]> Sut Lovingood. Yarns Spun: Electronic Edition. George Washington Harris, 1814-1869 Text scanned (OCR) by Ji-Hae Yoon Text encoded by Don Sechler and Natalia Smith First edition, 1997. ca. 700K Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1997.

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 Call number PN6161 .H3235 1867 (Davis Library, UNC-CH) Sut Lovingood. Yarns spun by a “nat'ral born durn'd fool.” Warped and wove for public wear George W. Harris New York, Dick & Fitzgerald, Publishers 1867

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 Library of Congress Subject Headings, 21st edition, 1998 English Lovingood, Sut (Fictitious character) -- Fiction. Frontier and pioneer life -- Tennessee -- Fiction. Tennessee -- Fiction. Humorous stories, American -- Tennessee. Dialect literature, American -- Tennessee. 1997-04-15, Ji-Hae Yoon finished scanning (OCR) and proofing. 1997-05-01, Don Sechler finished first-level encoding 1997-05-19, Natalia Smith, project editor, finished TEI-conformant encoding and final proofing.

[Title Page Image]

 SUT LOVINGOOD. YARNS SPUN BY A “NAT'RAL BORN DURN'D FOOL. WARPED AND WOVE FOR PUBLIC WEAR. BY GEORGE W. HARRIS

“A little nonsense, now and then, Is relished by the wisest men.” “Suppose I am to hang the morrow, and Can laugh to-night, shall I not?”—OLD PLAY

 NEW YORK: DICK & FITZGERALD, PUBLISHERS. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by DICK & FITZGERALD. In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. PREFACE.

“You must have a preface, Sut; your book will then be ready. What shall I write?”

“Well, ef I must, I must; fur I s'pose the perducktion cud no more show hitsef in publick wifout hit, than a coffin-maker cud wif out black clothes, an' yet what's the use ove either ove em, in pint ove good sense? Smells tu me sorter like a durned humbug, the hole ove hit—a littil like cuttin ove the Ten Cummandmints intu the rine ove a warter-million; hits jist slashed open an' the inside et outen hit, the rine an' the cummandmints broke all tu pieces an' flung tu the hogs, an' never tho't ove onst—them, nur the 'tarnil fool what cut em thar. But ef a orthur mus' take off his shoes afore he goes intu the publick's parlor, I reckon I kin du hit wifout durtyin my feet, fur I hes socks on.

“Sumtimes, George, I wishes I cud read an' write, jis' a littil; but then hits bes' es hit am, fur ove all the fools the worild hes tu contend wif, the edicated wuns am the worst; they breeds ni ontu all the devilment a-gwine on. But I wer a-thinkin, ef I cud write mysef, hit wud then raley been my book. I jis' tell yu now, I don't like the idear ove yu writin a perduckshun, an' me a-findin the brains. 'Taint the fust case tho' on record by a durned site. Usin ether men's brains is es lawful es usin thar plunder, an' jis' es common, so I don't keer much nohow. I dusn't 'speck this yere perduckshun will sit purfeckly quiet ontu the stumicks ove sum pussons—them hu hes a holesum fear ove the devil, an' orter hev hit, by geminey. Now, fur thar speshul well-bein herearter, I hes jis' this tu say: Ef yu ain't fond ove the smell ove cracklins, stay outen the kitchin; ef yu is fear'd ore smut, yu needn't climb the chimbley; an' ef the moon hurts yer eyes, don't yu ever look at a Dutch cheese. That's jis' all ove hit.

“Then thar's sum hu haint much faith in thar repertashun standin much ove a strain; they'll be powerful keerful how an' whar they reads my words. Now, tu them I haint wun word tu say: they hes been preached to, an' prayed fur, now ni ontu two thousand years an' I won't dart weeds whar thuty-two poun shot bounces back.

“Then thar's the book-butchers, orful on killin an' cuttin up, but cud no more perjuce a book, than a bull-butcher cud perjuce a bull. S'pose they takes a noshun tu stick, skin, an' cut up this yere one. Ef they is fond ove sicknin skeers, I advises em tu take holt tu onst; but fust I begs tu refer em respectively tu the fate ove three misfortinit pussons menshun'd inside yere—Passun Bullin, Dock Fabin, an Sheriff Dolton. Read keerfully what happened to them afore yu takes eny ove my flesh ontu yer claws, ur my blood ontu yer bills, an' that I now is a durnder fool then I wer in them days, fur I now considers mysef a orthur. I hes tuck my stan amung the nashuns ove the yeath, fur I, too, hes made me a book, so ef enybody wants dish rags, I thinks hit wud be more healthy fur em not in tare em ofen my flag.

“Mos' book-weavers seem tu be skeery folks, fur giner'lly they cums up tu the slaughter pen, whinin an' waggin thar tails, a-sayin they ‘knows they is imparfeck’—that 'yu'd scace 'speck one ove my ge,' an' so forth, so on, so along. Now ef I is a-rowin in that boat, I ain't awar ove hit, I ain't, fur I knows the tremenjus gif I hes fur breedin skeers amung durned fools, an' then I hes a trustin reliance ontu the fidelity, injurance, an' speed ove these yere laigs ove mine to tote me an' my sins away beyant all human ritribushuns ur revenge. Now, 'zamin yer hans, ale ferrits an' weazels, an' ef yu don't hole bof bowers an' the ace, yu jis' 'pass' hit.

“Ef eny poor misfortinit devil hu's heart is onder a mill-stone, hu's raggid children am hungry, an' no bread in the dresser, hu is down in the mud, an' the lucky ones a-trippin him every time he struggils to his all fours, hu hes fed the famishin an' is now hungry hissef, hu misfortins foller fas' an' foller faster, hu is so foot-sore an weak that he wishes he wer at the ferry—ef sich a one kin fine a laugh, jis' one, sich a laugh as is remembered wif his keerless boyhood, atwixt these yere kivers—then, I'll thank God that I hes made a book, an' feel that I hev got my pay in full.

“Make me a Notey Beney, George. I wants tu put sumwhar atween the eyebrows ove our book, in big winnin-lookin letters, the sarchin, meanin words, what sum pusson writ ontu a 'oman's garter onst, long ago—”

“Evil be to him that evil thinks.”

Them's em, by jingo! hed em clost apas' yu, didn't yu? I want em fur a gineral skeer—speshully fur the wimen.

“Now, George, grease hit good, an' let hit slide down the hill hits own way.”

 DEDICATORY.

“WELL, Sut, your stories are all ready for the printer; to whom do you wish to dedicate the work?”

“I don't keer much, George; haint hit a kine ove lickskillet bisness, enyhow—sorter like the waggin ove a dorg's tail, when he sees yu eatin ove sassengers? But yere goes: How wud Anner Dickinson du tu pack hit ontu?”

“Oh, Sut, that would never do. What! dedicate such nonsense as yours to a woman? How will this do?

DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF ELBRIDGE GERRY EASTMAN, THE ABLE EDITOR, AND FINISHED GENTLEMAN, THE FRIEND, WHOSE KINDLY VOICE FIRST INSPIRED MY TIMID PEN WITH HOPE. GRATEFUL MEMORY DROPS A TEAR AMONG THE FLOWERS, AS AFFECTION STREWS THEM O'ER HIS GRAVE.”

“Won't begin tu du, George. The idear ove Enybody bein grateful, ur rememberin a dead friend now-a-days! Why, if that wer tu git out onto me, I'd never be able tu mix in decent s'ciety while I lived. Tare that up, George.”

“Well, what do you say to this, Sut?

TO WILLIAM CRUTCHFIELD, OF CHATTANOOGA, MY FRIEND IN STORM AND SUNSHINE, BRAVE ENOUGH TO BE TRUE, AND TRUE ENOUGH TO BE SINGULAR; ONE WHO SAYS WHAT HE THINKS, AND VERY OFTEN THINKS WHAT HE SAYS.”

“That won't du either, hoss. 'Tis mos' es bad tu be grateful tu the livin es the dead. I tell yu hit ain't smart. Ef ever yu is grateful at all, show hit tu them what yu expeck will du a favor, never tu the 'tarnil fool what hes dun hit. Never es yu expeck to git tu heaven, never pay fur a ded hoss. An' more, every fice ur houn dorg what either him ur me has wallop'd fur thar nastiness, wud open ontu our trail—ontu him fur buyin me, an' ontu me fur bein bought. No, George, I'll do ontill Bill gets poor ur dus sum devilmint. I'll tell yu what I'll du, I'll jis' dedercate this yere perduction tu the durndest fool in the United States, an' Massachusets too, he or she. An then, by golly, I'll jis' watch hu claims hit.”

“Very well, Sut; how shall I write it? how designate the proper one?”

“Jis' this way; hits the easiest dun thing in the world:

DEDERCATED WIF THE SYMPERTHYS OVE THE ORTHUR, TU THE MAN UR 'OMAN, HUEVER THEY BE, WHAT DON'T READ THIS YERE BOOK.

Don't that kiver the case to a dot? Hu knows but what I'se dedercatin hit tu mysef at las'. Well, I don't keer a durn, I kin stan hit, ef the rest ove em kin.”

 CONTENTS SUT LOVINGOOD'S DADDY, ACTING HORSE . . . . 19 SUT'S NEW FANGLED SHIRT, (a brilliant idea) . . . . 29 THE WIDOW McCLOUD'S MARE . . . . 37 PARSON BULLIN'S LIZARDS, (retribution) . . . . 48 A RAZOR GRINDER IN A THUNDER STORM . . . . 60 OLD SKISSIM'S MIDDLE BOY . . . . 66 BLOWN UP WITH SODA . . . . 75 SICILY BURNS'S WEDDING . . . . 86 OLD BURNS'S BULL RIDE . . . . 98 SNAKE-BIT IRISHMAN . . . . 108 EAVES-DROPPING A LODGE OF FREE-MASONS . . . . 114 TAURUS IN LYNCHBURG MARKET . . . . 123 MRS. YARDLEY'S QUILTING . . . . 134 SUT LOVINGOOD'S DOG . . . . 149 SUT ASSISTING AT A NEGRO NIGHT-MEETING . . . . 157 SUT'S SERMON—“YE CAT FISHE TAVERN” . . . . 173 BART DAVIS'S DANCE (a lively time) . . . . 181 TRIPETOWN—TWENTY MINUTES FOR BREAKFAST . . . . 193 HEN BAILY'S REFORMATION . . . .198 FRUSTRATING A FUNERAL (never to be read by candle light) . . . . 210 RARE RIPE GARDEN-SEED (for newly married folks) . . . . 227 CONTEMPT OF COURT—ALMOST . . . . 245 TRAPPING A SHERIFF (a vile conspiracy) . . . .256 DAD'S DOG SCHOOL (“jist like 'im”) . . . .278 SUT LOVINGOOD'S DADDY, ACTING HORSE.

“HOLE that ar hoss down tu the yeath.” “He's a fixin fur the heavings.” “He's a spreadin his tail feathers tu fly. Look out, Laigs, if you aint ready tu go up'ards.” “Wo, Shavetail.” “Git a fiddil; he's tryin a jig.” “Say, Long Laigs, rais'd a power ove co'n didn't yu?” “Taint co'n, hits redpepper.”

These and like expressions were addressed to a queer looking, long legged, short bodied, small headed, white haired, hog eyed, funny sort of a genius, fresh from some bench-legged Jew's clothing store, mounted on “Tearpoke,” a nick tailed, bow necked, long, poor, pale sorrel horse, half dandy, half devil, and enveloped in a perfect net-work of bridle, reins, crupper, martingales, straps, surcingles, and red ferreting, who reined up in front of Pat Nash's grocery, among a crowd of mountaineers full of fun, foolery, and mean whisky.

This was SUT LOVINGOOD.

“I say, you durn'd ash cats, jis' keep yer shuts on, will ye? You never seed a rale hoss till I rid up; you's p'raps stole ur owned shod rabbits ur sheep wif borrerd saddils on, but when you tuck the fus' begrudgin look jis' now at this critter, name Tarpoke, yu wer injoyin a sight ove nex' tu the bes' hoss what ever shell'd nubbins ur toted jugs, an' he's es ded es a still wum, poor ole Tickytail!

“Wo! wo! Tarpoke, yu cussed infunel fidgety hide full ove hell fire, can't yu stan' still an listen while I'se a polishin yer karacter off es a mortul hoss tu these yere durned fools?”

Sut's tongue or his spurs brought Tearpoke into something like passable quietude while he continued:

“Say yu, sum ove yu growin hogs made a re-mark jis' now 'bout redpepper. I jis' wish to say in a gineral way that eny wurds cupplin redpepper an Tarpoke together am durn'd infurnal lies.”

“What killed Tickeytail, Sut?” asked an anxious inquirer after truth.

“Why nuffin, you cussed fool; he jis' died so, standin up et that. Warn't that rale casteel hoss pluck? Yu see, he froze stiff; no, not that adzactly, but starv'd fust, an' froze arterards, so stiff that when dad an' me went tu lay him out an' we push'd him over, he stuck out jis' so, (spreading his arms and legs,) like ontu a carpenter's bainch, an' we hed to wait ni ontu seventeen days fur 'im to thaw afore we cud skin 'im.”

“Skin 'im?” interrupted a rat-faced youth, whittling on a corn. stalk, “I thot yu wanted tu lay the hoss out.”

“The hell yu did! Aint skinin the natral way ove layin out a hoss, I'd like tu no? See a yere, soney, yu tell yer mam to hev yu sot back jis' bout two years, fur et the rate yu'se a climbin yu stan's a pow'ful chance tu die wif yer shoes on, an' git laid hoss way, yu dus.”

The rat-faced youth shut up his knife and subsided.

“Well, thar we wer—dad, an' me, (counting on his fingers,) an' Sall, an' Jake, (fool Jake we calls 'im fur short,) an' Jim, an' Phineass, an' Callimy Jane, an' Sharlottyann, an' me, an' Zodiack, an' Cashus Clay, an' Noah Dan Webster, an' the twin gals, (Castur and Pollox,) an' me, an' Catherin Second, an' Cleopatry Antony, an' Jane Barnum Lind, an' me, an' Benton Bullion, an' the baby what haint nam'd yet, an' me, an' the Prospect, an' mam hersef, all lef in the woods alone, wifout ara hoss tu crop wif.”

“Yu'se counted yersef five times, Mister Lovingood,” said a tomato-nosed man in ragged overcoat

“Yas, ole Still-tub, that's jis the perporshun I bears in the famerly fur dam fool, leavin out Dad in course. Yu jis let me alone, an' be a thinkin ove gittin more troops ontu yu. Yus leakin now; see thar.” Ha! ha! from the crowd, and “Still-tub” went into the doggery.

Warnt that a devil's own mess ove broth fur a 'spectabil white famerly tu be sloshin about in? I be durned ef I didn't feel sorter like stealin a hoss sumtimes, an' I speck I'd a dun hit, but the stealin streak in the Lovingoods, all run tu durned fool, an' the onvartus streak all run to laigs. Jis look down the side ove this yere hoss mos' tu the groun'. Dus yu see em?

“Well we waited, an' wished, an' rested, an' plan'd, an' wished, an' waited agin, ontil ni ontu strawberry time, hopin sum stray hoss mout cum along; but dorg my cats, ef eny sich good luck ever cums wifin reach ove whar dad is, he's so dod-dratted mean, an' lazy, an' ugly, an' savidge, an' durn fool tu kill.

“Well, one nite he lay awake till cock-crowin a-snortin, an' rollin, an' blowin, an' shufflin, an' scratchin hissef, an' a whisperin at mam a heap, an' at breckfus' I foun' out what hit ment. Says he, ‘Sut, I'll tell yu what we'll du: I'll be hoss mysef; an' pull the plow whilst yu drives me, an' then the “Ole Quilt” (he ment that fur mam,) an' the brats kin plant, an' tend, ur jis let hit alone, es they darn pleze; I aint a carein.’

“So out we went tu the pawpaw thicket, an' peel'd a rite smart chance ove bark, an' mam an' me made geers fur dad, while he sot on the fence a-lookin at us, an' a studyin pow'rful. I arterards foun' out, he wer a-studyin how tu play the kar-acter ove a hoss puffectly.

“Well, the geers becum him mitily, an' nuffin wud du 'im but he mus hev a bridil, so I gits a umereller brace—hit's a litil forked piece ove squar wire bout a foot long, like a yung pitch-fork, yu no—an' twisted hit sorter intu a bridil bit snaffil shape. Dad wanted hit made kurb, es he hedn't work'd fur a good while, an' said he mout sorter feel his keepin, an' go tu ravin an' cavortin.

“When we got the bridil fix'd ontu dad, don't yu bleve he sot in to chompin hit jis like a rale hoss, an' tried to bite me on the arm, (he allers wer a mos' complikated durned ole fool, an' mam sed so when he warnt about.) I put on the geers, an' while mam wer a-tyin the belly ban', a-strainin hit pow'rful tite, he drapt ontu his hans, sed ‘Whay-a-a’ like a mad hoss wud, an' slung his hine laigs at mam's hed. She step'd back a littil an' wer standin wif her arms cross'd a-restin em on her stumick, an' his heel taps cum wifin a inch ove her nose. Sez she, ‘Yu plays hoss better nur yu dus husban.’ He jis' run backards on all fours, an' kick'd at her agin, an'—an' pawd the groun wif his fis.

“ ‘Lead him off tu the field, Sut, afore he kicks ur bites sumbody,’ sez mam. I shoulder'd the gopher plow, an' tuck hole ove the bridil. Dad leaned back sulky, till I sed cluck cluck wif my tounge, then he started. When we cum tu the fence I let down the gap, an' hit made dad mad; he wanted tu jump hit on all fours hoss way. Oh' geminy! what a durn'd ole fool kin cum to ef he gins up tu the complaint.

“I hitch'd 'im tu the gopher, a-watchin him pow'ful clost, fur I'd see how quick he cud drap ontu his hans, an' kick, an' away we went, dad leanin forard tu his pullin, an' we made rite peart plowin, fur tu hev a green hoss, an' bark gears; he went over the sprowts an' bushes same as a rale hoss, only he traveled on two laigs. I wer mitily hope up bout co'n; I cud a'mos' see hit a cumin up; but thar's a heap ove whisky spilt twixt the counter an' the mouf, ef hit ain't got but two foot tu travil. 'Bout the time he wer beginin tu break sweat, we cum tu a sassafrack bush, an tu keep up his kar-acter es a hoss, he buljed squar intu an' thru hit, tarin down a ball ho'nets nes' ni ontu es big es a hoss's bed, an' the hole tribe kiver'd 'im es quick es yu cud kiver a sick pup wif a saddil blanket. He lit ontu his hans agin, an kick'd strait up onst, then he rar'd, an' fotch a squeal wus nur ara stud hoss in the State, an' sot in tu strait runnin away jis es natral es yu ever seed any uther skeer'd hoss du. I let go the line an' holler'd, Wo! dad, wo! but yu mout jis' es well say Woa! tu a locomotum, ur Suke cow to a gal.

“Gewhillitins! how he run: when he cum tu bushes, he'd clar the top ove em wif a squeal, gopher an' all. P'raps he tho't thar mout be anuther settilment ove ball ho'nets thar, an' hit wer safer tu go over than thru, an' quicker dun eny how. Every now an' then he'd fan the side ove his hed, fust wif wun fore laig an' then tuther, then he'd gin hissef a roun-handed slap what soundid like a waggin whip ontu the place whar the breechbands tetches a hoss, a-runnin all the time an' a-kerrin that ar gopher jis 'bout as fas' an' es hi frum the yeath es ever eny gopher wer kerried I'll swar.

SUT LOVINGOOD'S DADDY ACTING HORSE.“He seem'd tu run jis adzactly es fas' es a ho'net cud fly, hit wer the titest race I ever seed, fur wun hoss to git all the whipin.” Page 25.

When he cum tu the fence, he jis tore thru hit, bustin an' scatterin ni ontu seven panils wif lots ove broken rails. Rite yere he lef the gopher, geers, close, clevis, an' swingltress, all mix'd up, an' not wuf a durn., Mos' ove his shut staid ontu the aind ove a rail, an' ni ontu a pint ove ho'nets stop'd thar a stingin all over; hits smell fool'd em. The balance on em, ni ontu a gallun, kep' on wif dad. He seem'd tu run jis adzactly es fas' es a ho'net cud fly; hit wer the titest race I ever seed, fur wun hoss tu git all the whipin. Down thru a saige field they all went, the ho'nets makin hit look like thar wer smoke roun' dad's bald hed, an' he wif nuffin on the green yeath in the way ove close about im, but the bridil, an' ni ontu a yard ove plow line sailin behine, wif a tir'd out ho'net ridin on the pint ove hit. I seed that he wer aimin fur the swimin hole in the krick, whar the bluff am over-twenty five foot pupendiculer tu the warter, an' hits ni ontu ten foot deep.

“Well, tu keep up his karacter es a hoss, plum thru, when he got tu the bluff he loped off, ur rather jis' kep on a runnin. Kerslunge intu the krick he went. I seed the warter fly plum abuv the bluff from whar I wer.

“Now rite thar, boys, he over-did the thing, ef actin hoss tu the scribe wer what he wer arter; fur thars nara hoss ever foaldid durned fool enuf tu lope over eny sich place; a cussed muel mout a dun hit, but dad warn't actin muel, tho' he orter tuck that karacter; hits adzactly sooted tu his dispersition, all but not breedin. I crept up to the aidge, an' peep'd over. Thar wer dad's bald hed fur all the yeath like a peeled inyin, a bobbin up an' down an' aroun, an' the ho'nets sailin roun tuckey buzzard fashun, an' every onst in a while one, an' sum times ten, wud take a dip at dad's bald head. He kep' up a rite peart dodgin onder, sumtimes afore they hit im, an' sumtimes arterard, an' the warter wer kivered wif drownded ball ho'nets. Tu look at hit frum the top ove the bluff, hit wer pow'ful inturestin, an' sorter funny; I wer on the bluff myse'f, mine yu.

“Dad cudent see the funny part frum whar he wer, but hit seem'd tu be inturestin tu him frum the 'tenshun he wer payin tu the bisness ove divin an' cussin.

“Sez I, ‘Dad, ef yu's dun washin yersef, an hes drunk enuff, less go back tu our plowin, hit will soon be powful hot.’ ‘Hot—hell!’ sez dad; ‘hit am hot rite now. Don't (an onder went his hed) yer see (dip) these cussed (dip) infun—(dip) varmints arter me?’ (dip.) ‘What,’ sez I, ‘them ar hoss flies thar, that's nat'ral, dad; you aint raley fear'd ove them is yu?’ ‘Hoss flies! h---l an' (dip) durnation!’ sez dad, ‘theyse rale ginui—(dip) ball ho'nets, (dip) yu infunel ignurant cuss!’ (dip.) ‘Kick em—bite em—paw em—switch em wif yure tail, dad,’ sez I. ‘Oh! soney, soney, (dip) how I'll sweeten yure—(dip) when these (dip) ho'nets leave yere.’ ‘Yu'd better do the levin yursef dad,’ sez I. ‘Leave yere! Sturn yu d—n fool! How (dip) kin I, (dip) when they won't (dip) let me stay (dip) atop (dip) the warter even.’ ‘Well, dad, yu'l hev tu stay thar till nite, an' arter they goes tu roos' yu cum home. I'll hev yer feed in the troft redy; yu won't need eny curyin tu-nite will yu?’ ‘I wish (dip) I may never (dip) see to-morrer, ef I (dip) don't make (dip) hame strings (dip) outer yure hide (dip) when I dus (dip) git outen yere,’ sez dad. ‘Better say yu wish yu may never see anuther ball hornet, ef yu ever play hoss agin,’ sez I.

“Them words toch dad tu the hart, an' I felt they mus' be my las, knowin dad's onmollified nater. I broke frum them parts, an' sorter cum over yere tu the copper mines. When I got tu the hous', ‘Whar's yer dad?’ sez mam. ‘Oh, he turn'd durn fool, an' run away, busted every thing all tu cussed smash, an's in the swimin hole a divin arter minners. Look out mam, he'll cum home wif a angel's temper; better sen' fur sum strong man body to keep him frum huggin yu tu deth. ‘Law sakes!’ sez mam; ‘I know'd he cudent act hoss fur ten minutes wifout actin infunel fool, tu save his life.’

“I staid hid out ontil nex' arternoon, an' I seed a feller a-travelin'. Sez I, ‘How de do, mister? What wer agwine on at the cabin, this side the crick, when yu pass'd thar?’ ‘Oh, nuthin much, only a pow'ful fat man wer a lyin in the yard ontu his belly, wif no shut on, an' a 'oman wer a greasin ove his shoulders an' arms outen a gourd. A pow'ful curious, vishus, skeery lookin cuss he is tu b'shure. His head am as big es a wash pot, an' he hasent the fust durned sign ove an eye—jist two black slits. Is thar much small pox roun yere?’ ‘Small hell!’ sez I, ‘no sir.’ ‘Been much fightin in this neighborhood lately?’ ‘Nun wuf speakin ove,’ sez I. He scratched his head—‘Nur French measils?’ ‘Not jis clost,’ sez I. ‘Well, do yu know what ails that man back thar?’ ‘Jist gittin over a vilent attack ove dam fool,’ sez I. ‘Well, who is he eny how?’ I ris tu my feet, an' straiched out my arm, an' sez I, ‘Strainger, that man is my dad.’ He looked at my laigs an' pussonel feeters a moment, an' sez he, ‘Yas, dam ef he aint.’

“Now boys, I haint seed dad since, an' I dusent hev much appertite tu see im fur sum time tu cum. Less all drink! Yere's luck tu the durned old fool, an' the ho'nets too.

 SUT'S NEW-FANGLED SHIRT.

I MET Sut, one morning, weaving along in his usual rambling uncertain gait. His appearance satisfied me at once that something was wrong. He had been sick—whipped in a free fight, or was just getting on his legs again, from a “big drunk.”

But upon this point I was soon enlightened.

“Why, Sut, what's wrong now?” you look sick.

“Heaps wrong, durn my skin—no my haslets—ef I haint mos' ded, an' my looks don't lie when they hints that I'se sick. I is sick—I'se skin'd.”

“Who skinned you—old Bullen?”

“No, hoss, a durnder fool nor Bullen did hit; I jis skin'd mysef.”

“What in the name of common sense did you do it for?”

“Didn't du hit in the name ove common sense; did hit in the name, an' wif the sperit, ove plum natral born durn fool.

“Lite ofen that ar hoss, an' take a ho'n; I wants two ove 'em, (shaking his constant companion, a whisky flask, at me,) an' plant yersef ontu that ar log, an' I'll tell ef I kin, but hit's a'mos beyant tellin.

“I'se a durnder fool nor enybody outside a Assalum, ur Kongriss, 'sceptin ove my own dad, fur he actid hoss, an' I haint tried that yet. I'se allers intu sum trap what wudn't ketch a saidge-field sheep. I'll drownd mysef sum day, jis see ef I don't. I spects that wud stop the famerly dispersition tu act durn fool, so fur es Sut's consarn'd.”

“Well, how is it Sut; have you been beat playing cards or drinking?”

“Nara wan, by geminy! them jobs can't be did in these yere parts, es enybody no's on, but seein hits yu I'll tell hit. I'se sick-sham'd-sorry-sore-an'-mad tu kill, I is. Yu no I boards wif Bill Carr, at his cabin ontu the mountin, an' pays fur sich es I gits when I hes munny, an' when I hesent eny, why he takes wun third outer me in holesum hot cussin; an' she, that's his wife Betts, takes tuther three thirds out wif the battlin stick, an' the intrus' wif her sharp tongue, an' she takes more intrus' nur principal. She's the cussedes' oman I ever seed eny how, fur jaw, breedin, an' pride. She kin scold a blister rite plum ontu a bull's curl in two minits. She outbreeds enything frum thar tu the river, takin in the minks—an' patterns arter all new fangl'd fashuns she hears tell on, from bussils tu britches. Oh! she's wun ove em, an' sumtimes she's two ur three, she is.

“Well, yu see I'd got hole on sum homade cottin cloff, fur a shirt, an' coax'd Betts to make hit, an' bout the time hit wer dun, yere cum a cussed stuck up lawyer, name Jonsin, an' ax'd fur brekfus'—rite yere I wishes the bread had been asnick, an' the meat strikenine, an' that he'd a staid an tuck dinner too, fur he hes ni ontu fotch about my aind, durn his sashararer mitimurs ole soul tu thunder!

“I wonder hit didn't work 'im pow'ful es hit wer; fur Betts cooks up sum tarifyin mixtrys ove vittils, when she tries hersef. I'se pizen proof my sef; fur thuty dollars, I jis' let a sluice ove aquafotis run thru me fur ha'f a day, an' then live tu spen' the las' durn cent, fur churnbrain whiskey; ef I warnt (holding up his flask and peeping through it,) I'd dun been ded long ago.

“Well, while he wer eatin, she spied out that his shut wer mons'ous stiff, an' es slick es glass, so she never rested ontill she wurmed hit outen 'im that hit wer dun wif a flour preparashun. She went wif 'im a piece ove the way down the mountin, to git the purticulers, an' when she cum back she sed she had em. I thot she had myse'f.

“She imejuntly sot in, an' biled a big pot ove paste, ni ontu a peck ove hit, an' tole me I wer gwine to hev 'the gonest purty shut in that range.' Well, she wer sorter rite, fur when I las seed hit hit wer purty—yas orful purty, tu a rat, ur a buzzard, ur eny uther varmint fon ove dirty, skary lookin things; but frum the time I staid inside ove hit, I can't say that es. a human shut I'd gin a durn fur a dozin ove em. ‘Gonest purty shut’—the cussed ole hen jay bird, I jis' wish she hed tu war it wif a redpepper linin' on till she gits a-pas' hatchin, an' that wud be ni ontu eleving year, ef she tells the truff.

“She soused my shut intu the pot, an' soaked hit thar, ontil hit tuck up mos' ove the paste; then she tuck hit an' iron'd hit out flat, an' dry, an' sot hit on hits aidge agin the cabin in the sun. Thar hit stood, like a dry hoss hide, an' hit rattiled like ontu a sheet ove iron, hit did, pasted tugether all over—'gonest purty shut!—durn'd huzzy!

“When I cum tu dinner, nuffin wud du Betts, but I mus' put myse'f inside hit rite thar. She partid the tails a littil piece wif a case nife, an' arter I got my hed started up intu hit, she'd pull down, fus' at wun tail, an' then tuther, ontil I wer farly inside ove hit, an' button'd in. Durn the everlastin, infunel, new fangled sheet iron cuss ove a shut! I say. I felt like I'd crowded intu a ole bee-gum, an' hit all full ove pissants; but hit wer a ‘born'd twin ove Lawyer Jonsin's,’ Betts sed, an' I felt like standin es much pussonal discumfurt es he cud, jis tu git tu sampil arter sumbody human. I didn't know, tu, but what hit hed the vartu ove makin a lawyer outen me agin hit got limber.

“I sot in tu bildin ove a ash-hopper fur Betts, an' work'd pow'ful hard, sweat like a hoss, an' then the shut quit hits hurtin, an' tuck tu feelin slippery. Thinks I, that's sorter lawyer like enyhow, an' I wer hope up bout the shut, an' what mout cum outen hit.

“Arter I got dun work, I tuck me a four finger dost ove bumble-bee whisky, went up intu the lof' an' fell asleep a-thinkin bout bein a rale sashararer lawyer, hoss, saddil bags, an' books; an' Bets went over the top tu see her mam.

“Well, arter a while I waked up; I'd jis' been dreamin that the judge ove the supreme cort had me sowed up in a raw hide, an' sot up agin a hot pottery kill tu dry, an' the dryin woke me.

“I now thort I wer ded, an' hed died ove rhumaticks ove the hurtines' kind. All the jints I cud muve we my ankils, knees, an' wrists; cudn't even move my hed, an' scarsely wink my eyes; the cussed shut wer pasted fas' ontu me all over, frum the ainds ove the tails tu the pints ove the broad-axe collar over my years. Hit sot tu me es clost es a poor cow dus tu her hide in March. I worm'd an' strain'd an' cuss'd an' grunted, till I got hit sorter broke at the shoulders an' elbows, an' then I dun the durndes' fool thing ever did in these yere mountins. I shuffl'd an' tore my britches off, an' skin'd loose frum my hide bout two inches ove the tail all roun in orful pain, an quick-stingin trebulashun. Oh! great golly grampus, how it hurt! Then I tuck up a plank outen the lof', an' hung my laigs down thru the hole, sot in, an' nail'd the aidge ove the frunt tail tu

SUT'S NEW-FANGLED SHIRT.“I hearn a n'ise tarin' a shingle ruff ofen a hous' at wun rake, an' felt like my bones wer all what lef the shut, an' reached the floor.”Page34.

the floor afore me, an' the hine tail I nail'd tu the plank what I sot on. I flung the hammer outen my reach, tu keep my hart frum failin me, onbutton'd the collar an' risbans, raised my hans way abuv my hed, shot up my eyes, sed a short grace, an' jump'd thru tu the groun' floor, jis' thuteen foot wun inch clear ove jists.”

Here Sut remarked, sadly shaking his head, “George, I'se a durnder fool nor dad, hoss, ho'nets, an' gopher. I'll hev tu drown'd mysef sum ove these days, see ef I don't.”

“Well, go on Sut; did the shirt come off?”

“I ---- t-h-i-n-k ---- h-i-t ------- d-id.

“I hearn a nise like tarin a shingle ruff ofen a hous' at wun rake, an' felt like my bones wer all what lef the shut, an' reach'd the floor. I stagger'd tu my feet, an' tuck a moanful look up at my shut. The nails hed hilt thar holt, an' so hed the tail hem; thar hit wer hangin arms down, inside out, an' jis' es stiff es ever. Hi look'd like a map ove Mexico, arter one ove the wurst battils. A patch ove my skin 'bout the size ove a dullar, ur a dullar an' a'alf bill yere, a bunch ove har bout like a bird's nes' thar, then sum more skin, then sum paste, then a littil more har, then a heap ove skin—har an' skin straight along all over that newfangl'd everlastin', infunel pasted cuss ove a durnd shut! Hit wer a picter tu look at, an' so wer I.

“The hide, har, an' paste wer about ekally devided atwix me an' hit. George, listen tu me: hit looked adzactly like the skin ove sum wile beas' tore off alive, ur a bag what hed toted a laig ove fresh beef frum a shootin match.

“Bill cum home wif Betts, an' wer the fust inter the cabin. He backed outen hit agin an' sez he, ‘Marcyful payrint! thar's been murderin dun yere; hits been ole Bullen; he's skinn'd Sut, an' thars his hide hung up tu dry.’ Betts walked roun hit a zaminin hit, till at las' she venter'd clost, an' know'd her sowin.

“Sez she, ‘Yu dad dratted ole pot-head, that's his Sunday shut. Hes hed a drefful fite tho' wif sumbody;didn't they go fur his har ofen?’ ‘An rine in 'bun dance,’ sed Bill. 'Yas hoss,’ sed Betts agine, ‘an' ef I'd been him, I'd a shed hit, I wudnt a fit es nasty a fite es that wer, in my fines' shut, wu'd yu, Bill?’

“Now, George, I's boun tu put up Jonsin's meat fur im on site, wifout regardin good killin weather, an' ef ever a 'oman flattins out a shut fur me agin, durn my everlastin picter ef I dont flattin her out, es thin es a stepchile's bread an' butter. I'll du hit ef hit takes me a week.

“Hits a retribushun sartin, the biggest kine ove a preacher's regular retribushun, what am tu be foun' in the Holy Book.

“Dus yu mine my racin dad, wif sum ho'nets, an' so forth, intu the krick?

“Well, this am what cums ove hit. I'll drownd mysef, see ef I don't, that is ef I don't die frum that hellfired shut. Now George, ef a red-heded 'oman wif a reel foot axes yu tu marry her, yu may du hit; ef an 'oman wants yu tu kill her husbun, yu may do hit; ef a gal axes yu tu rob the bank, an' take her tu Californy, yu may du hit; ef wun on em wants yu to quit whisky, yu mout even du that. But ef ever an 'oman, ole ur yung, purty es a sunflower ur ugly es a skin'd hoss, offers yu a shut aninted wif paste tu put on, jis' yu kill her in her tracks, an' burn the cussed pisnus shut rite thar. Take a ho'n?

 THE WIDOW MC CLOUD'S MARE.

“THAR cum tu this country, onst, a cussed sneakin lookin rep-tile, name Stilyards. He wer hatched in a crack—in the frosty rocks, whar nutmaigs am made outen maple, an' whar wimmin paints clock-faces an' pints shoe-paigs, an' the men invents rat-traps, man-traps, an' new fangled doctrins fur the aid ove the devil. In fac' hit am his gardin, whar he kin grow what won't sprout eny whar else.

“Well, this critter look's like a cross atween a black snake an' a fireman's ladder. He wer eighteen an' a 'alf hans high, an' modeled like ontu a shingle maker's shavin hoss, an' wer es yaller as a warter dorg wif the janders. His eyes wer like ontu a coon's, an' his foot wer the biggest chunk ove meat an' knotty bones I ever seed tu hev no guts into hit. Now ef he hed wun gif what wud make yu take tu him, I never seed hit, an' ef he ever did a good ur a straight ahead thing, I never hearn ove hit. He cud praps be skar'd intu actin rite fur a minit ur two at a time, but hit wudn't las'. He cum amung us a ole field school-marster— soon shed that shell, an' cum out es oily, slippery a lawyer as ever tuck a fee. Why, he'd a hilt his own in a pond full ove eels, an' a swallerd the las durn one ove em, an' then sot the pond tu turnin a shoe-paig mill. Well he practised on all the misfortinat devils roun that sarkit, till he got sassy, got niggers, got rich, got forty maulins fur his nastiness, an' tu put a cap sheaf ontu his stack ove raskallity, got religion, an' got to Congress.

“The fust thing he did thar, wer to proffer to tend the Capitol grouns in inyuns, an' beans, on the shears, an' tu sell the statoot ove Columbus tu a tenpin alley, fur a sign, an' the she injun wif him, tu send back the balls. He stole the Romun swoard ofen the stone picter ove War thar, an' fotch hit tu his wife fur a meat-chopper. He practised lor ontu yu fur eny thing yu hed, from a hanful ove chesnuts to a plantushun, an' tu tell hit all in a minit, when he dies, he'll make the fastes trip tu the senter ove soot, sorrer, an' smoke, on record, not even sceptin ole Iskariott's fas' time.

“Well, a misfortinit devil happen'd tu steal a hoss by accidint, got Stilyards to 'fend him, got intu the penitensary, an' Stilyards got all he hed—a half houn' dorg, an' a ole eight day Yankee clock, fur sendin him thar.

“He tuck a big young mar frum a widdar name Mc Cloud, fur losin a land case. So he walked out intu that neighborhood to gether up an' tote home his fees, an' I met up wif him. He hed the clock tied ontu his back pedler fashun, leadin the mar in wun han' an' the dorg by a rope wif tuther. The dorg wer interprisin an' led too fas'—the mar wer sulky an' led tu slow, an' the clock wer heavy, an' the day hot, an' he wer hevin ove a good time gineraly wif his fees, his sweat, an' his mean thoughts. So he cumenced tryin tu hire me tu help him to town, fur a gill ove whisky.

“Now, whu the devil ever hearn tell ove a gill ove whisky, in these parts afore? Why hit soundid sorter like a inch ove cord-wood, ur a ounce ove cornshuks. Hit 'sulted me. So I sot in tu fix a way to put a gill ur so ove pussonal discumfort onder his shut, an' I did hit. Sez I, ‘Yu mout save that whisky ef yu dus’ es I tells yu:

“ ‘Jis' yu git atop, an' outside that she hoss thar, tie that ar dorg's rope roun her neck, set the time-mill up onto her back, ahine yu, an' tie hit roun yersef; that makes her tote the furniture, tote yu, an' lead yer valerabil dorg, while yu governs the muvemint wif a good hickory, an' them bridil strings, don't yu see?’

“He pouched out his mouf, nodded his hed five ur six times, a-bendin but won jint 'bout the midil ove that long yaller neck ove hisn, an' said, ‘Yas, a good surgistshun, mister Lovingood,’ an' I sot in tu help him fix things. I peeled lots ove good bark, sot the clock on aind, back tu back wif him ontu the mar's bar cupplin, an' I tied hit roun his cackus like I ment them tu stick es long es hit run, ur he lived, an' hit cum durnd ni doin hit. He sed he thot the thing wud work, an so did I. By golly, I seed the redish brown fire a playin in the mar's eyes, an' a quick twitchin in her flank. what I knowd, an' onderstood tu mean, that she'd make orful things happen purty durn'd soon. The sharp pint ove Stilyard's tail bone, an' the clock laigs wer a makin lively surgistshins tu a devil intu her es big as a yearlin.

“All wer redy fur the show tu begin. ‘Yu git up, yu pesky critter,’ sed he, a-makin his heels meet, an' crack onder her belly. Well she did ‘git up,’ rite then an' thar, an' staid up long enuf to lite twenty foot further away, in a broad trimblin squat, her tail hid a-tween her thighs, an' her years a dancin a-pas' each uther, like scissors a-cuttin. The jolt ove the litin sot the clock to strikin. Bang-zee-bang-zee whang-zee. She listined pow'ful 'tentive tu the three fus' licks, an' they seem'd tu go thru an' thru her as quick es quicksilver wud git thru a sifter. She waited fur no more, but jis' gin her hole soul up tu the wun job ove runnin frum onder that infunel Yankee, an' his hive ove bumble bees, ratil snakes, an' other orful hurtin things, es she tuck hit tu be. I knows how she felt; I'se been in the same 'bout five hundred times, an' durn my cackus ef she didn't kerry out my idears ove gittin outer trubil fus' rate.

“Every jump she made, she jerk't that misfortinat dorg six foot upard, an' thurty foot onward. Sumtimes he lit on his starn, sumtimes on his snout, then ontu bof ainds at wunst. He changed sides every uther lunge, clar over Stilyards, an' his hour-mill tu. He sed O! Outch! every time he lit, in houn talk loud enuff tu sheer the devil. An the road wer sprinkled worm fence fashun, like ontu a drunken man a-totin a leaky jug.

“The durn'd ole clock, hit got exhited too, an' los' control ove hits sef, an' furgot to stop, but jis scizzed an' whang'd away strait along, an' the mar a hearin hit all, an' a b'levin the soun' tu be cumin nigher tu her inards every pop. She thort, too, that four hundred black an' tan houn' dorgs wer cumpassin her etarnal ruin.

“She seed em above her, below her—behine her—afore her—an' on bof sides ove her, eny whar, every whar, nuffin but houn' dorgs. An she jis' tried tu run outen her sorril hide. I seed her two hine shoes shinin way up in the a'r, like two new moons. I know'd she wer a-mixin in sum high pressure vishus kickin, wif a heap ove as yearnest, an' fas' runnin es hosses ever 'dulges in.

“ ‘Wo yeow now!’ I hearn this, sprinkled in now an' then wif the yowls ove the dorg, an' the whangin ove the clock, an' all hit out-dun wif the mity nise ove clatterin huffs, an' crashin brush.

“Stilyards sot humpt up, his puddin foots lock'd onder that skeerd critter's belly, an' his paws wove intu her mane, double twill'd. I speck she thot the devil wer a-huggin her, an' she wer durnd near right.

“Thinks I, ole feller, if yu gain this suit, yu may ax Satun, when yu sees him, fur a par ove lisence tu practize at his cort. He'll sign em, sure.

“I cut acrost the ridge, what the road woun roun', an' got whar I cud see em a cummin, sorter to'ards me agin. She wer streched out strait as a string, an' so wer he—he wer roostin pow'ful low ontu her withers, his long arms locked roun her neck, his big feet a flyin about in the air, each side ove her tail, sorter limber like, an' the dorg mus' hev been nigh ontu killed dead, fur bof his hine laigs wer gone plumpt up to his cuplin, an' a string ove inards cumin outen the hole his laigs bed let, wer a flutterin arter him like a bolt ove grey ribbon, slappin agin the saplins, an' stumps, an' gettin longer every slap. His paunch wer a bobbin up an' down about a foot ahine whar the pint ove his tail used tu be. Ef he yowld any now, I didn't hear hit.

“That clock, the cussed mischeaf-makin mercheen, the cause ove all this onyeathly nise, trubbil, an' vexashun ove sperit, wer still ontu ole Stilyards's back, an' a maulin away as ef hit wer in the strait line ove a houshole juty, an the bark wer a holdin hits bolt powful well, considerin the strain. They met a ole bald-heded, thick-sot feller a-cummin frum mill, a-ridin ontu a grist ove meal, an' hit on a blaze-face hoss, wif burs in his tail. He wer totin a kaig ove strain'd honey in his lap, an' a 'oman behine him, wif a spinnin wheel ontu her hip. The mar run squar intu the millin experdishun. Jis' es she did hit, Stilyards holler'd, ‘Yeow, cut the bar’—He never addid the K tu that word, fur sumthin happen'd, jis' then an' tharabouts.”

Sut scratched his head, and seem'd to be in deep, thought.

“Well, Sut, go on.”

“I wer jis' a-studyin how tu gin yu a sorter idear ove how things look'd arter them two boss beastes mixed. Spose yu take a comon size frame doggery, sortar old an' rotten, wif all the truck generly inside them nesesary instertushuns; sit hit down squat ontu a railroad track, jis' so—an' du hit jis' in time fur the kerrs a-cummin forty miles a hour, an' thar whistil string broke. How du yu say things wud look bout a minis arterards?”

“Very much injured, I'd say, Sut.”

“An' pow'fuly mixt?”

“Yes.”

“An' tremenjusly scattered?”

“Yes.”

“An' orfully changed in shape?”

“Yes.”

“An' in nater?”

“Yes.”

“An' in valuer?”

“Yes.”

“An' a heap more pieces?”

“Yes.”

“An' smaller wuns?”

“Yes.”

“Splinters, an' scraps perdominant?”

“Yes.”

“An' not wuf a durn, by a duller an' a 'alf?”

“Yes.”

“Well, yu kin sorter take in the tremenjus idear ove that spot ove sandy road, whar Stilyards met the bald-heded man. That onlucky ole cuss lit twenty foot out in the woods, never look'd back, but sot his trampers tu work, an' distributed hissef sumwhar toward the Black Oak Ridge. The 'oman hung by wun foot in the fork ove a black-jack, an' a-holdin tu a dogwood lim' wi her hans, an' she hollerin, surter spiteful like—‘Split the blackjack, ur fetch a quilt!’ Nuffin ove the sort wer dun whilest I wer thar, es I knows on. Stilyards wer ni tuther side ove the road, flat ontu his back, fainted cumfortabil, an' quiet as a sick sow in a snowstorm, his arms an' laigs stretched till he look'd like a big letter X. His hat wer sumwhar, an' a boot sumwhar else. His clothes wer in strings, like he'd been shot thru a thorn thicket, outen a canyun. His nose wer a bleedin jis' about rite tu bring 'im too sumtime to'ards the middil ove the arternoon. His eyes wer shot up, an' his face wer pucker'd like a wet sheep-skin afore a hot fire, an' he look'd sorter like he'd been studyin a deep plan to cheat sumbody, an' hed miss'd. The dorg—that is what wer lef ove 'im—wer a-lyin bent over the top ove a saplin stump, an' the tuther aind ove his inards wer tangled up amung the mar's hine laigs, an' she wer stretched out in runnin shape, not hurt a bit, only her naik wer broke, an' a spinin-wheel spoke a-stickin atween her ribs a foot ur so deep. Ole Ball-face wer ontu his side, now an' then liftin his head an' takin a look at the surroundin deserlashun an' sorrer. The ole time counter wer a-leanin up agin a tree, sum bark still roun hit, the door gone, the face smashed, but still true tu what hit thort hits juty, jis bangin away es reguler es ef hit wer at home; an' I reckon hits at hit yet. Thar wer honey-kaig hoops, heads, an' staves, an' spinnin-wheel spokes, permiskusly scattered all about, an' meal sprinkiled over everybody, an' everything.

“Jis' then a feller what look's like he mout be a tract sower, ur a map agent, rid up an' tuck a big look all roun. Sez he, ‘Mister, did the litenin hurt yu?’ Sez I, ‘Wus nur litenin; a powder mill busted.’ The 'oman in the blackjack holler'd at him jis' then, savidge as a cat, ‘Look tuther way, yu cussed imperdint houn!’ He hed tu turn his hed tu see whar the vise cum from; he jis' look't one squint, an' sed, ‘Great hevings!’ an' gin his hoss a orful dost ove whip an' spurs, an' lef' a-flyin, an' he tolt at town what he'd seed. The feller wer orful skeer'd, an' no wonder; he'd seed enuf tu skeer a saw-mill plum ofen the krik.

“I now tuck the meal-bag, put in the remnant ove the dorg, an' sich ove the honey es I cud scoop up, an' draw'd hit over Stilyards's head, tied hit tite roun his naik, in hopes hit mout help fetch him tu sooner; split the black-jack, an' lef' in a lope. I hearn the 'oman squall arter me, ‘Never mind, laigs, I'll pay yu!’ She haint dun hit yet.

“I tuck the road Stilyards, an' the mar, an' his tuther geer, hed cum over so fur, an' pass'd a cabin whar a ole 'oman dress'd in a pipe an' a stripid aprun wer a-standin on the ash-hopper lookin up the road like she wer 'spectin tu see sumthin soon. Sez she, talkin 'bout es fas' es a flutter-mill: ‘Say yu, mister, did yu meet enything onkimon up thar?’ I shook my head. ‘Well,’ sez she, jupmin ofen the hopper an' a-shakin the ashes outen her coteail, an' settin her specks back, ‘Mister, I'se plum outdun. Thar's sumthin pow'ful wickid gwine on. A crazy organ-grinder cum a-pas’ yere jis' a small scrimpshun slower nur chain litenin, on a hoss wif no tail. His organ wer tied ontu his back, an' wer a-playin that good tchune, ‘Sugar in the Gourd,’ ur ‘Barbary Allin,’ I dunno which, an' his monkey wer a-dancin Hail Columby all over the road, an' hits tail wer es long es my clothes-line, an' purfeckly bar ove har. He hed no hat on, an' wun ove his boots flew off as he passed yere, an' lit on the smoke-'ous. Thar hit is; he mus' been a pow'ful big man, fur hits like ontu a indigo ceroon.’

“All this wer sed wifout takin one breff.

“I tole her hit wer the advance gard ove a big sarkis purclaimin hits cummin, ur the merlennium, an' durn'd ef I know'd which.

“She 'lowed hit cudent be the merlennium, fur hit warnt a playin hyme-tchunes; nur a sarkis either, fur the hoss warn't spotted. But hit mout be the Devil arter a tax collector, ur a missionary on his way tu China; hit look'd ugly enuf tu be one, an' fool enuf tu be tuther. She wer pow'fully exersised; she sweat an' snorted onder hit.

“Now don't yu b'leve, es soon es Stilyards cum tu, an' got outen the bag, he sot in an' burried the mar' so es tu hide her, an' then, at nex' cort, indited me fur stealin her, an' durn'd ni provin hit; now haint that the Devil?”

“What ever become of Stilyards, Sut, anyhow?”

“I dono; ef he haint in Congriss he's gone tu h--l.”

 PARSON JOHN BULLEN'S LIZARDS. AIT ($8) DULLARS REW-ARD. 'TENSHUN BELEVERS AND KONSTABLES! KETCH 'IM! KETCH 'IM!

THIS kash wil be pade in korn, ur uther projuce, tu be kolected at ur about nex camp-meetin, ur thararter, by eny wun what ketches him, fur the karkus ove a sartin wun SUT LOVINGOOD, dead ur alive, ur ailin, an' safely giv over tu the purtectin care ove Parson John Bullin, ur lef' well tied, at Squire Mackjunkins, fur the raisin ove the devil pussonely, an' permiskusly discumfurtin the wimen very powerful, an' skeerin ove folks generly a heap, an' bustin up a promisin, big warm meetin, an' a makin the wickid larf, an' wus, an' wus, insultin ove the passun orful.

Test, JEHU WETHERO.

Sined by me, JOHN BULLEN, the passun.

I found written copies of the above highly intelligible and vindictive proclamation, stuck up on every blacksmith shop, doggery, and store door, in the Frog Mountain Range. Its blood-thirsty spirit, its style, and above all, its chirography, interested me to the extent of taking one down from a tree for preservation.

In a few days I found Sut in a good crowd in front of Capehart's Doggery, and as he seemed to be about in good tune, I read it to him.

“Yas, George, that ar dockymint am in dead yearnist sartin. Them hard shells over thar dus want me the wus kine, powerful bad. But, I spect ait dullers won't fetch me, nither wad ait hundred, bekase thar's nun ove 'em fas' enuf to ketch me, nither is thar hosses by the livin jingo! Say, George, much talk 'bout this fuss up whar yu're been?” For the sake of a joke I said yes, a great deal.

“Jis' es I 'spected, durn 'em, all git drunk, an' skeer thar fool sefs ni ontu deth, an' then lay hit ontu me, a poor innersent youf, an' es soun' a belever es they is. Lite, lite, ole feller an' let that roan ove yourn blow a litil, an' I'll 'splain this cussed misfortnit affar: hit hes ruinated my karacter es a pius pusson in the s'ciety roun' yere, an' is a spreadin faster nur meazils. When ever yu hear eny on 'em a spreadin hit, gin hit the dam lie squar, will yu? I haint dun nuffin tu one ove 'em. Hits true, I did sorter frustrate a few lizzards a littil, but they haint members, es I knows on.

“You see, las' year I went tu the big meetin at Rattlesnake Springs, an' wer a sittin in a nice shady place convarsin wif a frien' ove mine, intu the huckil berry thickit, jis' duin nuffin tu nobody an' makin no fuss, when, the fust thing I remembers, I woke up frum a trance what I hed been knocked inter by a four- year old hickory-stick, hilt in the paw ove ole Passun Bullin, durn his alligater hide; an' he wer standin a striddil ove me, a foamin at the mouf, a-chompin his teeth—gesterin wif the hickory club—an' a-preachin tu me so you cud a-hearn him a mile, about a sartin sins gineraly, an' my wickedness pussonely an' mensunin the name ove my frien' loud enuf tu be hearn tu the meetin 'ous. My poor innersent frien' wer dun gone an' I wer glad ove hit, fur I tho't he ment tu kill me rite whar I lay, an' I didn't want her tu see me die.”

“Who was she, the friend you speak of Sut?” Sut opened his eyes wide.

“Hu the devil, an' durnashun tole yu that hit wer a she?”

“Why, you did, Sut”—

“I didn't, durn ef I did. Ole Bullin dun hit, an' I'll hev tu kill him yet, the cussed, infernel ole talebarer!”—

“Well, well, Sut, who was she?”

“Nun ove y-u-r-e b-i-s-n-i-s-s, durn yure littil ankshus picter! I sees yu a lickin ove yure lips. I will tell you one thing, George; that night, a neighbor gal got a all fired, overhandid stroppin frum her mam, wif a stirrup leather, an' ole Passun Bullin, hed et supper thar, an what's wus nur all, that poor innersent, skeer'd gal hed dun her levil bes' a cookin hit fur 'im. She begged him, a trimblin, an' a-cryin not tu tell on her. He et her cookin, he promised her he'd keep dark—an' then went strait an' tole her mam. Warnt that rale low down, wolf mean? The durnd infunel, hiperkritikal, pot-bellied, scaley-hided, whisky-wastin, stinkin ole groun'-hog. He'd a heap better a stole sum man's hoss; I'd a tho't more ove 'im. But I paid him plum up fur hit, an' I means tu keep a payin him, ontil one ur tuther, ove our toes pints up tu the roots ove the grass.

“Well, yere's the way I lifted that note ove han'. At the nex big meetin at Rattilsnaik—las' week hit wer—I wer on han' es solemn es a ole hat kivver on collection day. I hed my face draw'd out intu the shape an' perporshun ove a taylwer's sleeve-board, pint down. I hed put on the convicted sinner so pufeckly that an' ole obsarvin she pillar ove the church sed tu a ole he pillar, es I walked up tu my bainch:

“ ‘Law sakes alive, ef thar ain't that orful sinner, Sut Lovingood, pearced plum thru; hu's nex?’

“Yu see, by golly, George, I hed tu promis the ole tub ove soap-greas tu cum an' hev myself convarted, jis' tu keep him frum killin me. An' es I know'd hit wudn't interfare wif the relashun I bore tu the still housis roun' thar, I didn't keer a durn. I jis' wanted tu git ni ole Bullin, onst onsuspected, an' this wer the bes' way tu du hit. I tuk a seat on the side steps ove the pulpit, an' kivvered es much ove my straitch'd face es I could wif my han's, tu prove I wer in yearnis. Hit tuck powerful—fur I hearn a sorter thankful kine ove buzzin all over the congregashun. Ole Bullin hissef looked down at me, over his ole copper specks, an' hit sed jis' es plain es a look cud say hit: ‘Yu am thar, ar you—durn yu, hits well fur yu that yu cum.’ I tho't sorter diffrent frum that. I tho't hit wud a been well fur yu, ef I hadent a-cum, but I didn't say hit jis then. Thar wer a monstrus crowd in that grove, fur the weather wer fine, an' b'levers wer plenty roun' about Rattilsnaik Springs. Ole Bullin gin out, an' they sung that hyme, yu know:

“Thar will be mournin, mournin yere, an' mournin thar, On that dredful day tu cum.”

“Thinks I, ole hoss, kin hit be possibil enybody hes tote yu what's a gwine tu happin; an' then I tho't that nobody know'd hit but me, and I wer comforted. He nex tuck hisself a tex pow'fly mixed wif brimstone, an' trim'd wif blue flames, an' then he open'd. He cummenced ontu the sinners; he threaten'd 'em orful, tried tu skeer 'em wif all the wust varmints he cud think ove, an' arter a while he got ontu the idear ove Hell-sarpints, and he dwelt on it sum. He tole 'em how the ole Hell-sarpints wud sarve em if they didn't repent; how cold they'd crawl over thar nakid bodys, an' how like ontu pitch they'd stick tu 'em es they crawled; how they'd rap thar tails roun' thar naiks chokin clost, poke thar tungs up thar noses, an' hiss into thar years. This wer the way they wer tu sarve men folks. Then he turned ontu the wimmen: tole 'em how they'd quile intu thar buzzims, an' how they wud crawl down onder thar frock-strings, no odds how tite they tied 'em, an' how sum ove the oldes' an' was ones wud crawl up thar laigs, an' travil onder thar garters, no odds how tight they tied them, an' when the two armys ove Hell-sarpents met, then—That las' remark fotch 'em. Ove all the screamin, an' hollerin, an' loud cryin, I ever hearn, begun all at onst, all over the hole groun' jis' es he hollered out that word ‘then.’ He kep on a bellerin, but I got so buisy jis' then, that I didn't listen tu him much, fur I saw that my time fur ackshun hed cum. Now yu see, George, I'd cotch seven ur eight big pot-bellied lizzards, an' hed 'em in a littil narrer bag, what I had made a-purpus. Thar tails all at the bottim, an' so crowdid fur room that they cudent turn roun'. So when he wer a-ravin ontu his tip-toes, an' a-poundin the pulpit wif his fis'—onbenowenst to enybody, I ontied my bag ove reptiles, put the mouf ove hit onder the bottim ove his britches-laig, an' sot intu pinchin thar tails. Quick es gunpowder they all tuck up his bar laig, makin a nise like squirrils a-climbin a shell-bark hickory. He stop't preachin rite in the middil ove the word ‘damnation,’ an' looked fur a moment like he wer a listen fur sumthin—sorter like a ole sow dus, when she hears yu a-whistlin fur the dorgs. The tarifick shape ove his feeters stopp't the shoutin an' screamin; instuntly yu cud hearn a cricket chirp, I gin a long groan, an' hilt my head a-twixt my knees. He gin hisself sum orful open-handed slaps wif fust one han' an' then tuther, about the place whar yu cut the bes' steak outen a beef. Then he'd fetch a vigrus ruff rub whar a hosses tail sprouts; then he'd stomp one foot, then tuther, then bof at onst. Then he run his han' atween his waisbun an' his shut an' reach'd way down, an' roun' wif hit; then he spread his big laigs, an' gin his back a good rattlin rub agin the pulpit, like a hog scratches hisself agin a stump, leanin tu hit pow'ful, an' twitchin, an' squirmin all over, es ef he'd slept in a dorg bed, ur ontu a pisant hill. About this time, one ove my lizzards scared an' hurt by all this poundin' an' feelin, an' scratchin, popp'd out his head from the passun's shut collar, an' his ole brown naik, an' wer a-surveyin the crowd, when ole Bullin struck at 'im, jis' too late, fur he'd dodged back agin. The hell desarvin ole raskil's speech now cum tu 'im, a'n sez he, ‘Pray fur me brethren an' sisteren, fur I is arastilin wif the great inimy rite now! an' his voice wer the mos' pitiful, trimblin thing I ever hearn. Sum ove the wimmen fotch a painter yell, an' a young doctor, wif ramrod laigs, lean'd toward me monstrus knowin like, an' sez he, ‘Clar case ove Delishus Tremenjus.’ I nodded my head, an' sez I, ‘Yas, spechuly the tremenjus part, an' Ise feard hit haint at hits worst. Ole Bullin's eyes wer a-stickin out like ontu two buckeyes flung agin a mud wall, an' he wer a-cuttin up more shines nor a cockroach in a hot skillet. Off went the clamhammer coat, an' he flung hit ahine 'im like he wer a-gwine intu a fight; he hed no jackid tu take off, so he unbuttond his galluses, an' vigrusly flung the ainds back over his head. He fotch his shut over-handed a durnd site faster nor I got outen my pasted one, an' then flung hit strait up in the air, like he jis' wanted hit tu keep on up furever; but hit lodged ontu a blackjack, an' I sed one ove my lizzards wif his tail up, a-racin about all over the ole dirty shut, skared too bad tu jump. Then he gin a sorter shake, an' a stompin kine ove twis', an' he cum outer his britches. He tuck 'em by the bottim ove the laigs, an' swung 'em roun' his head a time ur two, an' then fotch 'em down cherall-up over the front ove the pulpit. You cud a hearn the smash a quarter ove a mile! Ni ontu fifteen shorten'd biskits, a boiled chicken, wif hits laigs crossed, a big dubbil-bladed knife, a hunk ove terbacker, a cob-pipe, sum copper ore, lots ove broken glass, a cork, a sprinkil ove whisky, a squirt, an' three lizzards flew permiskusly all over that meetin-groun', outen the upper aind ove them big flax britches. One ove the smartes' ove my lizzards lit head-fust, intu the buzzim ove a fat 'oman, es big es a skin'd hoss, an' ni onto es ugly, who sot thuty yards off, a fannin hersef wif a tucky-tail. Smart tu the las', by golly, he imejuntly commenced runnin down the centre ove her breas'-bone, an' kep on, I speck. She wer jis' boun' to faint; an' she did hit fast rate—flung the tucky-tail up in the air, grabbed the lap ove her gown, gin hit a big histin an' fallin shake, rolled down the hill, tangled her laigs an' garters in the top ove a huckilberry bush, wif her head in the branch an' jis' lay still. She wer interestin, she wer, ontil a serious-lookin, pale-faced 'oman hung a nankeen ridin skirt over the huckilberry bush. That wer all that wer dun to'ards bringin her too, that I seed. Now ole Bullin hed nuffin left ontu 'im but a par ove heavy, low quarter'd shoes, short woolen socks, an' eel-skin garters tu keep off the cramp. His skeer hed druv him plum crazy, fur he felt roun' in the air, abuv his head, like he wer huntin sumthin in the dark, an' he beller'd out, ‘Brethren, brethren, take keer ove yerselves, the Hell-sarpints hes got me!’ When this cum out, yu cud a-hearn the screams tu Halifax. He jis' spit in his han's, an' loped over the frunt ove the pulpid kerdiff! He lit on top ove, an' rite amung the mos' pius part ove the congregashun. Ole Misses Chaneyberry sot wif her back tu the pulpit, sorter stoopin forrid. He lit astradil ove her long naik, a shuttin her up wif a snap, her head atwix her knees, like shuttin up a jack-knife, an' he sot intu gittin away his levil durndest; he went in a heavy lumberin gallop, like a ole fat waggon hoss, skared at a locomotive. When, he jumpt a bainch he shook the yeath. The bonnets, an' fans clar'd the way an' jerked most ove the children wif em, an' the rest he scrunched. He open'd a purfeckly clar track tu the woods, ove every livin thing. He weighed ni ontu three hundred, bed a black stripe down his back, like ontu a ole bridil rein, an' his belly wer 'bout the size, an' color ove a beef paunch, an' hit a-swingin out frum side tu side; he leand back frum hit, like a littil feller a-totin a big drum, at a muster, an' I hearn hit plum tu whar I wer. Thar wer cramp-knots on his laigs es big es walnuts, an' mottled splotches on his shins; an' takin him all over, he minded ove a durnd crazy ole elephant, pussessed ove the devil, rared up on hits hind aind, an' jis' gittin frum sum imijut danger ur tribulashun. He did the loudest, an' skariest, an' fussiest runnin I ever seed, tu be no faster nur hit wer, since dad tried tu outrun the ho'nets.

“Well, he disapear'd in the thicket jis' bustin—an' ove all the noises yu ever hearn, wer made thar on that camp groun': sum wimen screamin—they wer the skeery ones; sum larfin—they wer the wicked ones; sum cryin—they wer the fool ones, (sorter my stripe yu know;) sum tryin to git away wif thar faces red—they wer the modest ones; sum lookin arter ole Bullin—they wer the curious ones; sum hangin clost tu thar sweethearts— they wer the sweet ones; sum on thar knees wif thar eyes shot, but facin the way the ole mud turtil we a-runnin—they wer the 'saitful ones; sum duin nuthin—they wer the waitin ones; an' the mos' dangerus ove all ove em by a durnd long site.

“I tuck a big skeer mysef arter a few rocks, an' sich like fruit, spattered ontu the pulpit ni ontu my head; an' es the Lovingoods, durn em! knows nuffin but tu run, when they gits skeerd, I jis' put out fur the swamp on the krick. As I started, a black bottil ove bald-face smashed agin a tree furninst me, arter missin the top ove my head 'bout a inch. Sum durn'd fool professor dun this, who hed more zeal or sence; fur I say that eny man who wud waste a quart ove even mean sperrits, fur the chance ove knockin a poor ornary devil like me down wif the bottil, is a bigger fool nor ole Squire Mackmullen, an' he tried tu shoot hissef wif a onloaded hoe-handle.”

“Did they catch you Sut?”

“Ketch thunder! No sir! jis' look at these yere laigs! Skeer me, hoss, jis' skeer me, an' then watch me while I stay in site, an' yu'll never ax that fool question agin. Why, durn it, man, that's what the ait dullers am fur.

“Ole Barbelly Bullin, es they calls 'im now, never preached ontil yesterday, an' he hadn't the fust durn'd 'oman tu hear 'im, they hev seed too much ove 'im. Passuns ginerly hev a pow'ful strong holt on wimen; but, boss, I tell yu thar ain't meny ove em kin run start nakid over an' thru a crowd ove three hundred wimen an' not injure thar karacters sum. Enyhow, hits a kind ove show they'd ruther see one at a time, an' pick the passun at that. His tex' wer, ‘Nakid I cum intu the world, an' nakid I'm a gwine outen hit, ef I'm spard ontil then.’ He sed nakidness warnt much ove a sin, purtickerly ove dark nights. That he wer a weak, frail wum ove the dus', an' a heap more sich truck. Then he totch ontu me; sed I wer a livin proof ove the hell-desarvin nater ove man, an' that thar warnt grace enuf in the whole 'sociation tu saften my outside rind; that I wer ‘a lost ball’ forty years afore I wer born'd, an' the bes' thing they cud du fur the church, wer tu turn out, an' still hunt fur me ontil I wer shot. An' he never said Hell-sarpints onst in the hole preach. I b'leve, George, the durnd fools am at hit.

“Now, I wants yu tu tell ole Barbelly this fur me, ef he'll let me an' Sall alone, I'll let him alone—a-while; an' ef he don't, ef I don't lizzard him agin, I jis' wish I may be dod durnd! Skeer him if yu ken.

“Let's go tu the spring an' take a ho'n.

“Say George, didn't that ar Hell-sarpint sermon ove his'n, hev sumthin like a Hell-sarpint aplicashun? Hit looks sorter so tu me.”

 A RAZOR-GRINDER IN A THUNDER-STORM.

“FRUM the orful faces yu's a-makin at that ar scrap ove lookin-glass, yu wants to skeer yure picter, ur yu's et sumthin what hes cuttin aidges; which is hit, George?”

“Neither” said I.

“Well, p'raps sumbody hes been a-cuttin shoe-strings outen a sandy deer-skin wif yur rayshure; yu wants hit ground, don't yu? Bake Boyd's man cud a dun hit.”

“Who was Bake Boyd's man? was he a negro?”

“Wus nor that; he wer a mighty mean Yankee rayshure grinder, what wunst cum tu Knoxville a footback, wif a mercheen strapt ontu his shoulders like ontu a patent corn-sheller, an' he narated hit about, that he would grind raysures, scissors, ur pint needils, mons'ous cheap. He soon got tu grindin away fus' rate He wer a pow'ful slow-speakin, dignerfied sorter varmint, an' thort that hissef an' mercheen cummanded the respeck an' submishun ove the poperlashun, wharever he went. That idear wus chased outer his skull thru his years, mons'ous quick, at Knoxville. He cudn't hev cum to a better place than hit wer in them days, fur sweepin out the inside ove stuff up fellers' skulls clean ove all ole rusty, cob-web, bigited idears, an' then a fillin hit up fresh wif sumthin new an' activ; an' in the 'sort-mint wer allers wun king idear sure, an' hit wer in words sorter so: ‘If I gits away alive, durn ef ever I cum yere agin.’ I speck ni ontu a thousin fellers, off an' on, cum tu that ole town sufferin pow'ful wif a onintemitant attack ove swell-head, an' every durn'd wun ove em lef thar wif the words I spoke jis now, a-drapin ofen thar limber onder lips, sorter like a ole heart-broken hoss slobbers.

“Bake Boyd (Bake wer the short fur Bacon, an' Bacon wer his nickname yu know) wer ni ontu es clever a feller es ever wer born'd. Thar wer durn'd littil weevil in his wheat, mity small chance ove warter in his whisky, an' not a drap ove streakid blood in his veins. But he hed a besettin sin: he wer pow'fully pursessed wif the devil; he wer so chock full ove hit that his har wudn't lie still. He watched fur openins tu work off sum kind ove devilment, jist es clost es a ole 'oman what wer wunst onsanctified hersef, watches her darters when a suckus ur a camp meetin am in heat.

“Well, Bake thort he seed a openin in that ar raysure-grindin establishmint, so he sot in tu make the durnd fool bleve that lecterin ontu the skyance ove raysure-sharpenin wer his speshul gif, an' that rite thar wer the place tu try that sock on. Bake dwelt long ontu the crop ove dimes tu be gathered frum that field; that he'd make more than thar wer spots ontu forty fawns in July, not tu speak ove the big gobs ove repertashun he'd tote away, a shinin all over his close, like litnin bugs ontu a dorg fennil top. The argymint fotch him, purticularly the spotted fawn part ove hit. But he wer a Yankee, an' wanted tu know, afore he begun, how many spots thar wur ontu wun fawn: so he went tu the stabil, an' axed ole Dick, Bake's hossler.

“The ole niggar scratched his hed, an' tole him, Marster, I'se never counted em, but I specks thar am a gallun, suah an' sartin.’

“He got Bake tu git sum 'vartisments printed, an' stuck up all over town. Bake show'd that he onderstood the 'vartisment bisness, fur he put the picter ove a rarin stud hoss at the top, a runaway buck niggar wif a bundil each side, while two barrils marked whisky, a wool-cardin mersheen, an' a cider mill top't off the bottum.

“While Bake wer a-doin ove this, ole Grinder wer a-ritin out the lecter. Hit wer a complikated sort ove dockymint—talked sorter like a feller wud tu a Konstable, tu take his mind ofen the warrant he know'd he hed fur him, ontill he seed a chance tu run. Hit spoke in purtickeler ove the commit, Niagray Falls, the merlennium, hatchin chickins, fallin frum grace, an' makin mush outen sawdust, an' generally ove everything on the A'mitey's green yeath, sceptin raysure-grindin, an' the depravity ove man, when he am a boy. He ortent to hev lef that pint out, fur hit wer boys what he wer dealin wif jis' then, an' a rite tight preacher mout hev call'd them deprav'd or unsanctified at leas'.

“Well, that nite the Court Hous wer plum full; everybody wer thar, sceptin Lum Jones, an' he wer hid out frum the Free Masons. Bake sot ahine the lecterin-mersheen, to read frum the paper tu him when he furgot what wer in hit. Thar wer fotch intu the yard, clost to the winder whar they wer a-standin, a ole brass canyon full tu the muzzle, wif powder an' red clay. Up in the lof by a trap door, an' plum over the feller's hed, sot Joe Jacksin, a-holdin ontu a half barril full ove warter outen a puddil, whar a misfortinat dead sow hed been floatin fur ten days.

“Well, the lecter begun, an' promised tu las' till daybreak, fur the mersheen soon stall'd, an' Bake's juty wer to gin hit ile by readin frum the paper; but he red so low that the man cudn't make out what he sed, so he twistid roun his bed an' whisper'd, ‘louder an' plainer.’ Bake, instid ove duin better, got wus—sot intu readin in sum furrin tung, sorter like Cherokee, wif a sprinkil ove Irish. Hit wer loud enuf; so fur so good; but hit lacked a durn'd site ove bein plainer. The raysure renovatur stood wif his hed high an' squar tu the congregashun, his eyes takin a site jis' abuv thar heds, an' a-gittin rounder an' bigger at every word; you cud see the whites all roun them; an' he wer a pursin up his mouf like ontu a tied bag. I wer listnin fur him tu whistil nex thing.

“ ‘Tshish! tshish!’ sorter low like, now begun tu cum outen the wimin an' boys, all over the house. The ole men's specks begun tu shine, an' thar mouf ainds hed started towar'd thar years. The feller hisser begun tu twist sorter like pisants wer surveyin a railroad route up his laigs; eyes still spreadin, an' the infunel Cherokee gittin louder—not a durnd word in Inglish— when ‘bo-lang’ went the canyun, litin up all the town smashin in the winders, an' shakin down the plasterin. Imejuntly Joe Jacksin up-sot the kaig, kerswish-selush cum the warter ontu Mr. Grinder's hed, every drap ove hit.

“Fur a momint he look'd like a iron statoot ove a durn'd fool in a playin fountin.

“He wer dresst in a linnin bob-tail coat, an' trowsis. an' no drawers; the warter made them hug him pow'ful clost, an' look a heap thinner; yu cud see the adjact laingth ove his shut-tail, the width ove the hem, an' even tu the moles on his laigs, an' the har on his shins.

“He cum tu hissef like he wer used tu bein duck't, shook the warter ofen hissef like ontu a dorg, an' sez he: ‘Ladies an' gentlemen, when I seed the litenin, an' hearn the thunder, I 'spected a pow'ful rain-storm, an' hit am here.” (Here he tuck a smell ove fust wun coat sleeve, an' then tuther, an' turn'd up the pint ove his nose.) ‘So, owin tu the inclemuncy ove the nite, I dismissis this yere congregashun, siner diar,’ (here he tuck anuther smell at his sleeve;) ‘an' ef yu hesn't been vaxinashun'd fur the yaller fever, cholery, an' the black-tung, yu'd better leave this yere town, fur they's all a-cummin if thar's enything in the smell ove a rain. Nobody claim'd back thar dime, an' Bake can't fur the soul ove him fix that case up tu this day, hu got the bes' of hit, the raysure-grinder ur tuther side; sumtimes he thinks wun, sumtimes tuther.”

While Sut was telling this story, a fat-headed young man listened throughout without moving a muscle of his face; when it was finished he raised his expressionless eyes and asked: “Did anybody laugh at the unfortunate man that night, Mr. Lovingood?”

Sut eye'd him for a moment, from head to foot and back again, with an expression of supreme contempt, and shambling off, looking back over his shoulder, said: “Yu mus' be a dam fool.”

 OLD SKISSIM'S MIDDLE BOY.

WHEN I war a littil over half grown, hed sprouted my tail feathers, an' wer beginnin tu crow, thar wer a livin in the neighborhood a dredful fat, mean, lazy boy, 'bout my age. He wer the middil son ove a ole lark, name Skissim. He tinkered ontu ole clocks, an' spinin wheels, et lye hominy, an' exhortid at meetin fur a livin, while this middil boy ove hisen, did the sleepin fur the hole famurly. He cud beat a hog an' a hungry dorg eatin, an' then beat his eatin wif his sleepin, es bad es his eatin beat the eatin ove a rat, arter bein shut in a church, ur a snake in a jug wif no mouf tu hit. They waked him tu eat, an' then hed tu wake him agin tu make him quit eatin; waked him tu go tu the spring, an' waked him tu start back agin; waked him tu say his prayers, an' waked him tu stop sayin 'em. In fac they wer allers a-wakin him, an' he wer allers a-goin tu sleep agin. Ole Skissim waked 'im wif a waggin whip, an' a buckshot in the cracker, what he toted apupus. His mam waked him wif the tea-kittil an' scaldin warter. Bof the buck-shot cracker an' the warter los thar vartu et las, an' they jis' gin him over tu onaindin sleepin, an' onmitigated hardness ove hed. Charley Dickins's son, the fat boy, mout been es ni kin tu him es a secund cuzzin, ef his mam wer a pow'ful wakeful 'oman.

I hedn't foun' out then, sartinly, that I wer a natr'l born durnd fool. I sorter suspishiond hit, but still hed hopes. So I wer fool enuf tu think I wer smart enuff tu break him frum snoozin all the time, so I lay wake ove nites fur a week, fixin the way tu du hit; an' that minds me tu tell yu what I thinks ove plannin an' studdyin: hit am ginerly no count. All pends, et las' on what yu dus an' how yu kerries yursef at the moment ove ackshun. Sarcumstances turn about pow'ful fas', an' all yu kin du is tu think jis' es fas es they kin turn, an' jis' es they turn, an' ef yu du this, I'm durnd ef yu don't git out sumhow. Long studyin am like preparin a supply ove warter intu a wurm hole barril, tu put out fire: when the fire dus cum, durn'd ef yu don't hev tu hustil roun pow'ful fas', an' git more warter, fur thar's nun in the barril. But es I wer a-tellin yu, I studied out at las' a plan what I thort wud wake the devil; an' I sot in tu kerrin hit out.

The ole man Skissim an' his wife went tu a nite meetin, an' tuck the ballance ove his ur rather her brats—a feller shu'd allers be pow'ful keerful in speakin on that pint. I'se allers hearn that hit tuck a mons'us wise brat tu know hits daddy, an' I thinks hit takes a wiser daddy tu know his own brats. Dad never wud speak sartin bout eny ove our famerly but me, an' he counted fur that by sayin I wer by a long shot tu cussed a fool tu belong tu enybody else, so I am a Lovingood. My long laigs sumtimes sorter bothers me, but then mam tuck a pow'ful skeer et a san-hill crane a-sittin on a peel'd well-pole, an' she out-run her shadder thuty yards in cumin half a mile. I speck I owes my laigs an' speed tu that sarcumstance an' not to eny fraud on mam's part.

Well, they went tu nite meetin an' lef him in the kitchin fas' asleep, belevin tu fine him right thar when they cum back; but they wer mistaken'd that pop, fur when they cum they foun the widest awake boy ever born'd in that ur eny uther house, ur outen doors either, an' es tu bein rite thar he warn't by a durn'd site; he wer here, thar, an' every whar, et the same time, an' ef he hed any apertite fur vittils jis' then, he didn't hang out his sign, that I cud see.

They lef him sittin ontu a split-bottom cheer, plum asleep all over, even tu his ole hat. I tuck about thuty foot ove clothes line, an' tied him tu the cheer by his neck, body, an' arms, levin his laigs loose. He looked sorter like the Lion in the spellin-book, when the rat wer a-cuttin a fish net off ove him. That wern't a skeer'd rat, wer he? I hed him safe now tu practize on, an' I sot in tu duin hit, sorter this way: I painted his face the curler ove a nigger coal-burner, scept a white ring roun his eyes; an' frum the corners ove his mouf, sorter downards, slouch-wise, I lef a white strip. Hit made his motif look sorter like ontu a boss track an' ni ontu es big. He wer a fine picter tu study, ef your mind wer fond ove skeery things. He look't savidge es a sot steel trap, baited wif asnick, an wer jis' fit fur tresun, straterjim, an' tu spile things. Tu this day, when I dreams ove the devil, dad, Passun Bullin, an' uther orful oppressive things, that infunel boy, es he look't that nite, am durnd intermitly mix't wif the hole ove em. I speck he's dead is the reason ove hit.

I screw'd ontu each ove his years a par ove iron hanvices, what his dad squeezed ole clocks, an crac't warnuts wit, an' they hung down like over-grow'd yearrings; I tied a gridiron to wun ankil, an' a par ove fire-tongs tu tuther; I pour'd a bottil ove groun redpepper down his back, onder his shut; I turn'd loose a pint ove June-bugs, what I kotch apupus, intu his buzzum, an' buttoned em up; I tied a baskit full ove fire crakers tu the cheer back, tu his har, an' tu his wrists; I button'd up a big grey-whisker'd aggravated ole rat, tied wif a string intu the slack ove his britches; tuther send ove the string wer fas' ontu his gallus button, an the rat, like all the res' ove that tribe, imejuntly sot in cuttin his way out; but owin to his parvarse nater ur the darkness ove the place, he sot in tu cuttin the wrong way; he wer a workin towards the back-bone, an' furder frum the britches, every cut. I learnt this fac' from the cheer risin frum the flure, an' fallin agin jis' tu rise imejuntly a littil higher, an' sum souns, a mixtry ove snort, snore, grunt, an' groan, which he wer be ginin tu isoo tolabil fas', an' gettin louder every bounce ove the cheer, an' becumin more like ontu a howl every pop. In the beginin ove his oneasines he dream'd ove wagin whip, nex' he dream'd ove a tea-kittil es big es a still, an' lots ove bilin wartar, an' nex he drempt ove bof ove 'em; an' now he wer a dreamin that the tea-kittil wer a steam ingine, a drivin the waggin whip, an' a cottin gin wif red hot saws fifteen hundred licks a minis, an' that he wer in the cottin hopper.

I now thot hit ni ontu the proper time tu tetch the crackers, so es tu hev everything bar hits shar in the kontemplated cummin waknin. An' I did hit. The fust handful ur so gwine off help'd, wif the industry ove that energetic ole rat, the sarchin ove the red pepper, an' the permiskus scratchin roun ove the bugs, tu begin tu wake him sorter gradully, a littil faster nor light bread rises, an' a littil slower then a yeathquake wakes-weazels. A few hundred more gwine off, still hevin the rat, pepper, an' insex tu back em, got him wide enuf awake tu bleve that he wer threatened wif sum orful pussonal calamerty, what wanted pow'ful quick work on his part tu dodge. He wer awake now all over even to his durnd ole hat, an' he show'd hit in es meny ways es a cat dus, lock'd up in a empty room wif a strange an' interprisin big dorg.

He grabbed the fire shovil, an' bounc'd half bent (the cheer kep him frum straitin up) all over that kitchen, a strikin over-handed, order-handed, up-handed, down-handed, an' lef-handed, at every 'spishus shadder he seed. He fit by the light ove ten million sparks; he wer es active as a smut-mercheen in full blast, an' every grain ove wheat a spark. An' he wer a hollerin everything anybody ever did holler in dredful tribulashun ove spirit, even tu, “Now I lay me down tu sleep,” an' “Gloree.”

When I'se in trubbil, skeer, ur tormint, I dus but wun thing, an' that's onresistabil, onekeled, an' durn'd fas' runnin, an' I jis' keeps at hit till I gits cumfort. Now his big idear onder nise an' varigated hurtin wer to fite, an' keep on a-fitin, ontil peace ove mine cum. I never seed sich keryins on in all my born'd days. He made more fuss, hit more licks at more things, wer in more places, an' in more shapes, in a shorter time, then eny mortal auctioneer cud tell ef he hed es meny tungs es a baskit full ove buckils. Every now an' then he'd gin his head a vishus, vigrus shake, an' the hanvices wud hit him fore an' arter, till his skull rattiled like ontu a ole gourd.

The ole Skissim an' his tribe cum home from meetin, an' hearin the onyeathly riot, thort sumbody hed opened a dorggery in thar kitchen, an' that a neighborhood fite wer gwine on, an' every feller's dorg along. They rushed in tu drive out the crowd, an' capter the whisky, an' a durnder more misfortinit mistake never wer made by a man, 'oman, an' a string ove fifteen brats, since ole Bill Shivers went fur a runnin threshin- meesheen tu smash hit, thinkin hit wer a big musick- box.

The ole hoss hisse'f imejuntly cum in contack wif a holesum knock down, what calm'd him int sumthin mons'us like sleep, fur about a minit. Now a heap ove things ken happen in a minit, purtickerly ef thar's sumbody who hes sot his hole soul tu the bisiness ove makin em happen. Hit wer so in that kitchen. Agin the ole feller cum tu the ole 'oman wer knocked hed fust intu the meal-barril, whar she wer breathin more meal nur air, an' she wer snortin hit up over the aidges ove the barril like hit wer a fountin playin corn meal. The ol'est gal wer sturn fus' in a soap-kittil, an' she wor a-makin suds outen sum ove hit. The nex' wun wer laingthwise belly down in the pot corner. The biggest boy wer whar the back-log orter been, ontu his all fours a-scratchin up all the embers an' ashes, a-tryin tu cum out from thar. Anuther cub, in a jackid wif a wun inch tail, wer knocked plum thru the tin intu the safe amung the cold vitils an' things. A littil gal, doll baby an' all, wer on the top shelf ove the cup-board, amung the delf, a-screamin like a littil steam whistil.

The neighbors wer a-getherin in roun the nise an' rumpus, an' not a durn'd wun hed the least idear ove what wer wrong, sceptin ove me. I onderstood hit all, durn'd fool es I is. Tu 'scape from bein 'spishioned, I sot in tu cuttin the cheer loose es I got chances, an' a-keepin outen the range ove that flyin fire shovil, fur hit wer still spreadin hurtin an' mischief on a perpetul moshun plan. Everybody hit totch fell, an' everything hit cum agin got grief. The tin buckits look'd like drunk men's hats. Pails hed lef' thar hoops, an' the delf war was in scrimpshuns. When he got divorced from the cheer, I tho't he'd sorter simmer down. But no sir! He got wus, an' did his work faster an better; he wer as crazy as a bed-bug, an' as savidge as a mad-dorg.

I seed a-cummin, a ole widder, what wer a pow'ful plus turn'd pusson, in the same church wif ole Skissim, an' she wer the news-kerrier gineral ove the neighborhood. Folks sed that they hed a religus feelin fur each other, what led tu meny love-feas, wif nobody at em but tharsefs, an' wer bof doin mouns'ous well, considerin the thorn in the flesh. Sez she—

“Oh, my soul! Du tell me what hes happened! Oh, lordy massy!” sed I, “hits a-happenin yet!” a-lookin orful solemn in the moonshine. Sez I, “I'll tell yu, es I knows yu won't speak ove hit; fur ef hit gits out, hit mout make the pepil sorter think hard ove Mister Skissim. He cum home from meetin plum crazy, talkin about the seventh cumandment, an' he's sot intu murderin hes folks wif a crowbar. He hes dun got his wife an' six ove the brats; thar a-lyin in thar es cold es krout; an' he's hot arter the rest ove em; sez he's in a hurry tu git thru, es he hes yu tu kill an' salt down afore day. Now I know by that he's turn'd durned fool.”

She never sed a word, but put out fur Squir Haley's, an' swore her life agin ole Skissim, an' tuck out a warrint fur him a-chargin murder, arson, blasfemy, fleabottomry an' rape. Hit skeer'd ole Skissim ontil he run away.

By the time I got dun inlitenin the widder, that ar onquinchable boy hed the kitchen all tu hissef. Everybody wer feard tu go ni the door. Now yu cudent guess in ten year what he then went an' did. He jis' made a piller outen the cheer, an' sot intu sleepin agin. Ef ever I'se call'd on tu stop his sleepin eny more agin, I'll try a muskit an' sixteen buckshot, at jis' about ten steps.

 BLOWN UP WITH SODA.

SUT'S hide is healed—the wounds received in his sudden separation from his new shirt have ceased to pain, and, true to his instincts, or rather “a famerly dispersition,” es he calls it, he “pitches in,” and gets awfully blown up by a wild mountain girl. Hear him, poor fellow!

“George, did yu ever see Sicily Burns? Her dad lives at the Rattil-snake Spring, clost ontu the Georgia line.”

“Yes, a very handsome girl.”

“Handsome! that ar word don't kiver the case; hit souns sorter like callin good whiskey strong water, when yu ar ten mile frum a still-hous, hit a rainin, an' yer flask only haf full. She shows amung wimen like a sunflower amung dorg fennil, ur a hollyhawk in a patch ove smartweed. Sich a buzzin! Jis' think ove two snow balls wif a strawberry stuck but-ainded intu bof on em. She takes adzactly fifteen inches ove garter clar ove the knot, stans sixteen an' a 'alf hans hi, an' weighs one hundred an' twenty-six in her petticoatail afore brekfus'. She cudent crawl thru a whisky barrel wif bof heads stove out, nur sit in a common arm-cheer, while yu cud lock the top hoop ove a chun, ur a big dorg collar, roun the huggin place.”

“The what, Sut?”

“The wais' yu durn oninishiated gourd, yu! Her har's es black es a crow's wing et midnite, ur a nigger hanlin charcoal when he's hed no brekfus'; hit am es slick es this yere bottil, an' es long es a hoss's tail. I've seed her jump over a split-bottim cheer wifout showin her ankils, ur ketchin her dress ontu the knobs. She cud cry an' larf et the same time, an' either lov'd ur hated yu all over. Ef her hate fell ontu yu, yu'd feel like yu'd been whipp'd wif a pizen vine, ur a broom made outen nettils when yer breeches an' shut wer bof in the wash-tub. She kerried enuf devil about her tu run crazy a big settilment ove Job's children; her skin wer es white es the inside ove a frogstool, an' her cheeks an' lips es rosey es a pearch's gills in dorgwood blossum time—an' sich a smile! why, when hit struck yu far an' squar hit felt jis' like a big ho'n ove onrectified ole Munongahaley, arter yu'd been sober fur a month , a tendin ove a ten hoss prayer-meetin twist a day, an' mos' ove the nites.

“Three ove her smiles when she wer a tryin ove hersef, taken keerfully ten minutes apart, wud make the gran' captin ove a temprunce s'iety so durn'd drunk, he wudn't no his britches frum a par ove bellowses, ur a pledge frum a—a—warter-pot. Oh! I be durned ef hits eny use talkin, that ar gal cud make me murder ole Bishop Soul, hissef, ur kill mam, not tu speak ove dad, ef she jis' hinted she wanted sich a thing dun. Sich an 'oman cud du more devilmint nur a loose stud hoss et a muster groun', ef she only know'd what tools she totes, an' I'se sorter beginin tu think she no's the use ove the las' durnd wun, tu a dot. Her ankils wer es roun', an' not much bigger nur the wrist ove a rifle-gun, an' when she wer a-dancin, ur makin up a bed, ur gittin over a fence—Oh durn sich wimen! Why aint they all made on the hempbreak plan, like mam, ur Betts Carr, ur Suke Miller, so they wundn't bother a feller's thinker et all.

“George, this worl am all 'rong enyhow, more temtashun than perventitive; ef hit wer ekal, I'd stand hit. What kin the ole prechurs an' the ugly wimen 'spect ove us, 'sposed es we ar tu sich invenshuns es she am? Oh, hits jis' no use in thar talkin, an' groanin, an' sweatin tharsefs about hit; they mus' jis' upset nater ontu her head, an' keep her thar, ur shet up. Less taste this yere whisky.”

Sut continued, wiping his mouth on his shirt-sleeve:

“I'se hearn in the mountins a fast rate fourth proof smash ove thunder cum onexpected, an' shake the yeath, bringin along a string ove litenin es long es a quarter track, an' es bright es a weldin heat, a-racin down a big pine tree, tarin hit into broom splits, an' toof pickers, an' raisin a cloud ove dus', an' bark, an' a army ove lim's wif a smell sorter like the devil wer about, an' the long darnin needil leaves fallin roun wif a tif—tif— quiet sorter soun, an' then a quiverin on the yeath es littil snakes die; an' I felt quar in my in'ards, sorter ha'f cumfurt, wif a littil glad an' rite smart ove sorry mix'd wif hit.

“I'se seed the rattil-snake squar hissef tu cum at me, a sayin z-e-e-e-e, wif that nisey tail ove his'n, an' I felt quar agin—mons'rous quar. I've seed the Oconee River jumpin mad frum rock tu rock wif hits clear, cool warter, white foam, an' music”—

“What, Sut?”

“Music; the rushin warter dus make music; so dus the wind, an' the fire in the mountin, an' hit gin me an oneasy queerness agin; but every time I look'd at that gal Sicily Burns, I hed all the feelins mix'd up, ove the litenin, the river, an' the snake, wif a totch ove the quicksilver sensashun a huntin thru all my veins fur my ticklish place.

“Tu gether hit all in a bunch, an' tie hit, she wer gal all over, frum the pint ove her toe-nails tu the aind ove the longes' har on the highis knob on her head—gal all the time, everywhar, an' wun ove the exhitenis kine. Ove corse I lean'd up tu her, es clost es I dar tu, an' in spite ove these yere laigs, an' my appertite fur whisky, that ar shut-skinin bisness, an' dad's actin hoss, she sorter lean'd tu me, jis' a scrimpshun, sorter like a keerfu] man salts uther pepil's cattil in the mountin, barly enuf tu bring em back tu the lick-bog sum day—that's the way she salted me, an' I 'tended the lick-log es reg'lar es the old bell cow; an' I wer jis' beginin tu think I wer ontu the rite trail tu es much cumfurt, an' stayin awake a-purpus, es ole Brigham Young wif all his saddil- culler'd wimen, an' the papers tu fetch more, ef he wants em.

“Well, wun day a cussed, palaverin, inyun-eatin Yankee pedlar, all jack-nife an' jaw, cum tu ole man Burns wif a carryall full ove appil-parin-mersheens, jewsharps, calliker, ribbons, sody-powder, an' uther durn'd truck.

“Now mine, I'd never hearn tell ove sody-powder in my born'd days; I didn't know hit frum Beltashazur's off ox; but I no's now that hit am wus nur gunpowder fur hurtin, an' durn'd ni es smart tu go off.

“That ar Yankee pedlar hes my piusest prayer, an' I jis wish I hed a kaig ove the truck intu his cussed paunch, wif a slow match cumin out at his mouf, an' I hed a chunk ove fire. The feller what foun a mossel ove 'im big enuf tu feed a cockroach, orter be turn'd loose tu pastur amung seventy-five purty wimen, an' foun in whisky fur life, becase ove his good eyes in huntin los' things. George, a Yankee pedlar's soul wud hev more room in a turnip-seed tu fly roun in. than a leather-wing bat hes in a meetin-hous; that's jis'so.

“Sicily hed bot a tin box ove the cold bilin truck an' hid hit till I cum tu the lick-log agin, yu know. Well, I jis' happen'd tu pass nex' day, an' ove corse stopp'd tu injoy a look at the temtashun, an' she wer mity luvin tu me. I never felt the like—put wun arm roun my naik, an' tuther whar the susingil goes roun a hoss, tuck the inturn ontu me wif her lef' foot, an' gin me a kiss. Sez she—

“Sutty, luv, I'se got sumthin fur yu,a new sensashun”—

“An' I b'leve in hit strong, fur I begun tu feel hit pow'ful. My toes felt like I wer in a warm krick wif minners a-nibblin at em; a cole streak wer a racin up an' down my back like a lizzard wif a tucky hen arter 'im; my hans tuck the ager, an' my hart felt hot an onsatisfied like. Then hit wer that I'd a-cut ole Soul's froat wif a hansaw, an' never batted my eye, ef she'd a-hinted the needsesity.

“Then she pour'd 'bout ten blue papers ove the fizilin powder intu a great big tumbler, an' es meny white papers intu anuther, an' put ni ontu a pint ove warter into bof on em, stir'd em up wif a case-nife, an' gritted a morsel ove nutmaig on top, the 'saitful she torment lookin es solemn es a jasack in a snow storm, when the fodder gin out. She hilt wun, an' tole me tu drink tuther. I swaller'd hit at wun run; tasted sorter salty like, but I tho't hit wer part ove the sensashun. But I wer slitely mistaken'd; hit wer yet tu cum, an' warn't long 'bout hit, hoss, better b'leve. Ternally durn all sensashuns ove every spot an' stripe! I say. Then she gin me tuther, an' I sent hit a chasin the fus' instalmint to the sag ove my paunch, race-hoss way. Yu see I'd got the idear onder my har that hit wer luv-powders, an' I'd swaller'd the devil red hot frum home, a-thinkin that. Luv-powders frum her! jis' think ove hit yerse'f solemnly a minit, an' sit still ef yu kin.

“Jis' 'bout the time I wer ketchin my breff, I tho't I'd swaller'd a thrashin-meersheen in full blast, wif a cuppil ove bull-dorgs, an' they hed sot intu fitin; an' I felt sumthin cumin up my swaller, monstrus like a hi pressur steamboat. I cud hear hit a-snortin, and scizzin. Kotch agin, by the great golly!tho't I; same famerly dispersishun to make a durn'd fool ove myse'f jis' es ofen es the sun sets, an' fifteen times ofener ef thar's a half a chance. Durn dad evermore, amen! I say.

“I happen'd tu think ove my hoss, an' I broke fur him. I stole a hang-dorg look back, an' thar lay Sicily, flat ove her back in the porch, clapin her hans, screamin wif laughin, her feet up in the air, a-kickin em a-pas' each uther like she wer tryin tu kick her slippers off. I'se pow'ful sorry I wer too bizzy tu look at em. Thar wer a road ove foam frum the hous' tu the hoss two foot wide, an' shoe mouf deep—looked like hit hed been snowin—a-poppin, an' a-hissin, an' a-bilin like a tub ove soap-suds

BLOWN UP WITH SODA.“Hole hit down, Mister Lovingood! hole hit down! hit s a cure for puppy luv; hole it down!” Page 82.

wif a red hot mole-board in hit. I gethered a cherry tree lim' es I run, an' I lit a-straddil ove ole Blackey, a-thrashin his hide like the devil beatin tan-bark, an' a-hissin wus nur four thousin mad ganders outen my mouf, eyes, nose, an' years. All this waked the ole hoss, an' he fotch one rar, one kiek, an' then he went—he jis' mizzel'd, skar'd. Oh lordy! how the foam rolled, an' the hoss flew! Es we turned the corner ove the gardin lot, I hearn Sicily call, es clar es a bugle:

“ ‘Hole hit down, Mister Lovingood! hole hit down! hits a cure fur puppy luv; hole hit down!’

“Hole hit down! Hu ever hearn sich a onpossibil— Why, rite then I wer a-feelin the bottim ove my paunch cumin up arter hit, inside out, jis' like the bottim ove a green champain bottil. I wer spectin tu see hit every blast. That, wif what Sicily sed, wer a-hurtin my thinker pow'ful bad, an' then the ise-warter idear, that hit warn't a luv-powder arter all that hurtin—takin all tugether, I wer sorter wishin hit mout keep on till I wer all biled tu foam, plum tu my heel-strings.

“I wer aimin fur Dr. Goodman's, at the Hiwasee Copper Mine, to git sumthin tu simmer hit down wif, when I met ole Clapshaw, the suckit-rider, a-travelin to'ards sumbody's hot biskit an' fried chicken. As I cum tarin along, he hilt up his hans like he wanted tu pray fur me; but es I wanted sumthin tu reach furder, an' take a ranker holt nur his prars cud, I jis' rambled ahead. I wer hot arter a ten-hoss dubbil-actin steam paunch-pump, wif wun aind sock'd deep intu my soda lake, an' a strong manbody doctur at tuther; hit wer my jis' then. He tuck a skeer, es I wer cumin strait fur him; his faith gin out, an' he dodged, flat hat, hoss, an' saddil-bags, into the thicket. I seed his hoss's tail fly up over his back, es he disappear'd intu the bushes; thar mus' a-been spurrin gwine on 'bout thar. I liked his moshuns onder a skeer rite well; he made that dodge jis' like a mud-turkil draps ofen a log when a big steamboat cums tarin a-pas'. Es he pass'd ole man Burns's, Sicily hailed 'im tu ax ef he met enybody gwine up the road in a sorter hurry. The poor devil tho't that p'raps he mout; warnt sure, but he hed seed a dreadful forewarnin, ur a ghos', ur ole Belzebub, ur the Tariff. Takin all things tugether, however, in the litil time spar'd tu 'im fur 'flection, hit mus' a-been a crazy, long-laiged shakin Quaker, fleein frum the rath to cum, on a black an' white spotted hoss, a-whipin 'im wif a big brush; an' he hed a white beard what cum frum jis onder his eyes down tu the pumil ove the saddil, an' then forked an' went tu his knees, an' frum thar drapp'd in bunches es big es a crow's nes', tu the groun; an' he hearn a soun like ontu the rushin ove mitey warters, an' he wer pow'fully exersized 'bout hit enyhow. Well, I guess he wer, an' so wer his fat hoss, an' so wer ole Blackey, an' more so by a durn'd site wer me mysef. Arter he cumpos'd hissef he rit out his fool noshuns fur Sicily, that hit wer a new steam invenshun, tu spread the Catholic doctrin, an' tote the Pope's bulls to pastur in distunt lans, made outen sheet iron, ingin rubber, tann'd leather, ise cream, an' fat pine, an' that the hoss's tail wer made outen iron wire, red hot at the pint, an' a stream ove sparks es long es the steerin-oar ove a flatboat foller'd thararter; an' takin hit all tugether hit warnt a safe thing tu meet in a lane ove a dark nite; an' he tho't he hed a call over the mountin tu anuther sarkit; that chickens warnt es plenty over thar, but then he wer a self-denyin man.

“Now, George, all this beard, an' spotted hoss, an' steam, an' fire, an' snow, an' wire tails, wer durn'd skeer'd suckit rider's humbug; hit all cum outen my paunch, wifout eny vomitin ur coaxin, an' ef hit hedn't, I'd a dun been busted intu more scraps nur thar's aigs in a big catfish.

“ ‘Hole hit down, Mister Lovingood! hole hit down!’ Now warnt that jis' the durndes' onreasonabil reques' ever an 'oman mace ove man? She mout jis es well ax'd me tu swaller my hoss, an' then skin the cat on a cob-web. She's pow'ful on docterin tho', I'll swar tu that.”

“Why, Sut?”

“Kase she cur'd my puppy-luv wif won dost, durn her! George, am sody pizen?”

“No; why?”

“I sorter 'spected hit wer, an' I sot in, an' et yarbs, an' grass, an' roots, till I'se pounch'd out like ontu a ole cow; my hole swaller an' paunch am tann'd hard es sole leather. I axes rot-gut no odds now. Yere's a drink tu the durndes' fool in the worl'—jis' me!”

And the bottom of Sut's flask flashed in the sun light.

 SICILY BURNS'S WEDDING.

“HEY GE-ORGE,” rang among the mountain slopes; and looking up to my left, I saw “Sut,” tearing along down a steep point, heading me off, in a long kangaroo lope, holding his flask high above his head, and hat in hand. He brought up near me, banteringly shaking the half-full “tickler,” within an inch of my face.

“Whar am yu gwine? take a suck, hoss? This yere truck's ole. I kotch hit myse'f, hot this mornin frum the still wum. Nara durn'd bit ove strike-nine in hit— I put that ar piece ove burnt dried peach in myse'f tu gin hit color—better nur ole Bullen's plan: he puts in tan ooze, in what he sells, an' when that haint handy, he uses the red warter outen a pon' jis' below his barn;—makes a pow'ful natral color, but don't help the taste much. Then he correcks that wif red pepper; hits an orful mixtry, that whisky ole Bullen makes; no wonder he seed ‘Hell-sarpints.’ He's pisent ni ontu three quarters ove the b'levin parts ove his congregashun wif hit, an' tuther quarter he's sot intu ruff stealin an' cussin. Ef his still-'ous don't burn down, ur he peg out hisse'f, the neighborhood am ruinated a-pas' salvashun. Haint he the durndes sampil ove a passun yu ever seed enyhow?

“Say George, du yu see these yere well-poles what I uses fur laigs? Yu sez yu sees em, dus yu?”

“Yes.”

“Very well; I passed 'em a-pas' each uther tuther day, right peart. I put one out a-head jis' so, an' then tuther 'bout nine feet a-head ove hit agin jis' so, an' then kep on a-duin hit. I'll jis' gin yu leave tu go tu the devil ha'f hamon, ef I didn't make fewer tracks tu the mile, an' more tu the minit, than wer ever made by eny human man body, since Bark Wilson beat the sawlog frum the top ove the Frog Mountin intu the Oconee River, an' dove, an' dodged hit at las'. I hes allers look'd ontu that performince ove Bark's as onekel'd in histery, allers givin way tu dad's ho'net race, however.

“George, every livin thing hes hits pint, a pint ove sum sort. Ole Bullen's pint is a durn'ed fust rate, three bladed, dubbil barril'd, warter-proof, hypockracy, an' a never-tirein appertite fur bal'-face. Sicily Burns's pint am tu drive men folks plum crazy, an' then bring em too agin. Gin em a rale Orleans fever in five minits, an' then in five minits more, gin them a Floridy ager. Durn her, she's down on her heels flat-footed now. Dad's pint is tu be king ove all durn'd fools, ever since the day ove that feller what cribb'd up so much co'n down in Yegipt, long time ago, (he run outen his coat yu minds.) The Bibil tells us hu wer the stronges'man—hu wer the bes' man—hu wer the meekis' man, an' hu the wises' man, but leaves yu tu guess hu wer the bigges' fool.

“Well, eny man what cudent guess arter readin that ar scrimmage wif an 'oman 'bout the coat, haint sense enuf tu run intu the hous', ef hit wer rainin ded cats, that's all. Mam's pint am in kitchen insex, bakin hoecake, bilin greens, an' runnin bar laiged. My pint am in takin aboard big skeers, an' then beatin enybody's hoss, ur skared dorg, a-runnin frum onder em agin. I used tu think my pint an' dad's wer jis' the same, sulky, unmix'd king durn'd fool; but when he acted hoss, an' mistook hossflies fur ho'nets, I los' heart. Never mine, when I gits his 'sperence, I may be king fool, but yet great golly, he gets frum bad tu wus, monstrus fas'.

“Now ef a feller happens tu know what his pint am, he kin allers git along, sumhow, purvided he don't swar away his liberty tu a temprins s'ciety, live to fur frum a still-'ous, an' too ni a chu'ch ur a jail. Them's my sentimints on ‘pints,’—an' yere's my sentimints ontu folks: Men wer made a-purpus jis tu eat, drink, an' fur stayin awake in the yearly part ove the nites: an' wimen wer made tu cook the vittils, mix the sperits, an' help the men du the stayin awake. That's all, an' nuthin more, onless hits fur the wimen tu raise the devil atwix meals, an' knit socks atwix drams, an' the men tu play short kerds, swap hosses wif fools, an' fite fur exersise, at odd spells.

“George, yu don't onderstan life yet scarcely at all, got a heap tu larn, a heap. But 'bout my swappin my laigs so fas'—these yere very par ove laigs. I hed got about a fox squirril skin full ove biled co'n juice packed onder my shut, an' onder my hide too, I mout es well add, an' wer aimin fur Bill Carr's on foot. When I got in sight ove ole man Burns's, I seed ni ontu fifty hosses an' muels hitch'd tu the fence. Durnashun! I jis' then tho't ove hit, 'twer Sicily's wedding day. She married ole Clapshaw, the suckit rider. The very feller hu's faith gin out when he met me sendin sody all over creashun. Suckit-riders am surjestif things tu me. They preaches agin me, an' I hes no chance tu preach back at them. Ef I cud I'd make the institushun behave hitsef better nur hit dus. They hes sum wonderful pints, George. Thar am two things nobody never seed: wun am a dead muel, an' tuther is a suckit-rider's grave. Kaze why, the he muels all turn intu old field school-masters, an' the she ones intu strong minded wimen, an' then when thar time cums, they dies sorter like uther folks. An' the suckit-riders ride ontil they marry; ef they marrys money, they turns intu store-keepers, swaps hosses, an' stays away ove colleckshun Sundays. Them what marrys, an' by sum orful mistake misses the money, jis' turns intu polertishuns, sells ‘ile well stock,’ and' dies sorter in the human way too.

“But 'bout the wedding. Ole Burns hed a big black an' white bull, wif a ring in his snout, an' the rope tied up roun his ho'ns. They rid 'im tu mill, an' sich like wif a saddil made outen two dorgwood forks, an' two clapboards, kivered wif a ole piece ove carpet, rope girth, an' rope stirrups wif a loop in hit fur the foot. Ole ‘Sock,’ es they call'd the bull, hed jis' got back frum mill, an' wer turn'd intu the yard, saddil an' all, tu solace hissef a-pickin grass. I wer slungin roun the outside ove the hous', fur they hedn't hed the manners tu ax me in, when they sot down tu dinner. I wer pow'fully hurt 'bout hit, an' happen'd to think—SODY. So I sot in a-watchin fur a chance tu du sumthin. I fus' tho't I'd shave ole Capshaw's hoss's tail, go tu the stabil an' shave Sicily's mare's tail, an' ketch ole Burns out, an' shave his tail too. While I wer a-studyin 'bout this, ole Sock wer a-nosin 'roun, an' cum up ontu a big baskit what hilt a littil shattered co'n; he dipp'd in his head tu git hit, an' I slipp'd up an' jerked the handil over his ho'ns.

“Now, George, ef yu knows the nater ove a cow brute, they is the durndes' fools amung all the beastes, ('scept the Lovingoods;) when they gits intu tribulashun, they knows muffin but tu shot thar eyes, beller, an' back, an' keep a-backin. Well, when ole Sock raised his head an' foun hissef in darkness, he jis' twisted up his tail, snorted the shatter'd co'n outen the baskit, an' made a tremenjus lunge agin the hous'. I hearn the picters a-hangin agin the wall on the inside a-fallin. He fotch a deep loud rusty beller, mout been hearn a mile, an' then sot intu a onendin sistem ove backin. A big craw-fish wif a hungry coon a-reachin fur him, wer jis' nowhar. Fust agin one thing, then over anuther, an' at las' agin the bee-bainch, knockin hit an' a dozen stan ove bees heads over heels, an' then stompin back'ards thru the mess. Hit haint much wuf while tu tell what the bees did, ur how soon they sot intu duin hit. They am pow'ful quick-tempered littil critters, enyhow. The air wer dark wif 'em, an' Sock wer kivered all over, frum snout tu tail, so clost yu cudent a-sot down a grain ove wheat fur bees, an' they wer a-fitin one anuther in the air, fur a place on the bull. The hous' stood on sidelin groun, an' the back door wer even wif hit. So Sock happen tu hit hit plum, jis' backed intu the hous' onder 'bout two hundred an' fifty pouns ove steam, bawlin orful, an' every snort he fotch he snorted away a quart ove bees ofen his sweaty snout. He wer the leader ove the bigges' an' the madest army ove bees in the worild. Thar wer at leas' five solid bushels ove 'em. They hed filled the baskit, an' hed lodged ontu his tail, ten deep, ontil hit wer es thick es a waggin tung. He hed hit stuck strait up in the air, an' hit looked adzackly like a dead pine kivered wif ivey. I think he wer the hottes' and wus hurtin bull then livin; his temper, too, seemed tu be pow'fully flustrated. Ove all the durn'd times an' kerryins on yu ever hearn tell on wer thar an' thar abouts. He cum tail fust agin the ole two story Dutch clock, an' fotch hit, bustin hits runnin geer outen hit, the littil wheels a-trundlin over the floor, an' the bees even chasin them. Nex pass, he fotch up agin the foot ove a big dubbil injine bedstead, rarin hit on aind, an' punchin one ove the posts thru a glass winder. The nex tail fus' experdishun wer made aginst the caticorner'd cupboard, outen which he made a perfeck momox. Fus' he upsot hit, smashin in the glass doors, an' then jis' sot in an' stomp'd everything on the shelves intu giblits, a-tryin tu back furder in that direckshun, an' tu git the bees ofen his laigs.

“Pickil crocks, perserves jars, vinegar jugs, seed bags, yarb bunches, paragorick bottils, aig baskits, an' delf war—all mix'd dam permiskusly, an' not worth the sortin, by a duller an' a 'alf. Nex he got a far back acrost the room agin the board pertishun; he went thru hit like hit hed been paper, takin wif him 'bout six foot squar ove hit in splinters, an' broken boards, intu the nex room, whar they wer eatin dinner, an' rite yere the fitin becum gineral, an' the dancin, squawkin, cussin, an' dodgin begun.

“Clapshaw's ole mam wer es deaf es a dogiron, an sot at the aind ove the tabil, nex tu whar ole Sock busted thru the wall; tail fus' he cum agin her cheer, a-histin her an' hit ontu the tabil. Now, the smashin ove delf, an' the mixin ove vittils begun. They hed sot severil tabils tugether tu make hit long enuf. So he jis' rolled 'em up a-top ove one anuther, an' thar sot ole Missis Clapshaw, a-straddil ove the top ove the pile, a-fitin bees like a mad wind-mill, wif her calliker cap in one han, fur a wepun, an' a cract frame in tuther, an' a-kickin, an' a-spurrin like she wer ridin a lazy hoss arter the doctor, an' a-screamin rape, fire, an' murder, es fas' es she cud name 'em over.

“Taters, cabbige, meat, soup, beans, sop, dumplins, an' the truck what yu wallers em in; milk, plates, pies, puddins, an' every durn fixin yu cud think ove in a week, wer thar, mix'd an' mashed, like hit had been thru a thrashin-meesheen. Ole Sock still kep a-backin, an' backed the hole pile, ole 'oman an' all, also sum cheers, outen the frunt door, an' down seven steps intu the lane, an' then by golly, turn'd a fifteen hundred poun summerset hissef arter em, lit a-top ove the mix'd up mess, flat ove his back, an' then kicked hissef ontu his feet agin. About the time he ris, ole man Burns—yu know how fat, an' stumpy, an' cross-grained he is, enyhow—made a vigrus mad snatch at the baskit, an' got a savin holt ontu hit, but cudent let go quick enuf; fur ole Sock jis' snorted, bawled, an' histed the ole cuss heels fust up intu the air, an' he lit on the bull's back, an' hed the baskit in his han.

“Jis' es soon es ole Blackey got the use ove his eyes, he tore off down the lane tu out-run the bees, so durn'd fas' that ole Burns wer feard tu try tu git off. So he jis' socked his feet intu the rope loops, an' then cummenc'd the durndes' bull-ride ever mortal man ondertuck. Sock run atwix the hitched critters an' the railfence, ole Burns fast fitin him over the head wif the baskit tu stop him, an' then fitin the bees wif hit. I'll jis' be durn'd ef I didn't think he bed four ur five baskits, hit wer in so meny places at onst. Well, Burns, baskit, an' bull, an' bees, skared every durn'd hoss an' muel loose frum that fence—bees ontu all ove 'em, bees, by golly, everywhar. Mos' on 'em, too, tuck a fence rail along, fas' tu the bridil reins. Now I'll jis' gin yu leave tu kiss my sister Sall till she squalls, ef ever sich a sight wer seed ur sich nises hearn, es filled up that long lane. A heavy cloud ove dus', like a harycane hed been blowin, hid all the hosses, an' away abuv hit yu cud see tails, an' ainds ove fence-rails a-flyin about; now an' then a par ove bright hine shoes wud flash in the sun like two sparks, an' away ahead wer the baskit a-sirklin roun an' about at randum. Brayin, nickerin, the bellerin ove the bull, clatterin ove runnin hoofs, an' a mons'ous rushin soun, made up the noise. Lively times in that lane jis' then, warnt thar?

“I swar ole Burns kin beat eny man on top ove the yeath a-fitin bees wit a baskit. Jis' set 'im a-straddil ove a mad bull, an' let thar be bees enuf tu exhite the ole man, an' the man what beats him kin break me. Hosses an' muels wer tuck up all over the county, an' sum wer forever los'. Yu cudent go eny course, in a cirkil ove a mile, an' not find buckils, stirrups, straps, saddil blankits, ur sumthin belongin tu a saddil hoss. Now don't forgit that about that hous' thar wer a good time bein had ginerally. Fellers an' gals loped outen windows, they rolled outen the doors in bunches, they clomb the chimleys, they darted onder the house jis' tu dart out agin, they tuck tu the thicket, they rolled in the wheat field, lay down in the krick, did everything but stan still. Sum made a strait run fur home, an' sum es strait a run frum home; livelyest folks I ever did see. Clapshaw crawled onder a straw pile in the barn, an' sot intu prayin—yu cud a-hearn him a mile—sumthin 'bout the plagues ove Yegipt, an' the pains ove the secon death. I tell yu now he lumbered.

“Sicily, she squatted in the cold spring, up tu her years, an' turn'd a milk crock over her head, while she wer a drownin a mess ove bees onder her coats. I went to her, an' sez I, ‘Yu hes got another new sensashun haint yu?’ Sez she—

“ ‘Shet yer mouth, yu cussed fool!’

“Sez I, ‘Power'ful sarchin feelin bees gins a body, don't they?’

“ ‘Oh, lordy, lordy, Sut, these yere 'bominabil insex is jis' burnin me. up!’

“ ‘Gin 'em a mess ove SODY,’ sez I, ‘that'll cool 'em off, an' skeer the las' durn'd one ofen the place.’

“She lifted the crock, so she cud flash her eyes at me, an' sed, ‘Yu go tu hell!’ jis es plain. I thought, takin all things tugether, that p'raps I mout es well put the mountin atwix me an' that plantashun; an' I did hit.

“Thar warnt an' 'oman, ur a gal at that weddin, but what thar frocks, an' stocking wer too tite fur a week. Bees am wus on wimen than men, enyhow. They hev a farer chance at 'em. Nex day I passed ole Hawley's, an' his gal Betts wer sittin in the porch, wif a white hankerchef tied roun her jaws; her face wer es red es a beet, an' her eyebrows hung 'way over heavy. Sez I, ‘Hed a fine time at the weddin, didn't yu?’ ‘Yu mus' be a durn'd fool,’ wer every word she sed. I hadent gone a hundred yards, ontil I met Missis Brady, her hans fat, an' her ankils swelled on