MR. MUDGE has just arrived in San Diego from Arkansas; he brings with
him four yoke of oxen, seventeen American cows, nine American children,
and Mrs. Mudge. They have encamped in the rear of our office, pending
the arrival of the next coasting steamer.
Mr. Mudge is about thirty-seven years of age, his hair is light, not a
"sable silvered," but a _yaller_ gilded; you can see some of it sticking
out of the top of his hat; his costume is the national costume of
Arkansas, coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons of homespun cloth, dyed a
brownish yellow, with a decoction of the bitter barked butternut--a
pleasing alliteration; his countenance presents a determined, combined
with a sanctimonious expression, and in his brightly gleaming eye--a red
eye we think it is--we fancy a spark of poetic fervor may be
distinguished.
Mr. Mudge called on us yesterday. We were eating watermelon. Perhaps the
reader may have eaten watermelon, if so, he knows how difficult a thing
it is to speak, when the mouth is filled with the luscious fruit, and
the slippery seed and sweet though embarrassing juice is squizzling out
all over the chin and shirt-bosom. So at first we said nothing, but
waved with our case knife toward an unoccupied box, as who should say
sit down. Mr. Mudge accordingly seated himself, and removing his hat
(whereat all his hair sprang up straight like a Jack in a box), turned
that article of dress over and over in his hands, and contemplated its
condition with alarming seriousness.
"Take some melon, Mr. Mudge," said we, as with a sudden bolt we
recovered our speech and took another slice ourself. "No, I thank you,"
replied Mr. Mudge, "I wouldn't choose any, now."
There was a solemnity in Mr. Mudge's manner that arrested our attention;
we paused, and holding a large slice of watermelon dripping in the air,
listened to what he might have to say.
"Thar was a very serious accident happened to us," said Mr. Mudge, "as
we wos crossin' the plains. 'Twas on the bank of the Peacus river. Thar
was a young man named Jeames Hambrick along and another young feller, he
got to fooling with his pistil, and he shot Jeames. He was a good young
man and hadn't a enemy in the company; we buried him thar on the Peacus
river, we did, and as we went off, these here lines sorter passed
through my mind." So saying, Mr. Mudge rose, drew from his pocket--his
waistcoat pocket--a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it over. Then he
drew from his coat-tail pocket, a large cotton handkerchief, with a red
ground and yellow figure, slowly unfolded it, blew his nose--an awful
blast it was--wiped his eyes, and disappeared. We publish Mr. Mudge's
lines, with the remark, that any one who says they have no poets or
poetry in Arkansas, would doubt the existence of William Shakspeare: