-----
[1] See Introduction to Biglow’s Papers, p. xix.
[2] See Introduction to Dictionary of Americanisms, p. xxiv, and
Biglow’s Papers.
[3] See Introduction to Biglow’s Papers, p. xxiv.
[4] Introduction to Dictionary of Americanisms.
[5] See Dictionary of Americanisms.
[6] See Porter’s account of “The Spirit of the Times.”
C O N T E N T S
O F
T H E T H I R D V O L U M E.
I.
PAGE
THE THIMBLE GAME 1
II.
MIKE HOOTER’S BAR STORY 22
III.
COUSIN GUSS 30
IV.
THE GANDER-PULLING 34
V.
HOW MIKE HOOTER CAME VERY NEAR “WALLOPING” ARCH COONEY 48
VI.
AN INTERESTING INTERVIEW 61
VII.
BEN WILSON’S LAST JUG-RACE 70
VIII.
MIKE FINK IN A TIGHT PLACE 79
IX.
OUR SINGING-SCHOOL 88
X.
WHERE JOE MERIWEATHER WENT TO 106
XI.
GEORGIA THEATRICS 114
XII.
TAKING THE CENSUS 120
XIII.
A FAMILY PICTURE 129
XIV.
COLONEL JONES’S FIGHT 136
XV.
THE FASTEST FUNERAL ON RECORD 147
XVI.
OLD TUTTLE’S LAST QUARTER RACE 154
XVII.
SPEECH ON THE OREGON QUESTION 160
XVIII.
BILL DEAN, THE TEXAN RANGER 165
XIX.
THE FIRE-HUNT 169
XX.
A PAIR OF SLIPPERS 188
XXI.
A SWIM FOR A DEER 202
XXII.
DILLY JONES; OR, THE PROGRESS OF IMPROVEMENT 214
XXIII.
LANTY OLIPHANT IN COURT 224
XXIV.
OLD SINGLETIRE 229
XXV.
MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP 234
XXVI.
DOWN-EAST CURIOSITY 314
XXVII.
A SAGE CONVERSATION 319
T R A I T S
OF
A M E R I C A N H U M O U R.
I.
THE THIMBLE GAME.
Forty years ago, Augusta, Ga., presented a very different appearance
from the busy and beautiful city of the present day. Its groceries,
stores, and extensive warehouses were few in number, and the large
quantities of cotton and other produce, which are still conveyed
thither, were transported entirely by waggons. The substantial railroad,
which links it with the richest and most beautiful regions of the empire
state of the South, was a chimera, not yet conceived in the wild brain
of Fancy herself; and many of the improvements, luxuries and
refinements, which now make it the second city in the state, were then
“in the shell.” _Yet_, by the honest yeomanry of forty years ago,
Augusta was looked upon as Paris and London are now viewed by us. The
man who had _never_ been there was a cipher in the community—nothing
killed an opinion more surely, nothing stopped the mouth of “argyment”
sooner, than the sneering taunt: “Pshaw! you ha’n’t been to _Augusty_.”
The atmosphere of this favoured place was supposed to impart knowledge
and wisdom to all who breathed it, and the veriest ass was a Solon, and
an umpire, if he could discourse fluently of the different localities,
and various wonders, of _Augusty_.
The farmers of the surrounding country paid a yearly visit to Augusta,
and having sold their “_crap_” of the great Southern staple, and laid in
their stock of winter necessaries, returned home with something of that
holy satisfaction with which the pious Mohammedan turns his face
homeward from Mecca. The first step upon arriving in the city was to lay
aside their “_copperas-coloured_,” fabrics of the wife’s or daughter’s
loom, and purchase a new suit of “_store_-clothes.”
These were immediately donned, and upon returning home were carefully
embalmed, nor again permitted to see the light until the next Sunday at
“meetin’,” when the farmer, with head erect and ample shirt-collar,
strutted up the aisle, the lion of the occasion, the “observed of all
observers” till the next Sabbath, when his neighbour returning with
_his_ new suit, plucked off his laurels and twined them green and
blooming upon the crown of his own shilling beaver.
These annual trips were _the event_ and _era_ of the year, and the
farmer returned to his home big with importance and news. The dishonesty
and shrewdness of “them Gimblit fellers,” (Cotton-Buyers,) the
extortions of hotel-keepers, the singular failures of warehouse
steelyards to make cotton-bales weigh as much in Augusta as at home, the
elegant apparel of the city belles and beaux, and the sights and scenes
which greeted their astonished gaze, formed the year’s staple of
conversation and discussion; and it would be difficult to say who
experienced the greater delight—the farmer in relating his wondrous
adventures, or his wife and daughters in listening to them with open
mouths, uplifted hands, and occasional breathless ejaculations of “Good
Lord, look down!” “Oh! go away!” or, “Shut up!” “You don’t ses so!”
Early in the fall of 18–, Farmer Wilkins announced to his son Peter,
that as he, “his daddy,” would be too busy to make the usual trip in
_propria persona_, he, Peter, must get ready to go down to Augusty, and
sell the “first load.” Now Peter Wilkins, jun., a young man just grown,
was one of the celebrities of which his settle_ment_ (neighbourhood)
boasted. He was supposed to have cut his eye-teeth—to have shaken off
that verdancy so common to young men; and while he filled up more than
half his father’s capacious heart, to the discomfiture of Mahaly (his
mother), and Suke and Poll (his sisters), he was the pet and darling of
the whole neighbourhood. An only son, the old man doted upon him as a
chip of the old block, and was confident that Peter, in any emergency of
trade, traffic, or otherwise, would display that admirable tact, and
that attentive consideration for “No. One,” for which Mr. P. Wilkins,
sen., was noted. A horse-swap with a Yankee, in which Peter, after half
an hour’s higgling, found himself the undisputed owner of both horses
and ten dollars boot, was the corner-stone of his fame. Every trip to
Augusta added another block; and by the time Peter arrived at the years
of discretion, he stood upon a lofty structure with all the green rubbed
off, the pride of his family and the universal favourite of his
acquaintances.
The night before his departure the family were all gathered around the
roaring fire, Mrs. and the Misses Wilkins engaged in ironing and mending
our hero’s Sunday apparel, the old man smoking his pipe, and
occasionally preparing Peter for the ordeal in Augusta, by wholesome
advice, or testing his claim to the tremendous confidence about to be
reposed in him, by searching questions, as to how he would do in case
so-and-so was to turn up. To this counsel, however, our hero paid less
attention than to the preparations making around him for his comely
appearance in the city. Nor, until he got upon the road, did he revolve
in his mind the numerous directions of his father, or resolve to follow
to the letter his solemn parting injunction to “bewar of them gimblit
fellers down to Augusty.”
“Durn it,” said he to himself, as the thought of being “sold” crossed
his mind, “durn it, they’ll never make gourds out o’ me. _I’ve_ bin to
Augusty _before_, and ef I don’t git as much fur that thur cotton as
anybody else does for thurn, then my name ain’t Peter Wilkins, and
that’s what the old ’oman’s slam book says it is.”
Arrived in the city, he drove around to one of the warehouses, and stood
against the brick wall, awaiting a purchaser. Presently a little man
with a long gimblet in his hand came out, and bade our hero a polite
“Good morning.”
“Mornin’,” said Peter, with admirable coolness, as he deliberately
surveyed the little man from head to foot, and withdrew his eyes as if
not pleased with his appearance.
The little man was dressed in the “shabby-genteel” style, a costume much
in vogue at that day among men of his cloth, as combining plainness
enough for the country-folk, with sufficient gentility to keep them on
speaking terms with the more fashionable denizens of the then
metropolis. The little man seemed in no way disconcerted by Peter’s
searching gaze, and a close observer might have perceived a slight smile
on his lip, as he read the thoughts of our hero’s bosom. His
self-confidence, his pride, his affected ease and knowing air, were all
comprehended, and ere a word had passed the lion knew well the character
of his prey. In the purchase of the cotton, however, the little man
sought no advantage, and even offered our hero a better price than any
one else in the city would have given him. To our hero’s credit, be it
said, he was not loth to accept the offer; 15 1/2 cents was above the
market, by at least a quarter, and the old man had told him to let it
slide at fifteen rather than not sell, so the bargain was closed, and
our hero and the “Gimblit-man” went out into the yard to settle.
Seating himself on a cotton-bale, the buyer counted out the money, which
our hero made safe in his pocket, after seeing that it was “_giniwine_,”
and tallied with the amount stated in the bill of sale. A few sweet
pills of flattery administered to our hero, soon made him and the
Gimblit-man sworn friends; and it was in consideration of his high
regard, that the Gimblit-man consented to initiate him into the
mysteries of a certain game, yclept “Thimble Rig,” a game which, our
hero was told, would yield him much sport, if successfully played up at
home among the boys; and would, when properly managed, be to him a
never-failing source of that desirable article, “pocket-change.” To this
proposition our hero readily assented, delighted with the idea of
playing off upon the boys up at home, who hadn’t been to Augusty; and
already began to revel in the visions of full pockets, when, to his
silent horror, the little man took from his pocket a hundred-dollar
bill, and very irreverently rolled it into a small round ball.
Three thimbles were next produced, and the game began.
“Now,” said the little man, “I am going to hide this little ball under
one of these thimbles, all before your eyes, and I want you to guess
where it is.”
“Well,” said Peter, “go it—I’m ready,” and the shifting game begun.
To the apparent astonishment of the little man, our hero guessed right
every time. No matter how rapid the changes, Peter invariably lifted the
thimble from the ball, and had begun to grow disgusted with the game,
little dreaming how soon he was to prove its efficacy as a source of
revenue, when the little man suddenly checked his hand.
“Wrong,” said he, with a friendly smile; “the ball is not under the
middle thimble, but under that next you.”
“Darned ef it is though!” responded Peter; “I ain’t as green as you
’Gusty folks thinks. Blamed ef I don’t know whar that ball is jist as
well as you does, and dod-drapped ef I don’t bet four hundred and
fifty-one dollars no cents (the price of the cotton) agin the load o’
cotton, that it’s under the middle thimble.”
“No, _Sir_,” said the little man, with another smile, “you are wrong,
and I’d hate to win your money.”
That smile deceived Peter—it manifested a friendly consideration for
his welfare, which he felt he did not need, and after bullying the
“Gimblit-man” for a few minutes, he succeeded in inveigling him (as he
thought) into a bet, which was duly closed and sealed, to the entire
satisfaction of his _friend_! Alas for poor Peter! he had awakened the
wrong passenger. But the idea of being too smart for an Augusty feller,
and he was sure he had cornered one this time, was too great a
temptation for him to withstand.
“Drot it,” said he to himself, “I seen him put it under that ere middle
thimble, I seen it myself, and I know it’s thar, and why not win the old
man’s cotton back when it’s jest as easy as nothin’? And ef I do win it,
why in course the old man can’t claim more’n four hundred and fifty-one
dollars no how.” (Peter forgot that the profits to be realized ought of
course to belong to the owner of the capital invested.) “The time me and
that Yankee swapped critters, warn’t I thar? Hain’t I cut my gums? Don’t
the old man, yes, and all the settle_ment_, say I’m smart, and then
thar’s Kitty Brown, I reckon she ort to know, and don’t she say I’m the
peertest feller in our parts? _I’ve_ bin to Augusty, and this time,
dod-drapped ef I don’t leave my mark.”
The result we need hardly relate. Peter was tempted—tempted sorely, and
he fell. Sick at heart, he ordered Bob, the driver, to turn his mules
homeward, and late on Saturday evening he entered the lane which led to
his father’s house. The blow was now to come; and some time before the
waggon got to the house, Peter saw his father, and mother, and sisters
coming out to meet him. At last they met.
“Well, son,” said the old man, “I s’pose you’ve been well?”
Here Mrs. Wilkins and the gals commenced hugging and kissing Peter,
which he took very coldly, and with the air of a man who felt he was
getting a favour which he didn’t deserve.
“Reasonably well,” said Peter, in reply to his father’s question; “but
I’ve lost it.”
“Lost what?” said his father.
“Lost _it_.”
“Lost the dockyments?” said the old man.
“No, here they are,” said Peter, handing the papers containing the
weights of his cotton, to his father, who began to read, partly aloud,
and partly to himself:
“‘Eight bags of cotton—350—400—348—550—317—15½ cents a pound—sold
to Jonathan Barker.’ Very good sale,” said he; “I knowed you’d fix
things rite, Peter.”
The waggon by this time had reached the house, and turning to Bob, the
old man told him to put the molasses in the cellar, and the sugar and
coffee in the house.
“Ain’t got no ’lasses, Massa,” said Bob, grinning from ear to ear.
“No,” said Peter, “we havn’t got none; we lost it.”
“Lost it! How on airth could you lose a barrel of molasses?”
“We never had it,” said Bob.
“Heavens and airth!” said the old man, turning first to Bob, and then to
Peter, “what do you mean? What do you mean? _What_, _what_, w-h-a-t in
the d-e-v-i-l _do_ you mean?”
“Gracious, Marster! Mr. Wilkins, don’t swar, so,” said his wife, by way
of helping Peter out.
“_Swar!_” said the farmer, “do you call _that_ swarring? Darned ef I
don’t say wussin that d’recley, ef they don’t tell me what they mean.”
“Why, father,” said Peter, “I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the money.”
“Well, and couldn’t you find it?”
“I didn’t lose it that way,” said Peter.
“You ain’t been a gamblin’ I hopes,” said the old man; “you ain’t been
runnin’ agin none of them Pharo banks down to Augusty, is you?”
“Bring me three thimbles,” said Peter, “and I’ll show you how I lost
it.”
The thimbles were brought, and Peter sat down to explain. It was a scene
for a painter: there sat our hero, fumbling with the thimbles and the
ball, but too much frightened to have performed the trick if he had
known how; his father sat next him, with his chin upon his hands,
looking as if undecided whether to reprimand him at once, or to give him
a “fair showin’.” Mrs. Wilkins stood just behind her husband, winking
and smiling, gesturing and hemming, in order to attract Peter’s
attention, and indicate to him her willingness to stand between him and
his father. The girls, who always sided with their mother, followed her
example in this case. But their efforts to attract his attention were
useless; they could not even catch his eye, so busy was he in trying to
arrange the ball and thimbles; but every time he got them fixed, and
told his father to guess, the old man would guess right, which, while it
astonished Peter, incensed the old man against him. It looked so easy to
him, that he could not help “blaming Pete fur bein’ sich a fool.”
“Shorely,” said the farmer, after Peter had finished his
explanation—“shorely it ain’t _possible_ that you’ve bin to Augusty _so
often_, and didn’t know no better. Didn’t I tell you not to have nothin’
to do with them _Gimblit Fellers_? Ther ain’t one of ’em honest, not
one. Like a fool, you’ve gone and lost jest four hundred and fifty-one
dollars no cents. It ain’t the munny that I keers for, Peter, it’s you
bein’ sich a fool—_four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents_. I’ll
go rite down to Augusty next Monday, and find this here Barker, and ef
he don’t give up the munny, I’ll have a _say so_ (ca. sa.) taken agin
him, and march him rite off to gaol—no deaf-allication about that. The
theavin’ rascal, gwine about cheetin’ people’s sons outin four hundred
and fifty-one dollars no cents? How often is you bin to Augusty, Peter?”
“Sixteen times,” said Peter.
“Well, I declare,” said the old man; “bin to Augusty sixteen times, and
didn’t know no better than to go thar agin and lose four hundred and
fifty-one dollars no cents!”
Early on Monday morning the old man started to Augusta with another load
of cotton; Bob driving as before, and his master riding his gray mare
“Bets.” Mr. Wilkins had a great many little commissions to execute for
his wife and the _gals_. The old lady wanted a pair of spectacles, and
the gals a bonnet each—ribbons and flowers, thread, buttons, &c., had
to be purchased, and the good farmer was nearly crazed by the loss he
had met with, and the multiplicity of things to be attended to. Ever and
anon, as he trotted along the road, he would mutter to himself something
as follows:
“Leghorn bonnet for Sal—12 skeins of flax thread—2 dozen pearl buttons
for pants—one gross horn buttons for shirts—5 grass petticoats—100
pounds coffee—451 dollars no cents—Jonathan Barker—bin to Augusty
sixteen times—1 bolt kaliker—Pete’s a fool—lost one barrel of
molasses and 451 dollars no cents.”
With such words as these he would while away the time, apparently
unconscious of the presence of Bob, who was much diverted by his
master’s soliloquy. As they approached Augusta, his wrath seemed to
increase, and he vented his spleen on his old mare and Bob.
“Bob,” said he, “you dad-dratted rascal, why don’t you drive up? you
don’t do nothin’ but set thar and sleep.
“Take _that_, and _that_, and _that_,” he would say to his mare,
accompanying each word with a blow; “_git up, Miss, and go long to
Augusty_.”
When they had come in sight of Augusta, Bob struck a camp, and his
master rode on into town. Having eaten his supper, and put up his horse,
he retired for the night, and early in the morning started out to look
for Jonathan Barker. He caused not a little laughter as he walked along
the streets, relating his troubles, and inquiring of everybody for
Jonathan Barker.
“Where’s Jonathan Barker,” he would cry out, “the Gimblit Feller what
cheeted Pete out’n 451 dollars no cents. Jes show me Jonathan Barker.”
As a last hope, he went around to the warehouse, where his son had lost
the cotton. Walking out into the yard, he bawled out the name of
Jonathan Barker. A little man, with a long gimlet in his hand, answered
to the name, and our farmer attacked him as follows:
“Look a here, Mr. Barker, I wants that money.”
“What money?” said Barker, who had no acquaintance whatever with the
farmer; “what money is it, Sir?”
“Oh no,” said the old man, perfectly furious at such barefaced
assurance. “Oh no! you don’t know _nuthin’_ now. Blame your picter,
you’re as innersent as a lam’. Don’t know what munny I _meen_? It’s that
four hundred and fifty-one dollars, and _no_ cents, what you cheeted
Pete out’n.”
“I recollect now,” said Barker, “that was fairly done, Sir; if you’ll
just step this way, I’ll show you how I got it, Sir.”
A bright idea struck the old man.
“I’ve seen Pete play it,” thought he to himself, “and I guessed _rite
every time_.
“Well,” said he, “I’ll go and see how it was dun, ennyhow.”
The two walked along to the same bale of cotton which had witnessed the
game before, and the gimlet man took the identical thimbles and ball
which had served him before, from his pocket, and sat down, requesting
the farmer to be seated also.
“Now, Sir,” said Barker, “when your son was here, I bought his cotton,
and paid him for it: just as he was going away, I proposed showing him a
trick worth seeing. I took this little ball, and put it under this
middle thimble.
“‘Now,’ said I to him, ‘you see it, and now you don’t see it; and I’ll
bet you you can’t tell where the little joker is.’”
“Well,” said the farmer, “all’s rite—the ball’s now under the middle
thimble.”
“When I had put it under there,” continued Barker, “your son wanted to
bet me that it was under the middle thimble.”
“So it is,” said the old man, interrupting him.
“No,” returned Barker, “it’s under the one next you.”
“I tell you it ain’t,” said Mr. Wilkins, who strongly advocated the
doctrine that “seeing is believing.”
He was sure he was right, and now a chance presented itself of regaining
his former load of cotton.
“I tell you it ain’t. I’m harder to head than Pete wus, and blamed ef I
don’t bet another load o’ cotton, that’s at the dore by this time.”
“You are mistaken,” said Barker, smiling; “but if you wish it, I’ll
bet.”
“Let’s understand one nuther fust,” said the farmer. “You say that ere
little ball you had jes now, ain’t under the little thimble in the
middle—I say it is. Ef it ain’t, I’m to give you the load o’ cotton—ef
it is, you’re to give me four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents.”
“Exactly so,” said Barker.
“Well, I’ll bet,” said the farmer, “and here’s my hand.”
The bet was sealed, and with a triumphant air which he but poorly
concealed, the farmer snatched up the middle thimble, but no ball was
there.
“Well, I’ll be dod drapt!” he exclaimed, at the same time drawing a long
breath, and dropping the thimble. “Derned ef it’s _thar_! Four hundred
and fifty-one dollars no cents gone _agin_! Heven and airth, what’ll
Mahaly and the gals say! I’ll never heer the eend of it tel I’m in my
grave. Then thar’s Pete! _Gee-mi-my! jest_ to think o’ Pete—fur _him_
to know his ole daddy wus made a fool of too! four hundred and fifty-one
dollars no cents! but I wouldn’t keer _that_ for it,” snapping his
fingers, “ef it wern’t fur Pete.”
The Gimblit man reminded our friend of the result of his bet, by telling
him that the sooner he unloaded the better.
“Now you ain’t, shore ’nuff, in _yearnest_,” said the old man.
“Dead earnest,” returned Barker.
“Well, stranger,” added our friend, “I’se a honest man, and stands squar
up to my contracts.”
With this he had his cargo discharged into the street, and ordering Bob
to drive on, he mounted his mare, and set out for home with a heavier
heart than he had ever known before. ’Twere useless to attempt a
description of the scene which transpired on the farmer’s return home.
The first words he uttered were, “Pete, durned ef I hain’t lost it too.”
The misfortunes of his trip were soon all told, after which Peter and
his father wisely resolved never to bet on anything again, especially
“them blamed Yankee Thimbles.”
It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Wilkins, Pete, or the gals, could
help teasing the old man occasionally on the result of his trip.
Whenever he became refractory, his wife would stick her thimble on the
end on her finger, and hold it up for him to look at—it acted like a
charm. His misadventure, too, raised higher than ever his opinion of the
cunning and sagacity of “_them Augusty fellers!_”
A few years succeeding the events which we have attempted to narrate,
and Farmer Wilkins was gathered to his fathers; but his trip to Augusta
is still preserved as a warning to all honest and simple-hearted people.
The last words of the old man to his son were:
“Peter, Peter, my son, always be honest, never forgit your ole daddy,
and _allers bewar_ of them Gimblit fellers, _down to Augusty_.”
Reader! every tale has its moral, nor is ours without one. Not only did
Peter learn from his adventure in Augusta, the evils of betting, but
ever since the time to which we have alluded, he always allows his
factor to sell his cotton for him. Whatever you may think of it, both
Peter and his father came to the conclusion that there was “no use in
tryin’ to git the upper hand of one o’ them _Gimblet fellers down to
Augusty_.”
II.
MIKE HOOTER’S BAR STORY.
A YAZOO SKETCH.
SHOWING HOW THE BEAR OUTWITTED IKE HAMBERLIN.
BY A MISSOURIAN.
“It’s no use talkin’,” said Mike, “’bout your Polar Bar, and your Grisly
Bar, and all that sort er varmont what you read about. They ain’t no
whar, for the big black customer that circumlocutes down in our neck o’
woods beats ’em all hollow. I’ve heard of some monsus explites kicked up
by the brown bars, sich as totein off a yoke o’ oxen, and eatin’ humans
raw, and all that kind o’ thing; and Capten Parry tells us a yarn ’bout
a big white bar, what ’muses hisself climin’ up the North Pole and
slides down to keep his hide warm; but all that ain’t a circumstance to
what I’ve saw.
“You see,” continued Mike, “there’s no countin’ on them varmonts as I’s
been usened to, for they comes as near bein’ human critters as anything
I ever see what doesn’t talk. Why, if you was to hear anybody else tell
’bout the bar-fights I’ve had, you wouldn’t b’leeve ’em, and if I wasn’t
a preacher, and could not lie none, I’d keep my fly-trap shot ’till the
day of judgment.
“I’ve heard folks say as how bars cannot think like other human
critters, and that they does all the sly tricks what they does, from
instink. Golly! what a lie! You tell me one of ’em don’t know when
you’ve got a gun, and when you ain’t? Just wait a minit, an’ my privit
’pinion is, when you’ve hearn me thro’ you’ll talk t’other side of your
mouth.
“You see, one day, long time ago, ’fore britches come in fashion, I made
a ’pointment with Ike Hamberlin the steam doctor, to go out next Sunday
to seek whom we couldn’t kill, a bar, for you know bacon was skace, and
so was money, and them fellers down in Mechanicsburg wouldn’t sell on
tick, so we had to ’pend on the varmints for a livin’.
“Speakin’ of Mechanicsburg, the people down in that ar mud-hole ain’t to
be beat nowhere this side o’ Christmas. I’ve hearn o’ mean folks in my
time, an’ I’ve preached ’bout ’em a few; but ever sense that feller,
Bonnel, sold me a pint of red eye-whiskey—an’ half ov it backer
juice—for a ’coon-skin, an’ then guv me a brass picayune fur change,
I’ve stopped talkin’. Why, that chap was closer than the bark on a
hickory tree; an’ ef I hadn’t hearn Parson Dilly say so, I’d ov swore it
wasn’t er fact, he was cotch one day stealin’ acorns from a blind hog.
Did you ever hear how that hossfly died? Well, never mind. It was too
bad to talk ’bout, but heap too good for him.
“But that ain’t what I was spoutin’ ’bout. As I was sayin’ afore, we had
to ’pend on the varmints fur a livin’. Well, Ike Hamberlin, you see, was
always sorter jubous o’ me, kase I kilt more bar nor he did; an’, as I
was sayin’, I made a ’pointment with Ike to go out huntin’. Then, Ike,
he thought he’d be kinder smart, and beat ‘Old Preach’ (as them Cole
boys usen to call me), so, as soon as day crack he hollered up his
puppies, an’ put! I spied what he was ’bout, fur I hearn him laffin’ to
one o’ his niggers ’bout it the night afore—so, I told my gal Sal to
fill my private tickler full o’ the old ‘raw,’ and then fixed up an’
tramped on arter him, but didn’t take none o’ my dogs.
“Ike hadn’t got fur into the cane, ’fore the dogs they ’gan to whine an’
turn up the har on ther backs; an’, bimeby, they all tucked tail, an’
sorter sidled back to war he was stanin’. ‘Sick him!’ says Ike, but the
cussed critters wouldn’t hunt a lick. I soon diskivered what was the
matter, for I kalkilated them curs o’ hisn wasn’t worth shucks in a bar
fight—so, I know’d thar was bar ’bout, if I didn’t see no sine.
“Well, Ike he coaxed the dogs, an’ the more he coaxed the more they
wouldn’t go, an’ when he found coaxin’ wouldn’t do, then he scolded and
called ’em some of the hardest names ever you hearn, but the tarnation
critters wouldn’t budge a peg.
“When he found they wouldn’t hunt no how he could fix it, he begin a
cussin’. He didn’t know I was thar. If he had er suspicioned it, he’d no
more swore than he’d dar’d to kiss my Sal on er washin’ day; for you see
both on us belonged to the same church, and Ike was class-leader. I
thought I should er flummuxed! The dogs they sidled back, an’ Ike he
cussed; an’ I lay down an’ rolled an’ laughed sorter easy to myself,
’til I was so full I thort I should er bust my biler. I never see
ennything so funny in all my life! There was I layin’ down behind er
log, fit to split, an’ there was the dogs with their tails the wrong
eend down, and there was Ike a rarin’ an’ er pitchin’—er rippin’ an’ er
tarrin’—an’ er cussin’ wus nor a steamboat cap’n! I tell you it fairly
made my har stan’ on eend. I never see er customer so riled afore in all
my born days. Yes I did too, once—only once. It was that feller Arch
Coony, what used to oversee for old Ben Roach. Didn’t you know that ar’
hossfly? He’s a few! well he is. Jewhilliken, how he could whip er
nigger! and swar! whew! Didn’t you ever hear him swar? I tell you, all
the sailors and French parrots in Orleans ain’t a patchin’ to him. I
hearn him let hisself out one day, and he was a caution to sinners, an’
what was wus, it was all ’bout nothin’, for he warn’t mad a wrinkle. But
all that ain’t neither here nor thar.
“But, as I was sayin’ afore, the dogs they smelt bar sine, an’ wouldn’t
budge a peg, an arter Ike had almost cussed the bark off’n a dogwood
saplin’ by, he lent his old flint-lock rifle up agin it, and then he
pealed off his old blanket an’ laid her down, too. I diskivered mischief
was er cumin’, for I never see a critter show rathy like he did.
Torectly I see him walk down to the creek bottom, ’bout fifty yards from
where his gun was, and then he ’gin pickin’ up rocks an’ slingin’ um at
the dogs like bringer! Cracky! didn’t he linkit into um? It minded me of
David whalin’ Goliath, it did! If you’d er seed him, and hearn them
holler, you’d er thought he’d er knocked the nigh sites off’n every
mother’s son of ’em!
“But that ain’t the fun yet. While Ike was er lammin’ the dogs, I hearn
the allfiredest crackin’ in the cane, an’ I looked up, and thar was one
of the eternalist whollopin’ bars cummin’ crack, crack, through the cane
an’ kerslosh over the creek, and stopped right plumb slap up whar Ike’s
gun was. Torectly he tuck hold er the ole shooter, an’ I thought I see
him tinkerin’ ’bout the lock, an’ kinder whistlin’, and blowin’ into it.
I was ’stonished, I tell you, but I wanted to see Ike outdone so bad
that I lay low and kep’ dark, an’ in about a minit Ike got done lickin’
the dogs, an’ went to git his gun. Jeemeny, criminy! if you’d only been
whar I was! I do think Ike was the maddest man that ever stuk an axe
into a tree, for his har stuck rite strait up, and his eyes glared like
two dogwood blossoms! But the bar didn’t seem to care shucks for him,
for he jist sot the old rifle rite back agin the saplin’, and walked off
on his hind legs jist like any human. Then, you see, I gin to git sorter
jelus, and sez I to myself, ‘Mister Bar,’ sez I, ‘the place whar you’s
er stanin’ ain’t prezactly healthy, an’ if you don’t wabble off from
thar purty soon, Mizis Bar will be a widder, by gum!’ With that, Ike
grabbed up ole Mizis Rifle, and tuk most pertickler aim at him, and by
hokey, she snapped! Now, sez I, ‘Mister Bar, go it, or he’ll make bacon
of you!’ But the varmint didn’t wink, but stood still as a post, with
the thumb of his right paw on the eend of his smeller, and wiglin’ his
t’other finger thus,” (and Mike went through with the gyration). “All
this time Ike he stood thar like a fool, er snappin’ and her snappin’,
an’ the bar he lookin’ kinder quare like, out er the corner o’ his eye,
an’ sorter laffin’ at him. Torectly I see Ike take down the ole shooter,
an’ kinder kersamine the lock, an’ when he done that, he laid her on his
shoulder, and shook his fist at the bar, and walked toward home, an’ the
bar he shuk his fist, an’ went into the cane brake, and then I cum off.”
Here all the Yazoo boys expressed great anxiety to know the reason why
Ike’s gun didn’t fire.
“Let’s licker fust,” said Mik, “an’ if you don’t caterpillar, you can
shoot me. Why, you see,” concluded he, “the long and short of it is
this, that the bar in our neck o’ woods has a little human in um, and
this feller know’d as much about a gun as I do ’bout preachin’; so when
Ike was lickin’ the dogs, he jest blowed all the powder outen the pan,
an’ to make all safe, he tuk the flint out too, and that’s the way he
warn’t skeered when Ike was snappin’ at him.”
III.
COUSIN GUSS.[7]
“Well, how de dew? I’m right glad to see you, I swow. I rather guess I
can say suthin’ about the _Revolution_ business, purty good varsion,
tew, by jingo. My father, old Josh Addams, had his fist in it: any on
you know him? Old Josh Addams, as well known as the Schuylkill
water-works. He was born in Boston: he didn’t die there, ’cause he died
in Philadelphia. He used to wear an old genuine ’76 coat, little cut
down to suit the fashion, made it a razee. One might have known the old
man a mile off. If it hadn’t been for Cousin Guss, he’d have been livin’
to this ere day. You may see Guss in Chestnut Street—any of you know
him?—dressed like a peacock, and got whiskers big enough to stuff a
sofa bottom. He went down t’other day to see the wild beasts in 5th
street; jest as he was comin’ away, he met a hull squad of little
children a comin’ in: when they saw Cousin Guss, if they didn’t squeal
like ten thousand devils. The old man says, what’s the matter, young
ones? Oh dear, papa, see, they’ve let one of the monkeys loose. Cousin
Guss didn’t show his face in Chestnut Street for a week. Guss telled the
old man he must have his coat cut again, and altered to the fashion; so
he coaxed old Josh to let him take it down to his artist, as he called
him, down in 3rd street. Well, the good-natured old critter said he
might: when he got it back, sich a lookin’ thing as it was, you might
have fallen down and worshipped it, without breaking the ten
commandments. When we saw it, we all larfed; sister Jedide, she
snickered right out. The old man looked at it for about a minute, didn’t
say a word, by jingo—the tears rolled out of his eyes as big as
hail-stones. He jest folded it up, put it under his pillow, laid himself
down on the bed, and never got up again: it broke his heart: he died
from a curtailed coat.
“The old man used to tell sich stories about the Revolution. I rather
guess he could say a leetle more about that affair than most folks.
’Bout six years ago he went to Boston, when La Fayette was there; they
gave a great dinner at Fanueil Hall. When the Mayor heard old Josh
Addams was in Boston, he sent him a regular built invitation. The old
man went, and wore the ’76 coat,—that is, before it was cut down,
though. Bimeby they called upon the old man for a toast. Up he got, and,
says he:
“‘Here’s to the Heroes of the Revolution, who fought, bled, and died for
their country, of which I was one.’
“When old Josh said that, they all snickered right out.
“There’s one story the old man used to tell about Boston, that was a
real snorter: he always used to laugh afore he begun.
“He said, down on Long Wharf there was a queer little feller—a cousin
of his by the mother’s side—called Zedekiah Hales, who wasn’t more than
four foot high, and had a hump jest between his shoulders. A hull squad
of British officers got round Zedekiah, in State Street, and were
laughing and poking all sorts of fun at him: he bore it, cause as how he
couldn’t help it; one of them, a regular built dandy captain, lifting up
his glass, said to him:
“‘You horrid little deformed critter, what’s that lump you’ve got on
your shoulder?’
“Zedekiah turned round and looked at him for about a minute, and says
he:
“‘It’s _Bunker Hill_, you tarnal fool, you.’”
-----
[7] By G. H. Hill.
IV.
THE GANDER-PULLING.
In the year ——, I resided in the city of Augusta, and upon visiting
the Market-House one morning in that year, my attention was called to
the following notice stuck upon one of the pillars of the building:
“ADVURTYSEMENT.
“Thos woo wish To be inform hearof, is hearof notyfide that
edwd. Prator will Giv a Gander pullin’, jis this side of
harisburg, on Satterday of thes pressent munth, to All woo mout
wish to partak tharof.
“e. Prator—thos wishin’ to partak will cum yearly, as the
pullin’ will begin Soon.—E. P.”
If I am asked why “jis this side of harisburg” was selected for the
promised feat, instead of the city of Augusta? I answer from conjecture,
but with some confidence, because the ground chosen was near the central
point between four rival towns, the citizens of all which “mout wish to
partak tharof,” namely, Augusta, Springfield, Harrisburg, and
Campbelltown. Not that each was the rival of all the others, but that
the first and last were competitors, and each of the others backed the
pretensions of its nearest neighbour.
Harrisburg sided with Campbelltown, _not because she had any interest in
seeing the business of the two states centre upon the bank of the river,
nearly opposite to her_, but because, like the “Union democratic
republican party of Georgia,” she thought, after the adoption of the
Federal Constitution, that the several towns of the confederacy should
no longer be “separated” by the distinction of local party; that laying
down all former prejudices and jealousies as a sacrifice on the altar of
their country, they should become united in a single body, for the
maintenance of those principles which they deemed essential to the
public welfare.
Springfield, on the other hand, espoused the state rights’ creed. She
admitted that, under the federal compact, she ought to love the sister
states very much; but that, under the social compact, she ought to love
her own state a little more; and she thought the two compacts perfectly
reconcilable to each other. Instead of the towns of the several states
getting into single bodies to preserve the public welfare, her doctrine
was, that they should be kept in separate bodies to preserve the private
welfare. She admitted frankly, that living as she had always lived,
right amidst gullies, vapours, fogs, creeks and lagoons, she was wholly
incapable of comprehending that expansive kind of benevolence which
taught her to love people whom she knew nothing about, as much as her
next door neighbours and friends. Until, therefore, she could learn it
from the practical operation of the federal compact, she would stick to
the old-fashioned Scotch love, which she understood perfectly, and “go
in” for Augusta, live or die, hit or miss, right or wrong.
As in the days of Mr. Jefferson, the Springfield doctrines prevailed,
Campbelltown was literally _nullified_: insomuch, that ten years ago
there was not a house left to mark the spot where once flourished this
active, busy little village. Those who are curious to know where
Springfield stood, at the time of which I am speaking, have only to take
their position at the intersection of Broad and Manbury Streets, in the
city of Augusta, and they will be in the very heart of old Springfield.
Between Harrisburg and Springfield, and eleven hundred and forty-three
yards from the latter, there runs a stream which may be perpetual. At
the time just mentioned, it flowed between banks twelve or fourteen feet
high, and was then called, as it still is, “Hawk’s Gully.”
Now Mr. Prator, like the most successful politician of the present day,
was on all sides in a doubtful contest; and accordingly he laid off his
gander-pulling ground on the nearest suitable unappropriated spot to the
centre point between Springfield and Harrisburg. This was between
Harrisburg and Hawk’s Gully, but within one hundred yards of Harrisburg.
When “Satterday of the pressent munth” rolled round, I determined to go
to the gander-pulling. When I reached the spot, a considerable number of
persons of different ages, sexes, sizes, and complexions, had collected
from the rival towns, and the country around. But few females were
there, however, and those few were from the lowest walks of life.
A circular path, of about forty yards in diameter, had already been laid
out; over which, from two posts about ten feet apart, stretched a rope,
the middle of which was directly over the path. The rope hung loosely,
so as to allow it, with the weight of a gander attached to it, to
vibrate in an arc of four or five feet span, and so as to bring the
breast of the gander within barely easy reach of a man of middle
stature, upon a horse of common size.
A hat was now handed to such as wished to enter the lists, and they
threw into it twenty-five cents each; this sum was the victor’s prize.
The devoted gander was now produced; and Mr. Prator having tied his feet
together with a strong cord, proceeded to the _neck-greasing_. Abhorrent
as it may be to all who respect the tenderer relations of life, Mrs.
Prator had actually prepared a gourd of _goose-grease_ for this very
purpose.
For myself, when I saw Ned dip his hands into it, and commence stroking
down the feathers, from breast to head, my thoughts took a melancholy
turn. They dwelt in sadness upon the many conjugal felicities which had
probably been shared between the greasess and the grease. I could see
him, as he stood by her side, through many a chilly day, and cheerless
night, when she was warming into life the offspring of their mutual
loves, and repelled, with chivalrous spirit, every invasion of the
consecrated spot which she had selected for her incubation. I could see
him moving, with patriarchal dignity, by the side of his loved one, at
the head of a smiling, prattling group, the rich reward of their mutual
care, to the luxuries of the meadow, or the recreations of the pool. And
now, alas! the smoking sacrifice of his bosom friend was desecrated to
the unholy purpose of making his neck “a fit object” for Cruelty to
reach “her quick, unerring fingers at.”
Ye friends of the sacred tie, judge what were my feelings when, in the
midst of these reflections, the voice of James Prator thundered on mine
ear:
“Durn the old dodger, Brother Ned! Grease his neck, till a fly can’t
light on it!”
Ned having fulfilled his brother Jim’s request as well as he could,
attached the victim of his cruelty to the rope, directly over the path.
On each side of the gander was stationed a man, whose office it was to
lash forward any horse which might linger there for a moment; for by the
rules of the ring, all pulling was to be done at a brisk canter.
The word was now given for the competitors to mount and take their
places in the ring. Eight appeared: Tall Zubly Zin, mounted upon Sally
Spitfire; Arch Odum, on Bull and Ingons (Onions); Nathan Perdew, on Wild
Cat; James Dickson, on Nigger; David Williams, on Gridiron; fat John
Fulger, on Slouch; Gorham Bostwick, on Gimblet; and Turner Hammond, on
Possum.
“Come, gentlemen,” said Commandant Prator, “fall in! All of you get
behind one another, sort o’ in a row.”
All came into the track very kindly, but Sally Spitfire and Gridiron.
The former, as soon as she saw a general movement of horses, took it for
granted there was mischief brewing; and because she could not tell where
it lay, she concluded it lay everywhere, and therefore took fright at
everything.
Gridiron was a grave horse; but a suspicious eye, which he cast to the
right and left wherever he moved, showed that he was “wide awake,” and
that “nobody had better not go fooling with him,” as his owner sometimes
used to say. He took a sober, but rather intense view of things;
insomuch that, in his contemplations, he passed over his track three
times, before he could be prevailed upon to stop upon it. He stopped at
last, and when he was made to understand that this was all that was
expected of him for the present, he surrendered his suspicions at once,
with a countenance which seemed plainly to say:
“Oh, if this is all you want, I’ve no objection to it.”
It was long before Miss Spitfire could be induced to do the like.
“Get another horse, Zube,” said one; “Sall will never do for a gander
pullin’.”
“I won’t,” said Zube. “If she won’t do, I’ll make her do. I want a nag
that goes off with a spring, so that when I get a hold, she’ll cut the
neck in two, like a steel trap.”
At length Sally was rather flung, than coaxed, into the track, directly
a-head of Gridiron.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the master of the ceremonies, “no man’s to make a
grab till all’s been round; and when the first man _are_ got round, then
the whole twist and tucking off you grab away, as you come under (Look
here, Jim Fulger, you’d better not stand too close to that gander, I
tell you!), one after another. Now blaze away!” (the command for an
onset of every kind, with people of this order.)
Off they went, Miss Sally delighted; for now she thought the whole
parade would end in nothing more nor less than her favourite amusement,
a race. But Gridiron’s visage, pronounced this the most nonsensical
business that ever a horse of sense was engaged in since the world
began.
For the first three rounds Zubly was wholly occupied in restraining
Sally to her place; but he lost nothing by this, for the gander had
escaped unhurt. On completing his third round, Zube stretched forth his
long arm, grabbed the gander by the neck, with a firmness which seemed
likely to defy _goose-grease_, and at the same instant, he involuntarily
gave Sally a sudden check. She raised her head, which had been kept
nearly touching her leader’s hocks; and for the first time, saw the
gander in the act of descending upon her; at the same moment she
received two pealing lashes from the whippers. The way she now broke for
Springfield “is nothin’ to nobody.” As Zube dashed down the road, the
whole circus raised a whoop after him. This started about twenty dogs,
hounds, curs, and pointers in full chase of him (for no man moved
without his dog in those days). The dogs alarmed some belled cattle,
which were grazing on Zube’s path, just as he reached them; these joined
him, with tails up, and a tremendous rattling. Just beyond these went
three tobacco-rollers, at a distance of fifty and a hundred yards apart,
each of whom gave Zube a terrific whoop, scream, or yell, as he passed.
He went in and out of Hawk’s Gully like a trap-ball, and was in
Springfield “in less than no time.” Here he was encouraged onward by a
new recruit of dogs, but they gave up the chase as hopeless before they
cleared the village. Just beyond Springfield, what should Sally
encounter but a flock of geese, the tribe to which she owed all her
misfortunes.
She stopped suddenly, and Zube went over her head with the last-acquired
velocity. He was up in a moment, and the activity with which he pursued
Sally satisfied every spectator that he was unhurt.
Gridiron, who had witnessed Miss Sally’s treatment with astonishment and
indignation, resolved not to pass between the posts until the whole
matter should be explained to his satisfaction. He therefore stopped
short, and by very intelligible looks, demanded of the whippers,
whether, if he passed between them, he was to be treated as Miss
Spitfire had been. The whippers gave him no satisfaction, and his rider
informed him by reiterated thumps of the heel that he should go through,
whether he would or not. Of these, however, Gridiron seemed to know
nothing. In the midst of the conference, Gridiron’s eye lit upon the
oscillating gander, and every moment’s survey of it begat in him a
growing interest, as his slowly rising head, suppressed breath, and
projected ears plainly evinced. After a short examination, he heaved a
sigh, and looked behind him to see if the way was clear. It was plain
that his mind was made up: but to satisfy the world that he would do
nothing rashly, he took another view, and then wheeled and went for
Harrisburg, as if he had set in for a year’s running. Nobody whooped at
Gridiron, for all saw that his running was purely the result of
philosophic deduction. The reader will not suppose that this occupied
half the time which has been consumed in telling it, though it might
have been so, without interrupting the amusement, for Miss Spitfire’s
flight had completely suspended it for a time.
The remaining competitors now went on with the sport. A few rounds
showed plainly that Odum or Bostwick would be the victor, but which no
one could tell.
Whenever either of them came round, the gander’s neck was sure of a
severe wrench. Many a half pint of Jamaica was staked upon them, besides
other things. The poor gander withstood many a strong pull before his
wailings ceased. At length, however, they were hushed by Odum. Then came
Bostwick and broke the neck. The next grasp of Odum, it was thought,
would bear away the head, but it did not. Then Bostwick was sure of it,
but he missed it. Now Odum must surely have it. All is interest and
animation. The horses sweep round with redoubled speed—every eye is
upon Odum—his backers smiling—Bostwick’s trembling. To the rope he
comes—lifts his hand—when lo! Fat John Fulger had borne it away the
second before. All were astonished—all disappointed, and some were
vexed a little: for it was now clear, that, “if it hadn’t o’ been for
his great fat paw,” to use their own language, Odum would have gained
the victory. Others inveighed against “that long-legged Zube Zin, who
was so high, he did not know when his feet were cold, for bringing such
a nag as Sall Spitfire to a gander-pullin’; for if he’d o’ been in his
place, it would have flung Bostwick right were that _gourd o’ hogs’
lard_ (Fulger) was.”
Fulger’s conduct was little calculated to reconcile them to their
disappointment.
“Come here, Neddy Prater,” said he, with a triumphant smile, “let your
Uncle Johnny put his _potato-stealer_ (hand) into that hat, and tickle
the chins of them are shiners a little. Oh you little shining critters,
walk into your Mas’ Johnny’s pocket, and jingle so as Arch Odum and Gory
Bostwick may hear you! You hear ’em, Gory? _Boys_ don’t pull with _men_.
I’ve jist got my hand in; I wish I had a pond full of ganders here now,
jist to show you how I could make their heads fly. Bet all I’ve won, you
may hang three upon that rope, and I’ll set Slouch at full speed and
take off the heads of all three, the first grab, two with my hands and
one with my teeth.”
Thus he went on, but really there was no boasting in this; it was all
fun, for John knew, and all were convinced that he knew, that his
success was entirely the result of accident. John was really a
“good-natured fellow,” and his _cavorting_ had an effect directly
opposite to that which the reader would suppose that it had—it
reconciled all to their disappointment, save one. I except Billy Mixew
of Spirit Creek, who had staked the net proceeds of six quarts of
mukle-berries upon Odum, which he had been long keeping for a safe bet.
He could not get reconciled, until he fretted himself into a pretty
little piney-woods fight, in which he got whipt; and then he went home
perfectly satisfied. Fulger spent all his winnings with Prater, in
treats to the company—made most of them drunk, and thereby produced
four Georgia _rotations_,[8] after which all parted good friends.
-----
[8] I borrowed this term from Jim Inman, at the time: “Why, Jim,” said I
to him, just as he rose from a fight, “what have you been doing?” “Oh,”
said he, “nothing but taking a little _rotation_ with Bob McManus.”
V.
HOW MIKE HOOTER
CAME VERY NEAR “WALLOPING” ARCH COONY.
In the Yazoo Hills, near the town of Sartartia, in the good State of
Mississippi, there lived at no distant date one Mike Hooter, whose
hunting and preaching adventures became famous in all the land. Besides
being a great bear-hunter and hard to beat at preaching, Mike professed
to be “considerable” of a fighter, and in a regular knock-down and
drag-out row was hard to beat.
In order that the world may not remain in darkness as to his doings in
this last behalf, and fearing lest there may be no one who entertains
for him that particularly warm regard which animates us towards him, we
have thought it incumbent on us, in evidence of our attachment for the
reverend hero, to jot down an instance that lingers in our memory
respecting him, bequeathing it as a rich legacy to remotest time.
Entertaining such partiality, we may be pardoned for following Mike in
one of his most stirring adventures, related in his peculiar and
expressive vernacular.
“I’m one of the peaceablest fellers,” said Mike, “that ever trotted on
hind legs, and rather than git into er fuss ’bout nothin’, I’d let er
chap spit on me, but when it comes to rubbin’ it in, I always in
gen’rally kinder r’ars up an’ won’t stan’ it.
“But there’s some fellers up in Yazoo what would rather git into er
scrimmage than eat; an I’ve seen er few up thar what war so hungry for
er fight, that they fell away an’ got so poor an’ thin that they had to
lean up agin er saplin’ to cuss!
“That chap Arch Coony was er few in that line. He was the durndest,
rantankerous hossfly that ever clum er tree! I’ll tell you what, ef I
hadn’t er bin thar I wouldn’t er b’leeved it: I seed him one day in
Satartia git up from er jug of whiskey, when he hadn’t drunk morn’n half
of it, and leave t’other half to spile, and go an’ pitch into er privit
spoute ’twene two Injuns, when he didn’t care er durn cent which
walloped t’other, an’ lammin’ both on um out’n ther mockasins!
“Well, you see, Arch was mighty fond o’ them kind a tricks, an’ if he
seed er fellow he thought he could lamm without no danger, he wouldn’t
make no bones, but he’d just go up to the chap and make faces at him,
and harry his feelings er bit; and ef the fellow showed spunky like,
he’d let him alone, an’ ax him to take a drink; but if he sorter tried
to sidle out of it, Arch would git as mad as all wrath, an’ swar, an’
cuss, an r’ar, an’ charge like er ram at er gate-post; and the fust
thing you knowed, he’d shuck off his coat, an’ when the feller warn’t
’spectin’ nuthin’, Arch would fetch him er side wipe on the head, and
knock him into the middle of next week.
“You see I didn’t like them sort of doings much, me, myself, I didn’t;
and I all’ays, ef ever I got er chance at Arch, I’d let him down a
buttonhole or two. He was gittin’ too high up in the pictures, ennyhow;
and sez I one day, in er crowd, sez I:
“‘Ef that feller Arch Coony don’t mind which side of his bread’s
buttered, I’ll git hold of him one of those days, an’ I’ll make him see
sights.’
“Well, you see there was two or three sheep-stealing chaps listenin’ to
what I sed, an’ they goes and tells Arch the fust chance I got I was
gwine to larrup him. Well, that riled him like all fury, and as soon as
he hearn it he begins er cussin’ like wrath, and sez he:
“‘Dod rot that ole Mike Hooter. He pertend to be a preacher. His
preachin’ ain’t nothin’ but loud hollerin’ nohow.’
“So you see them same chaps, they comes an’ tells me what Arch had sed;
an’ I got mad too, an’ we had the durndest rumpus in the neighbourhood
you ever hearn.
“I didn’t see nothing of Arch from that time till about er month. Every
time I went down to Sartatia to buy ennything—er barrel of whiskey, or
backer, or sich like truck, for privit use—I looked for Arch, an’ Arch
looked for me, but somehow or tother he never crossed my path.
“At last one day I sent him word I beleeved he was skeered of me, and
the fust chance I got I would take the starch out’n him as sure as
shooting; and he sent word back to me that was a game two could play at,
and when I wanted to try it, he’d see if he couldn’t help me.
“Well, things went on that way for er long time, an’ I didn’t see
nothing of Arch, so I begin to forgit all ’bout him. At last one day,
when me and two or three other chaps was gwine down to Big Black River
to go bar-hunting on t’other side of it, I hearn the darndest
clatter-whacking, and noise in the road behind us; and when I turned
round to see what in the name of thunder it was, thar was Arch and a
whole lot of fellers cummin’ down the road, er galloping full tilt right
up to us, an’ er gwine bar-huntin’ too.
“When I seed him I was so mad I thought I should er burst myself.
“‘Now, Mr. Arch, I’ve got you, and if you don’t keep your eye skin’d,
I’ll lick you till your hide won’t hold shucks.’
“Toreckly, Arch he cum up alongside, and looked me right plum in the
face as savage as er meat-axe; and sez he:
“‘Good mornin’ ole Preach, give us your paw.’
“I see thar was mischief in him as big as a meetin’-house, and I
’termined to give him as good as he sent, so I looked at him sorter
savigerous like, and sez I:
“‘Look here, hoss, how can you have the face to talk to me, arter saying
what you sed?’
“‘Why,’ sez he, ‘Uncle Mike, didn’t you begin it?’
“‘No,’ sez I; ‘an’ ef you sez I begun it I’ll larrup you in er inch of
your life.’
“Sez he, ‘You eternal ole cuss, ef you want to larrup me, just larrup
away as soon as you darn please, and we’ll see which ’ill get the wust
of it.’
“‘Now,’ sez I, ‘I likes you, Arch, ’cause I all’ays thought you was a
fust-rate feller; but ain’t you been ’busin’ me everywhere fur
everything you could think of?’
“‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you say you’d git hold of me one of these
days, and make me see sites?’
“‘No,’ sez I, ‘I didn’t: but this here’s what I sed, sez I, ef that
feller, Arch Cooney, don’t mind which side of his bread’s buttered, I’ll
get hold of him one of those days and make him see sites.’
“‘Well,’ sez he, ‘Uncle Mike, you knows I’m the most peace’blest feller
living, and always mind which side of my bread’s buttered, and ef that’s
all you sed, ’taint nothin’; so let’s take er drink.’
“Then he tuck out er tickler of whiskey, and arter he’d tuck three or
four swallers out’n it, sez he:
“‘Uncle Mike, obleege me by taking er horn.’
“‘No,’ sez I, ‘I won’t do no such er dog on thing, for when I likes er
chap, I likes him, and when I don’t like him, I don’t like him: but if
you wants to fight, I’m your man.’
“You oughter seen Arch then, I think he was the most maddest man that
ever wobbled on two ’hind legs.’ He rar’d an’ pitched, an’ cussed an’
swore like anything.
“When I see him cuttin’ up that way, I commence getting mad, too, an’ my
knees they begin to shake, sorter like I had er chill, an’ skeered—no,
Sir—an’ I s’posed thar was gwine to be thar devil to pay, I give you my
word. I ain’t been so wrathy before once since, and that was t’other day
when that Cain, the blacksmith, drunk up my last bottle of ‘bullface;’
and when I tacked him ’bout it, sed he thought it was milk.
“But that ein’t neither here, nor thar. As I was a sayin’, Arch he
cussed at me, an’ I cussed at him, an’ the fellers what was along of me
sed I beat him all holler. Torectly I begin to get tired of jawin’ away
so much, and sez I:
“‘Arch, what’s the use of makin’ such er all-fired rackit ’bout nothin’.
S’pose we make it up?’
“‘Good as wheat,’ sez he.
“‘Well,’ sez I, ‘give us your paw,’ sez I, ‘but,’ sez I, ‘thar’s one
thing you sed, what sorter sticks in my craw yet, an’ if you don’t
pollogize, I’ll wallop you for it right now.’
“‘What does you mean?’ sez he.
“Sez I, ‘Didn’t you sed one day that my preachin’ warn’t nothin’ but
loud hollerin’?’
“‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you send me word one time that you b’lieved
I was skeered of you, an’ the fust chance you got you’d take the starch
out’n me, as sure as er gun.’
“Sez I, ‘Yes, but what does that signify?’
“‘Well,’ sez he, ‘ef you’ll take back what you sed, I’ll take back what
I sed.’
“Then I begin to get as mad as all wrath, and, sez I:
“‘You eternal sheep-stealin’ whiskey-drinkin’, nigger-lammin’,
bow-legged, taller-faced rascal, does you want me to tell er lie, by
chawin’ up my own words? Ef that’s what you’re arter, jest come on, and
I’ll larrup you till your mammy won’t know you from a pile of
sassage-meat.’
“So we kep er ridin’ on, and er cussin’ one another worse than two
Choctaw Injuns, an’ torectly we cum to the ferry-boat—whar we had to
cross the river. Soon as we got thar, Arch he hopped down off’n his ole
hoss, an’ commenced shuckin’ hisself fur er fight, an’ I jumped down
too. I see the devil was in him as big as er bull, so I begin gritten my
teeth, an’ lookin’ at him as spunky as er Dominecker rooster; and now,
sez I:
“‘Mr. Arch Coony,’ I sed, ‘I’ll make you see sites, an’ the fust thing
you know I’ll show them to you.’ Then I pulled off my ole Sunday
go-to-meetin’-coat, an’ slammed it down on er stump, and, sez I: ‘Lay
thar, ole Methodist, till I learn this ’coon some sense.’
“I soon see thar was gwine to be thar bustinest fight that ever was, so
I rolled up my sleeves, an’ Arch rolled up hisn, and we was gwine at at
it reglar.
“‘Now,’ sez he, ‘ole pra’r-meetin’ pitch in.’
“Well, I jist begin sidelin’ up, an’ he begin sidelin’ up. As soon as I
got close ’nuff to him, so I could hit him a go-darter, sez he:
“‘Hole on er minnit, this ground’s too rooty; wait till I clear the
sticks away from here, so as I can have a fair chance to give it to you
good.’
“‘Don’t hollar till you’re out’n the woods,’ sez I; ‘p’raps when I’m
done you won’t say my preachin’ ain’t nothin’ but hollerin’, I spec.’
“When he’d done scrapen’ off the ground, it looked jist like two bulls
had been pawing up the dirt, I give you my word it did.
“Well, as I sed before, he sidled up, an’ I sidled up, and now, sez I:
“‘Look out for your bread-basket, ole stud, for ef I happen to give you
er jolt thar, p’raps it ’ill tarn your stomach.’
“So thar we stood, head an’ tail up, jest like two chicken-cocks in
layin’ time, an’ sez I to him:
“‘Arch, I’m gwine to maul you till you won’t know yourself.’
“Soon as we got close enuff, an’ I see he was about to make er lunge at
me, sez I:
“‘Hole on, dod drot you, wait till I unbutton my gallowses, an’ may be
so then I’ll show you them sites what we was talkin’ ’bout.’
“Well, all the fellers was stannin’ round ready to take sides in the
fight, an’ toreckly the chap what kep’ the ferry begin to get tired of
keepin’ thar ferry-boat waitin’, an’, sez he:
“‘Cuss your pictures! I’m not gwine to keep this here ferry-boat waitin’
no longer, an’ people on t’other side waitin’ to go over, so if you want
to fight, come over on this side an’ fight there.’
“‘Good as ole wheat,’ sez I, anything to keep peace away, ‘ef you say
so, let’s get into the boat, and settle it over thar.’
“Well, they all agreed to that without sayin’ a word, an’ Arch he got
into the ferry-boat. I jumped into the eend of it, and was gwine to lead
my hoss on too, but the all-fired critter was skeered to jump on to it,
and sez I to the man who kept the ferry, sez I:
“‘Why don’t you wait till I get’s this durned four-legged critter into
the boat?’
“He didn’t say a word, but kept shovin’ the boat out, and toreckly my
hoss begin pullin’ back with the bridle, an’ I er holein’ on to it, an’
the furst thing I knowed, I went kerswash into the drink. So you see, in
about er minit, thar was I on to this side, and thar was Arch on
t’other, and no chance for me to git at him. Tell you what, I was hot
then—and what was worser, Arch he hollered out and sed he b’leved I
skeered the hoss and made him pull back, on purpose to get out’n the
scrape. When I hearn him say that, I was so mad I fairly biled.
Howsever, I soon see ’twarn’t no use raisen er racket ’bout what
couldn’t be helped, so I ’cluded I’d have my satisfaction out’n him any
way. An’ I begin shakin’ my fist at him, an’ er cussin’ him. Sez I:
“‘You eternal yaller-faced, suck-egg son of er ——, what is it you
ain’t mean ’nuff for me to call you? I tell you what!’ (an’ I hope to be
forgiven for swearin’) I cussed him blue.
“Well, I was so outdone I didn’t wait for the boat to come back, for it
was gettin’ ’most dark and too late for bar-huntin’ that day; ’sides, my
wife she would be ’spectin’ me at the house, and might rais pertickler
dust if I didn’t get thar in time; so I jumped on my ole hoss, an’ put
for home. But the way I cussed and ’bused Arch when I got on the hoss,
was er sin, an’ the further I got away from him the louder I hollered! I
pledge you my word, you might er hearn me er mile.
“To make a long story short, the last word I sed to him, sez I:
“‘Arch, you’ve ’scaped me this time by er axident, but the next time you
cross my path, I’ll larrup you worse nor the devil beatin’ tan-bark! I
will, by hokey!’
“Whew!” whistled Mike, drawing a long breath. “I tell you what, I come
the nearest wollopin’ that feller, not to do it, that ever you saw.”
At this moment Mike donned his coon-skin cap, and giving it a terrific
_slam_, that brought it over his eyes, vanished.
VI.
AN INTERESTING INTERVIEW.
I hope the day is not far distant, when drunkenness will be unknown in
our highly-favoured country. The moral world is rising in its strength
against the all-destroying vice, and though the monster still struggles,
and stings, and poisons, with deadly effect, in many parts of our
wide-spread territory, it is perceptibly wounded and weakened; and I
flatter myself, if I should live to number ten years more, I shall see
it driven entirely from the higher walks of life at least, if not from
all grades of society. For the honour of my contemporaries, I would
register none of its crimes or its follies; but, in noticing the
peculiarities of the age in which I live, candour constrains me to give
this vice a passing notice. The interview which I am about to present to
my readers, exhibits it in its mildest and most harmless forms.
In the county of ——, and about five miles apart, lived old Hardy Slow
and old Tobias Swift. They were both industrious, honest, sensible
farmers, when sober; but they never visited their county-town without
getting drunk; and then they were—precisely what the following
narrative makes them.
They both happened at the Court-House on the same day, when I last saw
them together; the former accompanied by his wife, and the latter by his
youngest son, a lad about thirteen. Tobias was just clearly on the wrong
side of the line, which divides drunk from sober; but Hardy was
“_royally corned_” (but not falling) when they met, about an hour by sun
in the afternoon, near the rack at which their horses were hitched.
They stopped about four feet apart, and looked each other full in the
face for about half a minute, during all which time, Toby sucked his
teeth, winked, and made signs with his shoulders and elbows to the
by-standers that he knew Hardy was drunk, and was going to quiz him for
their amusement. In the meantime, Hardy looked at Tobias, like a polite
man dropping to sleep in spite of himself under a dull long story.
At length Toby broke silence:
“How goes it, Uncle Hardy?” (_winking to the company, and shrugging his
shoulders_.)
“Why, Toby!—is that you? Well—upon my—why,
Toby!——Lord—help—my—soul and——Why, Toby! what, in, the, worl’,
set, you, to, gitt’n, drunk—this, time o’ day? Swear, poin’ blank,
you’re drunk! Why—you—must be, an old, fool—to, get, drunk, right,
before, all these, gentlemen——a’ready, Toby.”
“Well, but, now you see (_winking_), Uncle Hardy, a gill-cup an’t a
quart-pot, nor a quart-pot an’t a two-gallon jug; and therefore
(_winking and chuckling_), Uncle Hardy, a thing is a thing, turn it
which way you will, it just sticks at what it was before you give it
first ex—ex—ploit.”
“Well, the Lord, help, my——Why, Toby! what, is the reas’n, you, never,
will, answer, me this, one—circumstance——and, that, is——I, always,
find, you, drunk, when, I come, here.”
“Well, now, but Uncle Hardy, you always know circumstances alters cases,
as the fellow said; and therefore, if one circumstance alters another
circumstance——how’s your wife and children?”
“I, swear, poin’ blank, I shan’t tell you—because, you r’ally, is, too
drunk, to know, my wife, when, you, meet, her, in the street, all, day,
long, and, she’ll, tell, you, the, very, same, thing, as, all, these,
gentlemen, can—testimony.”
“Well, but now you see, Uncle Hardy, thinking’s one thing and knowing’s
another, as the fellow said; and the proof o’ the pudding’s chawin’ the
bag, as the fellow said; and you see—toll-doll-diddle-de-doll-doll-day
(_singing and capering_), you think I can’t dance? Come, Uncle Hardy,
let’s dance.”
“Why, Toby!—you—come—to this? _I_ didn’t make, you, drunk, did I?
You, an’t, took, a drink, with, me, this, live, long, day—is you? I,
say, is you, Toby?”
“No, Uncle Har—”
“Well, then, let’s go, take a drink.”
“Well, but you see, Uncle Hardy, drinkin’s drinkin’; but that’s neither
here nor there, as the fellow said.
“‘Come (_singing_) all ye young sparkers, come listen to me,
And I’ll sing you a ditti, of a pretti ladee.’”
“Why, Toby! ha—ha—ha—Well, I r’ally, did, think, you, was, drunk,
but, now I believe——blast the flies! I b’lieve, they, jest, as li’f,
walk, in my, mouth, as, in, my nose. (_Then looking with eyes half
closed at Toby for several minutes._) Why, Toby, you, spit ’bacoo spit,
all over, your jacket—and, that’s jist, the very, way, you, got, in
your——fix.”
At this moment, Mrs. Slow came up, and immediately after, Swift’s son,
William.
“Come,” said the good lady, “old man, let’s go home; it’s getting late,
and there’s a cloud rising; we’ll get wet.”
“Why, Nancy! what in the worl’ has got into you! Is you drunk, too?
Well, ’pon, my word, and honor, I, b’lieve, every body, in this town,
is, got drunk to-day. Why, Nancy! I never, did, see, you, in, that fix,
before, in, all, my, live, long, born, days.”
“Well, never mind,” said she, “come, let’s go home. Don’t you see the
rain coming up?”
“Well, will, it rain, upon, my, corn-field, or my cotton-patch? Say,
Nancy! which one, will it, rain on? But, Lord, help, my, soul, you are,
too drunk, to tell me, any, thing, about it. Don’ my corn want rain,
Nancy? Now, jist, tell me, that?”
“Yes; but let’s go home.”
“Then, why, upon, the face, of the earth, won’t you, let it, rain, then?
I, rather, it, should rain, than not.”
“Come, old man,” said several by-standers, touched with sympathy for the
good lady, “come, get on your horse and go home, and we will help you.”
“Oh yes, Uncle Hardy,” said Tobias, affecting to throw all humour aside,
and to become very sober all at once, “go home with the old woman. Come,
gentlemen, let’s help ’em on their horses—they’re groggy—mighty
groggy. Come, old man, I’ll help you.” (_staggering to Hardy._)
“Jist look at daddy now!” said Billy; “he’s going to help Mr. Swift, and
he’s drunk as Mr. Swift is. Oh, daddy, come, let’s go home, or we’ll get
mazin’ wet.”
Toby stooped down to help Hardy on his horse—before the horse was taken
from the rack—and throwing his arm round Hardy’s legs, he fell
backwards, and so did Hardy.
“Why—Lord, bless, my, soul,” said Hardy, “I b’lieve I’m drunk, too!
What, upon the, face, of the earth, has got, into, all, of us, this
day!”
“Why, Uncle Hardy,” said Toby, “you pull us both down together! The old
man’s mighty groggy,” said Toby to me, in a half whisper, and with an
arch wink and smile, as he rose up—I happening to be next to him at the
moment—“s’pose we help him up, and get him off? The old woman’s in for
it, too,” continued he, winking, nodding, and shrugging up his shoulders
very significantly.
“Oh no,” said I, “the old woman is perfectly sober, and I never heard of
her tasting a drop in all my life.”
“Oh,” said Toby, assuming the gravity of a parson, “loves it mightily,
mightily! Monstrous woman for drinking!—at least that’s my opinion.
Monstrous fine woman, though! monstrous fine!”
“Oh, daddy, for the Lord’s sake let’s go home; only see what a rain is
coming?” said Billy.
“Daddy’ll go presently, my son.”
“Well, here’s your horse, git up and let’s go. Mammy’ll be sure to be
sendin’ for us.”
“Don’t mind him,” said Toby, winking to me; “he’s nothing but a boy; I
wouldn’t take no notice of what he said. He wants me (_winking and
smiling_) to go home with him; now you listen.”
“Well, come,” said I to Uncle Toby, “get on your horse and go home, a
very heavy rain is coming up.”
“I’ll go presently, but you just listen to Bill,” said he to me, winking
and smiling.
“Oh, daddy, for the Lord’s sake let’s go home.”
Toby smiled archly at me, and winked.
“Daddy, are you going home or not? Jist look at the rain comin’.”
Toby smiled and winked.
“Well, I do think a drunken man is the biggest fool in the county,” said
Bill, “I don’t care who he is.”
“Bill!” said the old man, very sternly, “‘honour thy father and thy
mother,’ that—that the woman’s seed may bruise the serpent’s head.”
“Well, daddy, tell me if you won’t go home! You see it’s going to rain
powerful. If you won’t go, may I go?”
“Bill; ‘Leave not thy father who begot _thee_; for thou art my beloved
son Esau, in whom I am well pleased.’”
“Why, daddy, it’s dropping rain now.”
Here Bill was relieved from his anxiety by the appearance of Aaron, a
trusty servant, whom Mrs. Slow had despatched for his master, to whose
care Bill committed him, and was soon out of sight.
Aaron’s custom had long been to pick up his master without ceremony, put
him on his horse, and bear him away. So used to this dealing had Toby
been, that when he saw Aaron, he surrendered at discretion, and was soon
on the road. But as the rain descended in torrents, before even Bill
could have proceeded half a mile, the whole of them must have been
drenched to the skin.
As to Hardy, whom in the proper order we ought to have disposed of
first, he was put on his horse by main force, and was led off by his
wife, to whom he was muttering as far as I could hear him:
“Why, Nancy! How, did, you, get, in, such a fix? You’ll, fall, off,
your, horse, sure, as you’re born, and I’ll have to put you up again.”
As they were constrained to go in a walk, they too must have got
wringing wet, though they had a quarter of an hour the start of Toby.
VII.
BEN WILSON’S LAST JUG-RACE.
Coming up from Newport, on the pretty little steamer ‘Perry,’ a few days
ago, I fell in with, or chanced to lay across the track of, a
Mississippi flat-boatman whom I had not seen for three years, and from
having had, once upon a time, a rather personal adventure with him, you
may guess that the meeting was one of curious congratulation.
Ben and I had both travelled “some” since we had parted, and he had, as
well as myself, many things to tell.
I was sitting on the upper deck, consulting the opinions of one of Job
Patterson’s A No. 1 Havanas, when a pretty muscular and sun-burnt
specimen of humanity hove alongside, and brought a rather big paw down
upon my right shoulder with a bim that made me start _a little_.
“How are you old J comp’ny?” was the first broadside. “I ha’nt set eyes
on you sence we had the scrimmidge down to the Washington ball-room,
Orleans. Rayther a time that ar?” and he winked his little black eyes
until I fancied I heard the lids snap.
“Ben Wilson?” I inquired.
“’Zactly; you’ve hit it on the head this time. How’ve you ben, and
whar?”
“Travelling generally,” I responded; “been looking at the Rhode Island
Legislature of late. About health I’m as snug as a kitten, and as hearty
as you seem to be.”
“I? Yes; ef I’d a had them sinners” (showing a lump of bones and muscles
_something_ larger than mine, I think), “when that ar scrimmidge took
place, there’d a been a different report of killed and wounded at the
perlice shop. But that ain’t no consekense now, tho’ thar is a ugly sort
of a seam on the larboard side of my phizognomy. What’ll you sample?”
Such a polite invitation was not under the circumstances to be refused,
and a liquid strengthener was presently applied to the in’nards of both.
A couple more of Job’s regalias were lighted, and we walked forward to
look at the sights and enjoy a little quiet conversation.
“You hev’nt got that thar took-pick about you, hev you?” asked Ben, as
we got afront of the wheelhouse.
“No.”
“I’m sorry for that, for I’d a like to had it for a keepsake, _that_
knife. You punched it into my jowl rather vigorously that night.”
“And this,” said I, rolling up my right sleeve, and pointing to a very
pretty stiletto scar.
“’Twarn’t mine, by all the broad horns that ever run in Mississip’!”
roared Ben. “’Twas the French bar-keeper did that.”
“Never mind, Ben,” said I, “I thought ’twas you at the time; but anyhow,
a man hasn’t much time to debate nice questions when that pile of ivory”
(pointing to his big fist) “is making love to his windpipe.”
“No more he han’t, and no more you hadn’t,” said Ben, “en it’s all
forgiv’. Less change the topick.”
“Been boating since I met you?” I inquired, after a short pause.
“Well, yes, mostly,” answered Ben, deliberately. “Druv a pretty fair
business last year; only sunk one broad-horn, en that war snagged. Saved
part of the load, en lost it agin at a _cre_-vasse. I had a fust-rate
openin’ this spring, but a awkward accident kicked all the fat into the
fire.”
“Bad luck, eh? how was it?”
“Did you ever jug for buffalo fish?”
“Never.”
“Han’t no idee on the _pre_-cise way it is done?”
“Not the least. Yes, I did see something about it in the ‘Spirit,’ but
I’ve forgotten all about it.”
“‘Sperit?’ Oh, that’s the sportin’ paper down to York. Nolan, and
Hooper, and Steve Tucker writes to it. Some jokes in that ar sheet, onst
in a while.”
“Occasionally, I calculate; but this jugging for buffaloes.”
“Sartin. You see it’s as easy as fallin’ off a log. Git a dozen jugs en
two canoes; hitch your lines to the handles of the jugs, put on your
bait, and then toss them overboard. When you sees a jug begin to bob,
there’s a buffalo thar: en when it begins to dive and run, you may
calk’late there’s one varmint hooked. Strike out like a pointer, pull up
the line, and the fish is _thar_; but you’ve got to keep your weather
eye open, or you lose him.”
“I understand; but the awkward accident you spoke of?”
“Yes, of course; that’ll come in good time. D’you recollect that feller
with the one eye that stuck by me in that scrimmidg at Orleans?”
“Perfectly; I _felt_ him audibly that night.”
“Joe Stilwell. Wal, Joe and I run together, en we run sens, tel we fell
out on one of these jug affairs; en then he sot up for
hisself—oppersition. ’Bout the last of A-_prile_ we hap’nd to come
together to Saint Lewis, en started down the river the same day. Joe had
the start five hours, an’ I were glad of it; for he hadn’t no good
feelin’ towards me, en’ I hadn’t none for him, I swar. It war two days
’fore I see anythink of him, but a man who got on at Milses wood-yard
said Joe wanted to tackle me; en sez he, ‘Z’likes not he’ll stop to
Ransom’s for freight, for he han’t got more’n two-thirds his
complement,’ Sez I: ‘Ef Joe runs across my bows, he knows what’ll be the
konsekens;’ an’ we didn’t say no more about the matter.
“It was midnight when we got to Ransom’s, an’ I was debatin’ whether it
warn’t better to shove along then to stop, when I here’s Joe’s voice a
usin’ of my name. That was all war wanted to settle the matter. I tied
up, and asked all hands to licker. Joe he was the fust one to come up,
sez he:
“‘Ben, we’ve had some rily feelin’s, en let’s settle them rash’nally.’
“‘How?’ sez I, not ’zactly understandin’ him.
“‘Rash’nally,’ sez he. ‘I’ll drink with you, and you drink with me, en
then we’ll call it squar.’
“‘’Greed!’ sez I, en we lickered round twiste, en Joe and I shook hands,
en squar’d off all old ’counts _pertensively_.
“Thar was suthin’ in his looks I didn’t like when we shuck hands; but
sez I to myself, ‘this ’coon sleeps in the day-time maybe, but he’s wide
awake on this yer night.’ Ransom, he seemed glad we’d made up again ‘fer
all time,’ es he said, and we lickered ’long a him.
“While we was drinkin’ ’long a Ransom, one of my hands come in en
whispered softly in my ear, all unbeknown to the rest, that somebody hed
ben tryin’ to cut my starn-cable, and then he sneaked back to watch for
the marorder.
“I got off pretty soon after, en went aboard a _leetle_ riled. But I
didn’t tell the boys who I thought was the rascal, thoar I told em to
keep a sharp watch, en fire to kill, when they did shoot. But tha’
warn’t nobody come, Joe knew better than to play with the old fox in his
den—Joe did.
“Nex’ mornin’ we were just castin’ off, when Joe come down to the
wharf-boat, en sez he:
“‘You ain’t goin’ off mad, ar you?’
“‘No,’ sez I.
“‘Wal,’ sez he, ‘less take a partin’ smile.’
“I didn’t like the idea, but Ransom he said:
“‘Come in, Ben!’ en in I went and drinkt.
“‘What d’you say to a buffalo-juggin?’ said Joe, arter we’d lickered.
“‘It’s too airly in the season,’ sez I; ‘b’sides I’m off for Orleans.’
“‘So’m I,’ said Joe, ‘at eleven; en we’ll go company.’
“‘What’s the blaze?’ said Ransom.
“‘Two canoes, and one jug,’ said Joe.
“I knowed what he was after then, for it showed clean out’n his eyes.
Joe war the best swimmer, en he thort ef we cum together an’ upset the
canoes, he’d have the advantage. He knowed he’d git catawampously chored
up ashore, en _he wanted to drown me_.”
“What a devil incarnate! I exclaimed.”
“That’s just him ’zactly. I thort a minnit, and then sez I:
“‘I’m your man.’
“Wal, a skiff tuck out the only jug, en Joe en I paddled from shore
leisurely.
“‘A bob!’ yelled out Ransom, en we started.
“We was about ten rods apart, en neck-en-neck. On we swept like greased
lightnin’, Joe leadin’ by ’bout _two inches_, I should guess. I had not
look’t at Joe sens we left shore, but as we draw’d nigh the jug I seed
he had his coat and jacket off. We was within ten foot of the jug, en
both dropped paddles, en I shed my coat en jacket a _leetle_ quicker’n
common. Tha’ warn’t no misunderstandin’ between us then; en as the
canoes come together, both grappled and went overboard, and underneath
the water.”
Ben here paused, took out his bandanna, and wiped the big drops off of
his forehead, as coolly as if he was recounting the events of a
dinner-party.
“Well,” I urged impatiently, “you both went under the water?”
“Yes, that was the _accident_ happened!”
“Accident? explain.”
“Why, I’ve no more to say’n this. I riz, en got aboard my broad-horn, en
come away.”
“But Joe—what became of him?”
“_Joe? he was a missin’ ’long with my bowie-knife!_”
I parted with Ben, when the ‘Perry’ touched the wharf at Providence, not
caring, _under the circumstances_, to inquire which way he was
travelling.
VIII.
MIKE FINK IN A TIGHT PLACE.
Mike Fink, a notorious Buckeye-hunter, was contemporary with the
celebrated Davy Crockett, and his equal in all things relating to human
prowess. It was even said that the animals knew the crack of his rifle,
and would take to their secret hiding-places, on the first intimation
that Mike was about. Yet strange, though true, he was but little known
beyond his immediate “settlement.”
When _we_ knew him he was an old man—the blasts of seventy winters had
silvered o’er his head, and taken the elasticity from his limbs; yet in
the whole of his life was Mike never worsted, except upon one occasion.
To use his own language, he never “gin in,” used up, to anything that
travelled on two legs or four, but once.
“That _once_ we want,” said Bill Slasher, as some dozen of us sat in the
bar-room of the only tavern in the “settlement.”
“Gin it to us now, Mike; you’ve promised long enough, and you’re old
now, and needn’t care,” continued Bill.
“Right, right, Bill,” said Mike; “but we’ll open with a _licker_ all
around fust, it’ll kind o’ save my feelin’s I reckon.”
“Thar, that’s good. Better than t’other barrel, if anything.”
“Well, boys,” commenced Mike, “you may talk o’ your scrimmages, tight
places and sich like, and subtract ’em altogether in one all-mighty big
’un, and they hain’t no more to be compared to the one I war in, than a
dead kitten to an old she-bar, I’ve fout all kinds of varmints, from a
Ingun down to a rattlesnake, and never was willin’ to quit fust, but
this once, and t’was with a bull!
“You see, boys, it was an awful hot day in August, and I war near
runnin’ off into pure _ile_, when I war thinkin’ that a _dip_ in the
creek mout save me. Well, thar was a mighty nice place in old Deacon
Smith’s medder for that partic’lar bizziness. So I went down among the
bushes to unharness. I jest hauled the old red shirt over my head, and
war thinkin’ how scrumptious a feller of my size would feel a wallerin’
round in that ar water, and was jest ’bout goin’ in, when I seed the old
Deacon’s bull a makin a b-line to whar I stood.
“I know’d the old cuss, for he’d skar’d more people than all the parsons
in the ‘settlement,’ and cum mighty near killin’ a few. Think’s I, Mike,
you’re in rather a tight place. Get your fixin’s on, for he’ll be
drivin’ them big horns o’ his in yer bowels afore that time. Well,
you’ll hev to try the old varmint naked, I reck’n.
“The bull war on one side o’ the creek, and I on t’other, and the way he
made the ‘sile’ fly for a while, as if he war diggin’ my grave, war
distressin’!
“‘Come on, ye bellerin’ old heathen,’ said I, ‘and don’t be a standin’
there; for, as the old Deacon says o’ the devil, yer not comely to look
on.’
“This kind o’ reached his understandin’, and made him more wishious; for
he hoofed a little like, and made a drive. And as I don’t like to stand
in anybody’s way, I gin him plenty sea-room. So he kind o’ passed by me,
and cum out on t’other side; and as the captain o’ the mud-swamp
ranger’s would say: ‘’bout face for another charger.’
“Though I war ready for him this time, he come mighty nigh runnin’ foul
o’ me. So I made up my minde the next time he went out he wouldn’t be
alone. So when he passed, I grappled his tail, and he pulled me out on
the ‘sile,’ and as soon as we were both a’top o’ the bank, old Brindle
stopped, and was about comin’ round agin, when I begin pull’n t’other
way.
“Well, I reckon this kind o’ _riled_ him, for he fust stood stock still,
and look’d at me for a spell, and then commenced pawin’ and bellerin’,
and the way he made his hind gearing play in the air, war beautiful!
“But it warn’t no use, he couldn’t _tech_ me, so he kind o’ stopped to
get wind for suthin’ devilish, as I _judged_ by the way he stared. By
this time I had made up my mind to stick to his tail as long as it stuck
to his back-bone! I didn’t like to holler fur help, nuther, kase it war
agin my principles; and then the Deacon had preached at his house, and
it warn’t far off nuther.
“I know’d if he _hern_ the noise, the hull congregation would come down;
and as I warn’t a married man, and had a kind o’ hankerin’ arter a gal
that war thar, I didn’t feel as if I would like to be seed in that ar
predicament.
“‘So,’ ses I, ‘you old sarpent, do yer cussedst!’
“And so he did; for he drug me over every briar and stump in the field,
until I was sweatin’ and bleedin’ like a fat _bar_ with a pack o’ hounds
at his heels. And my name ain’t Mike Fink, if the old critter’s tail and
I didn’t blow out sometimes at a dead level with the varmint’s back!