“Good nite, Cousin Mary,” ses Pete, “good nite, Majer,” ses he, “I
’spose you ain’t gwine back to town to-nite,” and then bust rite out in
a big laugh, and away he went.
That’s jest the way with Peter, he’s a good feller enough, but he haint
got no better sense.
Mary ses she’s sorry she couldn’t send you no more cake, but Mr.
Mountgomery’s saddle-bags wouldn’t hold half she rapped up for you.
Don’t forgit to put our marriage in the Miscellany. No more from
Your frend, ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
LETTER VIII.
Pineville, March 28th, 1843.
Dear Sir,
I really owe you a apology for not writin’ to you so long; but the fact
is, I’ve been too happy ever sense I was married, to think about writin’
or ennything else much. Besides I use to have time to write nites; but
now my time is tuck up with so many things, receivin’ cumpany and payin’
visits, and goin’ to quiltens and partys of one kind another, that I
haint no time for nothing; and as for writin’ letters, when my wife’s
all the time lookin’ over my shoulder, pullin’ my ears, and tickelen me,
and disputin’ bout my spellin’, it aint no kind of use to try. She’s
gone over to mother’s this afternoon with her sisters, and her mother’s
out in the gardin, lookin’ if the frost is killed the peas, so I thought
I’d rite you a few lines jest to let you know how we was all cumin’ on.
We’s all pretty well, ’cept the old woman, who’s been in a monstrous
flustration ’bout the comet, and the yeathquakes, and the harrycanes,
and snowstorms, and sich things, for more’n a month, and I’ve had a most
bominable sore throat, which I got lookin’ at the comet jest to please
her; but Mary soon cured that with some sage tea and turpentime. I’m
livin’ with Mary’s mother for the present; but that makes mother
monstrous jealous, and to satisfy both the old wimin, Mary and me is
gwine to housekeepin’ next fall to ourselves.
I don’t know what to make of the weather—the months is eather got mixed
up and January’s swapped places with March this time, or that bominable
grate big comet is got ’tween our yeath and the sun, and is soakin’ all
the sunshine up in its everlastin’ big tail, which the newspapers say is
more’n two thousand miles long. We planted sum corn most a month ago,
but it’s all rotten or froze to deth; and if the weather don’t get no
better I don’t know when we’ll plant enny more; and if cotton’s gwine
clean down to nothing, I don’t mean to put a sead in the ground this
year.
Old Miss Stallins reads the Bibel most all the time, and ses she’s jest
as sure as she wants to be that sumthing’s gwine to turn up. She ses
that comet’s sent to let us know the judgment day’s a cumin’, and these
yeathquakes and harrycanes is signs that it ain’t far off. She’s all the
time lookin’ out, and she’s got a grate big cow-bell fixed rite by her
bed, so the least tetch will make it ring, so she can tell when the
yeath-quake cums next time. T’other nite old Sooky, the cook, who’s
’bout as big as a cow, slipped up in the snow on the porch, and shuck
the whole house and made the bell ring. The old woman jumped out of bed
and lit a candle in a minit, and had us all up with her hollerin’ about
the yeath-quake; and last nite, when it lightened so, I thought she’d
die shore enuff. She sed t’other eend of the world was a fire, and we’d
all be burnt into cracklins afore mornin—she shouted and clapped her
hands, and prayed, and bid good-by to us all; and I do b’lieve if it
hadn’t thundered as soon and as loud as it did, she would’ve kick’d the
bucket shore enuff. Jest hearin’ so much about that dratted old Miller,
has played the wild with the old woman’s senses. It’s a grate pity ther
ain’t sum way to stop that old feller’s goins on. He ought to be put in
the penetentiary for tryin’ to make people b’lieve he’s sich a monstrous
sight smarter than the Lord ever intended him to be, that he can tell
when the world’s gwine to cum to a eend. The Bibel ses that thing was to
be kep a grate secret and nobody in heaven or yeath should know anything
about it. Well, ain’t it most oudacious insurance, then, for him to cum
and say he’s found it out—that he knows all about it? And if he did
know it, he ought to have principle and good breedin’ enuff not to go
and blab it all about, jest to scare fokes to deth. He ought to be
brought to the eend of a rope jest for his meanness.
For my part I hain’t no notion of the world bustin’ up yit, though
things does look kind of skeery jest now. It would jest be my luck if
sum ’bominable thing like a war or a coleramorbus, or a starvation was
to cum along now that I’ve got the hansomest and smartest gall in
Georgia for a wife. They say ther is no sich thing as cumplete happiness
on this yeath, and that makes me think so more, for nothing short of sum
monstrous grate calamity could rumple my feathers now. But I do hope it
will all blow over. I do b’lieve Mary grows hansomer every day, and if
things could stay jest as they is now, I’d like to live ’til I was old
enuff to be grandaddy to Methusla. But it’s time I was gwine over to
mother’s to bring her home. So no more from
Your frend, ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
LETTER IX.
Pineville, June 19th, 1843.
Dear Sir,
Everything’s went on pretty smooth sense I writ my last letter to you.
Mary soon got over her skare, but the way she’s mad at Cousin Pete won’t
wear off in a coon’s age. She ses he musent never put his foot in our
house, if he don’t want to get his old red whiskers scalded off his fool
face. She ses she always thought Pete had _some sense_, but now, she
ses, she don’t know whether he’s a bigger rascal than he is a fool.
Wimmin’s monstrous curious critters, now ’tween you and me, and it takes
more hed than I’ve got to manage ’em without some diffikilties now and
then. It seems to me Mary’s gittin’ curiouser every day. I don’t know
what upon yeath to make of her sometimes, she acts so quar. Lord knows,
I does everything in my power to please her—I gits everything she
wants—I always lets her have her own way in everything, and I stays
home with her more’n half my time—but every now and then she takes a
cryin’ spell, jest for nothin’. Now, I’ll jest tell you one little
circumstance, jest to let you see how curious she does do me sometimes.
Two or three months ago little Sally Rogers gin her one of the leetlest
dogs I reckon you ever did see. It’s a little white curly thing ’bout as
big as my fist, with little red eyes and a little bushy tail screwed
rite over its back so tite that it can’t hardly touch its hind legs to
the floor, and when it barks it’s got a little sharp voice that goes
rite through a body’s hed like a cotton gimblet. Well, Mary and the
galls is all the time washin’ and comin’, and fixin’ it off with ribbons
on its neck and tail, and nursin’ it in ther laps till they’ve got the
dratted thing so sasy that ther ain’t no gittin’ along with it.
Whenever I go ’bout Mary it’s a snarlin’ and snappin’ at me, and when
ennybody comes in the house, it flies at ’em like it was gwine to tare
’em all to pieces, and makes more racket than all the dogs on the place.
It’s bit my fingers two or three times, and if I jest tetch it, it’ll
squall out like its back was broke, and run rite to the wimmin and git
under ther chairs, and then the very old harry’s to pay.
If ever I say anything about it, then they all say I’m “jealous of poor
little Tip,” and that I ought to be ashamed of myself to be mad at “the
dear little feller.” Well, I always laugh it off the best way I can, but
I reckon I’ve wished some rat would catch “poor little Tip” more’n a
thousand times, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was to be tuck
suddenly sick and die some of these days, ’thout enybody knowing the
cause. But I jest want to tell a instance of the devilment he kicks up
sometimes.
Last night we was all settin’ in the parlour—the galls was sowin’, and
Mary and me was playin’ a game of drafts, and I was jest about to pen
her with three kings, when one of the checks happened to drap off the
board rite down by Mary’s foot. I stooped over to pick it up, when the
fust thing I knowd, snap the little devil of a dog tuck me rite by the
finger, and then set up a terrible barkin’ and run rite behind Mary’s
foot.
I never wanted to hit nothin’ so bad in my life, and I leaned over to
tap him on the head, but Mary put her little foot out before him, and I
missed Tip’s nose about an inch, and he snapped agin. I leaned over
further and further, and tried to hit him, but Mary’s foot was always in
the way every time, and the last time when I was reachin’ jest as fur as
I could, and her foot was in the way, and the little cus was squealin’
and snappin’ as hard as he could, I got sort o’ out of patience tryin’
to hit him, and ses I:
“_Don’t_ put your foot in the way!”
Jest then down went the “History of England” and all the checks on the
floor, and Tip run under Mary’s chair, clear out of sight, squallin’
like he was killed, when ther wasn’t a hair of him tetched. When I ris
up my face was a little red, and I would gin a five dollar bill jest to
tramp that infernal dog out of his hide. Well, what do you think? the
fust thing I knowed Mary was a cryin’ like her hart was gwine to brake.
“Why,” ses I, “Mary, what’s the matter with you? I didn’t touch Tip.”
She didn’t say nothing but jest went on cryin’ worse and worse, and told
Miss Carline to hand her the colone water; and ther she sot and cried
and snuffed the colone and sighed, and nobody didn’t know what the
matter was.
“Why, Mary,” ses I, “what upon yeath ails you? I didn’t hurt you, did
I?”
“Y-e-s, you-oo-did. I-didn’t-think-you-oo-would-speak-so to-oo me,
Joseph. I didn’t think you’d git mad at me-e-e, so I didn’t.”
“Why, lord bless your dear soul, I ain’t mad at you, Mary!” ses I, “what
makes you think I could git mad at you?”
“’Cause I didn’t want you to hurt poor little Tip—poor little feller,
he didn’t know no better.”
“But, Mary, I wasn’t mad at you at all,” ses I, “what makes you think
so?”
“’Cause you never said _don’t_ so cross to me before—you said it jest
as cross as you could.”
“But I wasn’t mad, honey—it was reachin’ over so fur made me speak sort
o’ quick,” ses I, “I never was mad at you in my life.”
But in spite of all I could say or do I couldn’t git her in a good
humour the whole evenin’, jest ’cause I said “don’t” to her when she
kep’ puttin’ her foot in my way. It’s all over now, but I dasn’t look
sideways at Tip for fear he’ll kick up another fuss. It’s monstrous
curious. I know Mary loves me, and ther ain’t a sweeter tempered nor a
better gall in Georgia, but they all have such curious ways sometimes.
Old Miss Stallins say it’s always so at first, but she ses Mary’ll git
over all them little childish notions one of these days. Ther’s one
thing certain, I wish ther was no little dogs in our family.
I never was so supprised in my life as when I heard ’bout them oudacious
bank robbers. I think they better alter the law about jurys, so that
when they want to try criminal cases hereafter, they can jest send to
the Penitentiary and git twelve fellers at once to come and be jurymen.
They’d answer the purpose jest as well, and then honest men wouldn’t be
put to no trouble to go to court jest to be objected to by the lawyers
on account of ther good charaters. Besides it’s a insult to a decent man
to be put on a jury now, in a criminal case.
Ther was a trial in our county not long ago of a feller what had killed
a man and robbed him of a heap of money. Ther was lots of lawyers here
in his favour, and when they come to pick out the jury ther was hardly
twelve men in the county that the lawyers thought mean enough to set on
the case. They was two days a gittin’ a jury, and every time they called
up a decent lookin’ man, the prisoner’s lawyers would look at him and
say, “give him the book,” and if he sed he hadn’t formed and expressed
no opinion as to the gilt of the prisoner, (which most every man that
cared anything about law or justice had done,) they’d look at him close,
and then whisper to one another, and if they hadn’t never heard of his
robin’ anybody’s hen-roost or stealin’ anything, they’d say, “object.”
Mose Sanders was called up, and Mose ain’t a very good-lookin’ feller,
though he’s a honest man as ever lived. They looked at Mose awhile, and
he felt sort o’ bashful I s’pose, and looked sort o’ mean, and they said
“content.” Well, the case was tryed, and it was such a perfect open and
shut bisness that they couldn’t help bringin’ the feller in guilty in
spite of the lawyers. But ther ain’t a man in the county that is got any
confidence in Mose Sanders after that—his character is completely
ruined, cause everybody thinks the lawyers wouldn’t tuck him on that
jury if they didn’t know he was a rascal. For my own part I would jest
as leav be s’picioned of stealin’ a sheep, as to be put upon a criminal
jury by the lawyers now-a-days. No more from
Your frend, ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
LETTER X.
Pineville, Ga., March 21st, 1844.
Dear Sir,
You mustn’t think hard cause I hain’t rit you a letter for so long a
time. Sense the arrival of the little stranger, my time what I’ve had to
spare from the plantation is been pretty much tuck up with nussin’ and
gwine to town after doctor stuff for it.
Babys is wundrous supprisin’ things, Mr. Thompson, as you know, and when
one thinks how much trouble they give a body, we almost wunder what
makes us so anxious to have ’em. You mustn’t think I’m beginnin’ to git
tired of mine. No indeed, not by no means. I wouldn’t give my little
Harry Clay for all the niggers and plantations in Georgy, as much
trouble and worryment as he gives me. Ain’t it curious what store we do
set by the little creeters, even before we’ve had ’em long enuff to know
anything about ’em. It seems like a new fountin of happyness is opened
in our harts, a new value given to everything we’ve got, and a new
purpose to our lives, when for the fust time we look upon a little
helpless bein’ that is born of our love, and is dependent on us for
support and protection. How anxious we is to do everything we can for
’em! What pleasure we find in the pains we take to make ’em happy. But
you is a man of experience in these matters, Mr. Thompson, and I needn’t
tell you nothin’ abou’ it. I must tell you though, what a terrible skeer
we had t’other night with the baby.
I had been down to Tom Stallinses mill, to see about gittin’ out some
lumber to bild me a new gin-house, and had been ridin’ and workin’ hard
all day in the wet, and cum home monstrous tired, late in the evenin’.
Mary and the baby was all well, and I went to bed pretty early, thinkin’
to git a good nite’s rest for the fust time in a month. Well, how long
I’d been sleepin’, I can’t tell, but the fust thing I know’d was Mary
pullin’ my hair to make me wake up.
“Joseph!—Joseph!” ses she.
“Ha! what’s the matter?” ses I, when I seed her leanin’ over in the bed
with the lamp in her hand, and her face as pale as the gown she had on.
“Oh, Joseph, do git up,” ses she, “something’s the matter with the
baby.”
That was enuff for me, and in a twinklin’ I was settin’ up in the bed,
as wide awake as if I hadn’t been asleep in a week.
“Look at him, Joseph—he acts so curious,” ses she, as she tuck the
little feller out of his crib, and laid him down in the bed between us.
For ’bout two minits we both sot and looked at the baby, ’thout drawin’
a breth. Thar it lay on its back, with its little hands down by its
side. Fust it would spread its mouth like it was laughin’ at
something—then it would roll its eyes about in its bed and wink ’em at
us—then it would twitch all over, and ketch its breth—then it would
lay right still and stop breathin’ for a second or two, and then it
would twitch its little lims agin, and roll its eyes about the strangest
I ever seed anything in my life, and then it would coo, so pitiful, like
a little dove, two or three times, till it would kind of smuther like,
and stop breathin’ agin.
I could hear Mary’s hart beat quite plain, and I felt the cold blood
runnin’ back to mine like a mill-tail. I looked at Mary, and she looked
at me, and such a expression as she had in her eyes I never seed in any
human.
“Joseph!” ses she.
“Mary!” ses I.
“Oh, dear!” ses she, the big tears fillin’ her butiful eyes. “Oh, dear!
the baby is dyin’—I know it is. Oh, what _shall_ we do?”
“Oh no, Mary, don’t get skeered,” ses I, with what little breth I could
summons up for the effort.
“Oh yes, I know it is. I know’d something was gwine to happen, I had
sich a dreadful dream last night. Git up, Joseph, and call muther and
the galls, quick as you can. Oh dear me, my poor little baby!”
“Don’t take on, Mary—maybe ’taint nothin’ bad,” ses I, tryin’ to
compose her all I could, though I was scared as bad as she was, and put
my trowsers on wrong side before in my hurryment.
In a minit I had all the fam’ly up, and by the time I got the fire
kindled, here cum old Miss Stallins and the galls, all in ther nite
clothes, skeered almost out of ther senses.
“Dear me, what upon yeath’s the matter?” ses old Miss Stallins.
“Oh, the baby! the baby!” cried Mary.
“What is happened?” ses all of ’em, getherin’ round the bed.
“I don’t know what ails it,” ses Mary, “but it acts so strange—like it
was gwine to dy.”
“Mercy on us!” ses the galls.
“Don’t take on so, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins. “It mought be very
bad for you.”
But poor Mary didn’t think of anything but the baby.
“What’s good for it, muther? what’ll cure it?” ses she.
The old woman put on her specticles, and looked at it, and felt it all
over, while Mary was holdin’ it in her lap by the fire.
“Don’t be skared,” ses she. “Don’t be skared, my child, maybe it’s
nothing but the hives, or the yaller thrash, or some other baby ailment,
what won’t hurt it.”
“Oh, it’ll dy—I know it will,” ses Mary.
“Maybe its only sick at its little stummick, muther,” ses sister
Carline, “and some sut tea is the best thing in the world for that, they
say.”
“And if it’s the thrash, some catnip tea will drive it out in half a
ower,” ses the old woman. “Prissy, make some catnip tea, quick as you
can.”
“And have some water warmed to bathe its little feet in,” ses sister
Kesiah; “for maybe its spasomy.”
“Oh dear, see how it winks its eyes!” ses Mary.
“That ain’t nothing uncommon, dear,” ses her muther.
“Now it’s twitchin’ its little lims again. Oh, it will dy, I know it
will.”
“Wouldn’t some saffron tea be good for it?” ses Miss Carline. “Poor
little dear!”
“Yes, and a musterd poultice for its little bowels,” ses the old woman.
By this time all the niggers on the place was up gettin’ hot-baths, and
teas, and musterd poultices, and ingun-juice, and Lord knows what all,
for the baby. Muther and the galls was flyin’ about like they was crazy,
and I was so tarrified myself that I didn’t know which eend I stood on.
In the hurryment and confusion, Aunt Katy upsot the tea-kittle and
scalded little Moses, and he sot up a yell in the kitchin loud enuff to
be heard a mile, and I knocked the lamp off the table, and spilled the
oil all everything, tryin’ to turn round three ways at the same time.
After breakin’ two or three cups and sassers, and settin’ Mary’s
night-cap afire with the candle, old Miss Stallins made out to git a
tea-spoonful of sut tea in the baby’s mouth, hot enuff to scald its life
out, and then ther was such another to-do as nobody ever did hear
before.
“Wa!—wa-ya!—ke-wa!—ke-wa-ah!” went the baby.
“Good gracious! mother, the tea’s bilin’ hot,” ses sister Carline.
“My lord! Prissy, hain’t you got no better sense? What upon yeath did
you give it to me so hot for?” ses the old woman when she put her finger
in the cup.
“Miss Kesiah tell me pour bilin’ water on it,” ses Prissy, with her eyes
as big as sassers.
“Wa-ya! ke-wa-ah! ke-wa!” ses the baby, kickin’ and fistin’ away like
all rath.
“Whar’s the draps, Joseph? Git the draps, it must be colicky,” ses old
Miss Stallins.
I got the parrygorrick as quick as I could, and tried to pour out five
draps, as she told me. But my hand trimbled so I couldn’t drap it to
save me.
“Give it to me, Joseph,” ses she; “you’s too agitated.”
And she tuck the vial, and poured half of it on her lap, tryin’ to hit
the spoon—the poor old woman’s eyes is so bad. Then she told sister
Carline to drap it—but both the galls was ’fraid they mought pour too
much. So Mary had to do it herself. Then the next difficulty was to git
it in the baby’s mouth, and when they did git it thar, it liked to choke
it to deth before it could swaller it.
Pretty soon after that it got quiet, and went sound to sleep in Mary’s
lap, and we all begun to feel a good deal better. Old Miss Stallins sed
she know’d what it wanted as soon as she had time to think, and she
wondered she didn’t think of it before. Lord only know’d what mought
happened if we hadn’t the parrygorrick in the house. We all felt so good
after we got over our skare, that we sot thar and congratulated one
another a little while before gwine to bed agin.
While we was all chattin’ and old Miss Stallins was beginnin’ to nod, I
noticed Mary was watchin’ the baby monstrous close, and her eyes was
beginnin’ to git bigger and bigger, as she looked at its face. Bimeby it
groaned one of the longest kind of groans.
“Oh dear!” ses Mary, “I do b’lieve it’s dyin’ agin!”
We all jumped up and run to her, and shure enuff, it looked a heap worse
than it did before, and kep’ all the time moanin’ like it was breathin’
its last gasp.
“Oh, mother, its gwine! It’s jest as limber as a rag, and it’s got sich
a terrible deth look. Send for the docter, quick,” ses Mary, trimblin’
all over, and lookin’ as if she was gwine to faint in her cheer.
Miss Carline tuck hold of its little hands, and moved ’em, but they was
jest like a ded baby’s, and staid anywhar she put ’em.
Ned was sent to town for Doctor Gaiter, as hard as the hoss could
go—Mary and the galls all fell a-cryin’ like they was at a funerel, and
I felt so fainty myself that I couldn’t hardly stand on my feet. Old
Miss Stallins would give the baby some ingin-juice, and have it put in a
warm bath all over; but nothing we could do for it done it any good, and
we jest had to wait in a agony of suspense ’til the doctor cum.
It ain’t only three miles to town, and Selim’s one of the fastest hosses
in Georgia, but it seemed like the docter would never cum.
“Poor little thing!” ses Mary; “I know’d my hart was sot on him too
much—I know’d it was too pretty and sweet to live. Oh, dear!”
“How it does suffer—poor little angel,” ses Miss Carline; “what kin ail
the child?”
“I wish the docter would cum,” ses all of ’em.
Sich thoughts as I had in that ower, I never want to have agin, as long
as I live. A coffin, with a little baby in its shroud, was all the time
before my eyes, and a whole funeral procession was passin’ through my
hed. The sermon was ringin’ in my ears, and I could almost hear the
rumblin’ of the fust shovelful of yeath on the grave boards of my little
boy, as I walked round and round the room, stoppin’ now and then to take
a look at the pore little thing, and to speak a word of incouragement to
Mary. It was a dredful feelin’ Mr. Thompson, and I do b’lieve I’ve felt
ten years older ever sense.
Bimeby we heard the hosses feet—all of us drawed a long breth, and
every face brightened up at the sound. In a minit more the docter laid
his saddle-bags on the table.
“Good evenin’, ladies,” ses he, jest as pleasin’ and perlite as if
nothing wasn’t the matter. “Good evenin’, Majer; how are you this—”
“The baby! the baby!” ses all of ’em. “Docter, can’t you cure the baby?”
“Yes, docter,” ses Mary, “our only hope is in you, docter.”
“And Providence, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins.
It seemed like the docter never would git all his grate-coats, and
gloves, and hankerchers off, though the wimmin was hurryin’ him and
helpin’ him all they could. Bimeby he drawed a cheer up to whar Mary was
sittin’ to look at the baby.
“What’s the matter with yer child, Mrs. Jones?” ses he, pullin’ away its
gown and feelin’ its pulse.
“I don’t know, docter; but it’s dredful sick,” ses Mary.
“When was it tuck sick, and what is its simptoms?” ses the docter.
All of ’em begun to tell at once, ’til the docter told ’em he could
understand ’em better if they’d only talk one at a time, and then Mary
told him all about it.
“And how much parrygorrick did you give it?” ses Docter Gaiter.
“Five draps,” ses old Miss Stallins, “I wanted to give it more, but the
children was all so skeery.”
“Let me see your parrygorrick,” ses the docter.
He tuck it and smelled it, and tasted it, and then, says he:
“You’re sure you didn’t give it only five draps, Madam?”
“No, no more’n five,” ses Mary, “for I poured it out myself.”
Then the docter looked monstrous wise at the baby, for ’bout a minit,
and if you could jest seed the wimmin lookin’ at him. None of us
breathed a single breth, and poor Mary looked rite in the docter’s face,
as if she wanted to see his very thoughts.
“Doc—”
“Is—”
“Don’t be ’larmed, Madam,” ses he, “ther ain’t no danger!”
Sich a change as cum over the crowd! The room seemed to git lighter in a
instant. It was like the sunlight breakin’ through a midnight sky.
Mary cried like a child, and hugged her baby to her bussum, and kissed
it a dozen times, and talked baby talk to it; and the galls begun
puttin’ the room to rights, so it would be fit for the docter to see it.
“Is you sure ther ain’t no danger, docter?” ses old Miss Stallins.
“None in the least, Madam,” ses he. “Ther’s nothing in the world the
matter of the child, only it had a little touch of the hives, what made
it laugh and roll its eyes about in its sleep. In your fright, you burnt
its mouth with yer hot teas, till it cried a little, and then you’ve
doctered it with hot baths, ingin-juice, and parrygorrick, till you’ve
stupified it a little. That’s all, Madam. By mornin’ it’ll be well as
ever it was, if you don’t give it no more big doses of parrygorrick.”
“I sed so,” ses old Miss Stallins. “I told the child ther was no use in
takin’ on so ’bout the baby. But young people is so easy skeered, you
know, docter.”
“Yes, and old grandmothers too, sumtimes,” ses he, laughin’.
The baby soon quit moanin’ so bad, and Mary laid it in the bed and
kiver’d it over with kisses.
“Bless it, mudder’s tweetest ’ittle darlin’ baby—its dittin’ well, so
it is—and dey sant dive it no more natty fisies, and burn its tweet
’ittle mouf no more, so dey sant,” ses she; and the galls got round, and
sich a everlastin’ gabblement as they did keep up.
By this time it was most daylight, and after drinkin’ a cup of strong
coffee what old Miss Stallins had made for him, and laughin’ at us for
bein’ so skared at nothing, the good old docter bundled on his clothes,
and went home to charge me five dollars for routin’ him out of his bed
and makin’ him ride six miles in the cold. But I ain’t sorry we sent for
him, for I do b’lieve if he hadn’t cum, we would dosed poor little Harry
ded as a door nail before mornin’. The little feller is doin’ prime now,
and if he was to have another attack of the hives, I’ll take monstrous
good care they don’t give him no more dratted parrygorrick. So no more
from
Your frend, ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
LETTER XI.
Pineville, Ga., April 10th, 1844.
Dear Sir,
I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout ritin’ a letter one of these days, but the fact
is, sense last Febuary, I hain’t had much time for nothing. The baby’s
been cross as the mischief, most all the time sense it had the hives,
and Mary, she’s beep ailin’ a good deal, ever sense she got that
terrible scare last month—and then you know this time of year we
planters is all as bissy as we can be, fixin’ for the crap.
Nothin’ very uncommon hain’t took place down here sense I rit my last
letter to you, only t’other day a catasterfy happened in our family that
come monstrous nigh puttin’ a eend to the whole generation of us. I
never was so near skeered out of my senses afore in all my born days,
and I don’t b’lieve old Miss Stallins ever will git over it, if she was
to live a thousand years. But I’ll tell you all about it.
Last Monday mornin’ all of us got up well and harty as could be, and I
sot in our room with Mary, and played with the baby till breckfust time,
little thinkin’ what was gwine to happen so soon. The little feller was
jumpin’ and crowin’ so I couldn’t hardly hold him in my arms, and
spreadin’ his little mouth, and laughin’ jest like he know’d everything
we sed to him.
Bimeby, Ant Prissy cum to tell us breckfust was reddy, and we all went
into t’other room to eat, ’cept sister Kesiah, who sed she would stay
and take care of little Henry Clay, till we was done. Mary’s so careful
she won’t trust the baby with none of the niggers a single minit, and
she’s always dredful oneasy when Kesiah’s got it, she’s so wild and so
careless.
Well we sot down to breckfust, and Kesiah, she scampered up stairs to
her room with the baby, jumpin’ it up, and kissin’ it, and talkin’ to it
as hard as she could.
“Now, sis, do be careful of my precious little darlin’,” ses Mary, loud
as she could to her, when she was gwine up stairs.
“Oh, eat your breckfust, child, and don’t be so tarrified ’bout the
baby,” ses old Miss Stallins—“you don’t ’low yerself a minit’s peace
when it’s out of yer sight.”
“That’s a fact,” ses sister Carline, “she won’t let nobody do anything
for little Henry but herself. I know I wouldn’t be so crazy ’bout no
child of mine.”
“Well, but you know sister Kiz is so careless—I’m always afraid she’ll
let it swaller something, or git a fall some way,” ses Mary.
“Tut, tut,” ses the old woman, “ther ain’t no sense in bein’ all the
time scared to deth ’bout nothing. People’s got enuff to do in this
world to bear ther trouble when it comes, ’thout studdyin’ it up all the
time. Take some of them good hot corn muffins,” ses she, “they’s mighty
nice.”
We was all eatin’ along—the old woman was talkin’ ’bout her garden and
the frost, how it had nipped her Inglish peas, and I was jest raisin my
coffee cup to my mouth, when I heard Kesiah scream out:
“Oh, my Lord! the baby! the baby!” and kerslash! it cum rite down stairs
on to the floor.
Lightnin’ couldn’t knocked me off my seat quicker! Down went the coffee,
and over went the table and all the vittles. Mary screamed, and old Miss
Stallins fainted rite away in her cheer. I was so blind I couldn’t
hardly see, but I never breathed a breth ’til I grabbed it up in my arms
and run round the house two or three times, ’fore I had the hart to look
at the poor little thing, to see if it was ded.
By this time the galls was holt of my coat tail, hollerin’ “April Fool!
April Fool!” as hard as they could, and when I cum to look, I had
nothing in my arms but a bundle of rags with little Henry Clay’s clothes
on. I shuck all over like I had the ager, and felt a monstrous sight
more like cussin’ than laughin’.
“April Fool, dingnation!” ses I: “fun’s fun; but I’m dad blamed if
ther’s any fun in any sich doin’s,” and I was jest gwine to blow out a
little, when I heard Mary screamin’ for me to cum to her mother.
When we got in the dinin’ room, thar the old woman was, keeled over in
her cheer, with her eyes sot in her hed and a corn muffin stickin’ in
her mouth. Mary was takin’ on at a terrible rate, and all she could do
was jest to clapp her hands and holler.
“Oh, mother’s dyin’! mother’s dyin’! whar’s the baby? Oh, my poor
mother! Oh, my darlin’ baby!”
I tuck Mary and splained it all to her and tried to quiet the poor gall,
and the galls got at the old woman; but it tuck all sorts of rubbin’,
and ever so much assafedity, and campfire and hartshorn, and burnt hen’s
feathers to bring her too; and then she wouldn’t stay brung too more’n a
minit ’fore she’d keel over agin, and I do b’lieve if they hadn’t brung
little Henry Clay to her, so she could see him and feel him, and hear
him squall, she never would got her senses agin. She aint more’n half at
herself yit. All the gals kin do they can’t make her understand the
April Fool bisiness, and she won’t let nobody else but herself nuss the
baby ever sense.
As soon as I had time to think a little, I was so monstrous glad it
wasn’t no worse, that I couldn’t stay mad with the galls. But I tell you
what, I was terrible rathy for a few minits. I don’t b’lieve in this
April foolin’. Last year the galls deviled me almost to deth with ther
bominable nonsense, sowin’ up the legs of my trowsers, punchin’ holes in
the water gourd, so I wet my shirt busom all over when I went to drink,
and heatin’ the handle of the tongs, and cuttin’ the cowhide bottoms of
the cheers loose, so I’d fall through ’em when I went to set down, and
all sich devilment. I know the Bible ses there’s a time for all things;
but I think the least a body has to do with fool bisiness at any time
the better for ’em. I’m monstrous tired of sich doin’s myself, and if I
didn’t think the galls had got ther fill of April foolin’ this time, I’d
try to git a almynack next year what didn’t have no fust day of April in
it.
No more from your frend ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
XXVI.
DOWN-EAST CURIOSITY.[16]
On my voyage up the North River, I was seated in the cabin reading a
newspaper, when I observed an odd-looking individual reading over my
shoulder. I looked up in his face, when the fellow, with his hands in
his pocket, and not in the least disconcerted at being caught in so
impertinent and unmannerly an act, exclaimed:
“Any news in particular?”
“No, Sir; will you accept the paper?”
“Oh no! can’t; ain’t got time. It’s the first time I’ve been up this
river, and I want to be looking reound. How can they take a fellow up
this river for a dollar and found. They can’t dew it. It’s a take-in.”
“How is that?”
“Why they charge one dollar to take you in, and when you git up to
Albany, you’ve got to pay another dollar to git eout. Got this place all
fixed up so. Sophy’s all reound tew. I never use Sophy’s myself, but
once courted a gal by that name, and it looks a kind o’ natural to see
Sophy’s reound; and them stuffed-bottom chairs eout there. I thought I’d
set deown on ’em; by thunder, I jumped up three feet. Oh, I’ll be darned
if I didn’t think I was sitting down on somebody’s baby. You see I chaw
tobacco; grandfather chawed, and father he chawed, and mother,
she—eh—no, she didn’t she snuffed, so you see I have to keep running
up to expectorate—as our doctor says, overboard. I expect I shall have
to go again in about a minute.”
“You need not take that trouble, Sir,” said I “here are spittoons.”
“Spittoons! Oh yes, I know’d what them was for, but they’ve got ’em
brightened up so, I didn’t like to nasty ’em. I went to the the-ater to
see you t’other night. Didn’t you see me? I sot right in front of you.”
“No, Sir, I did not.”
“Wal, I don’t suppose you could; there was a hull lot of fellers there.
I got jammed in. I had on a striped vest, the fronts were new, but the
backs being made of cotton, sometimes will give eout. By golly, I got
tew laughing, so away went the back, slitted right up to the collar. I
was a little the tornest critter you ever did see.”
“I am very sorry for your misfortune,” I remarked.
“Oh, you needn’t fret abeout it, stranger. I shouldn’t a wore it much
more nor three weeks longer, any how. You see I never wear my best
clothes to sich places, ’cause it kind a rips them eout a leetle. I had
a bet abeout you. Some feller said you was born on Long Island. I told
him you wasn’t, you was born down-east.”
“You were right, Sir, I was born in one of the Eastern States.”
“There, I know’d you was, ’cause I know’d you couldn’t get along so well
as you did, if you wasn’t born deown that way somewhere. Have you been
in Massachusetts?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Been in the State of Maine?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Been in New Hampshire?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Ah! Maybe you was born there? They’ve got a good many Hills.”
“No, Sir, I was not.”
“Wal, you might have been. Ever been in Vermont?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You know old Zeke Hill?”
“No, Sir.”
“Nor I nuther, but I’ve hearn tell there was such a feller, didn’t know
but you might have known him tew.”
“Have you ever been in Connecticut?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Ever been in Rhode Island? that little bit of a thing in there.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Have you ever been in Boston?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Having thus obtained nothing very satisfactory from me, in relation to
my birth-place, he commenced asking me if I had been to the Capital of
this State, and then the other, until he had got through the whole of
them; he then, to my astonishment, commenced with the country towns,
doubtless with the hope of hitting at last upon the one in which I was
born. Getting a little out of patience, I said:
“I presume, Sir, you wish to ascertain where I was born?”
“Wal, yes, I shouldn’t mind knowing, if you have no objection to tell,
and if you had told me before, you would have saved me a darned sight of
trouble.”
“Well,” I said, “I was born in Boston, in the year 1809, on the 8th day
of October, at six o’clock in the morning.”
“At six o’clock, eh?”
“At six o’clock precisely, down in Water Street.”
“Dew tell. But, stranger, _dew you remember the number of the house?_”
-----
[16] By G. H. Hill.
XXVII.
A SAGE CONVERSATION.
I love the aged matrons of our land. As a class, they are the most
pious, the most benevolent, the most useful, and the most harmless of
the human family. Their life is a life of good offices. At home, they
are patterns of industry, care, economy, and hospitality; abroad, they
are ministers of comfort, peace, and consolation. Where affliction is,
there are they, to mitigate its pangs; where sorrow is, there are they
to assuage its pains. Nor night, nor day, nor summer’s heat, nor
winter’s cold, nor angry elements, can deter them from scenes of
suffering and distress. They are the first at the fevered couch, and the
last to leave it. They hold the first and last cup to the parched lip.
They bind the aching head, close the dying eye, and linger in the
death-stricken habitation, to pour the last drop of consolation into the
afflicted bosoms of the bereaved. I cannot, therefore, ridicule them
myself, nor bear to hear them ridiculed in my presence. And yet, I am
often amused at their conversations; and have amused _them_ with a
rehearsal of their own conversations, taken down by me when they little
dreamed that I was listening to them. Perhaps my reverence for their
character, conspiring with a native propensity to extract amusement from
all that passes under my observation, has accustomed me to pay a
uniformly strict attention to all they say in my presence.
This much in extraordinary courtesy to those who cannot distinguish
between a simple narrative of an amusing interview, and ridicule of the
parties to it. Indeed I do not know that the conversation which I am
about to record, will be considered amusing by any of my readers.
Certainly the amusement of the readers of my own times is not the
leading object of it, or of any of the “Georgia Scenes;” forlorn as may
be the hope, that their main object will ever be answered.
My intention is merely to detail a conversation between three ladies,
which I heard many years since; confining myself to only so much of it,
as sprung from the ladies’ own thoughts, unawakened by the suggestions
of others.
I was travelling with my old friend, Ned Brace, when we stopped at the
dusk of the evening at a house on the road-side, for the night. Here we
found three nice, tidy, aged matrons, the youngest of whom could not
have been under sixty; one of them of course was the lady of the house,
whose husband, old as he was, had gone from home upon a land-exploring
expedition. She received us hospitably, had our horses well attended to,
and soon prepared for us a comfortable supper.
While these things were doing, Ned and I engaged the other two in
conversation; in the course of which, Ned deported himself with becoming
seriousness. The kind lady of the house occasionally joined us, and
became permanently one of the party, from the time the first dish was
placed on the table.
At the usual hour we were summoned to supper; after which the
conversation turned upon marriages, happy and unhappy, strange, unequal,
runaways, &c. Ned rose at last, and asked the landlady where we should
sleep. She pointed to an open shed-room adjoining the room in which we
were sitting, and separated from it by a log partition, between the
spaces of which might be seen all that passed in the dining-room; and so
close to the fire-place of this apartment, that a loud whisper might be
easily heard from one to the other.
I could not resist the temptation of casting an eye through the cracks
of the partition to see the effect of Ned’s wonderful stories upon the
kind ladies. Mrs. Barney (it is time to give their names) was sitting in
a thoughtful posture; her left hand supporting her chin, and her knee
supporting her left elbow. Her countenance was that of one who suffers
from a slight tooth-ache.
Mrs. Shad leaned forward, resting her fore-arm on her knees, and looking
into the fire as if she saw _groups of children_ playing in it. Mrs.
Reed, the landlady, who was the fattest of the three, was thinking and
laughing alternately at short intervals. From my bed it required but a
slight change of position to see any one of the group at pleasure.
I was no sooner composed on my pillow, than the old ladies drew their
chairs close together, and began the following colloquy in a low
undertone, which rose as it progressed:
_Mrs. Barney._ Didn’t that man say them was two men that got married to
one another?
_Mrs. Shad._ It seemed to me so.
_Mrs. Reed._ Why to be sure he did.—I know he said so; for he said what
their names was.
_Mrs. B._ Well, in the name o’ sense, what did the man mean?
_Mrs. R._ Why, bless your heart and soul, honey! that’s what I’ve been
thinkin’ about. It seems mighty curious to me some how or other. I can’t
study it out, nohow.
_Mrs. S._ The man must be jokin’, certainly.
_Mrs. R._ No, he wasn’t jokin’; for I looked at him, and he was just as
much in yearnest as anybody I ever _seed_; and besides, no _Christian_
man would tell such a story in that solemn way.
_Mrs. S._ But la’ messy! Mis’ Reed, it can’t be so. It doesn’t stand to
reason, don’t you know it don’t?
_Mrs. R._ Well, I wouldn’t think so; but it’s hard for me, somehow, to
dispute a _Christian_ man’s word.
_Mrs. B._ I’ve been thinking the thing all over in my mind, and I
reckon—now I don’t say it is so, for I don’t know nothing at all about
it—but I reckon that one o’ them men was a woman dress’d in men’s
clothes; for I’ve often hearn o’ women doin’ them things, and following
their True-love to the wars, and bein’ a watin’-boy to ’em and all sich.
The ladies here took leave of Ned’s marvellous story, drew themselves
closely round the fire, lighted their pipes, and proceeded as follows:
_Mrs. B._ Jist before me and my old man was married, there was a gal
name Nancy Mountcastle (_puff—puff_), and she was a mighty likely
gal—(_puff_), I know’d her mighty well—she dressed herself up in men’s
clothes—(_puff, puff_), and followed Jemmy Darden from P’ankatank, in
_King and Queen_—(_puff_), clean up to _Loudon_.
_Mrs. S._ (_puff, puff, puff, puff, puff._) And did he marry her?
_Mrs. B._ (_sighing deeply._) No: Jemmy didn’t marry her—pity he
hadn’t, poor thing.
_Mrs. R._ Well, I know’d a gal on Tar River, done the same
thing—(_puff, puff, puff_.) She followed Moses Rusher ’way down
somewhere in the South State—(_puff, puff_.)
_Mrs. S._ (_puff, puff, puff, puff._) And what did he do?
_Mrs. R._ Ah—(_puff, puff_,) Lord bless your soul, honey, I can’t tell
you what he did. Bad enough.
_Mrs. B._ Well, now it seems to me—I don’t know much about it—but it
seems to me men don’t like to marry gals that take on that way. It looks
like it puts ’em out o’ concait of ’em.
_Mrs. S._ I know’d one man that married a woman that followed him from
Car’lina to this State; but she didn’t dress herself in men’s clothes.
You both know ’em. You know Simpson Trotty’s sister and Rachel’s son,
Reuben. ’Twas him and his wife.
_Mrs. R. and Mrs. B._ Oh yes, I know ’em mighty well.
_Mrs. S._ Well it was his wife—she followed him out to this State.
_Mrs. B._ I know’d ’em all mighty well. Her da’ter Lucy was the littlest
teeny bit of a thing when it was born I ever did see. But they tell me
that when I was born—now I don’t know anything about it myself—but the
old folks used to tell me, that when I was born, they put me in a
quart-mug, and mought o’ covered me up in it.
_Mrs. S._ The lackaday!
_Mrs. R._ What ailment did Lucy die of Mis’ Barny?
_Mrs. B._ Why, first she took the ager and fever, and took a ’bundance
o’ doctor’r means for that. And then she got a powerful bad cough, and
it kept gittin’ worse and worse, till at last it turned into a
consumption, and she jist nat’ly wasted away, till she was nothing but
skin and bone, and she died; but, poor creater, she died mighty happy;
and I think in my heart, she made the prettiest corpse, considerin’ of
any bod I most ever seed.
_Mrs. R. and Mrs. S._ Emph! (_solemnly._)
_Mrs. R._ What did the doctors give her for the fever and ager?
_Mrs. B._ Oh, they gin’ her a ’bundance o’ truck—I don’t know what all;
and none of ’em holp her at all. But at last she got over it, somehow or
other. If they’d have just gin’ her a sweat o’ bitter yerbs, jist as the
spell was comin’ on, it would have cured her right away.
_Mrs. R._ Well, I reckon sheep-saffron the onliest thing in nater for
the ager.
_Mrs. B._ I’ve always hearn it was wonderful in hives, and measly
ailments.
_Mrs. R._ Well, it’s jist as good for an ager—it’s a powerful sweat.
Mrs. Clarkson told me, that her cousin Betsey’s aunt Sally’s Nancy was
cured sound and well by it, of a hard shakin’ ager.
_Mrs. S._ Why you don’t tell me so!
_Mrs. R._ Oh bess your heart, honey, it’s every word true; for she told
me so with her own mouth.
_Mrs. S._ A hard, hard shakin’ ager!
_Mrs. R._ Oh yes, honey, it’s the truth.
_Mrs. S._ Well, I’m told that if you’ll wrap the inside skin of an egg
round your little finger, and go three days reg’lar to a young
persimmon, and tie a string round it, and every day, tie three knots in
it, and then not go agin for three days, that the ager will leave you.
_Mrs. B._ I’ve often hearn o’ that, but I don’t know about it. Some
people don’t believe in it.
_Mrs. S._ Well, Davy Cooper’s wife told me she didn’t believe in it; but
she tried it, and it cured her sound and well.
_Mrs. R._ I’ve hearn of many folks bein’ cured in that way. And what did
they do for Lucy’s cough, Mis’ Barney?
_Mrs. B._ Oh dear me, they gin’ her a powerful chance o’ truck. I
reckon, first and last, she took at least a pint o’ lodimy.
_Mrs. S. and Mrs. R._ The law!
_Mrs. S._ Why that ought to have killed her, if nothing else. If they’d
jist gin’ her a little cumfry and _a_lecampane, stewed in honey, or
sugar, or molasses, with a little lump o’ mutton suet or butter in it:
it would have cured her in two days sound and well.
_Mrs. B._ I’ve always counted cumfry and alecampane the lead of all
yerbs for colds.
_Mrs. S._ Horehound and sugar’s ’mazin’ good.
_Mrs. B._ Mighty good—mighty good.
_Mrs. R._ Powerful good. I take mightily to a sweat of sage tea, in
desperate bad colds.
_Mrs. S._ And so do I, Miss Reid. Indeed I have a great leanin’ to
sweats of yerbs, in all ailments sich as colds, and rheumaty pains, and
pleurisies, and sich—they’re wonderful good. Old brother Smith came to
my house from Bethany meeting, in a mighty bad way, with a cold, and
cough, and his throat and nose all stopt up; seemed like it would ’most
take his breath away, and it was dead o’ winter, and I had nothin’ but
dried yerbs, sich as camomile, sage, pennyryal, catmint, horehound, and
sich; so I put a hot rock to his feet, and made him a large bowl o’
catmint tea, and I reckon he drank ’most two quarts of it through the
night, and it put him in a mighty fine sweat, and loosened all the
_phleem_, and opened all his head; and the next morning, says he to me,
says he: “Sister Shad” (you know he’s a mighty kind spoken man, and
always was so ’fore he joined society; and the old man likes a joke yet
right well, the old man does; but he’s a mighty good man, and I think he
prays with greater libity, than ’most any one of his age I ’most ever
seed)—Don’t you think he does, Miss Reed?
_Mrs. R._ Powerful.
_Mrs. B._ Who did he marry?
_Mrs. S._ Why, he married—stop, I’ll tell you directly—Why, what does
make my old head forget so?
_Mrs. B._ Well, it seems to me I don’t remember like I used to. Didn’t
he marry a Ramsbottom?
_Mrs. R._ No. Stay, I’ll tell you who he married presently—Oh, stay!
why I’ll tell you who he married!—He married old daddy Johnny Hooer’s
d’ater, Mournin’.
_Mrs. S._ Why, la! messy on me, so he did!
_Mrs. B._ Why, did he marry a Hooer?
_Mrs. S._ Why, to be sure he did.—You knew Mournin’?
_Mrs. B._ Oh, mighty well; but I’d forgot that brother Smith married
her: I really thought he married a Ramsbottom.
_Mrs. R._ Oh no, bless your soul, honey, he married Mournin’.
_Mrs. B._ Well, the law me, I’m clear beat!
_Mrs. S._ Oh, it’s so, you may be sure it is.
_Mrs. B._ Emp, emph, emph, emph! And brother Smith married Mournin’
Hooer! Well, I’m clear put out! Seems to me I’m gittin’ mighty forgetful
somehow.
_Mrs. S._ Oh yes, he married Mournin’, and I saw her when she joined
society.
_Mrs. B._ Why, you don’t tell me so!
_Mrs. S._ Oh, it’s the truth. She didn’t join till after she was
married, and the church took on mightily about his marrying one out of
society. But after she joined, they all got satisfied.
_Mrs. R._ Why, la! me, the seven stars is ’way over here!
_Mrs. B._ Well, let’s light our pipes, and take a short smoke, and go to
bed. How did you come on raisin’ chickens this year, Mis’ Shad!
_Mrs. S._ La messy, honey! I have had mighty bad luck. I had the
prettiest pa’sel you most ever seed till the varment took to killin’
’em.
_Mrs. R. and Mrs. B._ The varment!
_Mrs. S._ Oh dear, yes. The hawk catched a powerful sight of them; and
then the varment took to ’em, and nat’ly took ’em fore and aft, bodily,
till they left most none at all hardly. Sucky counted ’em up t’other
day, and there war’nt but thirty-nine, she said, countin’ in the old
speckle hen’s chickens that jist come off of her nest.
_Mrs. R. and Mrs. B._ Humph—h—h—h—!
_Mrs. R._ Well, I’ve had bad luck too. Billy’s hound-dogs broke up most
all my nests.
_Mrs. B._ Well, so they did me, Miss Reed. I always did despise a
hound-dog upon the face of yea’th.
_Mrs. R._ Oh, they’re the bawllinest, squallinest, thievishest things
ever was about one; but Billy will have ’em, and I think in my soul his
old Troup’s the beat of all creaters I ever seed in all my born days a
suckin’ o’ hen’s eggs—He’s clean most broke me up entirely.
_Mrs. S._ The lackaday!
_Mrs. R._ And them that was hatched out, some took to takin’ the gaps,
and some the pip, and one ailment or other, till they most all died.
_Mrs. S._ Well I reckon there must be somethin’ in the season this year,
that an’t good for fowls; for Larkin Goodman’s brother Jimme’s wife’s
aunt Penny, told me, she lost most all her fowls with different sorts of
ailments, the like of which she never seed before—They’d jist go ’long
lookin’, right well, and tilt right over backwards, (_Mrs. B._ The law!)
and die right away, (_Mrs. R._ Did ever!) with a sort o’ somethin’ like
the blind staggers.
_Mrs. B. and Mrs. R._ Messy on me!
_Mrs. B._ I reckon they must have eat somethin’ didn’t agree with them.
_Mrs. S._ No they didn’t, for she fed ’em every mornin’ with her own
hand.
_Mrs. B._ Well, it’s mighty curious!
A short pause ensued, which was broken by Mrs. Barney, with—“And
brother Smith married Mournin’ Hooer!” It came like an opiate upon my
senses, and I dropt asleep.
THE END.
L O N D O N :
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.