Chapter C: O N T E N T S (4)

“With that Jim gits on the roan, and tetched him in the flank with the heel that was on t’other side from the stranger, and the horse bein’ naterally playful, you see, went to kickin’ up and rearin’ and squealin’; Jim holdin’ on to the mane, and the Yanky hollerin’ ‘wo! wo!’ Presently Jim come to the ground, ca-whop! And with that he riz from the ground, complainin’ mightly ’bout his side, and ’lowed he wouldn’t have the horse on no terms—that ef the Injuns was to come on us of a sudden, we shouldn’t have but one horse that could be rid; and then he axed me ef I had enny opydildock in the wagin box, that he could rub his side with! he! he! Jim is a rascal, that’s a fac, but I can’t tell whar he got it from, onless it’s a judge_ment_ on his mammy for bein’ so cussed ugly! yah! yah!

“Seein’ the stranger was aggravated ’bout the Injuns, I draps in then, myself, and tells him I’d give him ‘old Coon,’ even drag, for the roan; and we made the trade mighty quick, for he had the Injun ager ’twell his eyes was big as sassers! Well, we changed saddles and bridles, and while I was gearin’ up Fiddler Bill, he couldn’t—but, Squire, what _do_ you reckon it was he couldn’t do?”

“Can’t guess,” we replied.

“Well, bust me wide open, _ef he knowed how to put the bridle on his horse_! I’ve seen men that was ig’nant before, but he was the wust off with it I _ever_ seed. He didn’t know whether the bits went behind the years, or into the mouth—blamed ef he did!

“Finally, at last, he got mounted, and jogged off—you remember what I told you ’bout the saw-mill gate—well that’s the way old Cuss rattled his buttons. He was the most _lonesome-lookin’_ critter, a-settin’ on that old horse, with his new saddle and bridle, that ever I seed! As soon as he got cleverly out o’ sight, Jim gin two or three Injun whoops, and people did say in Dudleyville, whar he stopped that night, that he got thar in mighty reasonable good time! So that’s the way, Squire, I come by Fiddler Bill . . . . . ain’t it, Bill?” whereupon Fiddler pricked up his ears, but said nothing.

About this time, we arrived at a mean-looking shanty, and calling, were answered by a man who came out to us. It was Jim Blake.

“Here’s the _sensis_-taker,” said Uncle Kit.

“Hang the _sensis_-taker,” was the blunt reply.

“Don’t say that, Jim,” returned Uncle Kit; “he’s a good little Union Squire Mr. Van Buren’s sent round to take ’count of the cloth and chickens, jist to see ef the wimmin’s sprightly.”

“I don’t care a dried apple for him nor Mr. Van Buren nother,” said Mr. Blake; “Mr. Van Buren is gittin’ too cussed smart, enny way—my opinion is, he’s a _measly hog_!”

“Son! son!” exclaimed old Kit, deprecatingly, “don’t talk that way. Van Buren’s the _Union_ President, and old Hickory says he’ll do!”

“I don’t care who says he’ll do—I’m gwine to vote for Harrison—see ef I don’t!”

Uncle Kit was struck dumb, and after obtaining a list of the family with much difficulty, we rode away.

“Squire,” said the old man, after a long silence, “that fellow’s talk goes to my heart. _A little more_, and _he’d a cussed old Hickory!_ and ef he _had_, I’d a tore his liver out!”

Old Kit was highly excited—he continued:

“To think that a boy I’ve raised in a manner, that I’ve told all about old Hickory, and the Union, and New Orleens, and the Horse-Shoe, should ’a turned round and come to be a _Nullifier_! Ain’t thar no way,” he asked, as if musing, “we could fix to git that poor fool boy straight agin?”

We soon got into the thickest of the Union Creek settlement, and from house to house, through the Smiths, the Hearns, the Folsoms, the Narons, the Dabbses and the Rollinses, Uncle Kit carried us with a speed that was most gratifying. He joked the old women, kissed the girls and fondled the children; and where the slightest indisposition was manifested to give the desired information, he settled the difficulty at once, by the magic words, “Union—old Hickory.”

“It’s a blessed thing, Squire,” he said, “to have a man’s friends all of the right sort. Here’s my people that I brought from Georgy—confound that boy Blake, I’ll give him a reg’lar talk next Sunday; and ef that don’t do I’ll make his wife quit him—all my people, as I was sayin’, love the Union and vote like one man! I tell you, it’s old Union Crick that keeps the Nullifiers down in Tallapoosy!”

As old Kit was indulging in these pleasant reflections and remarks, we reached the ford of the creek, where we were to cross to get into the river settlement.

“Right here,” said the old man, as we reached the middle of the stream, “was where Becky Kent ketched it; but she lives right up thar, a piece, and I’ll see ef I can’t devil her into tellin’ you ’bout it. She’s as old and as ugly—mighty nigh—as yer Aunt Hetty; but she has a mighty notion of courtin’, and ef you’ll sidle up to her, it’ll please her so well, her tongue will git to goin’, and she couldn’t hold that story back ef she wanted to.”

A very few minutes brought us to the residence of Mr. James Kent, the brother of the spinster Becky. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately for our heart—the presiding goddess was not at home; and having made the proper entries on our books, from information furnished by Mr. Kent, we again mounted and pursued our way.

“Did you see,” asked Uncle Kit, “that old snuff-bottle and them nasty breshes, stickin’ in the cracks of the logs? Well, it’s on the ’count of sich, that Becky got in the crick, that time. I’ll tell you ’bout it myself, ’long as we didn’t see her.

“See, I had allers ’cused Becky of snuff, but the lyin’ heifer never would own to it. So one day, as I was ridin’ ’long the road, t’other side of the crick, I hearn a noise betwixt the bray of the jack and the squeal of the pea-fowl, and in a minit I knowed it was somebody in distress—so I hurried on. When I got to the crick, what should it be but scrawny Becky Kent, settin’ on a bag o’ corn, on her old blind horse, and him a standin’ stock-still in the middle of the ford.”

“‘Becky,’ ses I, ‘what in natur are you doin’ thar? Why don’t you come along out?’

“Ses she, ‘_I can’t_—don’t you see how I’m fixed?’

“Then I looked more pertickler, and seed how ’twas. The horse had stopped to drink, and Becky had let go the bridle, and when she tried to git it agin, the bag slipped furder over to the side she _warn’t_ a settin’ on—so when I got thar, she had let all go _but the bag_, and she was a settin’ on one eend o’ that, leanin’ forward, and with her hands behind her, one to each side o’ the bag, a pullin’ agin the weight of the big eend, ’twell her face was as red as a gobbler’s snout. ’Twas a reg’lar _dead strain_—the weight of Beck and the _little_ eend of the bag, agin the _big_ eend—and, I tell you, she had to lean _well_ forward to keep from goin’ over backwards!

“I bulged into the crick and got purty close to Becky; but it was so funny, I couldn’t fetch myself to help her, but tho’t I’d devil hur a little, as she set. So ses I, making a fine bow:

“‘My honey, my love,
My turkle-dove,
Will you take it amiss,
Ef I give you a kiss?’

“But I hadn’t no idee of kissin’ of her—but only wanted to devil her a little. At last, I seen an old mustard-bottle stickin’ from out her bosom; and ses I, Miss Becky, will you give your Uncle Kit a pinch of snuff?’ Ses she, ‘help me for the Lord’s sake—I’m mighty nigh gin out’—and Squire, she _was_ on a _tremenjus_ strain! But I tho’t I’d plague her some: and after cutting of some few shines, I made a motion to snatch at the bottle o’ snuff! She gin a little jerk back!—the _big eend_ got a start!—still she hilt her grip with both hands!—and the next thing, _somethin’ riz in the air, like a small cloud of calico and dry corn-stalks_! and the durndest _ca-slosh_ on t’other side o’ the horse, that ever you heerd! A—WAUGH! _What sloshin’!_”

“‘Horraw, Becky! rise gall! I was lookin’ t’other way!’ ses I, _for I knowed she was ’shamed!_! I laughed, however, and she _mighty nigh_ cussed!

“‘Oh! you’re a sweet little _mare-maid_ now,’ ses I.

“‘You’re a drotted old hog,’ ses she.

“‘My honey, my love, my turkle-dove; don’t git mad with yer Uncle Kit,’ ses I; but it all wouldn’t do, and the heiffer never got in a good humour with me ’twell I met her in the road one Sunday, and persuaded her I was goin’ to send Jim to see her.”

“Did you send him?”

“Yes, and the fust thing the fool said to her was: _he’d a gin his years to ’a seen her somerset that time, in the crick!_ he! he! yah! yah! That busted things to pieces again, and me and Becky ain’t more’n half friendly now!”

After going through the entire settlement, with great ease and celerity—thanks to Uncle Kit’s assistance—we took the back-track to Mr. Kuncker’s. It was quite dark when we arrived. As Uncle Kit threw down our saddles in his porch, said he: “Come in, and we’ll take a sip of _branch-water_. Hello! old woman—is yer face swelled _enny better_ yet?—Here’s the Squire—the little blessed Union Squire—come to see you! Ef you can’t git out’n bed to come yerself, make one of the gals fetch yer _old bonnet_ out—_that_’ll be _some_ amuse_ment_! Walk in, Squire, and take a seat in yer old Union Uncle’s house!”

XII.
SETH WILLET: THE ELK COUNTY WITNESS.

In the spring of 1845, after the close of a long, tiresome session of the Pennsylvania Legislature, the writer was invited by Colonel A——, then Clerk of the House of Representatives, to accompany him to his home in the backwoods of Elk—a new county, that had been partitioned off from Jefferson, Clearfield, and McRean, that session. The object of the visit was twofold; first, to enjoy the fine trout fishing of that prolific region; and secondly, to assist the Colonel in getting the seat of justice where he wanted it.

The Colonel owned a mill and store at Caledonia, on one edge of the county, and a very fine mill at Ridgeway, but was not inclined to pay anything for it, as Mr. John Ridgeway, a millionaire of Philadelphia, owned nearly all the land about it, and the county seat would greatly increase its value. My friend’s plan was to put in strong for Caledonia; and he did. He offered to build the court-house and gaol, and gave bonds therefore, if Caledonia should be chosen.

Ridgeway became frightened, and made a similar proposition, for his town; which was of course accepted by the commissioners, who were all personal friends of the Colonel.

It was long before the _ruse_ was discovered, and Ridgeway found he was sold.

One day, the Colonel and myself rode over to Caledonia, to see how things flourished there, and eat some of Aunt Sally Warner’s pumpkin pies, and venison steaks; and on arriving at the store, found a justice’s court in full blast. The suit grew out of a lumber speculation; and as near as I could tell by the testimony of the witnesses generally, the matter stood about six for one, a half-dozen for the other. One of the parties was a man of considerable ready cash, while the other was not worth a continental dime. Harris, the man of means, had not been long in these parts, and little was known of him except what had dropped from Seth Willet one night at Warner’s store. He was rather in for it at the time; but enough was said to make the good people of Elk form a bad opinion of Harris.

As the time of the trial drew nigh, some who were in the store when Seth was “blowing” about Harris, began to try to recollect what he said, and the other party in the case was informed that he had a first-rate witness in the green lumberman, as Seth was generally called.

Seth was forthwith waited upon, and pumped by a young man named Winslow, who acted as attorney for the prosecutor. All the information he possessed of Harris was freely and unsuspectingly given, and Winslow noted it down as correctly as he could.

The day previous to the trial, the prosecutor and Harris met at the store.

“Well, you’re goin’ on with the law-suit, I s’pose?” asked Harris.

“Tu be sure I am; and I’ll make you smell cotton.”

“Bah!” said Harris; “you can’t touch bottom.”

“Tech bottom? Ca—ant hey? Jest you wait till I git Seth Willet on the stand, an’ swore on the Bible, and see if I ca—ant. P’raps I ha’nt heer’d nothin’ about them sheep over to Tiog county, and the robbin’ of Jenkinse’s store, down tu Painted Post, hey?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Harris, apparently perfectly in a fog as to the purport of the language he had heard.

“I know, an’ that’s ’nuff;” said the plaintiff, “but let’s licker, anyheow.”

Harris lost no time in finding out Seth.

“Did you ever live in Tioga county?”

“Anything abeout sheep—?”

“No, no, I mean Painted Post.”

“Oh! Jenkinse’s store!” said Seth, with great gravity.

“Two hundred wouldn’t be a bad pile, Seth, here in Elk?”

“No—o, t’wouldn’t, that’s a fact. Get that amount tu lend on a slow note?”

“Well, I might scrape it up—could give you a hundred down and the rest after the Court’s adjourned.”

Harris counted out the hundred, and rolling it up, held it temptingly in his hand. Seth’s eyes stuck out like peeled onions, and his mouth fairly watered at the display. It was more money than he had ever owned in his life.

“Have you ever heard that I steal sheep in Tioga county, Seth?”

“Not’s I know on.”

“You’re sure? mind you’ll have to swear in Court.”

Seth looked at Harris, and then at the bills.

“_Sure_—p_a_rfectly sure.”

“Nor anything about my being implicated in the robbery of Jenkins’s store?” Still holding the roll of bills in his hand, and turning over the ends, exhibiting the V’s and X’s most tantalizingly.

“No; I’ll swear I never heeard nobody say you had anything to do with it.”

“You’re an honest man, Seth; here’s a hundred on account. The other hundred you shall have after the Court.”

The Court had been in session some time, when the Colonel and myself arrived, and Seth had just been sworn. He was to destroy the character of Harris, by testifying in regard to the sheep-stealing, and the robbery at Painted Post.

“Han’t no knowledge on the pint.”

“Have you never heard, while living at Painted Post, that he was suspected of being engaged in the robbery?”

“I do-no. I never take no notice about what people say _suspiciously_ about their neighbours.”

“Really you’re a very singular witness. Let me jog your memory a little. Do you remember having said anything about Harris’s connection with the Tioga sheep-stealing, and the Jenkins’s store robbery, while you were at Gillis’s store one night last April?”

“As fer’s my reck’lection serves, I ha—ant.”

“Were you at Gillis’s store on the night of the 17th of April?”

“I do-no for sartin.”

“Were you in Ridgeway at all on the 17th of April?”

“Yeeas, I was.”

“How do you fix the time? Proceed, and tell the justice, (we shall get at the truth of this story yet,” aside to the plaintiff.) “Come Sir, proceed Sir.”

“Wall, on the mornin’ of the 17th, Dickson says he to me, says he, ‘Seth, go down to Mr. Dill’s, and get the nails clenched in the brown mare’s off-hind foot.’ So I jist put a halter on an’, cantered down to Ridgeway, and stopt tu Gileses’ store, an’ bort some thread an’ needles for Ant Jerusha, an’ Gilleses’ clark ast me ef I wouldn’t like to taste sum new rum he had jest got up from Bellefonte, an’ I said, ‘Yis,’ an’ he poured out abeout have a tumbler, an’ I drinkt it right deown.”

“Well, Sir, go on.”

“Well, then I led the brown mare over tu Dill’s, an ast Miss Dill—”

“You mean Mrs. Dill, his wife?”

“Yeas, Miss Dill. I ast Miss Dill ef Mr. Dill was tu hum, an’ she sed,

“‘No, he’s deown tu the lick b’low Andrewses’ mill, arter deer. What you want?’ says she.

“‘I want to get the nails clenched to the mare’s off-hind foot,’ sez I.

“‘Wal,’ sez she, ‘can’t yeu du it yerself?’

“‘Wal,’ says I, ‘I guess I can.’

“So she showed me whar the horse-nails war, an’ giv’ me the hammer, an’ I put on Dill’s leather apron, an’ at it I went. I got in three nails right snug, and clenched them, an’ was drivin’ deown the third, when the mare shied at suthen, and shoved her foot a-one side, an’ the hammer cum deown caslap! right on this there thumb-nail. You see” (holding it up) “it’s not growed eout yit.”

“But what has that to do with the talk at Gillis’s store?”

“I’m goin’ on tu tell you. Lor! heow I did yel! you’d a thought thar was fifty painters abeout. Miss Dill, she cum a-runnin’ out, an’ ast what was the matter.

“‘Look here,’ sez I, holdin’ up my thumb, which was bleedin’ like all Jehu. ‘What shall I do?’ sez I.

“‘I’ll tell you what,’ says Miss Dill, an’ she run an’ got a leaf of live-for-ever, an’ sez she, ‘peel off the skin, an’ put the peth on.’

“‘Peel it yerself,’ sez I, a-cryin’ with the exhuberant pain.

“So she peeled it and tied it on, an’ in tu days thar wan’t a bit of soreness in it; but the nail cum off.”

“But come to Gillis’s store. What did you say about Harris that night?”

“Wal, all I recollect is, that Thompson an’ a lot of fellers was thar; an’ Thompson and I shot at a mark for whiskey, an’ Thompson he win, and we drinkt at my expense. Then Bill Gallager and Dill they shot, an’ Dill beat Bill, an’ we drinkt at his expense. Then Charley Gillis he shot agin Frank Souther, an’ Frank win; and we drinkt at Charley’s expense; an’ then Frank he sung a song, an’ then Thompson he sung a song; and the next I recollect was—”

“Well, Sir, was what?”

“Why, I waked up next mornin’ on Gillis’ counter the sickest critter yeu ever see. I didn’t get over that spree for tu long weeks.”

“Well, is that all you have to say?”

“All I recollect at present. If I think of any more, I’ll come in an’ tell ye.”

“You may go, Sir.”

Harris won the suit.

XIII.
THE TWO FAT SALS.[11]

If every man were to relate the little romances of love in which he becomes involved, at some time or other of his life, novelists or farce-writers would be supplied with plots and incidents enough to supply publishers and managers with a continual run of novelties for all times.

In the story of the “Two Fat Sals” is recorded the experience of one man only, but it affords a very useful lesson on the evils of a mind divided in the matter of love, and another illustrious example of the truth of the aphorism, that “the course of true love never did run smooth.”

“There was two Sals livin’ in our town—Sal Stebbins and Sal Babit; real corn-fed gals, I swow. Sal Stebbins would lift a barrel of cyder out of the eend of a cart as quick as any other feller, and drink it tew. Sal Babit, she was so fat, she’d roll one way jest as easy as t’other, and if anything, a little _easier_. Well, there was a corn-husking, and I went along with Sal Stebbins: there was all the gals and boys settin’ reound, and I got sot down so near Sal Babit, that I’ll be darned if I didn’t kiss her afore I know’d what I was abeout. Sal Stebbins, she blushed: the blood rushed right up into her hair: she was the best _red_ critter I ever did see. I thought it was all up with me, and sure enough it was, for when I asked her if she would go hum with me, she said:

“‘No; you needn’t trouble yourself nothin’ ’tall ’bout it.’

“‘Well, if you’re mind to get spunky, I guess I can git a gal that will let me see her hum. Sal Babit, shall I go hum with you?’

“‘Well,’ says she, ‘I don’t mind if you dew.’

“Arter that, Sal Stebbins married a feller in our town, by the name of _Post_,—blind in one eye, and deaf in one ear,—jest to spite me, nothin’ else: so I thought if she was a mind to take a feller that couldn’t see or hear any tew well, I’d better let her slide: so I went away from hum, and was gone about three—four—five years?—yes, jest about five years, ’cause I know when I got back she had four little _Posts_. I went to see how she got along. She asked me to come in and set down; so I tuck a cheer and squatted; then she tuck another cheer and squatted; and we both squatted there together. Her young ones was all runnin’ reound on the floor: she pinted to them, and said, in a sort of bragging way,

“‘You see them, don’t you?’

“‘Yes,’ says I, squintin’ up one eye, ‘I see, they’re all jest like their daddy, blind in one eye.’

“She was bilin’ dumplings at the time, and as soon as she see me shut up one eye, she out with a hot dumplin’, and let me have it in t’other, which made me shut it up a darn’d sight quicker than I ever did afore, and I haint been in love since that time.”

-----

[11] By G. H. Hill.

XIV.
WAR’S YURE HOSS?

Some years since, when the State of Missouri was considered “Far West,” there lived on the bank of the river of the same name of the State, a substantial farmer, who, by years of toil, had accumulated a tolerable pretty pile of castings; owing, as he said, principally to the fact that he didn’t raise much taters and unyuns, but rite smart of corn. This farmer, hearing that good land was much cheaper farther south, concluded to move there. Accordingly, he provided his eldest son with a good horse, and a sufficiency of the needful to defray his travelling and contingent expenses, and instructed him to purchase two hundred acres of good land, at the lowest possible price, and return immediately home. The next day Jeems started for Arkansas, and after an absence of some six weeks, returned home.

“Well, Jeems,” said the old man, “how’d you find land in Arkensaw?”

“Tolerable cheap, dad.”

“You didn’t buy mor’n two hundred acres, did yu, Jeems?”

“No, dad, not _over_ tu hundred, _I reckon_.”

“How much money hev yu got left?”

“Nary red, dad; cleaned rite out!”

“Why, I had no idee travellin’ was so ’spensive in them parts, Jeems.”

“Wal, just you try it wonst, an’ you’ll find out, I reckon.”

“Wal, never mind that, let’s hear ’bout the land, an’—_but war’s yure hoss?_”

“Why, yu see, dad, I was a goin’ along one day—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Yu hole on, dad, an’ I’ll tell yu all ’bout it. Yu see, I was agoin’ along one day, an’ I met a feller as said he was goin’ my way tu—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Dod darn mi hide, ef yu don’t shut up, dad, I’ll never git tu the hoss. Wal, as we was both goin’ the same way, me an’ this feller jined cumpenny, an’ ’bout noon, we hitched our critters, an’ set down aside uv a branch, and went to eatin’ a snack. Arter we’d got thru, this feller sez tu me, ‘Try a drap uv this ere red-eye, stranger.’ ‘Wal, I don’t mind,’ sez I—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Kummin’ tu him bime-by, dad. So me an’ this feller sot thar, sorter torkin’ an’ drinkin’, an’ then he sez, ‘Stranger, let’s play a leetle game uv Seven-up,’ a takin’ out uv his pocket a greasy, roun’-cornered deck uv _kerds_. ‘Don’r keer ef I du,’ sez I. So we sot up side uv a stump, and kummenced tu bet a quorter up, an’ I was a _slayin’ him orful_—”

“But _war’s yure hoss_?”

“Kummin’ tu him, dad. Bimeby, luck changed, an’ he got tu winnin’, an’ pretty sune I hadn’t not nary nuther doller. Then sez he, ‘Stranger, I’ll gin yu a chance to git even, an’ play yu one more game.’ Wal, we both plaid rite tite that game, I sware, an’ we was both six an’ six, an’—”

“_War’s yure hoss?_”

“Kummin’ tu him, dad. We was six an’ six, dad, an’ ’twas his deal—”

“Will yu tell me _war’s yure hoss_?” said, the old man, getting riled.

“Yes, we was six an’ six, an’ _he turned up the Jack_!”

“_War’s yure hoss?_”

“The stranger won him, _a-turnin’ that Jack_!”

XV.
BOB LEE.
A TALE.

In a remote region of the Hoosac Mountains is a little place called Turkeytown. It is a straggling assemblage of dingy, old-fashioned houses surrounded by the woods, and the inhabitants are as old-fashioned as their dwellings. They raise corn and pumpkins, believe in witches, and know nothing of railroads or the march of intellect. There has never been more than one pair of boots in the town: these are called “the town boots,” and are provided at the public expense, to be worn to Boston every winter by the representative. I had the satisfaction last week of actually seeing these venerable coriaceous integuments in official duty upon the long shanks of Colonel Crabapple of the General Court, and was struck with becoming awe at their veteran looks. They seemed to be somewhat the worse for wear, but the Colonel informed me the town had lately voted to have them heel-tapped, and the vote would probably be carried into effect before the next session.

The present story, however, is not about boots, but about Bob Lee, who was an odd sort of a fellow, that lived upon the skirts of Turkeytown, and got his living by hook and by crook. He had neither chick nor child, but kept a bachelor’s hall in a ricketty old house, without any companion except an old black hen, whom he kept to amuse him because she had a most unearthly mode of cackling that nobody could understand. Bob used to spend his time in shooting wild ducks, trapping foxes and musquashes, catching pigeons, and other vagabond and aboriginal occupations, by means of which he contrived to keep his pot boiling, and a ragged jacket upon his back. Nothing could induce him to work hard and lay up something for a rainy day. Bob left the rainy days to take care of themselves, and thought of nothing but sunshine. In short, the incorrigible vagabond was as lazy, careless, ragged and happy as any man you ever saw of a summer’s day.

And it fell out upon a summer’s day, that Bob found himself without a cent in his pocket or a morsel of victuals in the house. His whole disposable wealth consisted of a single fox-skin nailed against his back door, drying in the sun. Something must be had for dinner, and Bob took down the fox-skin, and set off for Deacon Grabbit’s store to sell it. As luck would have it, before he had gone a quarter of a mile, he met old Tim Twist, the Connecticut pedlar, a crony and boon companion of many years’ standing. Tim, who was glad to see his old gossip, invited him into Major Shute’s tavern to take a glass of New-England. Bob, who had never signed the temperance pledge, accepted the invitation nothing loth. They sat down over half a pint, and discussed the news. No drink tastes better than that which a man gets for nothing. It was a hot day, and both were very thirsty. Tim was very liberal for a Connecticut man. What will you have? In the upshot they found they had made an immense potation of it; and Bob took leave of his old friend, clearly satisfied that he had not taken so heavy a pull for many a day.

He had hardly got out of sight of the tavern before he found the road too crooked to travel; he sat down under an apple-tree to take a little cool reflection, but the more he reflected, the more he could not understand it: his eyes began to wag in his head, and he was just on the point of falling asleep, when a bob o’link alighted on a branch over his head and began to sing “Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link!” Bob Lee’s brains were by this time in such a fog, that his eyes and ears were all askew, and he did not doubt somebody was calling on him.

“Hollo, neighbor;” says Bob Lee.

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! what ye got? what ye got? what ye got?” chattered the bird—as Bob thought.

“Got a fox-skin,” answered he. “D’ye want to buy?”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! what’ll ye take? what’ll ye take?” returned the little feathered chatterer.

“Half a dollar,” replied Bob, “and it’s worth every cent of the money.”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link! two and threepence! two and threepence! two and threepence!” was the reply from the apple-tree.

“Won’t take it,” said Bob; “it’s a real silver-grey: half a dollar is little enough for it. Can’t sell it for two and threepence.”

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! you’d better, you’d better, you’d better; two and threepence, two and threepence, two and threepence; now or never, now or never, now or never.”

“Can’t ye say any more? Well, take it then. I won’t stand for ninepence. Hand us over the money,” said Bob, twisting his head round and round, endeavouring to get a sight of the person with whom he was bargaining.

“Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link! let’s have it! let’s have it, let’s have it: quick or ye’ll lose it! quick or ye’ll lose it!”

Bob turned his head toward the quarter from which the sound proceeded, and imagining he saw somebody in the tree, threw up the fox-skin, exclaiming, “There it is, and cheap enough too, at two and threepence.” Mr. Bob o’link started and flew away, singing “Bob o’link, bob o’link! catch a weasel, catch a weasel, catch a weasel!” for Bob Lee made clear English of every thing that the bird said, and never doubted all the while that he was driving a regular bargain with a country trader. At the same time, spying a toadstool growing at the foot of the tree, he imagined it to be a half dollar, and made a grasp at it. The toadstool was demolished under his hand, but Bob happening to clutch a pebble-stone at the same moment, thrust it into his pocket, fully persuaded he had secured his coin. “Can’t make change,—remember it next time!” said he, and so turning about, he made the best of his way homewards.

When he awoke the next morning, he felt in his pocket for the half dollar, but his astonishment cannot be described at finding it metamorphosed into a stone. He rubbed his eyes, but the more he rubbed them, the more like a stone it looked:—decidedly a stone! He thought of witchcraft, but presently recollecting that he had taken a drop too much, just before the bargain under the apple-tree, he became of opinion that he had been cheated, and that the crafty rogue who had bought his fox-skin, had taken advantage of his circumstances to palm off a stone upon him for silver. Bob started upon his legs at the very thought. “A rascal!” he exclaimed, “I’ll catch him if he’s above ground!” No sooner said than done. Out he sallied in a tremendous chafe, determined to pursue the rogue to the further end of the state. He questioned every person he met, whether he had not seen a crafty-looking caitiff sharking about the town and buying fox-skins, but nobody seemed to know any such creature. He ran up and down the road, called at Major Shute’s tavern, at Deacon Grabbit’s store, at Colonel Crabapple’s grocery, at Tim Thumper’s shoemaker’s shop, at Cobb’s bank and at Slouch’s corner, but not a soul had seen the man with the fox-skin. Bob was half out of his wits at being thus baulked in his chase, never imagining he was all the while in pursuit of an innocent little bob o’link.

In great vexation at this disappointment, he was slowly plodding his way homeward, when he came in sight of the spot where he had made this unfortunate traffic with the roguish unknown. “Oh apple-tree!” he exclaimed, “if thou bee’st an honest apple-tree, tell me what has become of my fox-skin.” He looked up as he uttered these words, and to his astonishment, there was his fox-skin, dangling in the air at the end of a branch! He knew not what to make of so strange an adventure, but he was nevertheless overjoyed to recover his property, and climbing the tree, threw it to the ground. The tree was old and hollow; in descending, he thrust his foot into an opening in the trunk, some distance above the ground, and felt something loose inside. He drew it out and found it was a heavy lump, which he imagined at first to be a stone wrapped round with a cloth. It proved, however, on examination, to be a bag of dollars!

He could hardly believe his eyes, but after turning them over and over, ringing them upon a stone and cutting the edge of some of them with a knife, at length satisfied himself that they were true silver pieces. The next inquiry was, how they came there, and to whom they belonged. Here he was totally in the dark. The owner of the land surely could not be the proprietor of the money, for he had no need of a strong-box in such a sly place. The money had lain in the tree some years, as was evident from the condition of the bag, which was nearly decayed. Was it stolen? No—because nobody in these parts had lost such a sum. Was it the fruit of a highway robbery? No robbery had been committed in this quarter, time out of mind. There were no imaginable means of accounting for the deposit of money in such a place. The owner or depositor had never returned to claim it, and was now probably dead or gone away, never to return.

Such were the thoughts that Bob revolved in his mind as he gloated over his newly-gotten treasure. At first he thought of making the discovery public, but reflecting on the many annoyances which this would bring upon him in the inquisitive curiosity of his neighbours, and more especially considering that the cash must in consequence lie a long time useless, ere he could be legally allowed to apply it as his own property, he resolved to say nothing about it, but to consider the money his own immediately. It was therefore conveyed the same evening to his house, and snugly lodged in his chest.

From that day forward it began to be remarked among the neighbours, that Bob Lee was mighty flush of money, and though he had no visible means of subsistence, spent a great deal more than he was wont. More especially it excited their wonder that his pockets always contained hard dollars, while other people had little besides paper. There is nothing equal to the prying curiosity of the inhabitants of a country village, and the buzzing and stir which an insignificant matter will arouse among a set of inquisitive gossips. Everybody began to talk about the affair, but nobody knew how to account for it. All sorts of guesses and conjectures were put upon the rack, but nothing was able to explain the mystery. All sorts of hints, inquiries and entreaties were put in requisition. Bob was proof against all their inquisitiveness and seemed resolved to let them die in the agonies of unsatisfied curiosity.

Bob stood it out for a long while; but human endurance has its limits, and after being worried with guesses and questions till he despaired of ever being left in quiet possession of his own secret, he began to cast about for a method of allaying the public curiosity in some measure, or at least of turning it aside from himself. An old gossip, named Goody Brown, had laid siege to him about the affair from the first moment. One afternoon she dropped in as usual, and after some preliminary tattle, recommenced the attack by inquiring, with a significant look and shake of the head, whether money was as scarce as ever with him. Bob had been for some time thinking of a trick to play the old lady, and thought this a good moment to begin his mystification: so putting on a look of great seriousness, knitting his brows, and puckering up his mouth, as if big with a mighty secret about to be communicated, he replied:

“Really, Mrs. Brown—I have been thinking, whether—now you are a prudent woman, I am certain.”

“A prudent woman, indeed! who ever thought of calling me imprudent? Everybody calls me a prudent woman, to be sure. You need not doubt it, though I say so.”

“You are a prudent woman, no doubt, and I have been thinking, I say, whether I might trust you with a secret!”

“A secret! a secret! a secret! Oh, Mr. Bob, then there is a secret?” stud the old lady aroused into great animation by the prospect of getting at the bottom of the mystery at last.

“Yes, Mrs. Brown, to confess the truth, there is a secret.”

“Oh! I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was a secret. I always said there was a secret—I was always sure there was a secret! I told everybody I knew there must be a secret.”

“But Mrs. Brown, this must be kept a secret; so perhaps I had better keep it to myself. If you cannot keep a secret, why then—”

“Good lack! Mr. Lee, I am sure you are not afraid. Never fear me: I can keep a secret. Everybody knows how well I can keep a secret.”

“Everybody knows, to be sure, how well you can keep a secret; that is just what I am thinking about.”

“Sure, Mr. Bob, you don’t mean to keep me out of the secret now you have begun. Come, come, what is it? You know I can keep a secret; you know I can.”

“But this, recollect, Mrs. Brown, is a very particular secret; and if I tell it to you—hey, Mrs. Brown, it must be in confidence you know.”

“Oh, in confidence! to be sure in confidence—certainly in confidence. I keep everything in confidence.”

“But now I recollect, Mrs. Brown, that story about Zachary Numps—they say you blabb’d.”

“Oh law! now Mr. Lee, no such thing! I only said one day in company with two or three people—altogether in confidence—that some folks might, if they chose, say so and so about some folks. It was all in confidence, but somehow or other it got out.”

“If you are sure you can keep the secret then, I think I may trust you with it; but you must promise.”

“Oh, promise! certainly I will promise, Mr. Bob; nobody will promise more than I will—that is, I certainly will promise to keep the secret.”

“Then let me tell you,” said he, in a low, solemn voice, hitching his chair at the same time nearer to the old woman, who sat with open mouth and staring eyes, eager to devour the wished-for secret: “These dollars of mine, you know, Mrs. Brown—” here he stopped, keeping her in the most provoking suspense imaginable.

“Yes, yes; the dollars, the dollars.”

“These dollars of mine, you know, Mrs. Brown, why they are dollars—hey?”

“Yes, the dollars, the dollars; go on, go on—where do they come from? Mr. Bob, where do you get them?—where do you get them?”

“Why, I get them somewhere, you know; but where do you think?”

“Yes, yes, you get them somewhere; I always thought you got them somewhere: I always told everybody I knew you must get them somewhere.”

“Very well, Mrs. Brown.”

“Very well, Mr. Lee; but where do you get them? that is the question—you have not told me.”

“Where do I get them,” said Bob, slowly and solemnly, and rubbing his hands together, screwing up his mouth, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, while the old lady was on the tenter-hooks of suspense and expectation. “Where do I get them? Now what do you think, Mrs. Brown, of my old black hen?”

“Your old black hen! What do you mean?”

“There’s the thing now! Then you never guessed, hey? Is it possible you never heard the story of the goose with the golden egg?”

“To be sure,” replied Goody, opening her eyes wider than ever; “to be sure I have, to be sure, Mr. Bob—to be sure. But your hen, you know, is not a goose.”

“That is very true, Mrs. Brown; but here is another question. If a goose can lay a golden egg, why can’t a hen lay a silver one?”

“Sure enough, Mr. Lee, sure enough, sure enough,” said the old woman, beginning to get some light on the subject.

“Sure enough, as you say. Now this black hen of mine—every day I go to the nest and find a silver dollar there!”

“You amaze me, Bob!” said she, in the greatest astonishment. “Who would have thought it! Indeed! indeed! indeed! and is it true?”

“Why, Mrs. Brown, if I do not get them there, where do I get them?”

“Sure enough. Well, my stars! I almost knew it—I always thought there was something strange in the looks of that black hen.”

“Ah, you are a cunning woman—but be sure you keep it a secret.”

“To be sure, never fear me. A dollar a day! Who would have thought it! Bless me, what a lucky man! Do, Mr. Lee, let me see the nest; it must be very curious: I am dying to see it.”

“Certainly, with all my heart; but let us see if there is nobody coming. Ah, step this way; I keep her in a snug place, you see, because if she should run away, what should I do for cash?”

So saying, he led the way, and the old woman trotted after him. He carried her in at one door and out at another, up this passage and down that, over, under and through, zig-zag and round about, through all the rigmarole turnings and twistings upon his premises, in order to give the whole affair an appearance of greater mystery. At last coming to a little nook in the corner of his barn, he told her that was the place. She gazed at it with staring eyes and uplifted hands, exclaiming,

“Was there ever anything like it!”

Bob, to carry on the trick, concealed a dollar in his sleeve, and thrust his hand into the nest, drew it forth, and exhibited it to the old woman, who was now fully convinced, because she had actually seen the dollar in the nest, and who could doubt after such a proof?

It is needless to add that within two days, the story was trumpeted all over the town, and Bob was beset with greater crowds than ever; so far from diminishing the curiosity of his neighbours by the stratagem, he found he had augmented it tenfold. It is not to be supposed that every one believed the story, but there were enough who did, and the remainder fell to wondering, guessing and questioning with more pertinacity than ever. Bob’s house was besieged from morning till night, and the unfortunate man, under these redoubled annoyances, found he had got out of the frying-pan into the fire. He now denied the whole story, and declared that he had been only sporting with the credulity of the old Goody; but unluckily they would not believe him; people do not like to have their belief in the marvellous disturbed; they could not believe his tale of finding the money in an oak tree, but that the dollars were got from a hen’s nest, was something worth believing. Bob, at a loss what to do in this emergency, applied to many people for advice, and at last was struck with the following counsel from Deacon Grabbit.

“If I were in your place,” said the Deacon, “I think I would make the hen turn me a penny:—for why? If folks believe she gives you a dollar a day, they will be willing to give a good price for her, and if they buy her and find themselves mistaken, that is their look-out. Now I would put her up at auction and sell her for the most she will bring: it will be a fair bargain, provided you warrant nothing!”

This advice seemed excellent, and Bob was not long in making up his mind to follow it. He accordingly gave public notice, that he should expose his hen at auction in front of the Meeting-house on Saturday afternoon next, at four of the clock. This announcement made a great stir, and when the time arrived, he found a prodigious crowd assembled. Bob mounted the top of a hogshead with his hen in one hand and a stick of wood in the other, and began the following harangue—

“Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong! Ahoy, ahoy, ahoy! Know all men by these presents. Whereas, nevertheless, notwithstanding. Gentlemen, please to come to order and attend to the sale. Here we are in the name of the commonwealth, and here is the fowl all the world is talking about, now to be sold to the highest bidder. Whoever buys her will get a black pullet for his pay, but as to silver dollars, that is neither here nor there; I warrant no such thing, but it may be, and it may not be; nobody knows all the pickings and scratchings of the hen creation. I’ll warrant the creature to be sound of wind and limb, but whether her eggs are round or flat, I shan’t be flat enough to swear quite so roundly: that is the buyer’s affair, not mine. Gentlemen, I moreover warrant her to be a black hen, and that no washing can make her white, except whitewashing. But whether black or white, nobody can say black is the white of her eye, for she is as honest a soul as ever picked up a crumb, and if she deals in dollars, you may depend upon it they are not counterfeit. Whoever buys her will get his money’s worth if he does not give too much; and he may reckon on any reasonable number of chickens, provided he does not reckon them before they are hatched. Gentlemen, I won’t be certain as to her age, but I will assure you this, that if she is too young, it is a fault will grow less and less every day. Here she goes. What’ll ye give me? What’ll ye give me? What’ll ye give me? Come bid away, gentlemen, and make your fortunes. Some folks say I have made my fortune by her, and good luck betide them while they speak the truth, say I. People say this and that, but I say nothing. So, who buys my hen?—Going—going, going!”

The old hen set up a loud cackling, and fluttered her wings prodigiously, at the conclusion of this speech, much to the astonishment of the crowd of spectators, who gaped, stared and scratched their heads, imagining that the creature understood every word of what was uttered, and never suspecting that Bob had given her a smart pull by the tail to make her squall out. They shook their heads and observed that the creature looked as if she saw something: Bob called out for bidders, but his customers, with true Yankee caution, bid slowly, and made very low offers: at last, however, she was knocked off to a credulous bumpkin, named Giles Elderberry, for six dollars, to be paid in corn and potatoes at a fair price the next fall. Bob delivered him the hen, and took Giles’s note of hand for the pay.

Giles took his purchase home in great glee, hugging himself with the prospect of having a heap of silver ere many days. He bestowed her snugly in his hencoop, and was hardly able to shut his eyes that night, by thinking of the fortune that awaited him. Next morning he ran to the nest, but was disappointed in not finding the dollar. He waited all day and saw the night approach, but nothing rewarded his patience. He began to scratch his head, but presently bethought himself that it was Sunday, and the hen being orthodox, would not lay till the next day. So he went to bed again with undiminished hopes. But Monday came and there was no dollar to be seen: he cudgelled his brain, and suspected there might be witches in the case; thereupon he nailed a horse-shoe on the door of the hencoop, and waited another day, but nothing came of it. He now sat down upon a log of wood, and fell to pondering upon the matter with all his might; finally another thought struck him, and he imagined a nest-egg might be wanting. Straightway he procured a dollar and lodged it in the nest, but it did not bring him even six per cent. interest, for the next day there was a dollar and no more. He tried various other expedients, but they all failed in the same manner. The neighbours inquired about his success, but he informed them that the hen put it off terribly. He consulted Bob Lee about it, and got only a bantering answer and a hint about the note of hand. Giles was not to be bantered out of his belief, but laid the case before sundry of his acquaintance, who were notorious for their credulity in all marvellous affairs. Most of them gave it as their opinion that the hen was bewitched, and Giles was already inclined to the same belief: his only solicitude now was to discover some means of disenchantment.

At length a waggish fellow of the town, who had got a scent of the affair, meeting Giles one day, informed him that he knew of a scheme that would do the job for him. Giles begged earnestly to know it, and promised as a recompense to give him the first dollar the hen should lay, in case the plan succeeded, “for you know,” said he, “it is a fair bargain, no cure, no pay.”

“You’ll find that next fall,” replied the fellow.

He then communicated the scheme, by which Giles was instructed to go to the top of Blueberry Hill the next morning at six o’clock, mark out a circle on the ground, set up a tall pole in the centre with the hen at the top: he was then to walk three times round it, heels foremost, say the A B C backwards, sing a stave of Old hundred, cry cock-a-doodle-doo, and sneeze three times—all which he was assured would break the spell.

Giles took all this for gospel, and the next morning he was on the spot ready prepared at the hour. He set his fowl up in the air and went to work with the incantation; all was going on prosperously and according to rule: he had got through the psalm tune, crowed as exactly like an old rooster as one could wish, and was just taking a thumping pinch of Scotch yellow to enable him to sneeze with more effect, when casting his eyes aloft he descried a monstrous hen-hawk upon the wing in the act of making a stoop at his enchanted fowl. Giles blurted out a tremendous sternutation, but the hawk was not to be sneezed out of his prey, for before he could rub away the tears which this explosion shook into his eyes, souse came the hawk upon the hen, and both were out of sight among the woods!