I fell behind no more._Traits of American Humour, Vol. 3 of 3

We had wandered about for several hours, and the sky, which had not been

the clearest in the commencement, now began to assume the appearance of

rain. I had more than once suggested the propriety of going home—but

Sam was eager to show me how to shine the eyes of a buck, and no

argument or persuasion could win him from his purpose. We searched on as

before for another half hour, and I was about to express my

determination to go home, when Sam suddenly paused:

“Stop, stop,” said he; “thar’s eyes, and whappers they is, too. Now hold

still, Major.”

I raised on tiptoe with eager anticipation—I heard the click of the

lock—there was a moment of portentous silence—then the old musket

blazed forth with a thundering report, and in the same instant was heard

a loud squeal, and a noise like the snapping of bridle reins.

“Thunder and lightnin’!” exclaimed Sam, as he dropped gun, pan and all,

and stood fixed to the spot—“I’ve shot old Blaze!”

So soon as he had recovered from the shock, we hastened to the spot,

and, sure enough, there lay the luckless mule, still floundering in the

agonies of death. The aim had been but too good, and poor Blaze was hurt

“past all surgery.” Sam stood over him in silent agony, and,

notwithstanding the bitter maledictions he had so recently heaped upon

him, now that he saw the poor animal stretched upon the ground in death,

and knew that his “infernal picter” would greet him no more for ever, a

flood of tender recollections of past services poured over his repentant

heart. He uttered not a word until after the last signs of life were

extinct—then, with a heavy sigh, he muttered:

“Pore old cretur!—well, well, I reckon I’s done the business now, sure

enough. That’s what I calls a _pretty_ night’s work, anyhow!”

“A ‘bad beginning doesn’t always make a good ending,’ Mr. Sikes,” I

remarked.

“Cus the luck, it will run so sometimes,” said he in a sullen tone, as

he commenced taking the saddle off his deceased donkey. “I’m blamed if I

see how I got so turned round.”

By this time it had commenced to rain, and we were anxious to get home;

but Sam had dropped his gun and pan, as the awful truth rushed upon him,

that he had killed the only mule he possessed in the world, and we now

found it difficult to recover them. After searching about for near half

an hour in the drizzling rain, Sam chanced to come upon the spot from

which he had taken the hapless aim, and having regained his gun and pan,

we endeavoured to strike a fire; all our efforts, however, to produce a

light, proved ineffectual, and we essayed to grope our way amid the

darkness.

“Hello, Major, whar is you?”

“Here!”

“Whar you gwine?”

“Home!”

“Well, that ain’t the way.”

“Why, we came this way.”

“No, I reckon not.”

“I’m sure we didn’t come that way.”

“Whar, in the devil’s name, is the branch?” petulantly inquired Sam. “If

I could only see the branch, I could soon find the way.”

“It must be down this way,” I replied.

“Somehow or other I’m tetotiatiously deluded, to-night,” remarked Sam,

as he came tearing through the briers with his stirrup-irons dangling

about him, his gun in one hand and frying-pan in the other. “If I hadn’t

a been completely dumfoozled, I’d never a killed Blaze like I did.”

I volunteered to carry his gun, but he was in no humour for the

interchange of civilities—“still harping” on his mule, he trudged on,

grumbling to himself—

“What,” he muttered, “will Polly say now—I’ll never hear the last of

that critter the longest day I live. That’s worse than choppin’ the

coon-tree across the sittin’ hen’s nest, and I liked never to hearn the

eend o’ that.”

After groping through the brush and briers, which seemed to grow thicker

the farther we proceeded, for some time, Sam stopped.

“I swar, Major, this ain’t the way.”

“Well, then, lead the way, and I’ll follow you,” I replied, beginning,

myself, to think I was wrong.

Changing our direction, we plodded on, occasionally tumbling over logs

and brush, until Sam concluded that all our efforts to find the way were

useless.

“Oh, thunderation!” said he, as he tore away from a thick jungle of

briers in which he had been rearing and pitching for more than a minute,

“it ain’t no manner of use for us to try to find the way, Major—so

let’s look out a big tree, and stop under it till morning.”

Seeing no alternative, I reluctantly acceded to his proposal.

Accordingly, we nestled down under the shelter of a large oak. For a

time neither spoke, and all was still, save the incessant buzz of the

countless hosts of mosquitoes that now seemed intent upon devouring us.

At length I broke silence, by remarking—at the same time that I gave

myself a box upon the ear, intended for the mosquitoe that was biting

me:

“I think this will be my last fire-hunt, Mr. Sikes.”

“The fact is,” replied Sam, “this ’ere ain’t very incouragin’ to new

beginners, Major, that’s a fact—but you musn’t give it up so. I hope

we’ll have a better showin’ next time.”

“My curiosity is satisfied,” I remarked. “I wouldn’t pass such another

night in the woods for all the deer in Georgia.”

“’Shaw, I wouldn’t care a tinker’s cus,” said Sam, “if I only jest

hadn’t a killed Blaze. That’s what sets me back, monstrous.”

“That was indeed an unlucky mistake. I should think a few such exploits

as that would cure you of your fire-hunting propensity. But I expect you

never had such luck, before to-night.”

“No, not ’zactly—tho’ I’ve had some monstrous bad luck in my time, too.

I reckon you never hearn about the time I got among the panters.”

“No—how was that?”

“Why, it was ’bout this time last fall, I and Dudley went out and

’camped on Sperit Creek. Well, he tuck his pan and went out one way, and

I went another. I went shinin’ along jest like you seed me to-night,

till I got a good bit from the camp, and bimeby, shore enough, I sees

eyes not more’n forty yards off. I fotched old Betsey up to my face and

cut loose, and the deer drapped right in his tracks, but somehow in my

hurryment I drapt my pan, jest like I did to-night when I heard old

Blaze squeel. While I was tryin’ to kindle up a light, what should I see

but more eyes shinin’ way down in the holler. I drapt the fire and

loaded up old Betsey as quick as I could, to be ready for the varmint,

whatever it was. Well, the eyes kep comin’ closer and closer, and

gettin’ bigger and brighter, and the fust thing I know’d ther was a

whole grist of ’em all follerin’ right after the fust ones, and dodgin’

up and down in the dark like they was so many dancin’ devils. Well, I

begun to feel sort o’ jubous of ’em, so I raised old Betsey and pulled

at the nearest eyes, but she snapped—I primed her agin, and she

flashed—and when I flashed, sich another squallin’ and yellin’ you

never did hear, and up the trees they went all round me. Thinks I them

must be somethin’ unnatural, bein’ as my gun wouldn’t shoot at ’em—so I

jest drapt old Betsey, and put out for the camp as hard as I could

split. Well, we went back the next mornin’, and what do you think them

infernal critters had done?—eat the deer up slick and clean, all but

the bones and horns, and a little ways off lay old Betsey, with four

fingers of buck-shot and bullets, but not a bit of powder in her. Then I

know’d they was panters.”

“Why, they might have eaten you too.”

“That’s a fact. Dudley said he wondered they didn’t take hold of me.”

The drizzling shower which had already nearly wet us to the skin, now

turned to a drenching storm, which continued for more than an hour

without intermission. When the storm abated, we discovered the dawn

approaching, and, shortly after, were enabled to ascertain our

whereabouts. We were not more than five hundred yards from the clearing,

and probably had not been, during the night, at a greater distance than

a mile from the house which we had left in the evening.

As we stepped from the wood into the open road, I contemplated, for a

moment, the ludicrous appearance of my unfortunate companion. Poor

Sam!—daylight, and the prospect of home, brought no joy to him—and as

he stood before me, with the saddle and bridle of the deceased Blaze

girded about his neck, his musket in one hand, and pan in the other,

drenched with rain, his clothes torn, and a countenance that told of the

painful conflict within, I could not but regard him as an object of

sympathy rather than ridicule.

“Well,” said he, with a heavy sigh, and without looking me in the face,

“good mornin’, Major.”

“Good morning,” I replied, touched with sympathy for his misfortune, and

reproaching myself for the mirth I had enjoyed at his expense—“Good

morning, Mr. Sikes. I am very sorry for your loss, and hope you will

have better luck in future.”

“Oh, Major,” said he, “it ain’t the vally of the mule that I minds so

much—though old Blaze was a monstrous handy cretur on the place. But

thar’s my wife—what’ll she say when she sees me comin’ home in this

here fix? Howsomedever, what can’t be cured must be indured, as the

feller said when the monkey bit him.”

“That’s the true philosophy,” I remarked, seeing that he endeavoured to

take courage from the train of reasoning into which he had fallen; “and

Mrs. Sikes should bear in mind that accidents _will_ happen, and be

thankful that it’s no worse.”

“To be sure she ought,” replied Sam, “but that ain’t the way with

her—she don’t believe in accidents, nohow; and then she’s so howdacious

unreasonable when she’s raised. But, she better not,” he continued, with

a stern look as he spoke—“she better not come a cavortin’ ’bout me with

any of her rantankerous carryin’s on this mornin’, for I ain’t in no

humour nohow!” and he made a threatening gesture with his head, as much

as to say he’d make the fur fly if she did.

We parted at the gate, Sam for his home, and I for my bed; he sorely

convinced that a “bad beginning” does not _always_ “make a good ending,”

and I fully resolved that it should be my first and last FIRE-HUNT.

XX.

A PAIR OF SLIPPERS; OR, FALLING WEATHER.

Whenever we look upon the crowded thoroughfare, or regard the large

assembly, we are compelled to admit that the infinite variety of form in

the human race contributes largely to the picturesque. The eye travels

over the diversity of shape and size without fatigue, and renews its

strength by turning from one figure to another, when, at each remove, it

is sure to find a difference. Satiated with gazing at rotundity, it is

refreshed by a glance at lathiness: and, tired with stooping to the

lowly, it can mount like a bird to the aspiring head which tops a

maypole.

But, while the potency of these pictorial beauties is admitted, it must

be conceded that the variations from the true standard, although good

for the eyesight, are productive of much inconvenience; and that, to

consider the subject like a Benthamite, utility and the general

advantage would be promoted if the total amount of flesh, blood, bone,

and muscle were more equally distributed. As affairs are at present

arranged, it is almost impossible to find a “ready-made coat” that will

answer one’s purpose, and a man may stroll through half the shops in

town without being able to purchase a pair of boots which he can wear

with any degree of comfort. In hanging a lamp, every shop-keeper, who

“lights up,” knows that it is a very troublesome matter so to swing it,

that, while the short can see the commodities, the tall will not

demolish the glass. If an abbreviated “turnippy” man, in the goodness of

his heart and _in articulo mortis_, bequeaths his wardrobe to a long and

gaunt friend, of what service is the posthumous present? It is available

merely as new clothing for the juveniles, or as something toward another

kitchen carpet. Many a martial spirit is obliged to content himself with

civic employment, although a mere bottle of fire and wrath, because

heroism is enlisted by inches, and not by degree.

If under “five foot six,” Cæsar himself could find no favour in the eye

of the recruiting-sergeant, and Alexander the Great would be allowed to

bestride no Bucephalus in a dragoon regiment of modern times. Thus, both

they who get too much, and they who get too little, in Dame Nature’s

apportionment bill, as well as those who, though abundantly endowed, are

not well made up, have divers reasons for grumbling, and for wishing

that a more perfect uniformity prevailed.

Some of the troubles which arise from giving a man more than his share

in altitude, find illustration in the subjoined narrative:

Linkum Langcale is a subject _in extenso_. He is, to use the words of

the poet, suggested by his name,

“. . . . . . _A bout_

_Of linked sweetness long drawn out:_”

and, in speaking of him, it is not easy to be brief. Linkum is entirely

too long for his own comfort—something short—if the word _short_ may

be used in this connection—something short of the height of the Titans

of old, who pelted Saturn with brickbats; but how much, has never yet

been ascertained, none of his acquaintances being sufficiently

acquainted with trigonometry to determine the fact. He is one of those

men who, like the gentle Marcia, “tower above their sex,” and must

always be called down to their dinner, as no information can be imparted

to them unless it be hallooed up, and in conversing with whom, it is

always necessary to begin by hailing the maintop.

There is not, however, more material in Linkum than enough for a man of

ordinary length. The fault is in his not being properly made up. He is

abominably wire-drawn—stretched out, as Shakspeare says, almost to the

crack of doom. It is clear that there has been an attempt to make too

much of him, but the frame of the idea has not been well filled out. He

is the streak of a Colossus, and he resembles the willow wand at which

Locksley shot his gray goose shaft in the lists of Ashby de la Zouche.

The consequence is, that Linkum is a crank vessel. If he wore a feather

in his cap, he would be capsized at every corner; and as it is, he finds

it very difficult to get along on a windy day, without a paving stone in

each coat-pocket to preserve the balance of power. He is, however, of a

convivial nature, and will not refuse his glass, notwithstanding the

aptitude of alcohol to ascend into the brain, and so to encumber it as

to render a perpendicular position troublesome to men shorter than

himself. When in this condition, his troubles are numberless, and among

other matters, he finds it very difficult to get a clear fall, there

being in compact cities very little room to spare for the accommodation

of long men tumbling down in the world.

One evening Linkum walked forth to a convivial meeting, and supped with

a set of jolly companions. Late at night a rain came on, which froze as

it fell, and soon made the city one universal slide, sufficiently “glip”

for all purposes, without the aid of saw-dust. Of Linkum’s sayings and

doings at the social board, no record is preserved; but it is inferred

that his amusements were not of a nature to qualify him for the safe

performance of a journey so slippery as that which it was necessary to

undertake to reach home. No lamps were lighted, they who were abroad

being under the necessity of supposing the moonshine, and of seeing

their way as they walked, or of gathering themselves up, when they fell,

by the lantern of imagination.

“Good night, fellers,” said Linkum, at the top of the steps, as the door

closed after him.

He pulled his hat over his eyes determinedly, buttoned his coat with

resolution, and sucked at his cigar with that iron energy peculiar to

men about to set forth on their way home on a cold, stormy night. The

fire of the cigar reflected from his nose was the only illumination to

be seen; and Linkum, putting his hands deep into his pockets, kept his

position on the first step of the six which were between him and the

pavement.

“I’ve no doubt,” said he, as he puffed forth volumes of smoke, and

seemed to cogitate deeply—“I’ve not the slightest doubt that this is as

beautiful a night as ever was; only it’s so dark you can’t see the

pattern of it. One night is pretty much like another night in the dark;

but it’s a great advantage to a good-looking evening, if the lamps are

lit, so you can twig the stars and the moonshine. The fact is, that in

this ’ere city, we do grow the blackest moons, and the hardest moons to

find, I ever did see. Sometimes I’m most disposed to send the bellman

after ’em—or get a full-blooded pinter to pint ’em out, while I hold a

candle to see which way he pints. It wouldn’t be a bad notion on sich

occasions to ask the man in the steeple to ring which way the moon is.

Lamps is lamps, and moons is moons, in a business pint of view, but

practically they ain’t much if the wicks ain’t a-fire. When the

luminaries are, as I may say, in the raw, it’s bad for me. I can’t see

the ground as perforately as little fellers, and every dark night I’m

sure to get a hyst—either a forred hyst, or a backerd hyst, or some

sort of a hyst—but more backerds than forrerds, ’specially in winter.

One of the most unfeeling tricks I know of, is the way some folks have

got of laughing out, yaw-haw! when they see a gentleman ketching a

riggler hyst—a long gentleman, for instance, with his legs in the air,

and his noddle splat down upon the cold bricks. A hyst of itself is bad

enough, without being sniggered at: first, your sconce gets a crack;

then, you see all sorts of stars, and have free admission to the

fireworks; then, you scramble up, feeling as if you had no head on your

shoulders, and as if it wasn’t you, but some confounded disagreeable

feller in your clothes; yet the jacksnipes all grin, as if the

misfortunes of human nature was only a poppet-show. I wouldn’t mind it,

if you could get up and look as if you didn’t care. But a man can’t

rise, after a royal hyst, without letting on he feels flat. In such

cases, however, sympathy is all gammon; and as for sensibility of a

winter’s day, people keep it all for their own noses, and can’t be

coaxed to retail it by the small.”

Linkum paused in his prophetic dissertation upon “hysts”—the popular

pronunciation, in these parts, of the word _hoist_, which is

used—_quasi lucus a non lucendo_—to convey the idea of the most

complete tumble which man can experience. A fall, for instance, is

indeterminate. It may be an easy slip down—a gentle visitation of

mother earth; but a hyst is a rapid, forcible performance, which may be

done, as Linkum observes, either backward or forward, but of necessity

with such violence as to knock the breath out of the body, or it is

unworthy of the noble appellation of hyst. It is an apt, but figurative

mode of expression, and it is often carried still further; for people

sometimes say, “lower him up, and hyst him down.”

Our hero held on firmly to the railing, and peered keenly into the

darkness, without discovering any object on which his vision could rest.

The gloom was substantial. It required sharper eyes than his to bore a

hole in it. The wind was up, and the storm continued to coat the steps

and pavements with a sheet of ice.

“It’s raining friz potatoes,” observed Linkum; “I feel ’em, though I

can’t see ’em, bumping the end of my nose; so I must hurry home as fast

as I can.”

Heedless and hapless youth! He made a vain attempt to descend, but,

slipping, he came in a sitting posture upon the top step, and, in that

attitude, flew down like lightning—bump! bump! bump! The impetus he had

acquired prevented him from stopping on the sidewalk, notwithstanding

his convulsive efforts to clutch the icy bricks, and he _skuted_ into

the gutter, whizzing over the curbstone, and splashing into the water,

like a young Niagara.

A deep silence ensued, broken solely by the pattering of the rain and

the bowling of the wind. Linkum was an exhausted receiver; the hyst was

perfect, the breath being completely knocked out of him.

“Laws-a-massy!” at length he panted, “ketching” breath at intervals, and

twisting about as if in pain; “my eyes! sich a hyst! Sich a quantity of

hysts all in one! The life’s almost bumped out of me, and I’m jammed up

so tight, I don’t believe I’m so tall by six inches as I was before. I’m

druv up and clinched, and I’ll have to get tucks in my trousers.”

Linkum sat still, ruminating on the curtailment of his fair proportions,

and made no effort to rise. The door soon opened again, and Mr. Broad

Brevis came forth, at which a low, suppressed chuckle was uttered by

Linkum, as he looked over his shoulder, anticipating “a quantity of

hysts all in one” for the new-comer, whose figure, however—short and

stout—was much better calculated for the operation than Linkum’s. But

Brevis seemed to suspect that the sliding was good, and the skating

magnificent.

“No, you don’t!” quoth he, as he tried the step with one foot, and

recovered himself; “I haven’t seen the Alleghany Portage and inclined

planes for nothing. It takes me to diminish the friction, and save the

wear and tear.”

So saying, he quietly tucked up his coat-tails, and sitting down upon

the mat, which he grasped with both hands, gave himself a gentle

impulse, crying “All aboard!” and slid slowly but majestically down. As

he came to the plain sailing across the pavement, he twanged forth

“Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta-ra-tra-a-a!” in excellent imitation of the post-horn,

and brought up against Linkum. “Clear the course for the express mail,

or I’ll report you to the department!” roared Brevis, trumpeting the

“alarum,” so well known to all who have seen a

tragedy—“Tra-tretra-ta-ra-tra-a-a!”

“That’s queer fun, anyhow,” said a careful wayfarer, turning the corner,

with lantern in hand, and sock on foot, who, after a short parley, was

induced to set the gentlemen on their pins. First planting Brevis

against the pump, who sang, “Let me lean on thee,” from the Sonnambula,

in prime style, he undertook to lift up Linkum.

“Well,” observed the stranger, “this is a chap without no end to

him—he’d be pretty long a drowning anyhow. If there was many more like

him in the gutters, it would be better to get a windlass, and wind ’em

up. I never seed a man with so much slack. The corporation ought to buy

him, starch him up stiff, cut a hole for a clock in his hat, and use him

for a steeple; only Downing wouldn’t like to trust himself on the top of

such a ricketty concern. Neighbour, shall I fetch the Humane Society’s

apparatus?”

“No—I ain’t drownded, only bumped severe. The curbstones have touched

my feelings. I’m all over like a map—red, blue, and green.”

“Now,” said their friendly assistant, grinning at the joke, and at the

recompense he had received for the job, “now, you two hook on to one

another like Siameses, and mosey. You’ve only got to tumble one a top of

t’other, and it won’t hurt. Tortle off—it’s slick going—’specially if

you’re going down. Push ahead!” continued he, as he hitched them

together; and away they went, _a pair of slippers_, arm in arm. Many

were their tumbles and many their mischances before they reached their

selected resting-place.

“I can’t stand this,” said Linkum to his companion, as they were

slipping and falling; “but it’s mostly owing to my being so tall. I wish

I was razee’d, and then it wouldn’t happen. The awning posts almost

knock the head off me; I’m always tumbling over wheelbarrows, dogs, and

children, because, if I look down, I’m certain to knock my noddle

against something above. It’s a complete nuisance to be so tall. Beds

are too short; if you go to a tea-fight, the people are always tumbling

over your trotters, and breaking their noses, which is what young ladies

ain’t partial to; and if you tipple too much toddy of a slippery

night—about as easy a thing to do as you’d wish to try—you’re sure to

get a hyst a square long—just such a one as I’ve had. If I’d thought of

it, I could have said the multiplication-table while I was going the

figure. Stumpy chaps, such as you, ain’t got no troubles in this world.”

“That’s all you know about it,” puffed Brevis, as Linkum alternately

jerked him from his feet, and then caused him to slide in the opposite

direction, with his heels ploughing the ice, like a shaft-horse holding

back: “phew! That’s all you know about it—stumpies have troubles.”

“I can’t borrow coats,” added Linkum, soliloquizing, “because I don’t

like cuffs at the elbows. I can’t borrow pants, because it isn’t the

fashion to wear knee-breeches, and all my stockings are socks. I can’t

hide when anybody owes me a lambasting. You can see me a mile. When I

sit by the fire, I can’t get near enough to warm my body, without

burning my knees; and in a stage-coach, there’s no room between the

benches, and the way you get the cramp—don’t mention it.”

“I don’t know nothing about all these things; but to imagine I was a

tall chap—”

“Don’t try; you’ll hurt yourself, for it’s a great stretch of

imagination for a little feller to do that.”

After which amicable colloquy, nothing more was heard of them, except

that, before retiring to rest, they chuckled over the idea that the

coming spring would sweat the ice to death for the annoyance it had

caused them. But ever while they live, will they remember “the night of

hysts.”

XXI.

A SWIM FOR A DEER.

“Yes, Capting, the bar war _lower_, I tell _you_—why, bless your soul,

honey, they war not only powerful thick, but some on ’em war as big as

common-sized horses, I _do_ reckon; cause why, nobody ever had hunted

’em, you see. In the winter time the overflow, and in the summer time

the lakes and snakes, bayous and alligators, musketoes and gallinippers,

buffalo-gnats and sand-flies, with a small sprinkle of the agur and a

_perfect cord_ of congestive, prevented the Ingins from gwine through

the country! Oh no; the red skins would rather hunt the fat turkey and

deer in the Azoo hills and pine lands t’other side of the Pearl river,

to killin’ fat bar on the Creek or Sunflower.”

“Well, Jim, I think they were right; you must then have been among the

first hunters in the country.”

“Yes, I _do_ reckon when I first went into that country, from the Azoo

Hills to the Mississippi, there never had been but _mighty few_ hunters.

Why thar ar places thar now whar the deer ar tame as sheep, and whar the

bar don’t care for _nobody_! Fact! ask Chunkey!”

“That is very remarkable; what is the cause?”

“’Cause they’ve never been hunted; no, Sir: never hearn the crack of a

rifle nor the yelp of a dog; why thar ar more nor a hundred lakes and

brakes in them diggins, that hain’t never been pressed by no mortal

’ceptin’ varmints. You know more nor half the country is overflowed in

the winter, and t’other half, which is a darned sight the biggest, is

covered with cane, palmetto and other fixins;—why it stands to reason,

and in course no man ever _had_ hunted ’em.—Why, Sir, when I first went

to the Creek—”

“Let the Creek run, Jim; tell us about the bear!”

“Well, Sir, the bar war _very_ promiscuous indeed, and some of the old

hees war mighty mellifluous, I tell _you_. I had no sens about bar

_then_, but thar warn’t no cabin or camp in the whole settlement, and in

course I soon larnt thar natur by livin’ ’mongst ’em. A bar, Capting, an

old _he_ bar, ain’t no candidate or other good-natured greenhorn to

stand gougin’ and treatin’. Oh no, _he_ ain’t, but he’s as ramstugenous

an animal as a log-cabin loafer in the dog days, jist about, and if a

stranger fools with him he’ll get sarved out in no time.

“Well, let’s licker. A bar is a _consaity_ animal, but as far as his

sens do go he’s about as smart as any other animal; arter that, the

balance is clear fat and fool. I have lived ’mongst ’em, and know ther

natur. I have killed as many as seven in a day, and _smartly_ to the

rise of sixty in a season. Arter I’d been on the Creek about two months,

_up_ comes the Governor _and_ Chunkey; the Governor ’tended like he

wanted to see how I come on with the clearin’; but, Sir, he were arter a

spree, and I knoe’d it, or _why_ did he bring Chunkey? Everything looked

_mighty_ well; the negers looked fat and slick as old Belcher in catfish

season. I’d done cut more nor two hundred acres of cane, and had the

rails on the ground. I’d done—”

“Come, Jim, keep the track!”

“Well, Capting, they war mighty savagerous arter likker; they’d been

fightin’ the stranger[13] mightly comin’ up, and war perfectly wolfish

arter some har of the dog, and I hadn’t a drop; so I started two negers,

with mules and jugs, to the Pint (Princeton, Washington County), and the

ox-team arter a barrel. Well, Sir, the day arter, the jugs come, and we

_darted_ on ’em” (giving a sigh), “but lord, what war two jugs in _sich_

a crowd? They jist kept Chunkey from dyin’, as he was so dry he had the

rattles; next day the barrel come, and then we _krack_-ovienned up to it

in airnest. You know what kind of man Chunkey is when he gits

started—if he commences talkin’, singin’, or whistlin’, no matter

which, you’d jist as well try and stop the Mississippi as him. Why I’ve

knoed him to whistle three days and three nights on a stretch—the

Governor coulden’t eat nor drink for Chunkey’s whistlin’, and at last he

gits mad, and that’s the last thing he does with anybody what _he_

likes, and, says he to Chunkey—

“‘Chunkey, you have kept me awake two nights a-whistlin’, and you must

stop it to-night, or _you_ or _me_ must quit the plantation.’

“Chunkey said: ‘Governor, I don’t want to put you to no trouble, but I

_can’t_ stop in the middle of a chune, and as you have known the

plantation longer than me, I expect you can leave it with lest trouble.’

“The Governor jist roar’d, and gin Chunkey a new gun and—”

“Stop, Jim, you have forgot the bear.”

“Well, whar was I, Capting?—oh, I remember now! Well, when the barrel

come we _did_ lumber; Chunkey he soon commenced singin’. We went on that

way nigh a week, and then cooled off. One mornin’, I and Chunkey had

gone down to the creek to git a bait of water, and I knoed the bar would

be thar, as it war waterin’ time with them.”

“Why, Jim, have they a particular time to water?”

“In course they has; they come to water at a certain place, and jist as

reglar as a parson to his eatin’; every bar has his waterin’ place, and

he comes and goes in the same path and _in the same foot-tracks_ always,

until he moves his settlement: and jist you break a cane, or limb, or

move a chunk or stick near his trail, and see how quick he’ll move his

cabin! Oh yes, a bar is mighty particlar about sich things—that’s his

_sens_—that’s his _trap_ to find out if you are in his settlement. Why,

Capting, I have watched ’em—”

“Jim, you have left yourself and Chunkey on the bank of the creek,

‘a-waterin’.’ Are you going to stay there?”

“Well, we set down on the bank and took our stand opposite the _biggest

kind_ of sign, and sure enough, presently _down_ he come; a bar don’t

lap water like a dog; no, they sucks it like a hog. You jist ought to

see him rais his nose and smell the wind. Well, he seed us, and with

that he _ris_! He war a whopper, I _tell you_! He looked like a big

burn, and he throw’d them arms about awful, honey. It war about one

hundred and twenty yards to him, but I knoed he were _my_ meat without

an accident, so I let drive, and he took the creek—then out he went,

and scampered up the bank _mighty quick_, and then sich a ratlin’ among

cane, sich a growlin’ and snortin’, sich a breakin’ of saplins and

vines, I reckon you never _did_ hear; I knoed, in course, I had him. I

throwed a log in and paddled across—found his trail, and lots of har

and fat, but no blood!”

“That was very strange, Jim; how did you account for that?”

“Why he were too fat to bleed! Oh, you think I am foolin’ you, but you

ask Chunkey. It is frequently the case. I follered his trail about a

quarter and a half a quarter, and _thar_ he lay; so I jist hollered to

Chunkey to git two negers and a yoke of steers to take him to the house.

How much do you reckon he weighed?”

“I have no idea, Jim.”

“Now, Sir, he weighed, without head, skin, or entrails, four hundred and

ninety-three pounds, and his head sixty pounds! You don’t believe me!

Well, just ask Chunkey if I haint killed ’em smartly over seven hundred

pounds! Killin’ him sorter got my blood up, and I determined to have

another. Chunkey had been jerkin’ it to the licker gourd mighty smart,

and was jest right.”

“‘Chunkey,’ says I, ‘let’s gin it to another!’

“‘Good as ——,’ says Chunkey. ‘Who cars for expenses? a hundred-dollar

bill ain’t no more in my pocket nor a cord of wood!’

“With that we started down to the Bend; we haddent been thar long when

_in_ comes an old buck; he was a smasher, and one horn were broke off. I

telled Chunkey now’s his time, as I skorn’d to toch him arter killin’ a

bar. Chunkey lathered away, and _ca chunk!_ he went into the creek; he

then gin him a turn with t’other barrel; the buck wabbled about a time

or two and sunk, jist at the head of the little raft at the lower end of

the clearin’. I know’d he’d lodged agin the drift, and determined to

have him, and if you’ll believe me, I’d been workin’ at the gourd since

I’d killed the bar. I pulled off my coat and jest throwed myself in; I

swimd out to the place and _div_—you know the current are might rapid

thar. Well, I found him, yes, —— if I diddent. But, Moses! warn’t I in

a tight place _that_ time? Well, I reckon I were. I’d been willin’ to

fite the biggest _he_ on the creek, and gin him the first bite, to have

been out!”

“Why, Jim, what was the matter?”

“Arter I’d got in, I couldent get out—_that_ was the matter! You see

the drift were a homogification of old cyprus logs, vines, and

drift-wood of evry description, for nigh three hundred yards long, and

the creek runs under thar like it was arter somebody; the trees and

vines, and prognostics of all sorts, ar sorter nit together like a sock,

and you couldent begin to get through ’em. Well, Capting, I thought my

time had come, and I knowed it war for killin’ that cub what I telled

you about. And, sir, it would have come if it haddent been for the

sorritude I felt arterwards. You see, the young cub was standin’ in the

corner of the fence eatin’ roastin’ ears, and I was goin’ to the——”

“But, Jim, you have told that once, and I don’t want to hear it again.”

“Well, I tried to rise, but I’d as well tried to rise down’ard. I then

tried to swim up ’bove the raft, but I found from the way the logs and

vines ware tearin’ the extras off me, that I were goin’ further under,

and I was gettin’ out of wind very fast. I knowed thar was but one

chance, and that was _to go clean through_! So I busted loose and set my

paddles to goin’ mightily; presently my head bumped agin the drift! I

div agin, and kept my paddles a lumberin’! Chunk! my head went agin a

log, and then I knowed the thing were _irrefrangably out_—but I div

agin, still workin’ on my oars smartly, until I hung agin!

“‘Good bye, Chunkey!—farewell, Governor,’ says I.

“But, Capting, I were all the time tryin’ to do _something_. Things had

begun to look speckled green, and then _omniferous_; but findin’ I were

not gone yet, by the way I were kickin’ and pawin’, and knowin’ I were

goin’ _somewhere_, and expectin’ to the devil, there ain’t _no_ tellin’

how long or powerful I _did_ work! The fust thing I recollect arter

that, was gittin’ a mouthful of wind! _Fact!_ I’d done, gone clean

through, and were hangin’ on to a tree below the raft! But, Sir, I were

_mighty_ weak, and couldent tell a stump from an old he, and ’spected

smartly for some time that I were in the yother world, and commenced an

excuse for comin’ so onexpectedly! However, presently I got sorter

right, and when I found I were safe, I reckon you never _did_ see a man

feel so _unanimous_ in your life, and I made the water fly for joy.”

“Well, Jim, what had become of Chunkey? He did not leave you?”

“Yes, —— if he diddent? He’d commenced gittin’ dry afore he shot the

deer; and when Chunkey wants a drink, if his daddy was drounin’, Chunkey

would go to the licker gourd afore he’d go to his daddy. I went to the

house, and _thar_ he was settin’ at the table, jist a rattlin’ his teeth

agin the bar’s ribs; he held a tin cup in one hand ’bout half full of

licker; his head were sorter throwd back; he was breathin’ sorter hard,

his eye set on the Governor, humpin’ himself on politics.

“‘Down with the specie kurrency,’ says Chunkey; ’it ain’t no account,

and I’m agin it. When we had good times, I drank five-dollar-a-gallon

brandy, and had pockets full of money.’

“‘But,’ says the Governor, ‘you bought the brandy on a credit, and never

paid for it!’

“‘What’s the difference?’ asks Chunkey. ‘Them what I bought it from

never paid for it; they bought it on a credit from them fureigners, and

never paid for it, and them fureigners, you say, are a pack of

scoundrels, and I go in for ruinin’ ’em, so far as good licker is

concarned.’

“‘You are drunk,’ says the Governor, and then——but, Capting, you look

sleepy; let’s licker, and go to bed.”

“No, I am not sleepy, Jim.”

“Well, then, I’ll tell you how I sarved Chunkey for leavin’ me under the

raft. Moses! diddent I pay him back! Did I ever tell you ’bout takin’

Chunkey out on Sky Lake, makin’ him drunk, takin’ his gun and knife away

from him, and a puttin’ him to sleep in a panter’s nest?”

“No, you never did; but was you not apprehensive they would kill him?”

“Kill him! No! If they’d commenced bitin’ Chunkey, they’d have been

looed, as that’s a game Chunkey _invented_! But here he comes; and if

you mention it afore him, it puts the dander in him. Let’s licker.”

-----

[13] A barrel of whiskey is called a “stranger,” from the fact that It

is brought from a distance, there being none made in the country.

XXII.

DILLY JONES; OR, THE PROGRESS OF

IMPROVEMENT.[14]

One of the most difficult things in the world is to run before the wind;

and, by judiciously observing the changes of the weather, to avoid being

thrown out. Fashion is so unsteady, and improvements are so rapid, that

the man whose vocation yields him an abundant harvest now, may, in a few

years, if he has not a keen eye, and a plastic versatility, find that

his skill and his business are both useless. Many were the poor barbers

ship-wrecked by the tax upon hair-powder, and numerous were the leather

breeches’ makers who were destroyed by the triumph of woollens. Their

skill was doubtless very great, but it would not avail in a contest

against the usages of the world; and unless they had the capacity to

strike out a new course, they all shared the fate of their commodities,

and retired to the dark cellars of popular estimation. Every day shows

us the same principle of change at work, and no one has more reason to

reflect and mourn about it than one Dilly Jones of this city. Dilly is

not, perhaps, precisely the person who would be chronicled by the memoir

writers of the time, or have a monument erected to him if he were no

more; but Dilly is a man of a useful though humble vocation, and no one

can saw hickory with more classic elegance, or sit upon the curbstone

and take his dinner with more picturesque effect.

Yet, as has been hinted above, Dilly has his sorrows, particularly at

night, after a hard day’s work, when his animal spirits have been

exhausted by reducing gum logs to the proper measure. In the morning he

is full of life and energy, feeling as if he could saw a cord of

Shot-towers, and snap the pillars of the Bank across his knee like

pipe-stems. In the full flush of confidence at that time of day,

reflection batters against him in vain; but as the night draws on, Dilly

feels exhausted and spiritless. His enthusiasm seems to disappear with

the sun, and neither the moon nor the stars can cause high tide in the

river of his mind. The current of his good spirits shrinks in its

channel, leaving the gay and gorgeous barques of hope and confidence

drearily ashore on the muddy flats; and his heart fails him as if it

were useless longer to struggle against adversity.

It was in this mood that he was once seen travelling homeward, with his

horse and saw fixed scientifically upon his shoulders. He meandered in

his path in the way peculiar to men of his vocation, and travelled with

that curvilinear elegance which at once indicates that he who practises

it is of the wood-sawing profession, and illustrates the lopsided

consequences of giving one leg more to do than the other. But Dilly was

too melancholy on this occasion to feel proud of his professional air,

and perhaps, had he thought of it, would have reproved the leg which

performed the “sweep of sixty,” for indulging in such graces, and

thereby embarrassing its more humble brother, which, knowing that a

right line is the shortest distance between two places, laboured to go

straight to its destination. Dilly, however, had no such stuff in his

thoughts. His mind was reasoning from the past to the future, and was

mournfully meditating upon the difficulties of keeping up with the

changes of the times, which roll onward like a Juggernaut, and crush all

who are not swift enough to maintain themselves in the lead. He wondered

why fashions and customs should so continually change, and repined that

he could not put a spoke in their wheel, that the trade of one’s early

days might likewise be the trade of one’s latter years. So complete was

his abstraction that he unconsciously uttered his thoughts aloud:

“Sawing wood’s going all to smash,” said he, “and that’s where

everything goes what I speculates in. This here coal is doing us up.

Ever since these black stones was brought to town, the woodsawyers and

pilers, and them soap-fat and hickory-ashes men, has been going down;

and, for my part, I can’t say as how I see what’s to be the end of all

their new-fangled contraptions. But it’s always so; I’m always crawling

out of the little end of the horn. I began life in a comfortable sort of

a way; selling oysters out of a wheelbarrow, all clear grit, and didn’t

owe nobody nothing. Oysters went down slick enough for a while, but at

last cellars was invented, and darn the oyster, no matter how nice it

was pickled, could poor Dill sell; so I had to eat up capital and

profits myself. Then the ‘pepree pot smoking’ was sot up, and went ahead

pretty considerable for a time; but a parcel of fellers come into it,

said my cats wasn’t as good as their’n, when I know’d they was as fresh

as any cats in the market; and pepree pot was no go. Bean soup was just

as bad; people said kittens wasn’t good done that way, and the more I

hollered, the more the customers wouldn’t come, and them what did,

wanted tick. Along with the boys and their pewter fips, them what got

trust and didn’t pay, and the abusing of my goods, I was soon fotch’d up

in the victualling line—and I busted for the benefit of my creditors.

But genius riz. I made a raise of a horse and saw, after being a

wood-piler’s ’prentice for a while, and working till I was free, and now

here comes the coal to knock this business in the head. My people’s

decent people, and I can’t disgrace ’em by turning Charcoal Jemmy, or

smashing the black stones with a pickaxe. They wouldn’t let me into no

society at all if I did.”

The idea of being excluded from the upper circles of the society in

which he had been in the habit of moving, fell heavily upon the heart of

poor Dilly Jones. He imagined the curled lips and scornful glances of

the aristocratic fair, who now listened with gratification to his

compliments and to his soft nonsense; he saw himself passed unrecognised

in the street—absolutely cut by his present familiar friends, and the

thought of losing caste almost crushed his already dejected spirit.

The workings of his imagination, combined with the fatigue of his limbs,

caused such exhaustion, that, dislodging his horse from his shoulder, he

converted it into a camp-stool, seated himself under the lee of a shop

window, and, after slinging his saw petulantly at a dog, gazed with

vacant eyes upon the people who occasionally passed, and glanced at him

with curiosity.

“Hey, Mister!” said a shop-boy, at last, “I want to get shut of you,

’cause we’re goin’ to shet up. You’re right in the way, and if you don’t

boom along, why Ben and me will have to play hysence, clearance,

puddin’s out with you afore you’ve time to chalk your knuckles—won’t

we, Ben?”

“We’ll plump him off of baste before he can say fliance, or get a sneak.

We’re knuckle dabsters, both on us. You’d better emigrate—the old man’s

coming, and if he finds you here, he’ll play the mischief with you,

before you can sing out, ‘I’m up if you knock it and ketch.’”

So saying, the two lads placed themselves one on each side of Dilly, and

began swinging their arms with an expression that hinted very plainly at

a forcible ejectment. Dilly, however, who had forgotten all that he ever

knew of the phrases so familiar to those who scientifically understand

the profound game of marbles, wore the puzzled air of one who labours to

comprehend what is said to him. But the meaning became so apparent as

not to be mistaken, when Ben gave a sudden pull at the horse, which

almost dismounted the rider.

“Don’t be so unfeelin’,” ejaculated Dilly, as he clutched the cross-bars

of his seat; “don’t be unfeelin’, for a man in grief is like a

wood-piler in a cellar—mind how you chuck, or you’ll crack his

calabash.”

“Take care of your calabash, then,” was the grinning response; “you must

skeete, even if you have to cut high-dutchers with your irons loose, and

that’s no fun.”

“High-dutch yourself, if you know how; only go ’way from me, ’cause I

ain’t got no time.”

“Well,” said the boys, “haven’t we caught you on our payment?—what do

you mean by crying here—what do you foller when you’re at home?”

“I works in wood; that’s what I foller.”

“You’re a carpenter, I s’pose,” said Ben, winking at Tom.

“No, not exactly; but I saws wood better nor any half-dozen loafs about

the drawbridge. If it wasn’t for grief, I’d give both of you six, and

beat you, too, the best day you ever saw, goin’ the rale gum and

hickory—for I don’t believe you’re gentlemen’s sons; nothin’ but poor

trash—half-and-half—want to be and can’t, or you wouldn’t keep a

troubling of me.”

“Gauley, Ben, if he isn’t a wharf-rat! If you don’t trot, as I’ve told

you a’ready, boss will be down upon you, and fetch you up like a catty

on a cork-line—jerk!”

“That’s enough,” replied Dilly; “there’s more places nor one in the

world—at least there is yet; new fashions haven’t shut up the streets

yet, and obligated people to hire hackney balloons if they want to go

a-walkin’, or omnibus boardin’-houses when they want a fip’s worth of

dinner, or a levy’s-worth of sleep. Natural legs is got some chance for

a while, anyhow, and a man can get along if he ain’t got clock-vurks to

make him go.

“I hope, bimeby,” added Dill, scornfully, as he marched away from the

chuckling lads, “that there won’t be no boys to plague people. I’d vote

for that new fashion myself. Boys is luisances, accordin’ to me.”

He continued to soliloquize as he went, and his last observations were

as follows:

“I wonder if they wouldn’t list me for a Charley? Hollering oysters and

bean-soup has guv’ me a splendid woice; and instead of skeering ’em

away, if the thieves were to hear me singing out, my style of doing it

would almost coax ’em to come and be took up. They’d feel like a bird

when a snake is after it, and would walk up, and poke their coat-collars

right into my fist. Then, after a while, I’d perhaps be promoted to the

fancy business of pig-ketching, which, though it is werry light and

werry elegant, requires genus. Tisn’t every man that can come the

scientifics in that line, and has studied the nature of a pig, so as to

beat him at canœuvering, and make him surrender ’cause he sees it ain’t

no use of doing nothing. It wants larning to conwince them critters, and

it’s only to be done by heading ’em up handsome, hopping which ever way

they hop, and tripping ’em up genteel by shaking hands with their

off-hind leg. I’d scorn to pull their tails out by the roots, or to hurt

their feelin’s by dragging ’em about by the ears.

“But what’s the use? If I was listed, they’d soon find out to holler the

hour and to ketch the thieves by steam; yes, and they’d take ’em to

court on a railroad, and try ’em with biling water. They’ll soon have

black locomotives for watchmen and constables, and big bilers for judges

and mayors. Pigs will be ketched by steam, and will be biled fit to eat

before they are done squealing. By and by, folks won’t be of no use at

all. There won’t be no people in the world but tea-kettles; no mouths,

but safety-valves; and no talking, but blowing off steam. If I had a

little biler inside of me, I’d turn omnibus, and week-days I’d run from

Kensington to the Navy Yard, and Sundays I’d run to Fairmount.”

-----

[14] By J. C. Neal.

XXIII.

LANTY OLIPHANT IN COURT.

Lawyers allege that there are four classes of witnesses: those who prove

too much, those who prove too little, those of a totally negative

character, and those of no character at all, who will prove anything. We

have a case in point.

Far, very far away from the tall Blue Mountains, at a little place

called Lodom, there were upon a time three neighbours called in, as

arbitrators, to settle a point relative to some stolen chickens, in

dispute between one Lot Corson, and a “hard case” called Emanuel Allen,

better known thereabouts as King of the Marsh.

“Mister Constable,” said one of the semi-judicials, “now call the

principal witness.”

“Lanty Oliphant! Lanty Oliph-ant!” bawled Dogberry; “Mosey in, and be

sworn!”

In obedience to this summons, little Lanty, whose bottle had usurped the

place in his affections commonly assigned to soap and water, waddled up,

and was qualified, deprecating, by a look, the necessity of such a

useless ceremony among gentlemen.

“Mister Oliphant, you are now swore. Do you know the value of an oath?”

asked the senior of the board.

“Doesn’t I?” rejoined Lanty, with a wink at a bystander. “Four bushel of

weight wheat, the old score wiped off, and licker for the hul day

throw’d in.”

This matter-of-fact answer met a severe frown from the man with the red

ribbon round his hat.

“Well, Mister Oliphant,” continued the senior, “tell all you know about

this here case.”

Lanty here testified:

“Feelin’ a sort of outish t’other day,” ses I to the old woman, ses I,

‘I’ll jist walk over to Lot’s, and take a nipper or two this mornin’,’

ses I. ‘It’ll take the wind off my stomach sorter,’ ses I. Then the old

woman’s feathers riz, they did, like a porky-pine’s bristles, and ses

she:

“‘Lanty,’ says she, ‘if you’d on’y airn more bread and meat, and drink

less whisky, you wouldn’t have wind on your stomach.’

“‘Suse,’ ses I, ‘this is one of my resarved rights, and I goes agin home

industry,’ ses I, sort o’ laugh-in’ out o’ the wrong side o’ my mouth.

“‘Resarved rights or desarved wrongs,’ ses her, ‘you’r always a drinkin’

and talkin’ politics when you orter be at work, and there’s never

nothin’ to eat in the house.’

“Well, as I was a-goin’ over to Lot’s, jist fernent where the fence

_was_, ses I to myself, ses I: ‘If there isn’t the old King’s critters

in my corn-field, so I’ll jist go and tell him on’t.’ When I gets there,

‘Good mornin’, Lanty,’ ses he.

“‘Good mornin’, old hoss,’ ses I; and when I went in, there was a pot on

the fire a-cookin’, with a _great big speckled rooster_ in it.”

“Mister Oliphant!” here interposed one of the arbitrators, “remember

that you are on oath. How do you know that the chicken in the pot was ‘a

big speckled rooster?’”

“’Kase I _seed the feathers at the woodpile_!” promptly responded Lanty,

who then continued:

“Well, when I gits to Lot’s, ‘Good mornin’, Lot,’ ses I.

“‘Good mornin’, Lanty,’ ses he. ‘You didn’t see nothin’ nowhere of nar’

a big speckled rooster that didn’t belong to nobody, did you?’ ses he.

“‘Didn’t I?’ ses I.

“‘Come, Lanty,’ ses he, ‘let’s take a nipper,’ ses he; and then I up and

tells him all about it.”

“Had Mr. Allen no chickens of his own?” asked the senior.

“Sartin’,” rejoined Lanty; “but there warn’t a rooster in the crowd.

They was _all layin’ hens_!”

“Well,” inquired another of the referees, “how many of these hens had

Mr. Allen?”

This question fairly “stump’d” Lanty for a moment, but he quickly

answered:

“Why, with what was there, and what wasn’t there, counting little and

big, spring chickens and all, _there was forty odd, exactly_!”

No further questions were put to this witness.

XXIV.

OLD SINGLETIRE.[15]

THE MAN THAT WAS NOT ANNEXED.

A good story is told of this bold frontiersman, who had made himself

notorious, and given his character the _bend sinister_, by frequent

depredations on both sides the boundary line between Texas and the

United States. The old fellow had migrated thither from parts unknown,

years since, knew every foot of country for fifty miles on either side

in his vicinity, and had communication by runners with many “_birds of

the same feather_,” then common in the region.

The old fellow saw, with sorrow and regret, the rapid influx of

population within the last ten years, and was compelled gradually to

narrow his sphere of _usefulness_; for, said he:

“People’s a gittin’ too thick about me—tha and their varmints and

critters is fillin’ up the woods and spilin’ the huntin’—and then tha

ain’t no chance for a fellar to _speculate_ upon travellers as tha used

to be when tha wan’t anybody to watch a fellar. Why, tha is getten to be

so _civylizated_ that a fellar can’t drink a barrel of double-rectified

’thout havin’ ’em all abusin’ him about it—and then ef he do as happen

jist by accident to drap half an ounce of lead into a feller, why tha is

all up in arms about it. Now t’other day, when I wanted to mark Joe

Sliteses’ ears like tha marks their hogs, ’case he called me a

vill-_yan_, they wanted to _jewdicate_ me afore the court. But, ’cuse

’em for a set of fools, they ain’t a-gwoin’ to fool ‘Old Singletire,’ ef

he is a-gitten old, and ain’t as quick on the trigger as he used to was.

“Dang their skins, I don’t care ef tha _does_ annexate Texas! I’ll show

’em somethin’—tho’ tha thinks tha is got me slick when tha git the two

countries wedged up into one—but I’ll fix ’em; I’ll quit, and go to

Arkansaw, whar a decent white man kin live ’thout bein’ pestered, and

’bused and _jewdicated_!”

“Old Single,” as he was called, _for short_, had several years previous

to the late discussion of the annexation question, with singular

’cuteness ascertained the precise line dividing the two territories, and

built his cabin thereon in such a position, that, when lying down, _he

slept, one half in the United States, and the other half in Texas_, for

he lay at right angles with the line.

The authorities of both sides had frequently found him in that position,

but as their separate claims lay severally on the _entire_ individual,

they were not content to arrest _one half of him_ at a time. A great

deal of courtesy was at times exhibited by the officers, each pressing

the other to break the forms of international law by pulling Old Single

bodily over either side of the line. Each was up to trap, and feared the

other wished to trick him, and declined the effort which might cause a

rupture between Texas and the Union.

On one occasion they were exceedingly pressing on the subject, at first

politely so, then teasing each other, and then daring by taunt, and

jeer, and jibe, until they worked themselves into such furious

excitement, that “Old Single,” their pretended victim, had to command

and preserve the peace.

“Gentle-_men_,” said he, “you may fun, and fret, and quarrel jist as

much as you please in my house—but when tha is any lickin’ to be done

’bout these diggins, why “Old Single” is _thar sure_!—so look out boys,

ef you strikes you _dies_. Show your sense, make friends, and let’s

_liker_. You,” nodding to one, “hand me a gourd of water; and You,” to

another, “pass that bottle, and I’ll drink to your better ’quaintance.”

The day passed, “Old Single” crosses the line, and one of the _beauties_

on each side his cot, all going it like forty at twenty-deck poker—a

sociable game, as Sol. Smith says—and, as remarked our informant, “the

old man was a perfect _Cumanche horse_ at any game whar tha was

_curds_.”

For the last three months “Old Single” had been mightily

distressed—“_mighty oneasy ’bout annexation_”—for he knew he would be

compelled to travel. Well, the news of the action of Texas on this great

question was received in “Old Single’s” vicinity on the 29th of

June—the day it reached Fort Jessup.

Next morning “the boys” from Boston and De Kalb—a couple of border

villages—after a glory gathering about annexation, determined to storm

“Old Single,” and “_rout_” him. They accordingly, _en masse

à-la-regulator_, started off for his cabin, and on arriving near it, a

consultation was held, and it was determined that bloodshed was

useless—as it was certain to occur if violence was resorted to—and

that a flag of truce should be sent into the fortress, offering terms.

The old man was found in a gloomy mood, with a pack strapped to his

back, in woodsman style. “Old _Centresplit_,” his friend of thirty

years’ standing, his rifle, his favourite, his all, was laid across his

knees, and he in deep thought, his eyes resting on vacancy. As the

delegation entered, he looked up:

“Well, boys, the time is _cum_, and Texas and you is annixated; _but I

ain’t_, and I _ain’t a gwoin’ to be nuther!—so take care how you raise

my dander; I can shoot sum yet!_”

The party explained, and it was agreed the old fellow should take up the

march _upon the line_ for the nearest point on Red River, the party

escorting him at twenty paces distant on either side—that the last mile

should be run—that if he struck the water’s edge first, he should go

free—if otherwise, he was to be taken and rendered up a victim to the

offended dignity of the laws.

“_Agreed_,” said Old Single, “it’s a bargain. Boys, tha is a _gallon_ in

that barrel, let’s finish it in a friendly way, and then travel.”

The thing was done, the travel accomplished, and the race, fast and

furious, was being done. The old fellow led the crowd, hallooing at his

topmost voice as he gained the river:

“Hoopee!—Hurrah!—_I ain’t annixated!—I’m off—I ain’t no whar—nuther

in the States nor Texas_, BUT IN ARKANSAW!” swam to the opposite shore,

fired a volley, gave three cheers, and retired victorious.

-----

[15] By the late Robert Patterson.

XXV.

MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP.

LETTER I.

Pineville, May 28th, 1842.

Dear Sir,

Ever sense you was down to Pineville, it’s been on my mind to rite you a

letter, but the boys lowed I’d better not, ’cause you mought take me off

’bout my spellin’ and dictionary. But something happened to me t’other

night, so monstrous provokin’, that I can’t help tellin’ you about it.

It all came of snuffing ashes over a soft wood fire, and I reckon I’ve

wished there was no sich plaguy stuff, as soft wood, more’n five hundred

times sense it happened. You know the Stallinses lives on the plantation

in the summer, and goes to town in the winter. Well, Miss Mary Stallins,

who you know is the darlinest gal in the county, came home t’other day

to see her folks. You know she’s been to the Female College, down to

Macon, for most a year now. Before she went, she used to be as plain as

an old shoe, and used to go fishin’ and huckelberryin’ with us, with

nothin’ but a calico sun-bonnet on, and was the wildest thing you ever

saw. Well, I always used to have a sort of sneakin’ notion of Mary

Stallins, and so when she come, I brushed up, and was ’termined to have

a rite serious talk with her ’bout old matters; not knowin’ but she

might be captivated by some of them Macon fellers.

So, sure enough, off I started, unbeknowin’ to anybody, and rode rite

over to the plantation, (you know ours is rite jinin’ the widder

Stallinses.) Well, when I got thar, I felt a little sort of sheepish;

but I soon got over that, when Miss Carline said, (but she didn’t mean

me to hear her)—

“There Pinny, (that’s Miss Mary’s nick-name, you know,) there’s your bo

come.”

Miss Mary looked mighty sort o’ redish when I shuck her hand and told

her howdy; and she made a sort of a stoop over and a dodge back, like

the little gals does to the school-marm, and said:

“Good evenin’, Mr. Jones,” (she used to always call me jest Joe.)

“Take a chair, Joseph,” said Miss Carline; and we sot down in the

parlor, and I begun talkin’ to Miss Mary ’bout Macon, and the long ride

she had, and the bad roads, and the monstrous hot weather, and the like.

She didn’t say much, but was in a mighty good humor and laughed a heap.

I told her, I never seed sich a change in anybody. Nor I never did. Why

she didn’t look like the same gal—good gracious! she looked so nice and

trim, with her hair all komed down long side of her face, so slick and

shiny as a mahogany burow. When she laughed she didn’t open her mouth

like she used to; and she set up strait and still in her chair, and

looked so different, but so monstrous pretty! I ax’d her a heap of

questions, ’bout how she liked Macon, and the Female College, and so

forth; and she told me a heap ’bout ’em. But old Miss Stallins and Miss

Carline and Miss Kesiah, and all of ’em, kep all the time interruptin’

us, axin’ ’bout mother; if she was well, and if she was gwine to the

Spring church next Sunday, and what luck she had with her crap, and all

sich stuff, and I do believe I told the old women more’n twenty times

that mother’s old turkey hen was settin’ on fourteen eggs.

Well, I wasn’t to be backed out that-a-way—so I kept it a goin’ the

best I could, ’til bimeby old Miss Stallins let her knittin’ fall three

or four times, and then begun to nod and snap back like a fishin’-pole

that was all the time gitin’ bites. I seed the galls lookin’ at one

another, and pinchin’ one another’s elbows, and Miss Mary said, she

wondered what time it was, and said the college disciplines, or

somethin’ like that, didn’t ’low late hours. I seed how the game was

gwine—but howsumever, I kep talkin’ to her like a cotton gin in packin’

time, as hard as I could clip it, ’til bimeby the old lady went to bed,

and arter a bit the gals all cleared, and left Miss Mary to herself.

That was jest the thing I wanted.

“Well, she sot on one side of the fire-place, and I sot on t’other,

snuffin’ ashes, war there was nothin’ but a lighted chunk burnin’ to

give light. Well, we talked, and I know you would like to hear all we

talked about, but that would be too long. When I’m very interested in

anything, or git bothered ’bout anything, I always leans forred and

pokes the fire, if there be any. Well, we sot thar and talked, ’bout

everything a’most. I axed her if she had any bos down to Macon.

“‘Oh, yes,’ she said, and then she went on and named over Matthew Matin,

Nat Filosophy, and a whole heap of fellers with foreign, outlandish

names, that she’d been kepin’ company with ’most all her time.

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I s’pose they’re ’mazin’ poplar with you, ain’t they,

Miss Mary?’ for I felt mighty oneasy, and dug away at the fire like

anything.

“‘Yes,’ ses she, ‘they’re the most interestin’ companions I ever had,

and I am anxious to resume their pleasant society.’

“I tell you what, that sort o’ stumped me, and I poked up the fire and

made it ‘flicker and flare’ like the mischief; it was a good thing it

did, for I blushed as blue as a Ginny squash.

“‘Then I s’pose you’r gwine to forget old acquaintances,’ ses I, ‘sense

you’s been to Macon, ’mong them lawyers and doctors; is you, Miss Mary?

You thinks more of them than you does of anybody else, I s’pose?’

“‘Oh!’ ses she, ‘I’m devoted to them—I think of them day and night!’

“That was too much—it shot me right up, and I sot as still as could be

for more’n a minute. I never felt so warm behind the ears afore in all

my life. Thunder! how my blood did bile up all over me, and I felt like

I could knock Matthew Matin into a squash if he’d only been thar. Miss

Mary sot with her handkerchief up to her face, and I looked rite into

the fire-place. The blue blazes was runnin’ round over the chunk,

ketchin’ hold here and lettin’ go thar, sometimes gwine ’most out, and

then blazin’ up a little. I couldn’t speak—and was makin’ up my mind

for tellin’ her the siteation of my heart, when I gave the soft wood

chunk a desperate poke, and slap it went right over, and out it went

spang!

“I swar I never did feel so in all my born days. I didn’t know what to

do.

“‘My Lord, Miss Mary,’ ses I, ‘I didn’t go to do it; jest tell me the

way to the kitchen, and I’ll go and git a light.’

“But she never said nothin’, so I sot down agin, thinkin’ she’d gone to

git one herself, for it was pitch dark, and I couldn’t see my hand afore

my face.

“Well, I sot thar and ruminated, and waited a long time, but she didn’t

come, so I begun to think maybe she wasn’t gone. I couldn’t hear

nothin’, nor I couldn’t see nothin’; so bimeby ses I, very low, for I

didn’t want to wake up the family, ses I:

“‘Miss Mary! Miss Mary!’ but nobody answered.

“Thinks I, what’s to be done? I tryed agin.

“‘Miss Mary! Miss Mary!’ ses I, but it was no use.

“Then I heard the gals snickerin’ and laughin’ in the next room, and I

begun to see how it was; Miss Mary was gone, and left me thar alone.

“‘Whar’s my hat?’ ses I, pretty loud, so somebody might tell me; but

they only laughed worse.

“I begun to feel about the room, and the fust thing I knew, spang! goes

my head agin a dore that was standin’ open. The fire flew, and I

couldn’t help but swar a little.

“‘Drot the dore,’ ses I, ‘whar’s my hat?’

“But nobody said nothin’, so I begun to think it war best to git out the

best way I could, and never mind my hat. Well, I got through the parlor

dor, after rakin’ my shins three or four times agin the chairs, and was

falin’ along through the entry for the frunt dore; but somehow I was so

flustrated that I tuk the rong way, and bimeby, kerslash I went, rite

over Miss Stallinses spinnin’-wheel onto the floor! I hurt myself a good

deal; but that didn’t make me half so mad as to hear then confounded

gals a gigglin’ and laughin’ at me.

“Oh!” said one of them, (it was Mis Kesiak, for I knowed her voice)

“there goes mother’s wheel! My Lord!”

I tried to set the thing up, but it seemed to have more’n twenty legs,

and wouldn’t stand up nohow—maybe it was broke. I went out of the dore,

but I hadn’t got down the steps, when bow! wow! wow! comes four or five

infurnal grate big coon-dogs rite at me.

“Git out! git out! hellow Cato! call off your dogs,” ses I, as loud as I

could.

But Cato was sound asleep, and if I hadn’t a run back into the hall, and

got out of the frunt way as quick as I could, them devils would o’

chawed my bones for true.

When I got to my horse, I felt like a feller just out of a hornet’s

nest; and I reckon I went home a little of the quickest. Next mornin’

old Miss Stallins sent my hat by a little nigger; but I hain’t seed Mary

Stallins sense. Now you see what comes of snuffin’ ashes over a soft

wood fire. No more from

Your frend, till deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER II.

Pineville, August 29th, 1842.

Dear Sir,

Jest as I spected, only a thunderin’ sight wurse! You know I said that

we wer gwine to have a betallion muster in Pineville. Well, the muster

has tuck place, and I reckon sich other doins you never hearn of afore.

I come in town the nite afore, with my regimentals in a bundle, so they

couldn’t be siled by ridin’, and as soon as I got my breckfast, I begun

rigin’ out for the muster. I had a bran new pair of boots, made jest a

purpose, with long legs to ’em and a shaperdebraw, with one of the

tallest kind of red fethers in it, a blu cloth regimental cote, all

titivated off with gold and buttons, and a pair of yeller britches of

the finest kind. Well, when I went to put ’em on, I couldn’t help but

cuss all the tailors and shoomakers in Georgia. In the fust place, my

britches like to busted and wouldn’t reach more’n half way to my jacket,

then it tuck two niggers to git my boots on; and my coat had tail enuff

for a bed-quilt, and stood rite strait out behind like a fan-tail

pidgin—it wouldn’t hang rite no how you could pull it. I never was so

dratted mad, specially when thar was no time to fix things, for the

fellers were comin’ in in gangs and beginnin’ to call for me to come out

and take the command. Eckspectation was ris considerable high, cause I

was pledged to quip myself in uniformity to the law, if I was lected

Majer.

Well, bimeby I went to the dore and told Bill Skinner and Tom Cullers to

fix ther companys, and have ’em all reddy when I made my pearance. Then

the fuss commenced. Thar wasn’t but one drum in town, and Bill Skinner

swore _that_ should drum for _his_ company, cause it longed to that

beat; and Tom Cullers swore the nigger should drum for _his_ company,

cause he longed to his crowd. Thar was the old harry to pay, and it was

gittin’ wurse. I didn’t know what to do, for they was all comin’ to me

bout it, and shinin’ and disputin’ so I couldn’t hardly hear one from

tother. Thinks I, I must show my thority in this bisness; so says I, “In

the name of the State of Georgia, I cummand the drum to drum for me. I’s

Majer of this betallion and I’s cummander of the musick too!” The thing

tuck fust-rate; thar was no more rumpus bout it, and I sot the niggers a

drummin’ and fifin’ as hard as they could split rite afore the tavern

dore.

It was monstrous diffikil to git the men to fall in; thar hain’t been

none of them deformed drunkerds down here yit, and the way the fellers

does love peach and hunny is ’mazin’. Bimeby Bill Skinner tuck a stick

and made a long strate streak in the sand, and then hollered out, “Oh,

yes! oh, yes! all you as belongs to Coon-holler beat is to git in a

strate line on this trail!” Tom Cullers made a streak for his beat, and

the fellers begun to string themselves along in a strate line, and in

about a quarter of a ower they wer all settled like bees on a bean-pole,

pretty considerable strate. Arter a while they sent word to me that they

was all reddy, and I had my horse fetched up to tother side of the

tavern; but when I cum to him, the bominable fool didn’t know me sumhow,

and begun kickin’ and prancin’, and cavortin’ about like mad. I made the

niggers hold him till I got on, then I sent word round to the drummer to

drum like blazes as soon as he seed me turn the corner, and to the men

to be reddy to salute. My sword kep rattlin’ agin the side of my hors,

and the fool was skeered so he didn’t know which eend he stood on; and

kep dancin’ about and squattin’ and rarin’ so I couldn’t hardly hold on

to him.

The nigger went and told the men what I sed; and when I thought they was

all reddy, round I went in a canter, with my sash and regimentals flyin’

and my red fether wavin’ as graceful as a corn tossel in a whirlwind;

but jest as I got to the corner ther was a fuss like heaven and yearth

was cumin’ together. Rattlebang, wher-r-r-r-r went the drum, and the

nigger blowed the fife rite out strate, till his eyes was sot in his

hed—harra! hey-y-y! hurra! went all the niggers and everybody else—my

horse wheelin’ and pitchin’ worse than ever, rite up to the muster—and,

fore I could draw my breth, bang! bang! bang! de bang! bang! bang! went

every gun in the crowd, and all I knowed was, I was whirlin’, and

pitchin’, and swingin’ about in the smoke and fire till I cum full

length rite smack on the ground, “in all the pride, pomp, and

circumstances of glorious war,” as Mr. Shakspeare ses.

Lucky enough I didn’t git hurt; but my cote was split clear up to the

coller, my yaller britches busted all to flinders, and my shaperdebraw

and fether all nocked into a perfect mush. Thunder and lightnin’! thinks

I, what must be a man’a feelin’s in a rale battle, whar they’re shootin’

in good yearnest! Cum to find out, it was all a mistake; the men didn’t

know nothing bout military ticktacks, and thought I ment a regular forth

of July salute.

I had to lay by my regimentals—but I know’d my caracter was at stake as

a officer, and I tarmined to go on with the muster. So I told Skinner

and Cullers to git the men strate agin and when they was all in a line I

sorted ’em all out. The fellers what had guns I put in frunt, them what

had sticks in the rare, and them what had no shoes, down to the bottum

by themselves, so nobody couldn’t tramp on ther tose. A good menny of

’em begun to forgit which was ther rite hand and which was ther left;

and sum of ’em begun to be very diffikil to manage, so I termined to

march ’em rite out to a old field, whar they couldn’t git no more

licker, specially sense I was bleeged to wear my tother clothes.

Well, arter I got ’em all fixed, ses I, “Music! quick time! by the rite

flank, file left, march!” they stood fer bout a minit lookin’ at me—“by

flank mar-r-r-ch!” ses I, as loud as I could holler. Then they begun

lookin’ at one another and hunchin’ one another with ther elbows, and

the fust thing I know’d they was all twisted up in a snarl, goin’ both

ways at both ends, and all machin’ through other in the middle, in all

sorts of helter skelter fashion. “Halt!” ses I, “halt! wher upon yeath

is you all gwine!”—and thar they was, all in a huddle. They knowed

better, but jest wanted to bother me, I do b’lieve.

“Never mind,” ses I, “gentlemen, we’ll try that revolution over agin.”

So when I got ’em all strait agin, I splained it to ’em, and gin ’em the

word so they could understand it. “Forward march!” ses I, and away they

went, not all together, but two by two, every feller waitin’ ’til his

turn cum to step, so fore the barefoot ones got started, I couldn’t

hardly see to t’other eend of the betallion. I let ’em go ahead ’til we

got to the old field, and then I tried to stop ’em; but I had ’em in

gangs all over the field in less than no time. “Close up!” ses I, as

loud as I could holler; but they only stood and looked at me like they

didn’t know what I meant. “Git into a strait line again,” ses I. That

brung ’em all together, and I told ’em to rest a while, before I put ’em

through the manuel.

’Bout this time out cum a whole heap of fellers with sum candidates, and

wanted I should let ’em address the betallion. I told ’em I didn’t care,

long as they didn’t kick up no row. Well, the men wer all high up for

hearin’ the speeches of the candidates, and got round ’em thick as flies

round a fat gourd. Ben Ansley—he’s the poplarest candidate down

here—begun to show by gittin’ on a stump, and takin’ his hat off rite

in the brilin’ hot sun.

“Feller-citizens,” ses he, “I spose you all know as how my friends is

fotched me out to represent this county in the next legislater—I am

posed to counterfit money and shinplasters; I am posed to abolition and

free niggers, to the morus multicaulis and the Florida war, and all

manner of shecoonery whatsumever! If I’s leeted your respectable

representation, I shall go in for good munny, twenty cents for cotton,

and no taxes, and shall go for bolishin’ prisonment for debt and the

Central Bank. I hope you’ll all cum up to the poles of the lection, and

vote like a patriot for your very humble servant—Amen.”

Then he jumped down and went round shakin’ hands. “Hurra for Ben Ansley!

Ansley for ever!” shouted every feller. “Down with the bank—devil take

the shinplasters and all the rale-roads!” ses Captain Skinner. “Silence

for a speech from Squire Pettybone!” “Hurra for Pettybone!”

Squire Pettybone was a little short fat man, what had run afore, and

knowed how to talk to the boys.

“Frends and feller-citizens,” ses he, “I’s once more a candidate for

your sufferin’s, and I want to splain my sentiments to you. You’ve jest

hearn a grate deal ’bout the Central Bank. I ain’t no bank man—I’m

’posed to all banks—but I is a frend to the pore man, and is always

reddy to stand up for his constitutional rites. When the Central Bank

put out its munny it was good, and rich men got it and made use of it

when it was good; but now they want to buy it in for less nor what it’s

worth to pay ther dets to the bank, and they is tryin’ to put it down,

and make the pore man lose by it. What does they want to put the bank

down for, if it ain’t to cheat the pore man who’s got sum of it? If I’s

’lected, I shall go for makin’ the banks redeem ther munny in silver and

gold, or put every devil of ’em into the penitentiary to makin’ nigger

shoes. I’s a hard munny man and in favor of the Vetos. I goes for the

pore man agin the rich, and if you ’lect me that’s what I mean to do.”

Then _he_ begun shakin’ hands all round. “Hurra for Squire Pettybone!

hurra for the bank and the veto!” shouted some of the men—“Hurra for

Ansley! down with the bank!” “Silence for Mr. Johnson’s speech!” “Hurra

for Harrison!” “Hurra for the Vetos!” “Hurra for Jackson! I can lick any

veto on the ground!” “Silence!” “Hurra for Ansley, no bank!” “Whar’s

them vetos what’s agin Ansley—let me at ’em!” “Fight! fight! make a

ring! make a ring!”—“Whoop!” hollered Bill Sweeny, “I’m the blossom—go

it shirt-tail!” “Hit ’em Sweeny!”—“’Tention, Betallion!” ses I, but it

want no use—they was at it rite in the middle and all round the edges,

and I know’d the quicker I got out of that bilin’ the better for my

wholsum. Thar they was, up and down, five or six in a heap, rollin’ over

and crawlin’ out from under, bitin’ and scratchin’, gougin’ and

strikin’, kickin’ and cussin’, head and heels all through other, none of

’em knowin’ who they hurt, or who hurt them—all the same whether they

hit Ansley or veto, the blossom or Pettybone. The candidates was runnin’

about pullin’ and haulin’, and tryin’ ther best to stop it; but you

couldn’t hear nothin’ but cussin’, and “bank” and “veto,” and “let me at

’em,” “I’m your boy,” “let go my eyes!” and sich talk for more’n twenty

minits, and then they only kep ’em apart by holdin’ ’em off like dogs

till they got dun pantin’.

It want no use to try to get ’em into line agin. Some of ’em had got

manuel exercise enuff, and was knocked and twisted out of all caracter,

and it would be no use to try to put ’em through the manuel in that

situation. Lots of ’em had ther eyes bunged up so they couldn’t “eyes

right!” to save ’em, so I turned ’em over to ther captains, accordin’ to

law, and ain’t sponsible for nothin’ that tuck place after I left. No