Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“The old man used to tell sich stories about the Revolution. I rather guess he could say a leetle more about that affair than most folks. ’Bout six years ago he went to Boston, when La Fayette was there; they gave a great dinner at Fanueil Hall. When the Mayor heard old Josh Addams was in Boston, he sent him a regular built invitation. The old man went, and wore the ’76 coat,—that is, before it was cut down, though. Bimeby they called upon the old man for a toast. Up he got, and, says he:

“‘Here’s to the Heroes of the Revolution, who fought, bled, and died for their country, of which I was one.’

“When old Josh said that, they all snickered right out.

“There’s one story the old man used to tell about Boston, that was a real snorter: he always used to laugh afore he begun.

“He said, down on Long Wharf there was a queer little feller—a cousin of his by the mother’s side—called Zedekiah Hales, who wasn’t more than four foot high, and had a hump jest between his shoulders. A hull squad of British officers got round Zedekiah, in State Street, and were laughing and poking all sorts of fun at him: he bore it, cause as how he couldn’t help it; one of them, a regular built dandy captain, lifting up his glass, said to him:

“‘You horrid little deformed critter, what’s that lump you’ve got on your shoulder?’

“Zedekiah turned round and looked at him for about a minute, and says he:

“‘It’s _Bunker Hill_, you tarnal fool, you.’”

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[7] By G. H. Hill.

IV.
THE GANDER-PULLING.

In the year ——, I resided in the city of Augusta, and upon visiting the Market-House one morning in that year, my attention was called to the following notice stuck upon one of the pillars of the building:

“ADVURTYSEMENT.

“Thos woo wish To be inform hearof, is hearof notyfide that
edwd. Prator will Giv a Gander pullin’, jis this side of
harisburg, on Satterday of thes pressent munth, to All woo mout
wish to partak tharof.

“e. Prator—thos wishin’ to partak will cum yearly, as the
pullin’ will begin Soon.—E. P.”

If I am asked why “jis this side of harisburg” was selected for the promised feat, instead of the city of Augusta? I answer from conjecture, but with some confidence, because the ground chosen was near the central point between four rival towns, the citizens of all which “mout wish to partak tharof,” namely, Augusta, Springfield, Harrisburg, and Campbelltown. Not that each was the rival of all the others, but that the first and last were competitors, and each of the others backed the pretensions of its nearest neighbour.

Harrisburg sided with Campbelltown, _not because she had any interest in seeing the business of the two states centre upon the bank of the river, nearly opposite to her_, but because, like the “Union democratic republican party of Georgia,” she thought, after the adoption of the Federal Constitution, that the several towns of the confederacy should no longer be “separated” by the distinction of local party; that laying down all former prejudices and jealousies as a sacrifice on the altar of their country, they should become united in a single body, for the maintenance of those principles which they deemed essential to the public welfare.

Springfield, on the other hand, espoused the state rights’ creed. She admitted that, under the federal compact, she ought to love the sister states very much; but that, under the social compact, she ought to love her own state a little more; and she thought the two compacts perfectly reconcilable to each other. Instead of the towns of the several states getting into single bodies to preserve the public welfare, her doctrine was, that they should be kept in separate bodies to preserve the private welfare. She admitted frankly, that living as she had always lived, right amidst gullies, vapours, fogs, creeks and lagoons, she was wholly incapable of comprehending that expansive kind of benevolence which taught her to love people whom she knew nothing about, as much as her next door neighbours and friends. Until, therefore, she could learn it from the practical operation of the federal compact, she would stick to the old-fashioned Scotch love, which she understood perfectly, and “go in” for Augusta, live or die, hit or miss, right or wrong.

As in the days of Mr. Jefferson, the Springfield doctrines prevailed, Campbelltown was literally _nullified_: insomuch, that ten years ago there was not a house left to mark the spot where once flourished this active, busy little village. Those who are curious to know where Springfield stood, at the time of which I am speaking, have only to take their position at the intersection of Broad and Manbury Streets, in the city of Augusta, and they will be in the very heart of old Springfield.

Between Harrisburg and Springfield, and eleven hundred and forty-three yards from the latter, there runs a stream which may be perpetual. At the time just mentioned, it flowed between banks twelve or fourteen feet high, and was then called, as it still is, “Hawk’s Gully.”

Now Mr. Prator, like the most successful politician of the present day, was on all sides in a doubtful contest; and accordingly he laid off his gander-pulling ground on the nearest suitable unappropriated spot to the centre point between Springfield and Harrisburg. This was between Harrisburg and Hawk’s Gully, but within one hundred yards of Harrisburg.

When “Satterday of the pressent munth” rolled round, I determined to go to the gander-pulling. When I reached the spot, a considerable number of persons of different ages, sexes, sizes, and complexions, had collected from the rival towns, and the country around. But few females were there, however, and those few were from the lowest walks of life.

A circular path, of about forty yards in diameter, had already been laid out; over which, from two posts about ten feet apart, stretched a rope, the middle of which was directly over the path. The rope hung loosely, so as to allow it, with the weight of a gander attached to it, to vibrate in an arc of four or five feet span, and so as to bring the breast of the gander within barely easy reach of a man of middle stature, upon a horse of common size.

A hat was now handed to such as wished to enter the lists, and they threw into it twenty-five cents each; this sum was the victor’s prize.

The devoted gander was now produced; and Mr. Prator having tied his feet together with a strong cord, proceeded to the _neck-greasing_. Abhorrent as it may be to all who respect the tenderer relations of life, Mrs. Prator had actually prepared a gourd of _goose-grease_ for this very purpose.

For myself, when I saw Ned dip his hands into it, and commence stroking down the feathers, from breast to head, my thoughts took a melancholy turn. They dwelt in sadness upon the many conjugal felicities which had probably been shared between the greasess and the grease. I could see him, as he stood by her side, through many a chilly day, and cheerless night, when she was warming into life the offspring of their mutual loves, and repelled, with chivalrous spirit, every invasion of the consecrated spot which she had selected for her incubation. I could see him moving, with patriarchal dignity, by the side of his loved one, at the head of a smiling, prattling group, the rich reward of their mutual care, to the luxuries of the meadow, or the recreations of the pool. And now, alas! the smoking sacrifice of his bosom friend was desecrated to the unholy purpose of making his neck “a fit object” for Cruelty to reach “her quick, unerring fingers at.”

Ye friends of the sacred tie, judge what were my feelings when, in the midst of these reflections, the voice of James Prator thundered on mine ear:

“Durn the old dodger, Brother Ned! Grease his neck, till a fly can’t light on it!”

Ned having fulfilled his brother Jim’s request as well as he could, attached the victim of his cruelty to the rope, directly over the path. On each side of the gander was stationed a man, whose office it was to lash forward any horse which might linger there for a moment; for by the rules of the ring, all pulling was to be done at a brisk canter.

The word was now given for the competitors to mount and take their places in the ring. Eight appeared: Tall Zubly Zin, mounted upon Sally Spitfire; Arch Odum, on Bull and Ingons (Onions); Nathan Perdew, on Wild Cat; James Dickson, on Nigger; David Williams, on Gridiron; fat John Fulger, on Slouch; Gorham Bostwick, on Gimblet; and Turner Hammond, on Possum.

“Come, gentlemen,” said Commandant Prator, “fall in! All of you get behind one another, sort o’ in a row.”

All came into the track very kindly, but Sally Spitfire and Gridiron. The former, as soon as she saw a general movement of horses, took it for granted there was mischief brewing; and because she could not tell where it lay, she concluded it lay everywhere, and therefore took fright at everything.

Gridiron was a grave horse; but a suspicious eye, which he cast to the right and left wherever he moved, showed that he was “wide awake,” and that “nobody had better not go fooling with him,” as his owner sometimes used to say. He took a sober, but rather intense view of things; insomuch that, in his contemplations, he passed over his track three times, before he could be prevailed upon to stop upon it. He stopped at last, and when he was made to understand that this was all that was expected of him for the present, he surrendered his suspicions at once, with a countenance which seemed plainly to say:

“Oh, if this is all you want, I’ve no objection to it.”

It was long before Miss Spitfire could be induced to do the like.

“Get another horse, Zube,” said one; “Sall will never do for a gander pullin’.”

“I won’t,” said Zube. “If she won’t do, I’ll make her do. I want a nag that goes off with a spring, so that when I get a hold, she’ll cut the neck in two, like a steel trap.”

At length Sally was rather flung, than coaxed, into the track, directly a-head of Gridiron.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the master of the ceremonies, “no man’s to make a grab till all’s been round; and when the first man _are_ got round, then the whole twist and tucking off you grab away, as you come under (Look here, Jim Fulger, you’d better not stand too close to that gander, I tell you!), one after another. Now blaze away!” (the command for an onset of every kind, with people of this order.)

Off they went, Miss Sally delighted; for now she thought the whole parade would end in nothing more nor less than her favourite amusement, a race. But Gridiron’s visage, pronounced this the most nonsensical business that ever a horse of sense was engaged in since the world began.

For the first three rounds Zubly was wholly occupied in restraining Sally to her place; but he lost nothing by this, for the gander had escaped unhurt. On completing his third round, Zube stretched forth his long arm, grabbed the gander by the neck, with a firmness which seemed likely to defy _goose-grease_, and at the same instant, he involuntarily gave Sally a sudden check. She raised her head, which had been kept nearly touching her leader’s hocks; and for the first time, saw the gander in the act of descending upon her; at the same moment she received two pealing lashes from the whippers. The way she now broke for Springfield “is nothin’ to nobody.” As Zube dashed down the road, the whole circus raised a whoop after him. This started about twenty dogs, hounds, curs, and pointers in full chase of him (for no man moved without his dog in those days). The dogs alarmed some belled cattle, which were grazing on Zube’s path, just as he reached them; these joined him, with tails up, and a tremendous rattling. Just beyond these went three tobacco-rollers, at a distance of fifty and a hundred yards apart, each of whom gave Zube a terrific whoop, scream, or yell, as he passed.

He went in and out of Hawk’s Gully like a trap-ball, and was in Springfield “in less than no time.” Here he was encouraged onward by a new recruit of dogs, but they gave up the chase as hopeless before they cleared the village. Just beyond Springfield, what should Sally encounter but a flock of geese, the tribe to which she owed all her misfortunes.

She stopped suddenly, and Zube went over her head with the last-acquired velocity. He was up in a moment, and the activity with which he pursued Sally satisfied every spectator that he was unhurt.

Gridiron, who had witnessed Miss Sally’s treatment with astonishment and indignation, resolved not to pass between the posts until the whole matter should be explained to his satisfaction. He therefore stopped short, and by very intelligible looks, demanded of the whippers, whether, if he passed between them, he was to be treated as Miss Spitfire had been. The whippers gave him no satisfaction, and his rider informed him by reiterated thumps of the heel that he should go through, whether he would or not. Of these, however, Gridiron seemed to know nothing. In the midst of the conference, Gridiron’s eye lit upon the oscillating gander, and every moment’s survey of it begat in him a growing interest, as his slowly rising head, suppressed breath, and projected ears plainly evinced. After a short examination, he heaved a sigh, and looked behind him to see if the way was clear. It was plain that his mind was made up: but to satisfy the world that he would do nothing rashly, he took another view, and then wheeled and went for Harrisburg, as if he had set in for a year’s running. Nobody whooped at Gridiron, for all saw that his running was purely the result of philosophic deduction. The reader will not suppose that this occupied half the time which has been consumed in telling it, though it might have been so, without interrupting the amusement, for Miss Spitfire’s flight had completely suspended it for a time.

The remaining competitors now went on with the sport. A few rounds showed plainly that Odum or Bostwick would be the victor, but which no one could tell.

Whenever either of them came round, the gander’s neck was sure of a severe wrench. Many a half pint of Jamaica was staked upon them, besides other things. The poor gander withstood many a strong pull before his wailings ceased. At length, however, they were hushed by Odum. Then came Bostwick and broke the neck. The next grasp of Odum, it was thought, would bear away the head, but it did not. Then Bostwick was sure of it, but he missed it. Now Odum must surely have it. All is interest and animation. The horses sweep round with redoubled speed—every eye is upon Odum—his backers smiling—Bostwick’s trembling. To the rope he comes—lifts his hand—when lo! Fat John Fulger had borne it away the second before. All were astonished—all disappointed, and some were vexed a little: for it was now clear, that, “if it hadn’t o’ been for his great fat paw,” to use their own language, Odum would have gained the victory. Others inveighed against “that long-legged Zube Zin, who was so high, he did not know when his feet were cold, for bringing such a nag as Sall Spitfire to a gander-pullin’; for if he’d o’ been in his place, it would have flung Bostwick right were that _gourd o’ hogs’ lard_ (Fulger) was.”

Fulger’s conduct was little calculated to reconcile them to their disappointment.

“Come here, Neddy Prater,” said he, with a triumphant smile, “let your Uncle Johnny put his _potato-stealer_ (hand) into that hat, and tickle the chins of them are shiners a little. Oh you little shining critters, walk into your Mas’ Johnny’s pocket, and jingle so as Arch Odum and Gory Bostwick may hear you! You hear ’em, Gory? _Boys_ don’t pull with _men_. I’ve jist got my hand in; I wish I had a pond full of ganders here now, jist to show you how I could make their heads fly. Bet all I’ve won, you may hang three upon that rope, and I’ll set Slouch at full speed and take off the heads of all three, the first grab, two with my hands and one with my teeth.”

Thus he went on, but really there was no boasting in this; it was all fun, for John knew, and all were convinced that he knew, that his success was entirely the result of accident. John was really a “good-natured fellow,” and his _cavorting_ had an effect directly opposite to that which the reader would suppose that it had—it reconciled all to their disappointment, save one. I except Billy Mixew of Spirit Creek, who had staked the net proceeds of six quarts of mukle-berries upon Odum, which he had been long keeping for a safe bet. He could not get reconciled, until he fretted himself into a pretty little piney-woods fight, in which he got whipt; and then he went home perfectly satisfied. Fulger spent all his winnings with Prater, in treats to the company—made most of them drunk, and thereby produced four Georgia _rotations_,[8] after which all parted good friends.

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[8] I borrowed this term from Jim Inman, at the time: “Why, Jim,” said I to him, just as he rose from a fight, “what have you been doing?” “Oh,” said he, “nothing but taking a little _rotation_ with Bob McManus.”

V.
HOW MIKE HOOTER
CAME VERY NEAR “WALLOPING” ARCH COONY.

In the Yazoo Hills, near the town of Sartartia, in the good State of Mississippi, there lived at no distant date one Mike Hooter, whose hunting and preaching adventures became famous in all the land. Besides being a great bear-hunter and hard to beat at preaching, Mike professed to be “considerable” of a fighter, and in a regular knock-down and drag-out row was hard to beat.

In order that the world may not remain in darkness as to his doings in this last behalf, and fearing lest there may be no one who entertains for him that particularly warm regard which animates us towards him, we have thought it incumbent on us, in evidence of our attachment for the reverend hero, to jot down an instance that lingers in our memory respecting him, bequeathing it as a rich legacy to remotest time.

Entertaining such partiality, we may be pardoned for following Mike in one of his most stirring adventures, related in his peculiar and expressive vernacular.

“I’m one of the peaceablest fellers,” said Mike, “that ever trotted on hind legs, and rather than git into er fuss ’bout nothin’, I’d let er chap spit on me, but when it comes to rubbin’ it in, I always in gen’rally kinder r’ars up an’ won’t stan’ it.

“But there’s some fellers up in Yazoo what would rather git into er scrimmage than eat; an I’ve seen er few up thar what war so hungry for er fight, that they fell away an’ got so poor an’ thin that they had to lean up agin er saplin’ to cuss!

“That chap Arch Coony was er few in that line. He was the durndest, rantankerous hossfly that ever clum er tree! I’ll tell you what, ef I hadn’t er bin thar I wouldn’t er b’leeved it: I seed him one day in Satartia git up from er jug of whiskey, when he hadn’t drunk morn’n half of it, and leave t’other half to spile, and go an’ pitch into er privit spoute ’twene two Injuns, when he didn’t care er durn cent which walloped t’other, an’ lammin’ both on um out’n ther mockasins!

“Well, you see, Arch was mighty fond o’ them kind a tricks, an’ if he seed er fellow he thought he could lamm without no danger, he wouldn’t make no bones, but he’d just go up to the chap and make faces at him, and harry his feelings er bit; and ef the fellow showed spunky like, he’d let him alone, an’ ax him to take a drink; but if he sorter tried to sidle out of it, Arch would git as mad as all wrath, an’ swar, an’ cuss, an r’ar, an’ charge like er ram at er gate-post; and the fust thing you knowed, he’d shuck off his coat, an’ when the feller warn’t ’spectin’ nuthin’, Arch would fetch him er side wipe on the head, and knock him into the middle of next week.

“You see I didn’t like them sort of doings much, me, myself, I didn’t; and I all’ays, ef ever I got er chance at Arch, I’d let him down a buttonhole or two. He was gittin’ too high up in the pictures, ennyhow; and sez I one day, in er crowd, sez I:

“‘Ef that feller Arch Coony don’t mind which side of his bread’s buttered, I’ll git hold of him one of those days, an’ I’ll make him see sights.’

“Well, you see there was two or three sheep-stealing chaps listenin’ to what I sed, an’ they goes and tells Arch the fust chance I got I was gwine to larrup him. Well, that riled him like all fury, and as soon as he hearn it he begins er cussin’ like wrath, and sez he:

“‘Dod rot that ole Mike Hooter. He pertend to be a preacher. His preachin’ ain’t nothin’ but loud hollerin’ nohow.’

“So you see them same chaps, they comes an’ tells me what Arch had sed; an’ I got mad too, an’ we had the durndest rumpus in the neighbourhood you ever hearn.

“I didn’t see nothing of Arch from that time till about er month. Every time I went down to Sartatia to buy ennything—er barrel of whiskey, or backer, or sich like truck, for privit use—I looked for Arch, an’ Arch looked for me, but somehow or tother he never crossed my path.

“At last one day I sent him word I beleeved he was skeered of me, and the fust chance I got I would take the starch out’n him as sure as shooting; and he sent word back to me that was a game two could play at, and when I wanted to try it, he’d see if he couldn’t help me.

“Well, things went on that way for er long time, an’ I didn’t see nothing of Arch, so I begin to forgit all ’bout him. At last one day, when me and two or three other chaps was gwine down to Big Black River to go bar-hunting on t’other side of it, I hearn the darndest clatter-whacking, and noise in the road behind us; and when I turned round to see what in the name of thunder it was, thar was Arch and a whole lot of fellers cummin’ down the road, er galloping full tilt right up to us, an’ er gwine bar-huntin’ too.

“When I seed him I was so mad I thought I should er burst myself.

“‘Now, Mr. Arch, I’ve got you, and if you don’t keep your eye skin’d, I’ll lick you till your hide won’t hold shucks.’

“Toreckly, Arch he cum up alongside, and looked me right plum in the face as savage as er meat-axe; and sez he:

“‘Good mornin’ ole Preach, give us your paw.’

“I see thar was mischief in him as big as a meetin’-house, and I ’termined to give him as good as he sent, so I looked at him sorter savigerous like, and sez I:

“‘Look here, hoss, how can you have the face to talk to me, arter saying what you sed?’

“‘Why,’ sez he, ‘Uncle Mike, didn’t you begin it?’

“‘No,’ sez I; ‘an’ ef you sez I begun it I’ll larrup you in er inch of your life.’

“Sez he, ‘You eternal ole cuss, ef you want to larrup me, just larrup away as soon as you darn please, and we’ll see which ’ill get the wust of it.’

“‘Now,’ sez I, ‘I likes you, Arch, ’cause I all’ays thought you was a fust-rate feller; but ain’t you been ’busin’ me everywhere fur everything you could think of?’

“‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you say you’d git hold of me one of these days, and make me see sites?’

“‘No,’ sez I, ‘I didn’t: but this here’s what I sed, sez I, ef that feller, Arch Cooney, don’t mind which side of his bread’s buttered, I’ll get hold of him one of those days and make him see sites.’

“‘Well,’ sez he, ‘Uncle Mike, you knows I’m the most peace’blest feller living, and always mind which side of my bread’s buttered, and ef that’s all you sed, ’taint nothin’; so let’s take er drink.’

“Then he tuck out er tickler of whiskey, and arter he’d tuck three or four swallers out’n it, sez he:

“‘Uncle Mike, obleege me by taking er horn.’

“‘No,’ sez I, ‘I won’t do no such er dog on thing, for when I likes er chap, I likes him, and when I don’t like him, I don’t like him: but if you wants to fight, I’m your man.’

“You oughter seen Arch then, I think he was the most maddest man that ever wobbled on two ’hind legs.’ He rar’d an’ pitched, an’ cussed an’ swore like anything.

“When I see him cuttin’ up that way, I commence getting mad, too, an’ my knees they begin to shake, sorter like I had er chill, an’ skeered—no, Sir—an’ I s’posed thar was gwine to be thar devil to pay, I give you my word. I ain’t been so wrathy before once since, and that was t’other day when that Cain, the blacksmith, drunk up my last bottle of ‘bullface;’ and when I tacked him ’bout it, sed he thought it was milk.

“But that ein’t neither here, nor thar. As I was a sayin’, Arch he cussed at me, an’ I cussed at him, an’ the fellers what was along of me sed I beat him all holler. Torectly I begin to get tired of jawin’ away so much, and sez I:

“‘Arch, what’s the use of makin’ such er all-fired rackit ’bout nothin’. S’pose we make it up?’

“‘Good as wheat,’ sez he.

“‘Well,’ sez I, ‘give us your paw,’ sez I, ‘but,’ sez I, ‘thar’s one thing you sed, what sorter sticks in my craw yet, an’ if you don’t pollogize, I’ll wallop you for it right now.’

“‘What does you mean?’ sez he.

“Sez I, ‘Didn’t you sed one day that my preachin’ warn’t nothin’ but loud hollerin’?’

“‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you send me word one time that you b’lieved I was skeered of you, an’ the fust chance you got you’d take the starch out’n me, as sure as er gun.’

“Sez I, ‘Yes, but what does that signify?’

“‘Well,’ sez he, ‘ef you’ll take back what you sed, I’ll take back what I sed.’

“Then I begin to get as mad as all wrath, and, sez I:

“‘You eternal sheep-stealin’ whiskey-drinkin’, nigger-lammin’, bow-legged, taller-faced rascal, does you want me to tell er lie, by chawin’ up my own words? Ef that’s what you’re arter, jest come on, and I’ll larrup you till your mammy won’t know you from a pile of sassage-meat.’

“So we kep er ridin’ on, and er cussin’ one another worse than two Choctaw Injuns, an’ torectly we cum to the ferry-boat—whar we had to cross the river. Soon as we got thar, Arch he hopped down off’n his ole hoss, an’ commenced shuckin’ hisself fur er fight, an’ I jumped down too. I see the devil was in him as big as er bull, so I begin gritten my teeth, an’ lookin’ at him as spunky as er Dominecker rooster; and now, sez I:

“‘Mr. Arch Coony,’ I sed, ‘I’ll make you see sites, an’ the fust thing you know I’ll show them to you.’ Then I pulled off my ole Sunday go-to-meetin’-coat, an’ slammed it down on er stump, and, sez I: ‘Lay thar, ole Methodist, till I learn this ’coon some sense.’

“I soon see thar was gwine to be thar bustinest fight that ever was, so I rolled up my sleeves, an’ Arch rolled up hisn, and we was gwine at at it reglar.

“‘Now,’ sez he, ‘ole pra’r-meetin’ pitch in.’

“Well, I jist begin sidelin’ up, an’ he begin sidelin’ up. As soon as I got close ’nuff to him, so I could hit him a go-darter, sez he:

“‘Hole on er minnit, this ground’s too rooty; wait till I clear the sticks away from here, so as I can have a fair chance to give it to you good.’

“‘Don’t hollar till you’re out’n the woods,’ sez I; ‘p’raps when I’m done you won’t say my preachin’ ain’t nothin’ but hollerin’, I spec.’

“When he’d done scrapen’ off the ground, it looked jist like two bulls had been pawing up the dirt, I give you my word it did.

“Well, as I sed before, he sidled up, an’ I sidled up, and now, sez I:

“‘Look out for your bread-basket, ole stud, for ef I happen to give you er jolt thar, p’raps it ’ill tarn your stomach.’

“So thar we stood, head an’ tail up, jest like two chicken-cocks in layin’ time, an’ sez I to him:

“‘Arch, I’m gwine to maul you till you won’t know yourself.’

“Soon as we got close enuff, an’ I see he was about to make er lunge at me, sez I:

“‘Hole on, dod drot you, wait till I unbutton my gallowses, an’ may be so then I’ll show you them sites what we was talkin’ ’bout.’

“Well, all the fellers was stannin’ round ready to take sides in the fight, an’ toreckly the chap what kep’ the ferry begin to get tired of keepin’ thar ferry-boat waitin’, an’, sez he:

“‘Cuss your pictures! I’m not gwine to keep this here ferry-boat waitin’ no longer, an’ people on t’other side waitin’ to go over, so if you want to fight, come over on this side an’ fight there.’

“‘Good as ole wheat,’ sez I, anything to keep peace away, ‘ef you say so, let’s get into the boat, and settle it over thar.’

“Well, they all agreed to that without sayin’ a word, an’ Arch he got into the ferry-boat. I jumped into the eend of it, and was gwine to lead my hoss on too, but the all-fired critter was skeered to jump on to it, and sez I to the man who kept the ferry, sez I:

“‘Why don’t you wait till I get’s this durned four-legged critter into the boat?’

“He didn’t say a word, but kept shovin’ the boat out, and toreckly my hoss begin pullin’ back with the bridle, an’ I er holein’ on to it, an’ the furst thing I knowed, I went kerswash into the drink. So you see, in about er minit, thar was I on to this side, and thar was Arch on t’other, and no chance for me to git at him. Tell you what, I was hot then—and what was worser, Arch he hollered out and sed he b’leved I skeered the hoss and made him pull back, on purpose to get out’n the scrape. When I hearn him say that, I was so mad I fairly biled. Howsever, I soon see ’twarn’t no use raisen er racket ’bout what couldn’t be helped, so I ’cluded I’d have my satisfaction out’n him any way. An’ I begin shakin’ my fist at him, an’ er cussin’ him. Sez I:

“‘You eternal yaller-faced, suck-egg son of er ——, what is it you ain’t mean ’nuff for me to call you? I tell you what!’ (an’ I hope to be forgiven for swearin’) I cussed him blue.

“Well, I was so outdone I didn’t wait for the boat to come back, for it was gettin’ ’most dark and too late for bar-huntin’ that day; ’sides, my wife she would be ’spectin’ me at the house, and might rais pertickler dust if I didn’t get thar in time; so I jumped on my ole hoss, an’ put for home. But the way I cussed and ’bused Arch when I got on the hoss, was er sin, an’ the further I got away from him the louder I hollered! I pledge you my word, you might er hearn me er mile.

“To make a long story short, the last word I sed to him, sez I:

“‘Arch, you’ve ’scaped me this time by er axident, but the next time you cross my path, I’ll larrup you worse nor the devil beatin’ tan-bark! I will, by hokey!’

“Whew!” whistled Mike, drawing a long breath. “I tell you what, I come the nearest wollopin’ that feller, not to do it, that ever you saw.”

At this moment Mike donned his coon-skin cap, and giving it a terrific _slam_, that brought it over his eyes, vanished.

VI.
AN INTERESTING INTERVIEW.

I hope the day is not far distant, when drunkenness will be unknown in our highly-favoured country. The moral world is rising in its strength against the all-destroying vice, and though the monster still struggles, and stings, and poisons, with deadly effect, in many parts of our wide-spread territory, it is perceptibly wounded and weakened; and I flatter myself, if I should live to number ten years more, I shall see it driven entirely from the higher walks of life at least, if not from all grades of society. For the honour of my contemporaries, I would register none of its crimes or its follies; but, in noticing the peculiarities of the age in which I live, candour constrains me to give this vice a passing notice. The interview which I am about to present to my readers, exhibits it in its mildest and most harmless forms.

In the county of ——, and about five miles apart, lived old Hardy Slow and old Tobias Swift. They were both industrious, honest, sensible farmers, when sober; but they never visited their county-town without getting drunk; and then they were—precisely what the following narrative makes them.

They both happened at the Court-House on the same day, when I last saw them together; the former accompanied by his wife, and the latter by his youngest son, a lad about thirteen. Tobias was just clearly on the wrong side of the line, which divides drunk from sober; but Hardy was “_royally corned_” (but not falling) when they met, about an hour by sun in the afternoon, near the rack at which their horses were hitched.

They stopped about four feet apart, and looked each other full in the face for about half a minute, during all which time, Toby sucked his teeth, winked, and made signs with his shoulders and elbows to the by-standers that he knew Hardy was drunk, and was going to quiz him for their amusement. In the meantime, Hardy looked at Tobias, like a polite man dropping to sleep in spite of himself under a dull long story.

At length Toby broke silence:

“How goes it, Uncle Hardy?” (_winking to the company, and shrugging his shoulders_.)

“Why, Toby!—is that you? Well—upon my—why, Toby!——Lord—help—my—soul and——Why, Toby! what, in, the, worl’, set, you, to, gitt’n, drunk—this, time o’ day? Swear, poin’ blank, you’re drunk! Why—you—must be, an old, fool—to, get, drunk, right, before, all these, gentlemen——a’ready, Toby.”

“Well, but, now you see (_winking_), Uncle Hardy, a gill-cup an’t a quart-pot, nor a quart-pot an’t a two-gallon jug; and therefore (_winking and chuckling_), Uncle Hardy, a thing is a thing, turn it which way you will, it just sticks at what it was before you give it first ex—ex—ploit.”

“Well, the Lord, help, my——Why, Toby! what, is the reas’n, you, never, will, answer, me this, one—circumstance——and, that, is——I, always, find, you, drunk, when, I come, here.”

“Well, now, but Uncle Hardy, you always know circumstances alters cases, as the fellow said; and therefore, if one circumstance alters another circumstance——how’s your wife and children?”

“I, swear, poin’ blank, I shan’t tell you—because, you r’ally, is, too drunk, to know, my wife, when, you, meet, her, in the street, all, day, long, and, she’ll, tell, you, the, very, same, thing, as, all, these, gentlemen, can—testimony.”

“Well, but now you see, Uncle Hardy, thinking’s one thing and knowing’s another, as the fellow said; and the proof o’ the pudding’s chawin’ the bag, as the fellow said; and you see—toll-doll-diddle-de-doll-doll-day (_singing and capering_), you think I can’t dance? Come, Uncle Hardy, let’s dance.”

“Why, Toby!—you—come—to this? _I_ didn’t make, you, drunk, did I? You, an’t, took, a drink, with, me, this, live, long, day—is you? I, say, is you, Toby?”

“No, Uncle Har—”

“Well, then, let’s go, take a drink.”

“Well, but you see, Uncle Hardy, drinkin’s drinkin’; but that’s neither here nor there, as the fellow said.

“‘Come (_singing_) all ye young sparkers, come listen to me,
And I’ll sing you a ditti, of a pretti ladee.’”

“Why, Toby! ha—ha—ha—Well, I r’ally, did, think, you, was, drunk, but, now I believe——blast the flies! I b’lieve, they, jest, as li’f, walk, in my, mouth, as, in, my nose. (_Then looking with eyes half closed at Toby for several minutes._) Why, Toby, you, spit ’bacoo spit, all over, your jacket—and, that’s jist, the very, way, you, got, in your——fix.”

At this moment, Mrs. Slow came up, and immediately after, Swift’s son, William.

“Come,” said the good lady, “old man, let’s go home; it’s getting late, and there’s a cloud rising; we’ll get wet.”

“Why, Nancy! what in the worl’ has got into you! Is you drunk, too? Well, ’pon, my word, and honor, I, b’lieve, every body, in this town, is, got drunk to-day. Why, Nancy! I never, did, see, you, in, that fix, before, in, all, my, live, long, born, days.”

“Well, never mind,” said she, “come, let’s go home. Don’t you see the rain coming up?”

“Well, will, it rain, upon, my, corn-field, or my cotton-patch? Say, Nancy! which one, will it, rain on? But, Lord, help, my, soul, you are, too drunk, to tell me, any, thing, about it. Don’ my corn want rain, Nancy? Now, jist, tell me, that?”

“Yes; but let’s go home.”

“Then, why, upon, the face, of the earth, won’t you, let it, rain, then? I, rather, it, should rain, than not.”

“Come, old man,” said several by-standers, touched with sympathy for the good lady, “come, get on your horse and go home, and we will help you.”

“Oh yes, Uncle Hardy,” said Tobias, affecting to throw all humour aside, and to become very sober all at once, “go home with the old woman. Come, gentlemen, let’s help ’em on their horses—they’re groggy—mighty groggy. Come, old man, I’ll help you.” (_staggering to Hardy._)

“Jist look at daddy now!” said Billy; “he’s going to help Mr. Swift, and he’s drunk as Mr. Swift is. Oh, daddy, come, let’s go home, or we’ll get mazin’ wet.”

Toby stooped down to help Hardy on his horse—before the horse was taken from the rack—and throwing his arm round Hardy’s legs, he fell backwards, and so did Hardy.

“Why—Lord, bless, my, soul,” said Hardy, “I b’lieve I’m drunk, too! What, upon the, face, of the earth, has got, into, all, of us, this day!”

“Why, Uncle Hardy,” said Toby, “you pull us both down together! The old man’s mighty groggy,” said Toby to me, in a half whisper, and with an arch wink and smile, as he rose up—I happening to be next to him at the moment—“s’pose we help him up, and get him off? The old woman’s in for it, too,” continued he, winking, nodding, and shrugging up his shoulders very significantly.

“Oh no,” said I, “the old woman is perfectly sober, and I never heard of her tasting a drop in all my life.”

“Oh,” said Toby, assuming the gravity of a parson, “loves it mightily, mightily! Monstrous woman for drinking!—at least that’s my opinion. Monstrous fine woman, though! monstrous fine!”

“Oh, daddy, for the Lord’s sake let’s go home; only see what a rain is coming?” said Billy.

“Daddy’ll go presently, my son.”

“Well, here’s your horse, git up and let’s go. Mammy’ll be sure to be sendin’ for us.”

“Don’t mind him,” said Toby, winking to me; “he’s nothing but a boy; I wouldn’t take no notice of what he said. He wants me (_winking and smiling_) to go home with him; now you listen.”

“Well, come,” said I to Uncle Toby, “get on your horse and go home, a very heavy rain is coming up.”

“I’ll go presently, but you just listen to Bill,” said he to me, winking and smiling.

“Oh, daddy, for the Lord’s sake let’s go home.”

Toby smiled archly at me, and winked.

“Daddy, are you going home or not? Jist look at the rain comin’.”

Toby smiled and winked.

“Well, I do think a drunken man is the biggest fool in the county,” said Bill, “I don’t care who he is.”

“Bill!” said the old man, very sternly, “‘honour thy father and thy mother,’ that—that the woman’s seed may bruise the serpent’s head.”

“Well, daddy, tell me if you won’t go home! You see it’s going to rain powerful. If you won’t go, may I go?”

“Bill; ‘Leave not thy father who begot _thee_; for thou art my beloved son Esau, in whom I am well pleased.’”

“Why, daddy, it’s dropping rain now.”

Here Bill was relieved from his anxiety by the appearance of Aaron, a trusty servant, whom Mrs. Slow had despatched for his master, to whose care Bill committed him, and was soon out of sight.

Aaron’s custom had long been to pick up his master without ceremony, put him on his horse, and bear him away. So used to this dealing had Toby been, that when he saw Aaron, he surrendered at discretion, and was soon on the road. But as the rain descended in torrents, before even Bill could have proceeded half a mile, the whole of them must have been drenched to the skin.

As to Hardy, whom in the proper order we ought to have disposed of first, he was put on his horse by main force, and was led off by his wife, to whom he was muttering as far as I could hear him:

“Why, Nancy! How, did, you, get, in, such a fix? You’ll, fall, off, your, horse, sure, as you’re born, and I’ll have to put you up again.”

As they were constrained to go in a walk, they too must have got wringing wet, though they had a quarter of an hour the start of Toby.

VII.
BEN WILSON’S LAST JUG-RACE.

Coming up from Newport, on the pretty little steamer ‘Perry,’ a few days ago, I fell in with, or chanced to lay across the track of, a Mississippi flat-boatman whom I had not seen for three years, and from having had, once upon a time, a rather personal adventure with him, you may guess that the meeting was one of curious congratulation.

Ben and I had both travelled “some” since we had parted, and he had, as well as myself, many things to tell.

I was sitting on the upper deck, consulting the opinions of one of Job Patterson’s A No. 1 Havanas, when a pretty muscular and sun-burnt specimen of humanity hove alongside, and brought a rather big paw down upon my right shoulder with a bim that made me start _a little_.

“How are you old J comp’ny?” was the first broadside. “I ha’nt set eyes on you sence we had the scrimmidge down to the Washington ball-room, Orleans. Rayther a time that ar?” and he winked his little black eyes until I fancied I heard the lids snap.

“Ben Wilson?” I inquired.

“’Zactly; you’ve hit it on the head this time. How’ve you ben, and whar?”

“Travelling generally,” I responded; “been looking at the Rhode Island Legislature of late. About health I’m as snug as a kitten, and as hearty as you seem to be.”

“I? Yes; ef I’d a had them sinners” (showing a lump of bones and muscles _something_ larger than mine, I think), “when that ar scrimmidge took place, there’d a been a different report of killed and wounded at the perlice shop. But that ain’t no consekense now, tho’ thar is a ugly sort of a seam on the larboard side of my phizognomy. What’ll you sample?”

Such a polite invitation was not under the circumstances to be refused, and a liquid strengthener was presently applied to the in’nards of both. A couple more of Job’s regalias were lighted, and we walked forward to look at the sights and enjoy a little quiet conversation.

“You hev’nt got that thar took-pick about you, hev you?” asked Ben, as we got afront of the wheelhouse.

“No.”

“I’m sorry for that, for I’d a like to had it for a keepsake, _that_ knife. You punched it into my jowl rather vigorously that night.”

“And this,” said I, rolling up my right sleeve, and pointing to a very pretty stiletto scar.

“’Twarn’t mine, by all the broad horns that ever run in Mississip’!” roared Ben. “’Twas the French bar-keeper did that.”

“Never mind, Ben,” said I, “I thought ’twas you at the time; but anyhow, a man hasn’t much time to debate nice questions when that pile of ivory” (pointing to his big fist) “is making love to his windpipe.”

“No more he han’t, and no more you hadn’t,” said Ben, “en it’s all forgiv’. Less change the topick.”

“Been boating since I met you?” I inquired, after a short pause.

“Well, yes, mostly,” answered Ben, deliberately. “Druv a pretty fair business last year; only sunk one broad-horn, en that war snagged. Saved part of the load, en lost it agin at a _cre_-vasse. I had a fust-rate openin’ this spring, but a awkward accident kicked all the fat into the fire.”

“Bad luck, eh? how was it?”

“Did you ever jug for buffalo fish?”

“Never.”

“Han’t no idee on the _pre_-cise way it is done?”

“Not the least. Yes, I did see something about it in the ‘Spirit,’ but I’ve forgotten all about it.”

“‘Sperit?’ Oh, that’s the sportin’ paper down to York. Nolan, and Hooper, and Steve Tucker writes to it. Some jokes in that ar sheet, onst in a while.”

“Occasionally, I calculate; but this jugging for buffaloes.”

“Sartin. You see it’s as easy as fallin’ off a log. Git a dozen jugs en two canoes; hitch your lines to the handles of the jugs, put on your bait, and then toss them overboard. When you sees a jug begin to bob, there’s a buffalo thar: en when it begins to dive and run, you may calk’late there’s one varmint hooked. Strike out like a pointer, pull up the line, and the fish is _thar_; but you’ve got to keep your weather eye open, or you lose him.”

“I understand; but the awkward accident you spoke of?”

“Yes, of course; that’ll come in good time. D’you recollect that feller with the one eye that stuck by me in that scrimmidg at Orleans?”

“Perfectly; I _felt_ him audibly that night.”

“Joe Stilwell. Wal, Joe and I run together, en we run sens, tel we fell out on one of these jug affairs; en then he sot up for hisself—oppersition. ’Bout the last of A-_prile_ we hap’nd to come together to Saint Lewis, en started down the river the same day. Joe had the start five hours, an’ I were glad of it; for he hadn’t no good feelin’ towards me, en’ I hadn’t none for him, I swar. It war two days ’fore I see anythink of him, but a man who got on at Milses wood-yard said Joe wanted to tackle me; en sez he, ‘Z’likes not he’ll stop to Ransom’s for freight, for he han’t got more’n two-thirds his complement,’ Sez I: ‘Ef Joe runs across my bows, he knows what’ll be the konsekens;’ an’ we didn’t say no more about the matter.

“It was midnight when we got to Ransom’s, an’ I was debatin’ whether it warn’t better to shove along then to stop, when I here’s Joe’s voice a usin’ of my name. That was all war wanted to settle the matter. I tied up, and asked all hands to licker. Joe he was the fust one to come up, sez he:

“‘Ben, we’ve had some rily feelin’s, en let’s settle them rash’nally.’

“‘How?’ sez I, not ’zactly understandin’ him.

“‘Rash’nally,’ sez he. ‘I’ll drink with you, and you drink with me, en then we’ll call it squar.’

“‘’Greed!’ sez I, en we lickered round twiste, en Joe and I shook hands, en squar’d off all old ’counts _pertensively_.

“Thar was suthin’ in his looks I didn’t like when we shuck hands; but sez I to myself, ‘this ’coon sleeps in the day-time maybe, but he’s wide awake on this yer night.’ Ransom, he seemed glad we’d made up again ‘fer all time,’ es he said, and we lickered ’long a him.

“While we was drinkin’ ’long a Ransom, one of my hands come in en whispered softly in my ear, all unbeknown to the rest, that somebody hed ben tryin’ to cut my starn-cable, and then he sneaked back to watch for the marorder.

“I got off pretty soon after, en went aboard a _leetle_ riled. But I didn’t tell the boys who I thought was the rascal, thoar I told em to keep a sharp watch, en fire to kill, when they did shoot. But tha’ warn’t nobody come, Joe knew better than to play with the old fox in his den—Joe did.

“Nex’ mornin’ we were just castin’ off, when Joe come down to the wharf-boat, en sez he:

“‘You ain’t goin’ off mad, ar you?’

“‘No,’ sez I.

“‘Wal,’ sez he, ‘less take a partin’ smile.’

“I didn’t like the idea, but Ransom he said:

“‘Come in, Ben!’ en in I went and drinkt.

“‘What d’you say to a buffalo-juggin?’ said Joe, arter we’d lickered.

“‘It’s too airly in the season,’ sez I; ‘b’sides I’m off for Orleans.’

“‘So’m I,’ said Joe, ‘at eleven; en we’ll go company.’

“‘What’s the blaze?’ said Ransom.

“‘Two canoes, and one jug,’ said Joe.

“I knowed what he was after then, for it showed clean out’n his eyes. Joe war the best swimmer, en he thort ef we cum together an’ upset the canoes, he’d have the advantage. He knowed he’d git catawampously chored up ashore, en _he wanted to drown me_.”

“What a devil incarnate! I exclaimed.”

“That’s just him ’zactly. I thort a minnit, and then sez I:

“‘I’m your man.’

“Wal, a skiff tuck out the only jug, en Joe en I paddled from shore leisurely.

“‘A bob!’ yelled out Ransom, en we started.

“We was about ten rods apart, en neck-en-neck. On we swept like greased lightnin’, Joe leadin’ by ’bout _two inches_, I should guess. I had not look’t at Joe sens we left shore, but as we draw’d nigh the jug I seed he had his coat and jacket off. We was within ten foot of the jug, en both dropped paddles, en I shed my coat en jacket a _leetle_ quicker’n common. Tha’ warn’t no misunderstandin’ between us then; en as the canoes come together, both grappled and went overboard, and underneath the water.”

Ben here paused, took out his bandanna, and wiped the big drops off of his forehead, as coolly as if he was recounting the events of a dinner-party.

“Well,” I urged impatiently, “you both went under the water?”

“Yes, that was the _accident_ happened!”

“Accident? explain.”

“Why, I’ve no more to say’n this. I riz, en got aboard my broad-horn, en come away.”

“But Joe—what became of him?”

“_Joe? he was a missin’ ’long with my bowie-knife!_”

I parted with Ben, when the ‘Perry’ touched the wharf at Providence, not caring, _under the circumstances_, to inquire which way he was travelling.

VIII.
MIKE FINK IN A TIGHT PLACE.

Mike Fink, a notorious Buckeye-hunter, was contemporary with the celebrated Davy Crockett, and his equal in all things relating to human prowess. It was even said that the animals knew the crack of his rifle, and would take to their secret hiding-places, on the first intimation that Mike was about. Yet strange, though true, he was but little known beyond his immediate “settlement.”

When _we_ knew him he was an old man—the blasts of seventy winters had silvered o’er his head, and taken the elasticity from his limbs; yet in the whole of his life was Mike never worsted, except upon one occasion. To use his own language, he never “gin in,” used up, to anything that travelled on two legs or four, but once.

“That _once_ we want,” said Bill Slasher, as some dozen of us sat in the bar-room of the only tavern in the “settlement.”

“Gin it to us now, Mike; you’ve promised long enough, and you’re old now, and needn’t care,” continued Bill.