scratched his head and stared with wonder, but they never came

back to give any account of themselves: he is certain although, that had

he got through the incantation half a minute sooner, the hen would have

been as safe as a thief in a mill. I have heard people say that he has

still some expectation of their return, but I believe he has given up

speculating in poultry. However, the memory of the story remains in

those parts, and when a person does anything that shows uncommon wisdom,

such as discovering that the Dutch have taken Holland, or that asses

have ears, he is said to be akin to the witches, like Bob Lee’s hen.

XVI.

THE SHOOTING-MATCH.

Shooting-matches are probably nearly coeval with the colonization of

Georgia. They are still common throughout the Southern States; though

they are not as common as they were twenty-five or thirty years ago. I

was travelling in one of the north-eastern counties, when I overtook a

swarthy, bright-eyed, smirky little fellow, riding a small pony, and

bearing on his shoulder a long, heavy rifle, which, judging from its

looks, I should say had done service in Morgan’s corps.

“Good morning, Sir,” said I, reining up my horse, as I came beside him.

“How goes it, stranger?” said he, with a tone of independence and

self-confidence that awakened my curiosity to know a little of his

character.

“Going driving?” inquired I.

“Not exactly,” replied he, surveying my horse with a quizzical smile, “I

haven’t been a-driving _by myself_ for a year or two, and my nose has

got so bad lately I can’t carry a cold-trail _without hounds to help

me_.”

Alone, and without hounds as he was, the question was rather a silly

one; but it answered the purpose for which it was put, which was only to

draw him into conversation, and I proceeded to make as decent a retreat

as I could.

“I didn’t know,” I said, “but that you were going to meet the huntsmen,

or going to your stand.”

“Ah, sure enough,” rejoined he, “that _mout_ be a bee, as the old woman

said when she killed a wasp. It seems to me I ought to know you.”

“Well, if you _ought_ why _don’t_ you?”

“What _mout_ your name be?”

“It _might_ be anything,” said I, with borrowed wit; for I knew my man,

and knew what kind of conversation would please him most.

“Well, what _is_ it then?”

“It _is_ Hall,” said I; “but, you know, it might as well have been

anything else.”

“Pretty digging,” said he, “I find you’re not the fool I took you to be;

so here’s to a better acquaintance with you.”

“With all my heart,” returned I; “but you must be as clever as I’ve

been, and give me your name.”

“To be sure I will, my old ’coon; take it, take it, and welcome.

Anything else about me you’d like to have?”

“No,” said I, “there’s nothing else about you worth having.”

“Oh yes, there is, stranger. Do you see this?” holding up his ponderous

rifle with an ease that astonished me. “If you will go with me to the

shooting-match, and see me knock out the _bull’s_-eye with her a few

times, you’ll agree the old _soap-stick_’s worth something when Billy

Curlew puts his shoulder to her.”

This short sentence was replete with information to me: it taught me

that my companion was Billy Curlew; that he was going to a

_shooting-match_; that he called his rifle the _soap-stick_; and that he

was very confident of winning beef with her; or, which is nearly, but

not quite the same thing—_driving the cross with her_.

“Well,” said I, “if the shooting-match is not too far out of my way,

I’ll go to it with pleasure.”

“Unless your way lies through the woods from here,” said Billy, “it’ll

not be much out of your way; for it’s only a mile a-head of us, and

there’s no other road for you to take till you get there; and as that

thing you’re riding in, ain’t well suited to fast travelling among bushy

knobs, I reckon you won’t lose much by going by. I reckon you hardly

ever was at a shooting-match, stranger, from the cut of your coat?”

“Oh yes,” returned I, “many a time. I won beef at one, when I was hardly

old enough to hold a shot-gun off-hand.”

“Children don’t go to shooting-matches about here,” said he, with a

smile of incredulity. “I never heard of but one that did, and he was a

little _swinge-cat_. He was born a-shooting, and killed squirrels before

he was weaned.”

“Nor did I ever hear of but one,” replied I, “and that one was myself.”

“And where did you win beef so young, stranger?”

“At Berry Adam’s.”

“Why stop, stranger, let me look at you. Good. Is your name Lyman Hall?”

“The very same,” said I.

“Well, dang my buttons, if you ain’t the very boy my daddy used to tell

me about! I was too young to recollect you myself; but I’ve heard daddy

talk about you many a-time. I believe mammy’s got a neck-handkerchief

now that daddy won on your shooting at Collen Reid’s store, when you

were hardly knee-high. Come along, Lyman, and I’ll go my death upon you

at the shooting-match, with the old soap-stick at your shoulder.”

“Ah, Billy,” said I, “the old soap-stick will do much better at your own

shoulder. It was my mother’s notion that sent me to the shooting-match

at Berry Adam’s; and, to tell you the honest truth, it was altogether a

chance shot that made me win beef; but that wasn’t generally known, and

most everybody believed that I was carried there on account of my skill

in shooting; and my fame was spread far and wide, I well remember.

“I remember, too, perfectly well your father’s bet on me at the store.

He was at the shooting-match, and nothing could make him believe but

that I was a great shot with a rifle, as well as a shot-gun. Bet he

would on me, in spite of all I could say, though I assured him that I

had never shot a rifle in my life. It so happened too, that there were

but two bullets, or rather a bullet and a half; and so confident was

your father in my skill that he made me shoot the half bullet, and

strange to tell, by another chance shot I like to have drove the cross,

and won his bet.”

“Now I know you’re the very chap; for I heard daddy tell the very thing

about the half bullet. Don’t say anything about it, Lyman, and durn my

old shoes if I don’t tear the lint off the boys with you at the

shooting-match. They’ll never ’spect such a looking man as you are of

knowing anything about a rifle. I’ll risk your _chance_ shot.”

I soon discovered that the father had eaten sour grapes, and the son’s

teeth were on edge; for Billy was just as incorrigibly obstinate in his

belief of my dexterity with a rifle, as his father had been before him.

We soon reached the place appointed for the shooting-match. It went by

the name of Sims’ Cross Roads, because, from the time that the first had

been laid out, Archibald Sims had resided there. Archibald had been a

Justice of the Peace in his day (and where is the man of his age in

Georgia who has not?), consequently, he was called Squire Sims. It is

the custom in this state, when a man has once acquired a title, civil or

military, to force it upon him as long as he lives; hence the countless

number of titled personages who are introduced in these sketches.

We stopped at the Squire’s door. Billy hastily dismounted, gave me the

shake of the hand which he had been reluctantly reserving for a mile

back, and leading me to the Squire, thus introduced me:

“Uncle Archy, this is Lyman Hall; and for all you see him in these fine

clothes he’s a _swinge_-cat—a darn sight cleverer fellow than he looks

to be. Wait till you see him lift the old soap-stick, and draw a bead

upon the bull’s-eye. You _gwine_ to see fun to-day? Don’t say nothing

about it.”

“Well, Mr. Swinge-cat,” said the Squire, “here’s to a better

acquaintance with you,” offering me his hand.

“How goes it, Uncle Archy?” said I, taking his hand warmly: for I’m

always free and easy with those who are so with me, and in this course I

rarely fail to please. “How’s the old woman?”

“Egad!” said the Squire, chuckling, “there you’re too hard for me; for

she died two-and-twenty years ago, and I havn’t heard a word from her

since!”

“What! and you never married again?”

“Well, that’s not my fault.”

“No, nor mine _ni_ther,” said I.

Here we were interrupted by the cry of another, Rancey Sniffle.

“Hello, here! All you as wish to put in for the shooting-match come on

here! for the put’n in’s _riddy_ to begin.”

About sixty persons, including men spectators, had collected; and the

most of them were more or less obedient to the call of Mealy

Whitecotton—for that was the name of the self-constituted

commander-in-chief. Some hastened and some loitered, as they desired to

be first or last on the list; for they shoot in the order in which their

names are entered.

The beef was not present, nor is it ever upon such occasions; but

several of the company had seen it, who all concurred in the opinion

that it was good beef, and well worth the price that was set upon

it—eleven dollars. A general inquiry ran, in order to form some opinion

as to the number of shots that would be taken; for, of course, the price

of a shot is cheapened in proportion to the increase of that number. It

was soon ascertained that not more than twenty persons would take

chances; but these twenty agreed to take the number of shots at

twenty-five cents each.

The competitors now began to give in their names; some for one, some for

two, three, and a few for as many as four shots.

Billy Curlew hung back to the last, and when the list was offered to

him, five lists remained undisposed of.

“How many shots left?” inquired Billy.

“Five,” was the reply.

“Well, I take them all. Put down four shots for me, and one to Lyman

Hall, paid for by William Curlew.”

I was thunderstruck; not at his proposition to pay for my shot, because

that Billy meant it as a token of friendship, and he would have been

hurt if I had refused to let him do me this favour; but at the

unexpected announcement of my name as a competitor for beef, at least

one hundred miles from the place of my residence!

I was prepared for a challenge from Billy to some of his neighbours for

a private match upon me, but not for this. I therefore protested against

his putting in for me, and urged every reason to dissuade him from it

that I could, without wounding his feelings.

“Put it down,” said Billy, with the authority of an emperor, and with a

look that spoke volumes, intelligible to every bystander. “Reckon I

don’t know what I’m about?” Then, wheeling off, and muttering in an

under, self-confident tone: “Dang old Roper,” continued he, “if he don’t

knock that cross to the north corner of creation, and back again, before

a cat can lick her foot!”

Had I been king of the cat-tribe, they could not have regarded me with

more curious attention than did the whole company, from this moment.

Every inch of me was examined with the nicest scrutiny; and some plainly

expressed, by their looks, that they never would have taken me for such

a bite. I saw no alternative, but to throw myself upon a third

chance-shot; for, though by the rules of sport I would have been allowed

to shoot by proxy, by all the rules of good-breeding I was bound to

shoot in person. It would have been unpardonable to disappoint the

expectations which had been raised on me. Unfortunately too for me, the

match differed, in one respect, from those which I had been in the habit

of attending in my younger days. In olden-time, the contest was carried

on chiefly with _shot-guns_, a generic term, which, in those days,

embraced three descriptions of fire-arms: _Indian-traders_—a long,

cheap, but sometimes excellent, kind of gun, that Mother Britain used to

send hither for traffic with the Indians—the _large musket_, and the

_shot-gun_, properly so-called.

Rifles were, however, always permitted to compete with them, under

equitable restrictions. These were, that they should be fired off-hand,

while the shot-guns were allowed a rest, the distance being equal; or

that the distance should be one hundred yards for the rifle to sixty for

the shot-gun, the mode of firing being equal.

But this was a match of rifles exclusively; and these are by far the

most common at this time.

Most of the competitors fire at the same target, which is usually a

board from nine inches to a foot wide, charred on one side as black as

it can be made by fire, without impairing materially the uniformity of

its surface; on the darkened side of which is pegged, a square piece of

white paper, which is larger or smaller, according to the distance at

which it is to be placed from the marksmen. This is almost invariably

sixty yards, and for it the paper is reduced to about two and a half

inches square. Out of the centre of it is cut a rhombus of about the

width of an inch, measured diagonally—this is the bull’s-eye, or

diamond, as the marksmen choose to call it; in the centre of this is the

cross. But every man is permitted to fix his target to his own taste;

and accordingly, some remove one fourth of the paper, cutting from the

centre of the square to the two lower corners, so as to leave a large

opening from the centre downwards; while others reduce the angle more or

less; but it is rarely the case that all are not satisfied with one of

these figures.

The beef is divided into five prizes, or as they are commonly termed,

five _quarters_, the hide and tallow counting as one. For several years

after the revolutionary war, a sixth was added; the _lead_ which was

shot in the match. This was the prize of the sixth best shot; and it

used to be carefully extracted from the board, or tree, in which it was

lodged, and afterwards remoulded. But this grew out of the exigency of

the times, and has, I believe, been long since abandoned everywhere.

The three master shots and rivals were Moses Firmby, Larkin Spivey, and

Billy Curlew, to whom was added, upon this occasion, by common consent,

and with awful forebodings—your humble servant.

The target was fixed at an elevation of about three feet from the

ground; and the judges (Captain Turner and Squire Porter) took their

stands by it, joined by about half the spectators.

The first name on the catalogue was Mealy Whitecotton. Mealy stept out,

rifle in hand, and toed the mark. His rifle was about three inches

longer than himself, and near enough his own thickness to make the

remark of Darby Chisholm, as be stept out, tolerably appropriate.

“Here comes the corn-stack and the sucker!” said Darby.

“Kiss my foot!” said Mealy; “the way I’ll creep into that bull’s eye’s a

fact.”

“You’d better creep into your hind sight,” said Darby.

Mealy raised and fired.

“A pretty good shot, Meal,” said one.

“Yes, a blamed good shot!” said a second.

“Well done, Meal!” said a third.

I was rejoiced when one of the company inquired, “Where is it?” for I

could hardly believe they were founding these remarks upon the evidence

of their senses.

“Just on the right hand of the bull’s-eye,” was the reply.

I looked with all the power of my eyes, but was unable to discover the

least change in the surface of the paper. Their report, however, was

true—so much keener is the vision of a practised than an unpractised

eye.

The next in order was Hiram Baugh. Hiram was like some race-horses which

I have seen—he was too good not to contend for every prize, and too

good-for-nothing ever to win one.

“Gentlemen,” said he, as he came to the mark, “I don’t say that I’ll win

beef; but if my piece don’t blow, I’ll eat the paper, or be mighty apt

to do it, if you’ll believe my rocket. My powder are not good powder,

gentlemen—I bought it _thum_ (from) Teb Dagget, and gin him three

quarters of a dollar a pound for it; but it are not what I call good

powder, gentlemen: but if old Buck-killer burns it clear, the boy you

call Hiram Baugh eats paper or comes mighty near it.”

“Well, blaze away!” said Mealy. “And be hanged, you and Teb Dagget, and

your powder and Buck-killer, and your powder-horn and shot-pouch to

boot! How long you gwine stand thar talking ’fore you shoot?”

“Never mind,” said Hiram, “I can talk a little and shoot a little too;

but that’s nothin’. Here goes!”

Hiram assumed the figure of a note of interrogation, took a long sight,

and fired.

“I’ve eat paper,” said he, at the crack of the gun, without looking, or

seeming to look towards the target. “Buck-killer made a clear rocket.

Where am I, gentlemen?”

“You’re just between Mealy and the diamond,” was the reply.

“I said I’d eat paper, and I’ve done it, havn’t I, gentlemen?”

“And s’pose you have!” said Mealy, “what do that amount to? You’ll no’

win beef, and never did.”

“Be that as it mout be, I’ve beat Meal ’Cotton mighty easy; and the boy

you call Hiram Baugh are able to do it.”

“And what do that ’mount to? Who ain’t able to beat Meal ’Cotton! I

don’t make no pretence of being nothing great no how: but you always

makes out as if you were gwine to keep ’em making crosses for you,

constant; and then do nothin’ but eat paper at last; and that’s a long

way from eating beef ’cording to Meal ’Cotton’s notions, as you call

him!”

Simon Stow was now called for.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed two or three, “now we have it. It’ll take him as

long to shoot as it would take Squire Dobbins to run a track o’land.”

“Good-bye, boys,” said Bob Martin.

“Where you going, Bob?”

“Going to gather in my crop. I’ll be back again though by the time Sime

Stow shoots.”

Simon was used to all this, and therefore it did not disconcert him in

the least. He went off, and brought his own target, and set it up with

his own hand.

He then wiped out his rifle—rubbed the pan with his hat—drew a piece

of tow through the touch-hole with his wiper—filled his charger with

great care—poured the powder into his rifle with equal caution—shoved

with his finger the two or three vagrant grains that lodged round the

mouth of his piece—took out a handful of bullets—looked them all over

carefully—selected one without flaw or wrinkle—drew out his

patching—found the most even part of it—sprung upon the grease-box in

the breech of his rifle, greased side down—placed his ball upon

it—pressed it a little—then took it up and turned the neck a little

more perpendicularly downward—placed his knife-handle on it—just

buried it in the mouth of the rifle—cut off the redundant patching just

above the bullet—looked at it and shook his head in token that he had

cut off too much or too little, no one knew which—sent down the

ball—measured the contents of his gun with his first and second

fingers, on the protruding part of the ramrod—shook his head again to

signify that there was too much or too little powder—primed

carefully—placed an arched piece of tin over the hind sight to shade

it—took his piece—got a friend to hold his hat over the foresight to

shade it—took a very long sight—fired, and didn’t even eat paper.

“My piece was badly _load’nd_,” said Simon, when he heard the place of

his ball.

“Oh, you don’t take time,” said Mealy. “No man can shoot that’s in such

a hurry as you is. I’d hardly got to sleep ’fore I heard the crack o’

the gun.”

The next was Moses Firmby. He was a tall, slim man, of rather sallow

complexion: and it is a very singular fact, that though probably no part

of the world is more healthy than the mountainous regions of Georgia,

the mountaineers have not generally robust forms or fine complexions:

they are, however, almost inexhaustible by toil.

Moses kept us not long in suspense. His rifle was already charged, and

he fixed it upon the target with a steadiness of nerve and aim that was

astonishing to me and alarming to all the rest. A few seconds, and the

report of his rifle broke the death-like silence which prevailed.

“No great harm done yet,” said Spivey, manifestly relieved from anxiety

by an event which seemed to me better calculated to produce despair.

Firmby’s ball had cut the lower angle of the diamond, directly on a

right line with the cross.

Three or four followed him without bettering his shot; all of whom,

however, with one exception, “eat the paper.”

It now came to Spivey’s turn. There was nothing remarkable in his person

or manner. He took his place, lowered his rifle slowly from a

perpendicular, until it came on a line with the mark—held it there like

a vise for a moment, and fired.

“Pretty _seoigrous_, but nothing killing yet,” said Billy Curlew, as he

learned the place of Spivey’s ball.

Spivey’s ball had just broken the upper angle of the diamond, beating

Firmby about half its width.

A few more shots, in which there was nothing remarkable, brought us to

Billy Curlew. Billy stept out with much confidence, and brought the

soap-stick to an order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt

sleeves. Had I judged Billy’s chance by the looks of his gun, I should

have said it was hopeless. The stock of soap-stick seemed to have been

made with a case-knife, and had it been, the tool would have been but a

poor apology for its clumsy appearance.

An augur hole in the breech served for a grease-box, a cotton string

assisted a single screw in holding on the lock, and the thimbles were

made, one of brass, one of iron, and one of tin.

“Where’s Lark Spivey’s bullet?” called out Billy to the judges, as he

finished rolling up his sleeves.

“About three quarters of an inch from the cross,” was the reply.

“Well, clear the way! the soap-stick’s a coming, and she’ll be along in

there among ’em presently.”

Billy now planted himself a-straddle, like an inverted V, shot forward

his left hip, drew his body back to an angle of about forty-five degrees

with the plane of the horizon, brought his cheek down close to the

breech of old soap-stick, and fixed her upon the mark with an

untrembling hand. His sight was long, and the swelling muscles of his

left arm led me to believe that he was lessening his chance of success

with every half second that he kept it burdened with his ponderous

rifle; but it neither flagged nor wavered until soap-stick made her

report.

“Where am I?” said Billy, as the smoke rose from before his eye.

“You’ve just touched the cross on the lower side,” was the reply of one

of the judges.

“I was afraid I was drawing my bead a _leetle_ too fine,” said Billy.

“Now, Lyman, you see what the soap-stick can do. Take her, and show the

boys how you used to do when you were a baby.”

I begged to reserve my shot to the last; pleading, rather sophistically,

that it was, in point of fact, one of Billy’s shots. My plea was rather

indulged than sustained; and the marksmen who had taken more than one

shot commenced the second round. This round was a manifest improvement

upon the first. The cross was driven three times, once by Spivey, once

by Firmby, and once by no less a personage than Mealy Whitecotton, whom

chance seemed to favour for this time, merely that he might retaliate

upon Hiram Baugh; and the bull’s-eye was disfigured out of all shape.

The third and fourth rounds were shot. Billy discharged his last shot,

which left the rights of parties thus; Billy Curlew first and fourth

choice, Spivey second, Firmby third, and Whitecotton fifth. Some of my

readers may be curious to learn how a distinction comes to be made

between several, all of whom drive the cross. The distinction is

perfectly natural and equitable. Threads are stretched from the

uneffaced parts of the once interesting lines, by means of which the

original position of the cross is precisely ascertained. Each

bullet-hole being nicely pegged up as it is made, it is easy to

ascertain its circumference. To this, I believe, they usually, if not

invariably, measure where none of the balls touch the cross; but if the

cross be driven, they measure from it to the centre of the bullet hole.

To make a draw shot, therefore, between two who drive the cross, it is

necessary that the centre of both balls should pass directly through the

cross—a thing that very rarely happens.

The _bite_ alone remained to shoot. Billy wiped out his rifle carefully,

loaded her to the top of his skill, and handed her to me.

“Now,” said he, “Lyman, draw a fine bead, but not too fine; for

soap-stick bears up her ball well. Take care, and don’t touch the

trigger until you’ve got your bead; for she’s spring-triggered, and goes

mighty easy; but you hold her to the place you want her, and if she

don’t go there, dang old Roper.”

I took old soap-stick, and lapsed immediately into the most hopeless

despair. I’m sure I never handled as heavy a gun in all my life.

“Why, Billy,” said I, “you little mortal, you! what do you use such a

gun as this, for?”

“Look at the bull’s-eye, yonder,” said he.

“True,” said I; “but I can’t shoot her—it is impossible.”

“Go ’long, you old coon,” said Billy; “I see what you’re at.”

(Intimating that all this was merely to make the coming shot the more

remarkable.) “Daddy’s little boy don’t shoot anything but the old

soap-stick, here, to-day, I know.”

The judges, I knew, were becoming impatient, and, withal, my situation

was growing more embarrassing every second; so I e’en resolved to try

the soap-stick, without farther parley.

I stept out, and the most intense interest was excited all around me,

and it flashed like electricity round the target, as I judged from the

anxious gaze of all in that direction.

Policy dictated that I should fire with a falling rifle, and I adopted

this mode, determining to fire as soon as the sights came on a line with

the diamond, _bead_ or _no bead_. Accordingly, I commenced lowering old

soap-stick; but, in spite of all my muscular powers, she was strictly

obedient to the laws of gravitation, and came down with an uniformly

accelerated velocity. Before I could arrest her downward flight, she had

not only passed the target, but was making rapid encroachments on my own

toes.

“Why, he’s the weakest man in the arms I ever seed,” said one, in a half

whisper.

“It’s only his fun,” said Billy; “I know him.”

“It may be fun,” said the other, “but it looks mightily like yearnest to

a man up a tree.”

I now, of course, determined to reverse the mode of firing, and put

forth all my physical energies to raise soap-stick to the mark. The

effort silenced Billy, and gave tongue to his companions. I had just

strength enough to master soap-stick’s obstinate proclivity, and

consequently my nerves began to exhibit palpable signs of distress with

her first imperceptible movement upward.

A trembling commenced in my arms, increased and extended rapidly to my

body and lower extremities, so that, by the time I brought soap-stick up

to the mark, I was shaking from head to foot, exactly like a man under

the continued action of a strong galvanic battery. In the meantime, my

friends gave vent to their feelings freely.

“I swear, point blank,” said one, “that man can’t shoot.”

“He used to shoot well,” said another; “but can’t now, nor never could.”

“You better git away from ’bout that mark,” bawled a third; “for I’ll be

d——d if Broadcloth don’t give some of you the dry gripes, if you stand

too close there.”

“The stranger’s got the _Peedoddles_,” said a fourth, with humorous

gravity.

“If he had bullets enough in his gun, he’d shoot a ring round the

bull’s-eye, big as a spinning-well,” said a fifth.

As soon as I found that soap-stick was high enough (for I made no

further use of the sights, than to ascertain this fact), I pulled the

trigger, and off she went.

I have always found the most creditable way of relieving myself of

derision, was to heighten it myself as much as possible. It is a good

plan in all circles, but by far the best which can be adopted among the

plain, rough farmers of the country. Accordingly, I brought old

soap-stick to an order with an air of triumph, tipped Billy the wink,

and observed:

“Now Billy’s your time to make your fortune. Bet ’em two to one that

I’ve knocked out the cross.”

“No, I’ll be dod blamed if I do,” said Billy; “but I’ll bet you two to

one that you ha’nt hit the plank.”

“Ah, Billy,” said I, “I was joking about betting, for I never bet, nor

would I have you bet; indeed, I do not feel exactly right in shooting

for beef, for it is a species of gaming, at last; but I’ll say this

much, if that cross has not been knocked out, I’ll never shoot for beef

again as long as I live.”

“By dod,” said Mealy Whitecotton, “you’ll lose no great things at that.”

“Well,” said I, “I reckon I know a little about wabbling. Is it

possible, Billy, a man who shoots as well as you do, never practised

shooting with the double wabble? It’s the greatest take in, in the

world, when you learn to drive the cross with it. Another sort for

getting bets upon, to the drop sight and single wabble; and the

soap-stick’s the very yarn for it.”

“Tell you what, stranger,” said one; “you’re too hard for us all, here.

We never _hearn_ o’ that sort o’ shoot’n in these parts.”

“Well,” returned I, “you’ve seen it now, and I’m the boy that can do

it.”

The judges were now approaching with the target, and a singular

combination of circumstances had kept all my party in utter ignorance of

the result of my shot.

Those about the target had been prepared for a great shot from me; their

expectations had received assurance from the courtesy which had been

extended to me; and nothing had happened to disappoint them, but the

single caution against the “dry gripes,” which was as likely to have

been given in irony as in earnest; for my agonies under the weight of

the soap-stick were either imperceptible to them, at the distance of

sixty yards, or being visible, were taken as the flourishes of an

expert, who wished to “astonish the natives.” The other party did not

think the direction of my ball worth the trouble of a question; or if

they did, my airs and harangues had put the thought to flight before it

was delivered. Consequently, they were all transfixed with astonishment,

when the judges presented the target to them, and gravely observed:

“It’s only second best, after all the fuss.”

“Second best!” exclaimed I, with uncontrollable transports.

The whole of my party rushed to the target, to have the evidence of

their senses, before they would believe the report; but most marvellous

fortune decreed that it should be true. Their incredulity and

astonishment were most fortunate for me, for they blinded my hearers to

the real feelings with which the exclamation was uttered, and allowed me

sufficient time to prepare myself for making the best use of what I had

said before, with a very different object.

“Second best!” reiterated I, with an air of despondency, as the company

turned from the target to me; “second best, only! Here, Billy, my son,

take the old soap-stick; she’s a good piece, but I’m getting too old and

dim-sighted to shoot a rifle; especially with the drop sight and double

wabbles.”

“Why, darn my buttons!” said Billy, with a look that baffles all

description; “ain’t you _driv_ the cross!”

“Oh, driv the cross,” rejoined I, carelessly. “What’s that? Just look

where my ball is! I do believe, in my soul, its centre is a quarter of

an inch from the cross. I wanted to lay the centre of the bullet upon

the cross, just as if you’d put it there with your fingers.”

Several received this palaver with a contemptuous, but very appropriate,

curl of the nose; and Mealy Whitecotton offered to bet half-a-pint,

“that I couldn’t do the like agin, with no sort of wabbles, he didn’t

care what.”

But I had fortified myself on this quarter by my morality. A decided

majority, however, were clearly of opinion that I was serious; and they

regarded me as one of the wonders of the world. Billy increased the

majority by now coming out fully with my history, as he had received it

from his father; to which I listened, with quite as much astonishment as

any other one of his hearers. He begged me to go home with him for the

night, or, as he expressed it, “go home with him, and swap lies that

night, and it shouldn’t cost me a cent;” the true reading of which is,

that if I would go home with him, and give him the pleasure of an

evening’s chat about old times, his house should be as free to me as my

own. But I could not accept his hospitality, without retracing five or

six miles of the road which I had already passed; and therefore I

declined it.

“Well, if you won’t go, what must I tell the old woman for you? for

she’ll be mighty glad to hear from the boy that won the

silk-handkerchief for her; and I expect she’ll lick me for not bringing

you home with me.”

“Tell her,” said I, “that I send her a quarter of beef, which I won as I

did the handkerchief, by nothing in the world but mere good luck.”

“Hold your jaw, Lyman,” said Billy; “I ain’t a gwine to tell the old

woman any such lies; for she’s a _rael_, reg’lar built Meth’dist.”