Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

“Then tell me how many dollars’ worth you have now, and the thing’s settled.”

“I’ll let you see for yourself,” said Widow Stokes; and taking an ear of corn between the logs of the cabin, and shelling off a handful, she commenced scattering the grain, all the while screaming or rather screeching: “Chick! chick! chick! chickee! chickee! chickee-ee!”

Here they came, roosters, hens, pullets, and little chicks; crowing, cackling, chirping, flying, and fluttering against her sides, pecking at her hands, and creating a din and confusion altogether indescribable. The old lady seemed delighted, thus to exhibit her feathered “stock,” and would occasionally exclaim:

“A nice passel! ain’t they a nice passel!”

But she never would say what they were worth, and no persuasion could bring her to the point. Our papers at Washington contain no estimate of the value of the Widow Stokes’s poultry, though, as she said herself, she had a “mighty nice passel.”

XIII.
A FAMILY PICTURE.[9]

Mr. Hill, in one of his many visits “down east,” was belated one evening, and was compelled to seek shelter at a small farm-house. He thus describes the family party and the family doings on that evening.

The heads of the family were a Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who were honoured, on this occasion, with a visit from a plain sort of man, who told me, said Mr. Hill, that he teached school in winter, and hired out in haying time. What this man’s name was, I do not exactly recollect. It might have been Smith, and for convenience sake, we will call him John Smith. This Mr. Smith brought a newspaper with him, which was printed weekly, which Mr. Jones said—as it did not agree with his politics—was a very weakly consarn.

Mr. Jones was seated one side of an old pine table, and Mr. Smith on the other. Mrs. Jones sat knitting in one corner, and the children under the fire-place—some cracking nuts, others whittling sticks, &c. Mr. Jones, after perusing the paper for some time, observed to Mrs. Jones, “My dear!”

_Mrs. Jones._ Well.

_Mr. Jones._ It appears.

_Mrs. J._ Well, go on.

_Mr. J._ I say, it appears.

_Mrs. J._ Well, law souls, I heard it; go on.

_Mr. J._ I say, it appears from a paragraph——

_Mrs. J._ Well, it don’t appear as if you were ever going to appear.

_Mr. J._ I say, it appears from a paragraph in this paper——

_Mrs. J._ There—there you go again. Why on airth, Jones, don’t you spit it out.

_Mr. J._ I say, it appears from a paragraph in this paper——

_Mrs. J._ Well, I declare, Jones, you are enough to tire the patience of Job. Why on airth don’t you out with it.

_Mr. J._ Mrs. Jones, will you be quiet. If you get my dander up, I’ll raise Satan round this house, and you know it, tew. Mr. Smith you must excuse me. I’m obliged to be a little peremptory to my wife, for if you wasn’t here she’d lick me like all natur. Well, as I said, it appears from this paper, that Seth Slope—you know’d Seth Slope, that used to be round here?

_Mrs. J._ Yes; well, go on; out with it.

_Mr. J._ Well, you know he went out in a whalin’ voyage.

_Mrs. J._ Yes, well.

_Mr. J._ Well, it appears he was settin’ on the stern, when the vessel give a lee lurch, and he was knocked overboard, and hain’t written to his friends since that time.

_Mrs. J._ La, souls! you don’t say so.

Before going further, I will endeavour to give you some idea of this Seth Slope. He was what they term down-east, “a poor shote;” his principal business was picking up chips, feeding the hogs, &c., &c. I will represent him with his hat. (_Puts on hat._)

“Mrs. Jones says I don’t know nothin’, and Mr. Jones says I don’t know nothin’, (_laughs_;) and everybody says I don’t know nothin’; and I say I _do_ know nothin’, (_laughs_.) Don’t I pick up all the chips to make the fires? And don’t I feed the hogs, and the ducks, and the hens? (_Laughs._) And don’t I go down to the store every morning, for a jug of rum? And don’t I take a good suck myself? I don’t know nothin’—ha—(_laughs_.) And don’t I go to church every Sunday? and don’t I go up stairs, and when the folks go to sleep, don’t I throw corn on ’em to wake ’em up? And don’t I see the fellers winking at the gals, and the gals winking at the fellers? And don’t I go home and tell the old folk; and when they come home, don’t the old folk kick up the darndest row? (_Laughs._) And don’t I drive the hogs out of the garden, to keep ’em from rooting up the taters? And don’t I git asleep there, sometimes, and don’t they root _me_ up. (_Laughs._) And didn’t I see a fly on Deacon Stoke’s red nose, t’other day; and didn’t I say, ‘Take care, Deacon Stokes, you’ll burn his feet?’ I don’t know nothin’, eh!” (_Laughs._)

This Mrs. Jones I have spoken of, was a very good kind of woman, and Mr. Jones was considered a very good sort of man; but was rather fond of the bottle. On one occasion, I recollect particularly, he had been to a muster, and came home so much intoxicated, that he could hardly stand, and was obliged to lean against the chimney-piece, to prevent himself from falling, and Mrs. Jones says to him, “Now, Jones, aint you ashamed of yourself? Where on airth do you think you’d go to, if you was to die in that sitiwation?”

_Jones, (very drunk)._ Well, I don’t know where I should go to; but I shouldn’t go far, without I could go faster than I do now.

As soon as Mr. Jones had finished the paragraph in the paper, Mrs. Jones threw on her shawl, and went over to her neighbours to communicate the news. I will endeavour to give you an idea of Mrs. Jones, by assuming this shawl and cap. (_Puts on shawl and cap._)

“Well, Mrs. Smith, I suppose you ain’t heard the news?”

“La, no, what on airth is it?”

“You recollect Seth Slope, that used to be about here?”

“Yes, very well.”

“You know he went a whalin’ voyage?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it appears, from an advartisement in the papers, that he was sittin’ on the starn of the vessel, when the vessel give a lee lurch, that he was knocked overboard and was drowned, and that he has not written to his friends ever since. Oh, dear! it’s dreadful to think on. Poor critter!—he was such a clever, good-natured, kind soul. I recollect when he was about here, how he used to come into the house and set down, and get up and go out, and come in agin, and set down, and get up and go out. Then he’d go down to the barn, and throw down some hay to the critters, and then he’d come into the house agin, and get up and go out, and go down to the store and get a jug of rum,—and sometimes he’d take a little suck of it himself. But, la, souls! I never cared nothing about that. Good, clever critter! Then arter he’d come back with the rum, he’d set down a little while, and get up and go out, and pick up chips, and drive the hogs out of the garden; and then he’d come into the house and kick over the swill-pail, and set down, and stick his feet over the mantel-piece, and whittle all over the hearth, and spit tobacco juice all over the carpet, and make himself so _sociable_. And poor fellow! now he’s gone. Oh, dear! how dreadful wet he must have got! Well, Mrs. Smith, it goes to show that we are all accountable _critters_.”

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[9] By G. H. Hill.

XIV.
COLONEL JONES’S FIGHT.
A STORY OF KENTUCKY.

Col. Dick Jones was decidedly the great man of the village of Summerville. He was Colonel of the regiment—he had represented his district in Congress—he had been spoken of as candidate for Governor—he was at the head of the bar in Hawkins’ county, Kentucky, and figured otherwise largely in public life. His legal opinion and advice were highly valued by the senior part of the population—his dress and taste were law to the juniors—his easy, affable, and attentive manner charmed all the matrons, his dignified politeness captivated the young ladies—and his suavity and condescension delighted the little boarding-school misses. He possessed a universal smattering of information—his manners were the most popular; extremely friendly and obliging, lively and witty; and, in short, he was a very agreeable companion.

Yet truth requires it to be admitted, that Col. Dick Jones was professionally more specious than deep, and that his political advancement was owing to personal partiality more than superior merit—that his taste and dress were of questionable propriety: for instance, he occasionally wore a hunting-shirt white fringed, or a red waistcoat, or a fawn-skin one, or a calico morning-gown of a small yellow pattern, and he indulged in other similar vagaries in clothing. And in manners and deportment, there was an air of harmless (true Virginian bred and Kentucky raised) self-conceit and swagger, which, though not to be admired, yet it gave piquancy and individuality to his character.

If further particulars are required, I can only state that the Colonel boarded at the Eagle hotel—office, in the square, fronted the court-house—he was a manager of all the balls—he was vice-president of the Summerville Jockey Club—he was trustee of the Female Academy—he gallanted the old ladies to church, holding his umbrella over them in the sun, and escorted the young ladies, at night, to the dances or parties, always bringing out the smallest ones. He rode a high headed, proud-looking sorrel horse, with a streak down his face; and he was a general referee and umpire, whether it was a horse-swap, a race, a rifle match, or a cock fight.

It so chanced, on a time, though Colonel Jones was one of the best-natured of men, that he took umbrage at some report circulated about him in an adjoining county and one of his districts, to the effect that he had been a federalist during the last war; and, instead of relying on the fact of his being a school-boy on Mill Creek at that time, he proclaimed, at the tavern table, that the next time he went over the mountain to court, Bill Patterson, the reputed author of the slander, should either sign a _liebill_, fight, or run.

This became narrated through the town,—the case and argument of the difference was discussed among the patriarchs of the place, who generally came to the conclusion that the colonel had good cause of quarrel, as more had been said of him than an honourable man could stand. The young store boys of the village became greatly interested, conjectured how the fight would go, and gave their opinions what they would do under similar circumstances. The young lawyers, and young M.D.’s, as often as they were in the colonel’s company, introduced the subject of the expected fight. On such occasions, the colonel spoke carelessly and banteringly. Some good old ladies spoke deprecatingly, in the general and in the particular, that so good and clever a young man as Colonel Dick should set so bad an example; and the young ladies, and little misses, bless their dear little innocent souls, they only consulted their own kind hearts, and were satisfied that he must be a wicked and bad man that Colonel Jones would fight.

Spring term of the courts came on, and the lawyers all started on their circuit, and, with them, Colonel Jones went over the mountain. The whole town was alive to the consequences of this trip, and without much communion or understanding on the subject, most of the population either gathered at the tavern at his departure, or noticed it from a distance, and he rode off, gaily saluting his acquaintances, and raising his hat to the ladies, on both sides of the street, as he passed out of town.

From that time, only one subject engaged the thoughts of the good people of Summerville; and on the third day the common salutation was:

“Any news from over the mountain?”

“Has any one come down the road?”

The fourth, fifth, and sixth came, and still the public anxiety was unappeased: it had, with the delay, become insufferable, quite agonizing; business and occupation was at a stand still; a doctor or a constable would not ride to the country lest news of the fight might arrive in their absence. People in crossing the square, or entering or coming out of their houses, all had their heads turned up that road. And many, though ashamed to confess it, sat up an hour or two past their usual bed-time, hoping some one would return from court. Still all was doubt and uncertainty. There is an unaccountable perversity in these things that bothers conjecture. I watched the road from Louisville two days, to hear of Grey Eagle beating Wagner, on which I had one hundred dollars staked, of borrowed money, and no one came; though before that, some person passed every hour.

On the seventh morning, the uneasy public were consoled by the certainty that the lawyers must be home that day, as court seldom held a week, and the universal resolve seemed to be that nothing was to be attended to until they were satisfied about the fight. Storekeepers and their clerks, saddlers, hatters, cabinet-makers, and their apprentices, all stood out at the doors. The hammer ceased to ring on the anvil, and the bar-keeper would scarcely walk in to put away the stranger’s saddle-bags, who had called for breakfast; when suddenly a young man, that had been walking from one side of the street to the other, in a state of feverish anxiety, thought he saw dust away up the road, and stopped. I have been told a man won a wager in Philadelphia, on his collecting a crowd by staring, without speaking, at an opposite chimney. So no sooner was this young man’s _point_ noticed, than there was a regular reconnoissance of the road made, and before long, doubt became certainty, when one of the company declared he knew the colonel’s old sorrel riding-horse, “General Jackson,” by the blaze on his face.

In the excited state of the public mind it required no ringing of the court-house bell to convene the people; those down street walked up, and those across the square came over, and all gathered gradually at the Eagle hotel, and nearly all were present by the time Colonel Jones alighted. He had a pair of dark green specks on, his right hand in a sling, with brown paper bound round his wrist; his left hand held the bridle, and the forefinger of it wrapped with a linen rag “with care.”

One of his ears was covered with a muslin scrap, that looked much like the countrywomen’s plan of covering their butter when coming to market: his face was clawed all over, as if he had had it raked by a cat held fast by the tail; his head was unshorn, it being “too delicate an affair,” as * * * said about his wife’s character. His complexion suggested an idea to a philosophical young man present, on which he wrote a treatise, dedicated to Arthur Tappan, proving that the negro was only a white well pummelled; and his general swelled appearance would induce a belief he had led the forlorn hope in the storming of a beehive.

The Colonel’s manner did not exactly proclaim “the conquering hero,” but his affability was undiminished, and he addressed them with:

“Happy to see you, gents; how are you all?” and then attempted to enter the tavern; but Buck Daily arrested him with:

“Why, Colonel, I see you have had a skrimmage. How did you make it? You didn’t come out at the little _eend_ of the horn, did you?”

“No, not exactly, I had a tight fit of it, though. You know Bill Patterson; he weighs one hundred and seventy-five pounds, has not an ounce of superfluous flesh, is as straight as an Indian, and as active as a wild-cat, and as quick as powder, and very much of a man, I assure you. Well, my word was out to lick him; so I hardly put up my horse before I found him at the court-house door, and, to give him a white man’s chance, I proposed alternatives to him. He said his daddy, long ago, told him never to give a _liebill_, and he was not good at running, so he thought he had best fight. By the time the word was fairly out, I hauled off, and took him in the burr of the ear that raised a singing in his head, that made him think he was in Mosquitoe town. At it we went, like killing snakes, so good a man, so good a boy; we had it round and round, and about and about, as dead a yoke as ever pulled at a log-chain. Judge Mitchell was on the bench, and as soon as the cry of “fight” was raised, the bar and jury ran off and left him. He shouted, ‘I command the peace,’ within the court-house, and then ran out to see the fight, and cried out, ‘I can’t prevent you!’ ‘fair fight!’ ‘stand back!’ and he caught parson Benefield by the collar of the coat, who, he thought, was about to interfere, and slung him on his back at least fifteen feet.

“It was the evenest and longest fight ever fought: everybody was tired of it, and I must admit, in truth, that I was” (_here he made an effort to enter the tavern_.) But several voices called out:

“Which whipped? How did you come out?”

“Why, much as I tell you; we had it round and round, about and about, over and under. I could throw him at rastle, but he would manage some way to turn me. Old Sparrowhawk was there, who had seen all the best fighting at Natchez, under the hill, in the days of Dad Girty and Jim Snodgrass, and he says my gouging was beautiful; one of Bill’s eyes is like the mouth of an old ink-bottle, only, as the fellow said, describing the jackass by the mule, it is more so. But, in fact, there was no great choice between us, as you see. I look like having ran into a brush fence of a dark night. So we made it round and round, about and about”—(_here again he attempted a retreat into the tavern_.)

But many voices demanded, “Who hollored?”

“Which gave up?”

“How did you hurt your hand?”

“Oh! I forgot to tell you, that as I aimed a sockdollager at him he ducked his head, and he can dodge like a diedapper, and hitting him awkwardly, I sprained my wrist; so, being like the fellow who, when it rained mush, had no spoon, I changed the suit, and made a trump—and went in for eating. In the scuffle we fell, cross and pile, and, finding his appetite good for my finger, I adopted Doctor Bones’, the toolsmith’s, patent method of removing teeth without the aid of instruments, and I extracted two of his incisors, and released my finger. However, I shall, for some time, have an excuse for wearing gloves without being thought proud.” (_He now tried to escape under cover of a laugh._)

But vox populi again.

“So you tanned him, did you?”

“How did the fight finish?”

“You were not parted?”

“You fought it out, did you?”

The colonel resumed, “Why, there is no telling how the fight might have gone; an old Virginian, who had seen Francesco, and Otey, and Lewis, and Blevins, and all the best men of the day, said he had never seen any one stand up to their fodder better than we did. We had fought round and round, and about and about, all over the courtyard, and, at last, just to end the fight, every body was getting tired of it; so, at l—a—a—s—t, I hollored.”—(_Exit Colonel._)

XV.
THE FASTEST FUNERAL ON RECORD.[10]

I had just crossed the long bridge leading from Boston to Cambridgeport, and was plodding my dusty way on foot through that not very agreeable suburb, on a sultry afternoon in July, with a very creditable thunder-cloud coming up in my rear, when a stout elderly gentleman, with a mulberry face, a brown coat, and pepper-and-salt smalls, reined up his nag, and after learning that I was bound for Old Cambridge, politely invited me to take a seat beside him in the little sort of tax-cart he was driving. Nothing loth, I consented, and we were soon _en route_. The mare he drove was a very peculiar animal. She had few good points to the eye, being heavy-bodied, hammer-headed, thin in the shoulders, bald-faced, and rejoicing in a little stump of a tail which was almost entirely innocent of hair. But there were “lots of muscle,” as Major Longbow says, in her hind quarters.

“She aint no Wenus, Sir,” said my new acquaintance, pointing with his whip to the object of my scrutiny—“but handsome is as handsome does. Them’s my sentiments. She’s a rum ’un to look at, but a good ’un to go.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, _Sir_! That there mare, Sir, has made good time—I may say, _very_ good time before the hearse.”

“Before the hearse?”

“Before the hearse! S’pose you never heard of _burying a man on time_! I’m a sexton, Sir, and undertaker—Jack Crossbones, at your service—‘Daddy Crossbones’ they call me at Porter’s.”

“Ah! I understand. Your mare ran away with the hearse.”

“Ran away! A child could hold her. Oh! yes, of course she ran away,” added the old gentleman, looking full in my face with a very quizzical expression, and putting the forefinger of his right hand on the right side of his party-coloured proboscis.

“My dear Sir,” said I, “you have excited my curiosity amazingly, and I should esteem it as a particular favour if you would be a little less oracular and a little more explicit.”

“I don’t know as I’d ought to tell you,” said my new acquaintance very slowly and tantalizingly. “If you was one of these here writing chaps, you might poke it in the ‘Spirit of the Times,’ and then it would be all day with me. But I don’t care if I do make a clean breast of it. Honour bright, you know.”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, I live a piece up beyond Old Cambridge—you can see our steeple off on a hill to the right, when we get a little further. Well, one day, I had a customer (he was carried off by typhus) which had to be toted into town—cause why? he had a vault there. So I rubbed down the old mare, and put her in the fills. Ah! Sir! that critter knows as much as an Injun, and more than a Nigger. She’s as sober as a judge when she gets the shop—that’s what I call the hearse—behind her. You would not think she was a three-minute nag, to look at her. Well, Sir, as luck would have it, by a sort of providential inspiration, the day before, I’d took off the old wooden springs and set the body on elliptics. For I thought it a hard case that a gentleman who’d been riding easy all his life, should go to his grave on wooden springs. Ah! I deal well by my customers. I thought of patent boxes to the wheels, but _I_ couldn’t afford it, and the parish are desperate stingy.

“Well, I got him in, and led off the string—fourteen hacks, and a dearbourn wagon at the tail of the funeral. We made a fine show. As luck would have it, just as we came abreast of Porter’s, out slides that eternal torment, Bill Sikes, in his new trotting sulky, with the brown horse that he bought for a fast crab, and _is_ mighty good for a rush, but hain’t got nigh so much bottom as the mare. Bill’s light weight, and his sulky’s a mere feather. Well, Sir, Bill came up alongside, and walked his horse a bit. He looked at the mare and then at me, and then he winked. Then he looked at his nag and put his tongue in his cheek, and winked. I looked straight ahead, and only said to myself, ‘Cuss you, Bill Sikes.’ By and bye, he let his horse slide. He travelled about a hundred yards, and then held up till I came abreast, and then he winked and bantered me again. It was aggravatin’, that’s a fact. Says I to myself, says I: ‘That’s twice you’ve done it, my buzzum friend and sweet-scented shrub—but you doesn’t do that ’ere again.’ The third time he bantered me I let him have it. It was only saying, ‘Scat you brute,’ and she was off—that mare. He had all the odds, you know, for I was toting a two hundred pounder, and he ought to have beat me like breaking sticks, now hadn’t he? He had me at the first brush, for I told you the brown horse was a mighty fast one for a little ways. But soon I lapped him. I had no whip, and he could use his string—but he had his hands full.

“Side by side, away we went—rattle-te-bang! crack! abuz! thump!—and I afraid of losing my customer on the road; but I was more afraid of losing the race. The reputation of the old mare was at stake, and I swore she should have a fair chance. We went so fast that the posts and rails by the road-side looked like a log fence. The old church and the new one, and the colleges, spun past like Merry-Andrews.

“The hackmen did not know what was to pay, and, afraid of not being in at the death, they put the string on to their teams, and came clattering on behind as if Satan had kicked ’em on eend. Some of the mourners was sporting characters, and they craned out of the carriage windows and waved their handkerchiefs. The President of Harvard College himself, inspired by the scene, took off his square tile as I passed his house, and waving it three times round his head, cried:

“‘Go it, Boots!’

“It _is a_ fact. And I beat him, Sir! I beat him, in three miles, a hundred rods. He gin it up, Sir, in despair.”

“His horse was off his feed for a week, and when he took to corn again he wasn’t worth a straw. It was acknowledged on all hands to be the fastest funeral on record, though I say it as shouldn’t. I’m an undertaker, sir, and I never yet was over-taken.”

On subsequent inquiry at Porter’s, where the sporting sexton left me, I found that his story was strictly true in all the main particulars. A terrible rumpus was kicked up about the race, but Crossbones swore lustily that the mare had run away—that he had sawed away two inches of her lip in trying to hold her up, and that he could not have done otherwise, unless he had run her into a fence and spilled his “customer” into the ditch. If any one expects to die anywhere near the sexton’s _diggings_, I can assure them that the jolly old boy is still alive and kicking, the very “Ace of Hearts” and “Jack of Spades,” and that now both patent boxes and elliptic springs render his professional conveyance the easiest running thing on the road.

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[10] By F. A. Durivage, of Boston.

XVI.
OLD TUTTLE’S LAST QUARTER RACE.

As a matter of course a quarter race never goes off without old Tuttle being thar—and he never attends without doing some business! So on Thursday he makes his appearance on the track, on a bay gelding, (with white hind feet,) which he calls “Indian Dick,” and allows he’s as good a scrub as there’ll be on the ground! As old T. is _known_, and Dick has been heard of, the boys are rather shy—but one of them thinks he’s got a scrub that’s “some pumpkins!” and would like to know, without too much cost, how far Dick can beat him; he, therefore, proposes to run them three hundred yards, for “sucks all round.” Old T. understands the game, and says:

“No, I don’t want yer to treat this crowd, but I’ll run with yer just to show _yer hoss_ can’t run!”

This was what H. wanted, as he thought he could tell the speed of a horse, even tho’ old T. did ride him; so back they go to the score, and are off—with (as might be expected) H. a-head, and old T. in the rear, whipping and spurring like mad, and letting his horse go just fast enough to put H. at about the top of his speed—but he can’t _quite_ come it.

“H.’s horse is too smart and can beat him every inch of the road.”

So says H., and most of the crowd are of the same opinion.

Old T. says he believes he can beat H. Saturday, as “Dick’s shoes are loose, and heavy, and he can’t run in ’em.”

There was nothing more said about it, till old Tut made his appearance next morning, when the boys were after him with “Sharp Sticks” and “Hot Bricks.” One wanted to bet him a horse on H.’s colt, _versus_ his Indian Dick—another a V., another an X., and so on.

“Hold yer hosses b’hoys! Don’t be all after the old man at wunst. Wait a while and he’ll commerdate yer! He’s an old man, and b’lieves he knows mor’n all on yer; but he don’t want all yer money at wunst. He wants to be _onatel_ with yer, so he can cum agin.”

This course didn’t set them back any, as they thought the old man was _scary_, and they were after him the faster.

Some of the more wary cautioned them to look out, but they _didn’t want no caution—they knew what they was about_. They could beat old Tuttle, and they were going to “do the State some service” by skinning him. They’d make the “old cuss” poor afore they left him!

He took it all very coolly, advised some of them to save their money for the next time. He was an old man and b’lieved he knowed more’n all on ’em. _His father_ didn’t teach him for nothin’ sixty-five years ago! But the boys said that was all gass to scare them off; but ’twouldn’t work! The old cuss had got to be skinned or back out.

The result was, they got up a horse and fifty dollars a side, to run on Saturday, at two o’clock, each one to start and ride his own horse, judge tops and bottoms—the winning horse take the cakes—and no back out. Either party refusing to run forfeits the whole stakes.

Things went on smooth that day—some thinking old T. was playing some game with the boys, but what it was, no one could tell. However, before night, it was known there was _a secret_ among the boys. They knew the speed of Dick, and knew they could slay him; but there mustn’t anything be said about it, as when they got the old man on the track and right, they were going into him the whole amount of his fixins. They’d caught the old man napping once. They’d got a plaguy sight faster horse than he thought for, and now they were going to pay off old scores.

Two o’clock came, and found old T. on the spot leading Dick round, and telling the boys they’d be surprised when they see Dick run his best—at the same time “doing what _business_ offered,” but somehow the boys appeared a little _scary_. Old T. was “on hand” for every offer, and no mistake; and ’twas known he never bet liberally, unless he “had a sure thing.” So that the betting soon began to lag, and the old man had the call, but no takers. Finally the old man said:

“I’ve got a little more money, b’hoys, and I wouldn’t mind givin’ you a chance at two to one for it.”

But this set them _clar back_—no one dare _bite_. There not appearing any more chance for investment, the old man stripped off his hat, coat, vest, and boots, tied a red cotton bandanna around his head (as an old man only can tie it), then pulls off the cloths and saddle from Dick, and mounts _bare-back_, declaring himself ready.

He mounted, and the word was given to “clear the track!”

Then Old T. says: “Are yer ready?”

“Yes.”

“Go along then!”

And over the score they go, H. a length ahead. But, oh! Jeminy! see Dick run! Before you could turn round twice, the ends of Old T.’s bandanna were pointing out the road for H., and at the outcome Dick was one, H. nowhere.

Anybody that has seen a “quarter-horse” run by a “dunghill” knows how this was—no one else can appreciate it—the thing was out. Old T. really knew more than all of them, sure enough; but what was the secret, and how could those in the secret be so stuck? That’s the idea.

The secret was, “the boys” stole Old Tuttle’s horse on Thursday night, and run him with H.’s horse, and _beat him easy_. And the way they were stuck was this: The old man supposing that they would steal his horse that night, and run him, had put Dick’s cloths on another horse of the same colour and marks, and about the same size, and put him in Dick’s stall, starting a shoe, so that if they run him they would lose it, and he should know they had taken the bait good. In the morning the shoe was gone.

XVII.
SPEECH ON THE OREGON QUESTION.[11]

“Whoia! here I am, and intend, in a very few and expressive terms, to speak my sentiments. Mr. Speaker, I have come all the way from Oregon, to see, in behalf of my afflicted neighbours, who live a considerable distance apart, and I want to know, what in thunder you’re about here, in this comfortable location, while your fellow-countrymen, who are not allowed to emigrate north of the Columbia River, on account of a raging he-calf who is bla-ting on the other side; but, thunder and squashes! can this be borne? No! Can the free inhabitants, who have emigrated there with the full belief that protection was to be extended to them from the great republic, bear the yoke of British law and British tyranny? _No, Sir!_ we expect you to guard us from the sneers and insults of savages subject and give us aid, and to plant the standard of our country immutably on the 54–40, and, if anything, a leetle north.

“Powder and gun-flints! must we give up what is clearly proved by many of our great men—and though not set down in Webster’s Spelling Book—to belong to us? will any man, who has pure American blood coursing through his veins, say let it go, ’cause we’re afraid to fight? No, Sir! no! it is not in the natur of _Liberty boys_ to allow any usurpation of our rights; let us be guided by Crockett’s motto: ‘_First, be sure your right, then go ahead_.’

“I’ve killed four horses, worn out three pair of trousers and a pair of saddle-bags, besides spending all my money to come here, and I must know before I go back, which way the cat _jumps_, or both countries shall hear from me, to their entire satisfaction, sooner or later. I’ve left my grandmother, father, wife, three children, six cows, two hosses, eighteen sheep, a gross of turkeys, geese, hens, chickens, a black dog, and a grey cat, who fondly look for my return, and I wish to know, without the shadow of a doubt, whether we are to be protected, or not, by this government, or are we tew be trampled under the iron hoofs of Europe’s roaring Bull. We are strong and true at heart for our country, but we are as yet too few in number to offer just resistance. Give us a chance for a few years, however, and we will then look out for ourselves.

“Yet the time is not far off, when the locomotive will be steaming its way to the Rocky Mountains, with a mighty big train of cars running after it. Yes, the whistle of the engine will echo through the South-west Pass, and sharply hint to the free people of that great territory the approach of hundreds and thousands tew, who are to be their neighbours. No, Sir, the time is not far distant, when our commerce with China will equal that of all the world; when the Pacific Ocean will be crossed with as much ease as the Frog pond on Boston Common.

“Yes, Mr. Speaker, as my eloquent friend from the Hoosier State remarks: ‘Men of blood, and friends of General Washington, and that old hoss, General Jackson, I want your attention. _Lightnin’_ has burst upon us; and Jupiter has poured out the ile of his wrath. Thunder has broke loose and slipped its cable, and is now rattling down the mighty Valley of the Mississippi, accompanied by the music of the alligator’s hornpipe. Citizens and fellers; on the bloody ground on which our fathers catawampously poured out their claret free as ile, to enrich the soil over which we now honour and watch with hyena eyes, let the catamount of the inner varmint loose and prepare the engines of vengeance, for the long looked-for day has come. The crocodile of the Mississippi has gone into his hole, and the sun that lit King David and his host across the Atlantic Ocean, looks down upon the scene, and drops a tear to its memory.’

“I am with you, and while the stars of Uncle Sam, and the stripes of his country, triumph and float in the breeze, whar, whar is the craven, low-lived, chicken-bred, toad-hoppin’, red-mouthed mother’s son of ye who will not raise the beacon-light of triumph, smouse the citadel of the aggressor, and press onward to liberty and glory? Wha-ah! Hurrah! where’s the inimy?”

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[11] By G. H. Hill.

XVIII.
BILL DEAN, THE TEXAN RANGER.[12]

Rare wags may be found among the Texas Volunteers, yet the funniest fellow of all is a happy-go-lucky chap named Bill Dean, one of Chevallier’s spy company, and said to be one of the best “seven-up” players in all Texas. While at Corpus Christi, a lot of us were sitting out on the stoop of the Kinney House, early one morning, when along came Bill Dean. He did not know a single soul in the crowd, although he knew we were all bound for the Rio Grande; yet the fact that the regular formalities of an introduction had not been gone through with, did not prevent his stopping short in his walk and accosting us. His speech, or harangue, or whatever it may be termed, will lose much in the telling, yet I will endeavour to put it upon paper in as good a shape as possible.

“Oh, yes,” said he, with a knowing leer of the eye: “oh, yes; all going down among the robbers on the Rio Grande, are you? Fine times _you’ll_ have, over the left. I’ve been there myself, and done what a great many of you won’t do—I come back; but if I didn’t see nateral h—ll—in August at that—I _am_ a teapot. Lived eight days on one poor hawk and three blackberries—couldn’t kill a prairie rat on the whole route to save us from starvation. The ninth day come, and we struck a small streak of good luck—a horse give out and broke down, plumb out in the centre of an open prairie—not a stick big enough to tickle a rattlesnake with, let alone killing him. Just had time to save the critter by shootin’ him, and that was all, for in three minutes longer he’d have died a nateral death. It didn’t take us long to butcher him, nor to cut off some chunks of meat and stick ’em on our ramrods; but the cookin’ was another matter. I piled up a heap of prairie grass, for it was high and dry, and sot it on fire; but it flashed up like powder, and went out as quick. But—”

“But,” put in one of his hearers, “but how did you cook your horse-meat after that?”

“How?”

“Yes, how?”

“Why, the fire caught the high grass close by, and the wind carried the flames streakin’ across the prairie. I followed up the fire, holding my chunk of meat directly over the blaze, and the way we went it was a caution to anything short of locomotive doin’s. Once in a while a little flurry of wind would come along, and the fire would get a few yards the start; but I’d brush upon her, lap her with my chunk, and then we’d have it again, nip and chuck. You never seed such a tight race—it was beautiful.”

“Very, we’ve no doubt,” ejaculated one of the listeners, interrupting the mad wag just in season to give him a little breath: “but did you cook your meat in the end?”

“Not bad I didn’t. I chased that d—d fire a mile and a half, the almightiest hardest race you ever heer’d tell on, and never give it up until I run her right plump into a wet marsh: there the fire and chunk of horse-meat came out even—a dead heat, especially the meat.”

“But wasn’t it cooked?” put in another one of the listeners.

“Cooked!—no!—just crusted over a little. You don’t cook broken-down horse-flesh very easy, no how; but when it comes to chasing up a prairie fire with a chunk of it, I don’t know which is the toughest, the meat or the job. You’d have laughed to split yourself to have seen me in that race—to see the fire leave me at times and then to see me brushin’ up on her agin, humpin’ and movin’ myself as though I was runnin’ agin some of those big ten mile an hour Gildersleeves in the old States. But I’m a goin’ over to Jack Haynes’s to get a cocktail and some breakfast—I’ll see you all down among the robbers on the Rio Grande.”

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[12] By G. W. Kendall.

XIX.
THE FIRE-HUNT.

Samuel Sikes was one of the most inveterate hunters I ever knew. He delighted in no other pursuit or pastime, and though he pretended to cultivate a small spot of ground, yet so large a portion of his time was spent in the pursuit of game, that his agricultural interests suffered much for the want of proper attention. He lived a few miles from town, and as you passed his house, which stood a short distance from the main road, a few acres of corn and a small patch of potatoes might probably attract your notice as standing greatly in need of the hoe; but the most prominent objects about Sam’s domicile pertained to his favourite pursuit. A huge pair of antlers—a trophy of one of his proudest achievements—occupied a conspicuous place on the gable end; some ten or a dozen tall fishing-poles, though modestly stowed behind the chimney, projected far above the roof of the little cabin, and upon its unchinked walls, many a ’coon and deer-skin were undergoing the process of drying. If all these did not convince you that the proprietor was a sportsman, the varied and clamorous music of a score of hungry-looking hounds, as they issued forth in full cry at every passer-by, could not fail to force the conviction.

Sam had early found a companion to share with him his good or ill luck, and though he was yet on the green side of thirty, he was obliged to provide for some five or six little tallow-faced “responsibilities;” so he not only followed the chase from choice, but when his wife—who hated “fisherman’s luck” _worse_ than Sam did a “miss” or a “nibble”—took him to account for spending so many broken days, Saturday afternoons, rainy days and odd hours, to say nothing of whole nights, in the woods, without bringing home so much as a cut-squirrel or horney-head, his ready reply was, that he was “’bleeged” to do the best he could to get meat for her and the “childer.”

The Fire-Hunt was Sam’s hobby, and though the legislature had recently passed an act prohibiting that mode of hunting, he continued to indulge, as freely as ever, in his favourite sport, resolutely maintaining that the law was “unconstitootional and agin reason.” He had often urged me to accompany him, just to see how “slick” he could shine a buck’s eyes; and such were the glowing accounts he had from time to time given me of his achievements in that way, that he had drawn from me a promise to go with him “some of these times.”

I was sitting one evening, after tea, upon the steps of the porch, enjoying the cool autumnal breeze, when my friend Sam Sikes suddenly made his appearance. He had come for me to go with him on a fire-hunt, and was mounted on his mule Blaze, with his pan upon one shoulder, and his musket on the other. Determined to have everything in readiness before calling on me, he had gone to the kitchen and lit a few light-wood splinters, which were now blazing in his pan, and which served the double purpose of lighting him through the enclosure, and of demonstrating to me the manner of hunting by night. As he approached the house, his light discovered me where I was sitting.

“Good evenin’, Major,” said he, “I’ve come out to see if you’ve a mind to take a little hunt to-night.”

“I believe not, Mr. Sikes,” I replied, feeling entirely too well satisfied with my pleasant seat in the cool breeze, to desire to change it for a night-ramble through the woods. “Not to-night, I thank you—it looks like rain.”

“Oh, ’shaw, ’taint gwine to rain, nohow—and I’m all fixed—come, come along, Major.”

As he spoke, he rode close to the porch, and his mule made several efforts to crop the shrubbery that grew by the door, which Sam very promptly opposed.

“How far are you going, Mr. Sikes?” I inquired, endeavouring to shake off the lazy fit which inclined me to keep my seat.

“Only jest up the branch a little bit—not beyant a mile from your fence, at the outside. Look at him!” he exclaimed in a louder tone, as he gave the reins a jerk. “Thar’s deer a plenty up at the forks, and we’ll have r’al sport. Come, you better go, and—Why, look at him!” giving the reins another jerk, at the same time that he sent a kick to his mule’s ribs that might have been heard an hundred yards, “and I’ll show you how to shine the eyes of a buck.”

As he sat in his saddle persuading me to go, his mule kept frisking and turning in such a manner as to annoy him exceedingly. Upon his left shoulder he bore his blazing-pan, and upon his right he held his musket, holding the reins also in his right hand; so that any efforts on his part to restrain the refractory movements of his animal was attended with much difficulty. I had about made up my mind to go, when the mule evinced a more resolute determination to get at the shrubbery.

“Whoa! wha, now!—confound you! Now, look at him!”—then might be heard a few good lusty kicks. “Come, Major, git your gun, and let’s—will you hold up yer head, you ’bominable fool?—and let’s take a little round—it’ll do you good.”

“As I only go to satisfy my curiosity, I’ll not take a gun. You will be able to shoot all the deer we meet.”

“Well, any way you mind, Major.”

We were about to start, when suddenly the mule gave a loud bray, and when I turned to look, his heels were high in the air, and Sam clinging to his neck, while the fire flew in every direction. The mule wheeled, reared and kicked, and still Sam hung to his neck, shouting, “Look at him!—whoa!—will you mind!—whoa!—whoa, now!”—but all to no purpose, until at length the infuriated animal backed to the low paling fence which enclosed a small flower-garden, over which he tumbled—Sam, pan, gun and all, together!

When Sam had disengaged himself, he discovered that the saddle-blanket was on fire, which had been the cause of the disaster.

“Cus the luck,” said he; “I thought I smelt something burnin’.”

Then addressing himself to the mule in a louder tone, he continued:

“That’s what comes o’ jerkin’ yer dratted head about that-a-way. Dod drot you, you’ve split all my fixins—and here’s my pan, jest as crooked as a fish-hook!”

Then there was a kick or two, and a blow with the frying-pan:

“Take that, you howdacious fool, and hold yer head still next time, will you? And you’ve skinned my leg all to flinders, dadfetch your everlastin’ picter to dingnation! Take that under your short ribs, now, will you? Whoa! I’ve a great mind to blow yer brains out this very night! And you’ve broke the Major’s palins down, you unnatural cus. Whoa! step over now, if you’s satisfied.”

By this time Sam had got the mule out of the inclosure, and had gathered up most of his “fixins.” The whole scene, after the upsetting of the pan, had transpired in the dark, but from the moment I saw the mule’s heels flying, and Sam clinging to his neck, it was with the utmost difficulty I restrained my laughter. During his solo in the inclosure, I was absolutely compelled to stuff my handkerchief in my mouth, to prevent his hearing me.

“Did you ever see the likes o’ that, Major?” exclaimed Sam, as I approached the spot where he was engaged in readjusting his saddle and putting other matters to rights that had been deranged by the struggles of the mule to free himself from the burning blanket.

“I am very sorry it happened,” I replied, “as it will prevent us from taking our hunt.”

“No, I’ll be dadfetcht if it does, tho’—I ain’t to be backed out that-a-way, Major, not by no means. You know, ‘a bad beginnin’ makes a good endin’,’ as the old woman said. He isn’t done sich a monstrous sight o’ harm, nohow—only bent the handle of my pan a little, and raked some skin off one o’ my shins—but that’s neither here nor thar. So if you’ll jest hold Blaze till I go and git a torch, we’ll have a shoot at a pair o’ eyes yit, to-night.”

I took the bridle, while Sam procured a torch, and after he had gathered up the faggots which he had brought to burn in his pan, we set off for the branch—Sam upon his mule, with a torch in one hand, while I walked by his side.

It was only necessary for us to go a short distance, before we were at the designated spot.

“Thar,” said Sam, as he dismounted, “here’s as good a place as any; so I’ll jest hitch Blaze here, and light our pan.”

Accordingly, Blaze was made fast to a stout sappling, and Sam proceeded to kindle a fire in his pan, at the same time explaining to me, in a low voice, the _modus operandi_ of the Fire-Hunt, which he accompanied with sundry precautionary hints and directions for my own especial observance on the present occasion.

“Now, Major,” said he, “you must keep close to me, and you mustn’t make no racket in the bushes. You see, the way we does to shine the deer’s eyes is this—we holds the pan so, on the left shoulder, and carries the gun at a trail in the right hand. Well, when I wants to look for eyes, I turns round slow, and looks right at the edge of my shadder, what’s made by the light behind me in the pan, and if ther’s a deer in gun-shot of me, his eyes’ll shine ’zactly like two balls of fire.”

This explanation was as clear as Sam could make it, short of a demonstration, for which purpose we now moved on through the woods. After proceeding a few hundred yards, Sam took a survey as described, but saw no eyes.

“Never mind, Major,” said he, “we’ll find ’em—you see.”

We moved on cautiously, and Sam made his observations as before, but with no better success. Thus we travelled on in silence, from place to place, until I began to get weary of the sport.

“Well, Mr. Sikes,” I remarked, “I don’t see that your bad beginning to-night is likely to insure any better ending.”

“Oh, don’t git out of patience, Major—you’ll see.”

We moved on again. I had become quite weary, and fell some distance behind. Sam stopped, and when I came up, he said, in a low voice: