TRAITS

OF

AMERICAN HUMOUR,

BY NATIVE AUTHORS.

EDITED AND ADAPTED

BY THE AUTHOR OF “SAM SLICK,”

“THE OLD JUDGE,” “THE ENGLISH IN AMERICA,” &C. &C.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

COLBURN AND CO., PUBLISHERS,

GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1852.

LONDON:

Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

PREFACE FROM VOL. I.

Most Europeans speak of America as they do of England, France, or Prussia, as one of the great countries of the world, but without reference to the fact that it covers a larger portion of the globe than all of them collectively. In like manner as the New England confederacy originally comprised the most enlightened and most powerful transatlantic provinces, and the inhabitants accidentally acquired the appellation of Yankees, so this term is very generally applied to all Americans, and is too often used as a national, instead of a provincial or a sectional soubriquet. In order to form an accurate estimate of the national humour, it is necessary to bear these two great popular errors constantly in view. The Eastern and Western, Northern and Southern States, though settled by a population speaking the same language, and enjoying the same institutions, are so distant from each other, and differ so widely in climate, soil, and productions, that they have but few features in common; while the people, from the same causes, as well as from habits, tastes, necessities, the sparseness or density of population, free soil, or slave labour, the intensity, absence, or weakness of religious enthusiasm, and many other peculiarities, are equally dissimilar.

Hence, humour has a character as local as the boundaries of these civil subdivisions.

The same diversity is observable in that of the English, Irish and Scotch, and in their mirthful sallies, the character of each race is plainly discernible.

That of the English is at once manly and hearty, and, though embellished by fancy, not exaggerated; that of the Irish, extravagant, reckless, rollicking, and kind-hearted; while that of the Scotch is sly, cold, quaint, practical, and sarcastic.

The population of the Middle States, in this particular, reminds a stranger of the English, that of the West resembles the Irish, and the Yankees bear a still stronger affinity to the Scotch. Among the Americans themselves these distinctions are not only well understood and defined, but are again subdivided so as to apply more particularly to the individual States.

Each has a droll appellation, by which the character of its yeomanry, as composed of their ability, generosity, or manliness on the one hand, and craft, economy, or ignorance of the world, on the other, is known and illustrated. Thus, there are the Hoosiers of Indiana, the Suckers of Illinois, the pukes of Missouri, the buck-eyes of Ohio, the red-horses of Kentucky, the mud-heads of Tenessee, the wolverines of Michigan, the eels of New England, and the corn-crackers of Virginia.

For the purpose of this work, however, it is perhaps sufficient merely to keep in view the two grand divisions of East and West, which, to a certain extent, may be said to embrace those spread geographically North and South, with which they insensibly blend.

Of the former, New England and its neighbours are pre-eminent. The rigid discipline and cold, gloomy tenets of the Puritans required and enforced a grave demeanour, and an absence from all public and private amusements, while a sterile and ungrateful soil demanded all the industry, and required all the energy of the people to ensure a comfortable support. Similar causes produce a like result in Scotland. Hence the striking resemblance in the humour of the two people. But though the non-conformist fathers controlled and modified the mirth of the heart, they could not repress it. Nature is more powerful than conventional regulations, and it soon indemnified itself in the indulgence of a smile for the prohibition of unseemly laughter.

Hypocrisy is short-lived:

“Vera redit facies, dissimulata peret.”

The Puritans, as one of their descendants has well observed,[^[1]] emigrated “that they might have the privilege to work and pray, to sit upon hard benches, and to listen to painful preaching as long as they would, even unto thirty seventhly, if the Spirit so willed it. They were not,” he says, “plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug.” Add two hundred years’ influence of soil, climate, and exposure, with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the present Yankee, full of expedients, half master of all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points against the old enemy, hunger, longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for what will do, with a clasp to his purse, and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build against time, as in old countries, but against sore-pressing need, accustomed to move the world with no assistants but his own two feet, and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did circumstances beget here, in the New World, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never before saw such mystic-practicalism, such niggard-geniality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron enthusiasm, such unwilling-humour, such close-fisted generosity. This new ‘Græculus esuriens’ will make a living out of anything. He will invent new trades as well as new tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he will make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan afterwards. In cœlum jusseris, ibit, or the other way either, it is all one so as anything is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like the Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull himself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has become fluent and adaptable, but more of the original groundwork of character remains.

New England was most assuredly an unpromising soil wherein to search for humour; but, fortunately, that is a hardy and prolific plant, and is to be found in some of its infinite varieties, in more or less abundance everywhere.

To the well-known appellation of Yankees, their Southern friends have added, as we have seen, in reference to their remarkable pliability, the denomination of “Eels.” Their humour is not merely original, but it is clothed in quaint language. They brought with them many words now obsolete and forgotten in England, to which they have added others derived from their intercourse with the Indians, their neighbours the French and Dutch, and their peculiar productions. Their pronunciation, perhaps, is not very dissimilar to that of their Puritan forefathers. It is not easy to convey an adequate idea of it on paper, but the following observations may render it more intelligible:

“1.[^[2]] The chief peculiarity is a drawling pronunciation, and sometimes accompanied by speaking through the nose, as eend for end, dawg for dog, Gawd for God, &c.

“2. Before the sounds ow and oo, they often insert a short i, which we will represent by the y; as kyow for cow, vyow for vow, tyoo for too, dyoo for do, &c.

“3.[^[3]] The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound to the r, when he can help it, and often displays considerable ingenuity in avoiding it, even before a vowel.

“4. He seldom sounds the final g, a piece of self-denial, if we consider his partiality for nasals. The same may be said of the final d, as han’ and stan’ for hand and stand.

“5. The h in such words as while, when, where, he omits altogether.

“6. In regard to a, he shows some inconsistency, sometimes giving a close and obscure sound, as hev for have, hendy for handy, ez for as, thet for that; and again giving it the broad sound as in father, as hansome for handsome.”

“7. Au in such words as daughter and slaughter, he pronounces ah.”

Wholly unconstrained at first by conventional usages, and almost beyond the reach of the law, the inhabitants of the West indulged, to the fullest extent, their propensity for fun, frolic, and the wild and exciting sports of the chase. Emigrants from the border States, they engrafted on the dialects of their native places exaggerations and peculiarities of their own, until they acquired almost a new language, the most remarkable feature of which is its amplification. Everything is superlative, awful, powerful, monstrous, dreadful, almighty, and all-fired. As specimens of these extravagancies four narratives of the Adventures of the celebrated Colonel Crocket are given, of which the humour consists mainly in the marvellous. As they were designed for “the million,” among whom the scenes are laid, rather than the educated class, they were found to contain many expressions unfit for the perusal of the latter, which I have deemed it proper to expunge. Other numbers in both volumes, liable to the same objection, have been subjected to similar expurgation, which, without affecting their raciness, has materially enhanced their value.

The tales of both West and South are written in the language of the rural population, which differs as much from the Yankee dialect as from that of the Cockney. The vocabulary of both is most copious. Some words owe their origin to circumstances, and local productions, and have thence been spread over the whole country, and adopted into general use; such as[^[4]] backwoods, breadstuffs, barrens, bottoms, cane-brake, cypress-brake, corn-broom, corn-shucking, clearing, deadening, diggings, dug-out, flats, husking, prairie, shingle, sawyer, salt-lick, savannah, snag.

Metaphorical and odd expressions often originated in some curious anecdote or event, which was transmitted by tradition, and soon made the property of all. Political writers and stump speakers perform a prominent part in the invention and diffusion of these phrases. Among others may be mentioned: To cave in, to acknowledge the corn, to flash in the pan, to bark up the wrong tree, to pull up stakes, to be a caution, to fizzle out, to flat out, to fix his flint, to be among the missing, to give him Jessy, to see the elephant, to fly around, to tucker out, to use up, to walk into, to mizzle, to absquatulate, to cotton, to hifer, &c.

Many have been adopted from the Indians; from corn, come, samp, hominy, and sapawn; from the manive plant, mandioca, and tapioca, and from articles peculiar to the aborigines, the words, canoe, hammock, tobacco, mocassin, pemmican, barbecue, hurricane, pow-wow.

The Spaniards have contributed their share to the general stock, as canyon, cavortin, chaparral, pistareen, rancho, vamos.

The French have also furnished many more, such as cache, calaboose, bodette, bayou, sault, levee, crevasse, habitan, charivari, portage.[^[5]]

The “Edinburgh Review,” for April, 1844, in an article on the provincialisms of the European languages, states the result of an inquiry into the number of provincial words which had then been arrested by local glossaries at 30,687.

“Admitting that several of them are synonymous, superfluous, or common to each county, there are nevertheless many of them which, although alike orthographically, are vastly dissimilar in signification. Making these allowances, they amount to a little more than 20,000; or, according to the number of English counties hitherto illustrated, to the average ratio of 1478 to a county. Calculating the twenty-six unpublished in the same ratio, (for there are supposed to be as many words collected by persons who have never published them,) they will furnish 36,428 additional provincialisms, forming in the aggregate, 59,000 words in the colloquial tongue of the lower classes, which can, for the chief part, produce proofs of legitimate origin.”

The process of coinage has been far more rapid and extensive in America than in Europe. That of words predominates in the Western, and that of phrases in the Eastern States. The chief peculiarity in the pronunciation of the Southern and Western people, is the giving of a broader sound than is proper to certain vowels; as whar for where, thar for there, bar for bear.

In the following table of words, incorrectly pronounced, such as belong to New England are designated by the letters N.E.; those exclusively Western, by the letter W.; the Southern words by S.; the rest are common to various parts of the Union. In this attempt at classification, there are, doubtless, errors and imperfections; for an emigrant from Vermont to Illinois would introduce the provincialisms of his native district, into his new residence.

Until lately, the humour of the Americans has been chiefly oral. Up to the period when the publication of the first American “Sporting Magazine” was commenced at Baltimore, in 1829, and which was immediately followed by the publication, in New York, of “The Spirit of the Times,” there existed no such class of writers in the United States, as have since that recent day, conferred such popularity on this description of literature.

The New York “Constellation,”[^[6]] was the only journal expressly devoted to wit and humour; but “The Spirit of the Times” soon became the general receptacle of all these fugitive productions. The ability with which it was conducted, and the circulation it enjoyed, induced the proprietors of other periodicals to solicit contributions similar to those which were attracting so much attention in that paper. Of the latter kind are the three articles from the pen of McClintoch, which originally appeared in the “Portland Advertiser.” The rest of the series by the same author, I have not been able to procure, as they have shared the fate of many others of no less value, that appeared in the daily press of the United States. To collect, arrange, and preserve these specimens of American humour, and present them to the British reader, in an unobjectionable shape, is the object of this compilation.

To such of the numbers contained in these volumes as I could trace the paternity, I have appended the names of the authors, and shall now conclude, by expressing to those gentlemen the very great gratification I have experienced in the perusal of their admirable sketches.

DECEMBER, 1851.

CONTENTS

OF

THE THIRD VOLUME.

TRAITS

OF

AMERICAN HUMOUR.

I.
THE THIMBLE GAME.

Forty years ago, Augusta, Ga., presented a very different appearance from the busy and beautiful city of the present day. Its groceries, stores, and extensive warehouses were few in number, and the large quantities of cotton and other produce, which are still conveyed thither, were transported entirely by waggons. The substantial railroad, which links it with the richest and most beautiful regions of the empire state of the South, was a chimera, not yet conceived in the wild brain of Fancy herself; and many of the improvements, luxuries and refinements, which now make it the second city in the state, were then “in the shell.” Yet, by the honest yeomanry of forty years ago, Augusta was looked upon as Paris and London are now viewed by us. The man who had never been there was a cipher in the community—nothing killed an opinion more surely, nothing stopped the mouth of “argyment” sooner, than the sneering taunt: “Pshaw! you ha’n’t been to Augusty.”

The atmosphere of this favoured place was supposed to impart knowledge and wisdom to all who breathed it, and the veriest ass was a Solon, and an umpire, if he could discourse fluently of the different localities, and various wonders, of Augusty.

The farmers of the surrounding country paid a yearly visit to Augusta, and having sold their “crap” of the great Southern staple, and laid in their stock of winter necessaries, returned home with something of that holy satisfaction with which the pious Mohammedan turns his face homeward from Mecca. The first step upon arriving in the city was to lay aside their “copperas-coloured,” fabrics of the wife’s or daughter’s loom, and purchase a new suit of “store-clothes.”

These were immediately donned, and upon returning home were carefully embalmed, nor again permitted to see the light until the next Sunday at “meetin’,” when the farmer, with head erect and ample shirt-collar, strutted up the aisle, the lion of the occasion, the “observed of all observers” till the next Sabbath, when his neighbour returning with his new suit, plucked off his laurels and twined them green and blooming upon the crown of his own shilling beaver.

These annual trips were the event and era of the year, and the farmer returned to his home big with importance and news. The dishonesty and shrewdness of “them Gimblit fellers,” (Cotton-Buyers,) the extortions of hotel-keepers, the singular failures of warehouse steelyards to make cotton-bales weigh as much in Augusta as at home, the elegant apparel of the city belles and beaux, and the sights and scenes which greeted their astonished gaze, formed the year’s staple of conversation and discussion; and it would be difficult to say who experienced the greater delight—the farmer in relating his wondrous adventures, or his wife and daughters in listening to them with open mouths, uplifted hands, and occasional breathless ejaculations of “Good Lord, look down!” “Oh! go away!” or, “Shut up!” “You don’t ses so!”

Early in the fall of 18–, Farmer Wilkins announced to his son Peter, that as he, “his daddy,” would be too busy to make the usual trip in propria persona, he, Peter, must get ready to go down to Augusty, and sell the “first load.” Now Peter Wilkins, jun., a young man just grown, was one of the celebrities of which his settlement (neighbourhood) boasted. He was supposed to have cut his eye-teeth—to have shaken off that verdancy so common to young men; and while he filled up more than half his father’s capacious heart, to the discomfiture of Mahaly (his mother), and Suke and Poll (his sisters), he was the pet and darling of the whole neighbourhood. An only son, the old man doted upon him as a chip of the old block, and was confident that Peter, in any emergency of trade, traffic, or otherwise, would display that admirable tact, and that attentive consideration for “No. One,” for which Mr. P. Wilkins, sen., was noted. A horse-swap with a Yankee, in which Peter, after half an hour’s higgling, found himself the undisputed owner of both horses and ten dollars boot, was the corner-stone of his fame. Every trip to Augusta added another block; and by the time Peter arrived at the years of discretion, he stood upon a lofty structure with all the green rubbed off, the pride of his family and the universal favourite of his acquaintances.

The night before his departure the family were all gathered around the roaring fire, Mrs. and the Misses Wilkins engaged in ironing and mending our hero’s Sunday apparel, the old man smoking his pipe, and occasionally preparing Peter for the ordeal in Augusta, by wholesome advice, or testing his claim to the tremendous confidence about to be reposed in him, by searching questions, as to how he would do in case so-and-so was to turn up. To this counsel, however, our hero paid less attention than to the preparations making around him for his comely appearance in the city. Nor, until he got upon the road, did he revolve in his mind the numerous directions of his father, or resolve to follow to the letter his solemn parting injunction to “bewar of them gimblit fellers down to Augusty.”

“Durn it,” said he to himself, as the thought of being “sold” crossed his mind, “durn it, they’ll never make gourds out o’ me. I’ve bin to Augusty before, and ef I don’t git as much fur that thur cotton as anybody else does for thurn, then my name ain’t Peter Wilkins, and that’s what the old ’oman’s slam book says it is.”

Arrived in the city, he drove around to one of the warehouses, and stood against the brick wall, awaiting a purchaser. Presently a little man with a long gimblet in his hand came out, and bade our hero a polite “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” said Peter, with admirable coolness, as he deliberately surveyed the little man from head to foot, and withdrew his eyes as if not pleased with his appearance.

The little man was dressed in the “shabby-genteel” style, a costume much in vogue at that day among men of his cloth, as combining plainness enough for the country-folk, with sufficient gentility to keep them on speaking terms with the more fashionable denizens of the then metropolis. The little man seemed in no way disconcerted by Peter’s searching gaze, and a close observer might have perceived a slight smile on his lip, as he read the thoughts of our hero’s bosom. His self-confidence, his pride, his affected ease and knowing air, were all comprehended, and ere a word had passed the lion knew well the character of his prey. In the purchase of the cotton, however, the little man sought no advantage, and even offered our hero a better price than any one else in the city would have given him. To our hero’s credit, be it said, he was not loth to accept the offer; 15 1/2 cents was above the market, by at least a quarter, and the old man had told him to let it slide at fifteen rather than not sell, so the bargain was closed, and our hero and the “Gimblit-man” went out into the yard to settle.

Seating himself on a cotton-bale, the buyer counted out the money, which our hero made safe in his pocket, after seeing that it was “giniwine,” and tallied with the amount stated in the bill of sale. A few sweet pills of flattery administered to our hero, soon made him and the Gimblit-man sworn friends; and it was in consideration of his high regard, that the Gimblit-man consented to initiate him into the mysteries of a certain game, yclept “Thimble Rig,” a game which, our hero was told, would yield him much sport, if successfully played up at home among the boys; and would, when properly managed, be to him a never-failing source of that desirable article, “pocket-change.” To this proposition our hero readily assented, delighted with the idea of playing off upon the boys up at home, who hadn’t been to Augusty; and already began to revel in the visions of full pockets, when, to his silent horror, the little man took from his pocket a hundred-dollar bill, and very irreverently rolled it into a small round ball.

Three thimbles were next produced, and the game began.

“Now,” said the little man, “I am going to hide this little ball under one of these thimbles, all before your eyes, and I want you to guess where it is.”

“Well,” said Peter, “go it—I’m ready,” and the shifting game begun.

To the apparent astonishment of the little man, our hero guessed right every time. No matter how rapid the changes, Peter invariably lifted the thimble from the ball, and had begun to grow disgusted with the game, little dreaming how soon he was to prove its efficacy as a source of revenue, when the little man suddenly checked his hand.

“Wrong,” said he, with a friendly smile; “the ball is not under the middle thimble, but under that next you.”

“Darned ef it is though!” responded Peter; “I ain’t as green as you ’Gusty folks thinks. Blamed ef I don’t know whar that ball is jist as well as you does, and dod-drapped ef I don’t bet four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents (the price of the cotton) agin the load o’ cotton, that it’s under the middle thimble.”

“No, Sir,” said the little man, with another smile, “you are wrong, and I’d hate to win your money.”

That smile deceived Peter—it manifested a friendly consideration for his welfare, which he felt he did not need, and after bullying the “Gimblit-man” for a few minutes, he succeeded in inveigling him (as he thought) into a bet, which was duly closed and sealed, to the entire satisfaction of his friend! Alas for poor Peter! he had awakened the wrong passenger. But the idea of being too smart for an Augusty feller, and he was sure he had cornered one this time, was too great a temptation for him to withstand.

“Drot it,” said he to himself, “I seen him put it under that ere middle thimble, I seen it myself, and I know it’s thar, and why not win the old man’s cotton back when it’s jest as easy as nothin’? And ef I do win it, why in course the old man can’t claim more’n four hundred and fifty-one dollars no how.” (Peter forgot that the profits to be realized ought of course to belong to the owner of the capital invested.) “The time me and that Yankee swapped critters, warn’t I thar? Hain’t I cut my gums? Don’t the old man, yes, and all the settlement, say I’m smart, and then thar’s Kitty Brown, I reckon she ort to know, and don’t she say I’m the peertest feller in our parts? I’ve bin to Augusty, and this time, dod-drapped ef I don’t leave my mark.”

The result we need hardly relate. Peter was tempted—tempted sorely, and he fell. Sick at heart, he ordered Bob, the driver, to turn his mules homeward, and late on Saturday evening he entered the lane which led to his father’s house. The blow was now to come; and some time before the waggon got to the house, Peter saw his father, and mother, and sisters coming out to meet him. At last they met.

“Well, son,” said the old man, “I s’pose you’ve been well?”

Here Mrs. Wilkins and the gals commenced hugging and kissing Peter, which he took very coldly, and with the air of a man who felt he was getting a favour which he didn’t deserve.

“Reasonably well,” said Peter, in reply to his father’s question; “but I’ve lost it.”

“Lost what?” said his father.

“Lost it.”

“Lost the dockyments?” said the old man.

“No, here they are,” said Peter, handing the papers containing the weights of his cotton, to his father, who began to read, partly aloud, and partly to himself:

“ ‘Eight bags of cotton—350—400—348—550—317—15½ cents a pound—sold to Jonathan Barker.’ Very good sale,” said he; “I knowed you’d fix things rite, Peter.”

The waggon by this time had reached the house, and turning to Bob, the old man told him to put the molasses in the cellar, and the sugar and coffee in the house.

“Ain’t got no ’lasses, Massa,” said Bob, grinning from ear to ear.

“No,” said Peter, “we havn’t got none; we lost it.”

“Lost it! How on airth could you lose a barrel of molasses?”

“We never had it,” said Bob.

“Heavens and airth!” said the old man, turning first to Bob, and then to Peter, “what do you mean? What do you mean? What, what, w-h-a-t in the d-e-v-i-l do you mean?”

“Gracious, Marster! Mr. Wilkins, don’t swar, so,” said his wife, by way of helping Peter out.

“Swar!” said the farmer, “do you call that swarring? Darned ef I don’t say wussin that d’recley, ef they don’t tell me what they mean.”

“Why, father,” said Peter, “I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the money.”

“Well, and couldn’t you find it?”

“I didn’t lose it that way,” said Peter.

“You ain’t been a gamblin’ I hopes,” said the old man; “you ain’t been runnin’ agin none of them Pharo banks down to Augusty, is you?”

“Bring me three thimbles,” said Peter, “and I’ll show you how I lost it.”

The thimbles were brought, and Peter sat down to explain. It was a scene for a painter: there sat our hero, fumbling with the thimbles and the ball, but too much frightened to have performed the trick if he had known how; his father sat next him, with his chin upon his hands, looking as if undecided whether to reprimand him at once, or to give him a “fair showin’.” Mrs. Wilkins stood just behind her husband, winking and smiling, gesturing and hemming, in order to attract Peter’s attention, and indicate to him her willingness to stand between him and his father. The girls, who always sided with their mother, followed her example in this case. But their efforts to attract his attention were useless; they could not even catch his eye, so busy was he in trying to arrange the ball and thimbles; but every time he got them fixed, and told his father to guess, the old man would guess right, which, while it astonished Peter, incensed the old man against him. It looked so easy to him, that he could not help “blaming Pete fur bein’ sich a fool.”

“Shorely,” said the farmer, after Peter had finished his explanation—“shorely it ain’t possible that you’ve bin to Augusty so often, and didn’t know no better. Didn’t I tell you not to have nothin’ to do with them Gimblit Fellers? Ther ain’t one of ’em honest, not one. Like a fool, you’ve gone and lost jest four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents. It ain’t the munny that I keers for, Peter, it’s you bein’ sich a fool—four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents. I’ll go rite down to Augusty next Monday, and find this here Barker, and ef he don’t give up the munny, I’ll have a say so (ca. sa.) taken agin him, and march him rite off to gaol—no deaf-allication about that. The theavin’ rascal, gwine about cheetin’ people’s sons outin four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents? How often is you bin to Augusty, Peter?”

“Sixteen times,” said Peter.

“Well, I declare,” said the old man; “bin to Augusty sixteen times, and didn’t know no better than to go thar agin and lose four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents!”

Early on Monday morning the old man started to Augusta with another load of cotton; Bob driving as before, and his master riding his gray mare “Bets.” Mr. Wilkins had a great many little commissions to execute for his wife and the gals. The old lady wanted a pair of spectacles, and the gals a bonnet each—ribbons and flowers, thread, buttons, &c., had to be purchased, and the good farmer was nearly crazed by the loss he had met with, and the multiplicity of things to be attended to. Ever and anon, as he trotted along the road, he would mutter to himself something as follows:

“Leghorn bonnet for Sal—12 skeins of flax thread—2 dozen pearl buttons for pants—one gross horn buttons for shirts—5 grass petticoats—100 pounds coffee—451 dollars no cents—Jonathan Barker—bin to Augusty sixteen times—1 bolt kaliker—Pete’s a fool—lost one barrel of molasses and 451 dollars no cents.”

With such words as these he would while away the time, apparently unconscious of the presence of Bob, who was much diverted by his master’s soliloquy. As they approached Augusta, his wrath seemed to increase, and he vented his spleen on his old mare and Bob.

“Bob,” said he, “you dad-dratted rascal, why don’t you drive up? you don’t do nothin’ but set thar and sleep.

“Take that, and that, and that,” he would say to his mare, accompanying each word with a blow; “git up, Miss, and go long to Augusty.”

When they had come in sight of Augusta, Bob struck a camp, and his master rode on into town. Having eaten his supper, and put up his horse, he retired for the night, and early in the morning started out to look for Jonathan Barker. He caused not a little laughter as he walked along the streets, relating his troubles, and inquiring of everybody for Jonathan Barker.

“Where’s Jonathan Barker,” he would cry out, “the Gimblit Feller what cheeted Pete out’n 451 dollars no cents. Jes show me Jonathan Barker.”

As a last hope, he went around to the warehouse, where his son had lost the cotton. Walking out into the yard, he bawled out the name of Jonathan Barker. A little man, with a long gimlet in his hand, answered to the name, and our farmer attacked him as follows:

“Look a here, Mr. Barker, I wants that money.”

“What money?” said Barker, who had no acquaintance whatever with the farmer; “what money is it, Sir?”

“Oh no,” said the old man, perfectly furious at such barefaced assurance. “Oh no! you don’t know nuthin’ now. Blame your picter, you’re as innersent as a lam’. Don’t know what munny I meen? It’s that four hundred and fifty-one dollars, and no cents, what you cheeted Pete out’n.”

“I recollect now,” said Barker, “that was fairly done, Sir; if you’ll just step this way, I’ll show you how I got it, Sir.”

A bright idea struck the old man.

“I’ve seen Pete play it,” thought he to himself, “and I guessed rite every time.

“Well,” said he, “I’ll go and see how it was dun, ennyhow.”

The two walked along to the same bale of cotton which had witnessed the game before, and the gimlet man took the identical thimbles and ball which had served him before, from his pocket, and sat down, requesting the farmer to be seated also.

“Now, Sir,” said Barker, “when your son was here, I bought his cotton, and paid him for it: just as he was going away, I proposed showing him a trick worth seeing. I took this little ball, and put it under this middle thimble.

“ ‘Now,’ said I to him, ‘you see it, and now you don’t see it; and I’ll bet you you can’t tell where the little joker is.’ ”

“Well,” said the farmer, “all’s rite—the ball’s now under the middle thimble.”

“When I had put it under there,” continued Barker, “your son wanted to bet me that it was under the middle thimble.”

“So it is,” said the old man, interrupting him.

“No,” returned Barker, “it’s under the one next you.”

“I tell you it ain’t,” said Mr. Wilkins, who strongly advocated the doctrine that “seeing is believing.”

He was sure he was right, and now a chance presented itself of regaining his former load of cotton.

“I tell you it ain’t. I’m harder to head than Pete wus, and blamed ef I don’t bet another load o’ cotton, that’s at the dore by this time.”

“You are mistaken,” said Barker, smiling; “but if you wish it, I’ll bet.”

“Let’s understand one nuther fust,” said the farmer. “You say that ere little ball you had jes now, ain’t under the little thimble in the middle—I say it is. Ef it ain’t, I’m to give you the load o’ cotton—ef it is, you’re to give me four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents.”

“Exactly so,” said Barker.

“Well, I’ll bet,” said the farmer, “and here’s my hand.”

The bet was sealed, and with a triumphant air which he but poorly concealed, the farmer snatched up the middle thimble, but no ball was there.

“Well, I’ll be dod drapt!” he exclaimed, at the same time drawing a long breath, and dropping the thimble. “Derned ef it’s thar! Four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents gone agin! Heven and airth, what’ll Mahaly and the gals say! I’ll never heer the eend of it tel I’m in my grave. Then thar’s Pete! Gee-mi-my! jest to think o’ Pete—fur him to know his ole daddy wus made a fool of too! four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents! but I wouldn’t keer that for it,” snapping his fingers, “ef it wern’t fur Pete.”

The Gimblit man reminded our friend of the result of his bet, by telling him that the sooner he unloaded the better.

“Now you ain’t, shore ’nuff, in yearnest,” said the old man.

“Dead earnest,” returned Barker.

“Well, stranger,” added our friend, “I’se a honest man, and stands squar up to my contracts.”

With this he had his cargo discharged into the street, and ordering Bob to drive on, he mounted his mare, and set out for home with a heavier heart than he had ever known before. ’Twere useless to attempt a description of the scene which transpired on the farmer’s return home. The first words he uttered were, “Pete, durned ef I hain’t lost it too.” The misfortunes of his trip were soon all told, after which Peter and his father wisely resolved never to bet on anything again, especially “them blamed Yankee Thimbles.”

It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Wilkins, Pete, or the gals, could help teasing the old man occasionally on the result of his trip. Whenever he became refractory, his wife would stick her thimble on the end on her finger, and hold it up for him to look at—it acted like a charm. His misadventure, too, raised higher than ever his opinion of the cunning and sagacity of “them Augusty fellers!”

A few years succeeding the events which we have attempted to narrate, and Farmer Wilkins was gathered to his fathers; but his trip to Augusta is still preserved as a warning to all honest and simple-hearted people. The last words of the old man to his son were:

“Peter, Peter, my son, always be honest, never forgit your ole daddy, and allers bewar of them Gimblit fellers, down to Augusty.”

Reader! every tale has its moral, nor is ours without one. Not only did Peter learn from his adventure in Augusta, the evils of betting, but ever since the time to which we have alluded, he always allows his factor to sell his cotton for him. Whatever you may think of it, both Peter and his father came to the conclusion that there was “no use in tryin’ to git the upper hand of one o’ them Gimblet fellers down to Augusty.”

II.
MIKE HOOTER’S BAR STORY.
A YAZOO SKETCH.
SHOWING HOW THE BEAR OUTWITTED IKE HAMBERLIN.
BY A MISSOURIAN.

“It’s no use talkin’,” said Mike, “ ’bout your Polar Bar, and your Grisly Bar, and all that sort er varmont what you read about. They ain’t no whar, for the big black customer that circumlocutes down in our neck o’ woods beats ’em all hollow. I’ve heard of some monsus explites kicked up by the brown bars, sich as totein off a yoke o’ oxen, and eatin’ humans raw, and all that kind o’ thing; and Capten Parry tells us a yarn ’bout a big white bar, what ’muses hisself climin’ up the North Pole and slides down to keep his hide warm; but all that ain’t a circumstance to what I’ve saw.

“You see,” continued Mike, “there’s no countin’ on them varmonts as I’s been usened to, for they comes as near bein’ human critters as anything I ever see what doesn’t talk. Why, if you was to hear anybody else tell ’bout the bar-fights I’ve had, you wouldn’t b’leeve ’em, and if I wasn’t a preacher, and could not lie none, I’d keep my fly-trap shot ’till the day of judgment.

“I’ve heard folks say as how bars cannot think like other human critters, and that they does all the sly tricks what they does, from instink. Golly! what a lie! You tell me one of ’em don’t know when you’ve got a gun, and when you ain’t? Just wait a minit, an’ my privit ’pinion is, when you’ve hearn me thro’ you’ll talk t’other side of your mouth.

“You see, one day, long time ago, ’fore britches come in fashion, I made a ’pointment with Ike Hamberlin the steam doctor, to go out next Sunday to seek whom we couldn’t kill, a bar, for you know bacon was skace, and so was money, and them fellers down in Mechanicsburg wouldn’t sell on tick, so we had to ’pend on the varmints for a livin’.

“Speakin’ of Mechanicsburg, the people down in that ar mud-hole ain’t to be beat nowhere this side o’ Christmas. I’ve hearn o’ mean folks in my time, an’ I’ve preached ’bout ’em a few; but ever sense that feller, Bonnel, sold me a pint of red eye-whiskey—an’ half ov it backer juice—for a ’coon-skin, an’ then guv me a brass picayune fur change, I’ve stopped talkin’. Why, that chap was closer than the bark on a hickory tree; an’ ef I hadn’t hearn Parson Dilly say so, I’d ov swore it wasn’t er fact, he was cotch one day stealin’ acorns from a blind hog. Did you ever hear how that hossfly died? Well, never mind. It was too bad to talk ’bout, but heap too good for him.

“But that ain’t what I was spoutin’ ’bout. As I was sayin’ afore, we had to ’pend on the varmints fur a livin’. Well, Ike Hamberlin, you see, was always sorter jubous o’ me, kase I kilt more bar nor he did; an’, as I was sayin’, I made a ’pointment with Ike to go out huntin’. Then, Ike, he thought he’d be kinder smart, and beat ‘Old Preach’ (as them Cole boys usen to call me), so, as soon as day crack he hollered up his puppies, an’ put! I spied what he was ’bout, fur I hearn him laffin’ to one o’ his niggers ’bout it the night afore—so, I told my gal Sal to fill my private tickler full o’ the old ‘raw,’ and then fixed up an’ tramped on arter him, but didn’t take none o’ my dogs.

“Ike hadn’t got fur into the cane, ’fore the dogs they ’gan to whine an’ turn up the har on ther backs; an’, bimeby, they all tucked tail, an’ sorter sidled back to war he was stanin’. ‘Sick him!’ says Ike, but the cussed critters wouldn’t hunt a lick. I soon diskivered what was the matter, for I kalkilated them curs o’ hisn wasn’t worth shucks in a bar fight—so, I know’d thar was bar ’bout, if I didn’t see no sine.

“Well, Ike he coaxed the dogs, an’ the more he coaxed the more they wouldn’t go, an’ when he found coaxin’ wouldn’t do, then he scolded and called ’em some of the hardest names ever you hearn, but the tarnation critters wouldn’t budge a peg.

“When he found they wouldn’t hunt no how he could fix it, he begin a cussin’. He didn’t know I was thar. If he had er suspicioned it, he’d no more swore than he’d dar’d to kiss my Sal on er washin’ day; for you see both on us belonged to the same church, and Ike was class-leader. I thought I should er flummuxed! The dogs they sidled back, an’ Ike he cussed; an’ I lay down an’ rolled an’ laughed sorter easy to myself, ’til I was so full I thort I should er bust my biler. I never see ennything so funny in all my life! There was I layin’ down behind er log, fit to split, an’ there was the dogs with their tails the wrong eend down, and there was Ike a rarin’ an’ er pitchin’—er rippin’ an’ er tarrin’—an’ er cussin’ wus nor a steamboat cap’n! I tell you it fairly made my har stan’ on eend. I never see er customer so riled afore in all my born days. Yes I did too, once—only once. It was that feller Arch Coony, what used to oversee for old Ben Roach. Didn’t you know that ar’ hossfly? He’s a few! well he is. Jewhilliken, how he could whip er nigger! and swar! whew! Didn’t you ever hear him swar? I tell you, all the sailors and French parrots in Orleans ain’t a patchin’ to him. I hearn him let hisself out one day, and he was a caution to sinners, an’ what was wus, it was all ’bout nothin’, for he warn’t mad a wrinkle. But all that ain’t neither here nor thar.

“But, as I was sayin’ afore, the dogs they smelt bar sine, an’ wouldn’t budge a peg, an arter Ike had almost cussed the bark off’n a dogwood saplin’ by, he lent his old flint-lock rifle up agin it, and then he pealed off his old blanket an’ laid her down, too. I diskivered mischief was er cumin’, for I never see a critter show rathy like he did. Torectly I see him walk down to the creek bottom, ’bout fifty yards from where his gun was, and then he ’gin pickin’ up rocks an’ slingin’ um at the dogs like bringer! Cracky! didn’t he linkit into um? It minded me of David whalin’ Goliath, it did! If you’d er seed him, and hearn them holler, you’d er thought he’d er knocked the nigh sites off’n every mother’s son of ’em!

“But that ain’t the fun yet. While Ike was er lammin’ the dogs, I hearn the allfiredest crackin’ in the cane, an’ I looked up, and thar was one of the eternalist whollopin’ bars cummin’ crack, crack, through the cane an’ kerslosh over the creek, and stopped right plumb slap up whar Ike’s gun was. Torectly he tuck hold er the ole shooter, an’ I thought I see him tinkerin’ ’bout the lock, an’ kinder whistlin’, and blowin’ into it. I was ’stonished, I tell you, but I wanted to see Ike outdone so bad that I lay low and kep’ dark, an’ in about a minit Ike got done lickin’ the dogs, an’ went to git his gun. Jeemeny, criminy! if you’d only been whar I was! I do think Ike was the maddest man that ever stuk an axe into a tree, for his har stuck rite strait up, and his eyes glared like two dogwood blossoms! But the bar didn’t seem to care shucks for him, for he jist sot the old rifle rite back agin the saplin’, and walked off on his hind legs jist like any human. Then, you see, I gin to git sorter jelus, and sez I to myself, ‘Mister Bar,’ sez I, ‘the place whar you’s er stanin’ ain’t prezactly healthy, an’ if you don’t wabble off from thar purty soon, Mizis Bar will be a widder, by gum!’ With that, Ike grabbed up ole Mizis Rifle, and tuk most pertickler aim at him, and by hokey, she snapped! Now, sez I, ‘Mister Bar, go it, or he’ll make bacon of you!’ But the varmint didn’t wink, but stood still as a post, with the thumb of his right paw on the eend of his smeller, and wiglin’ his t’other finger thus,” (and Mike went through with the gyration). “All this time Ike he stood thar like a fool, er snappin’ and her snappin’, an’ the bar he lookin’ kinder quare like, out er the corner o’ his eye, an’ sorter laffin’ at him. Torectly I see Ike take down the ole shooter, an’ kinder kersamine the lock, an’ when he done that, he laid her on his shoulder, and shook his fist at the bar, and walked toward home, an’ the bar he shuk his fist, an’ went into the cane brake, and then I cum off.”

Here all the Yazoo boys expressed great anxiety to know the reason why Ike’s gun didn’t fire.

“Let’s licker fust,” said Mik, “an’ if you don’t caterpillar, you can shoot me. Why, you see,” concluded he, “the long and short of it is this, that the bar in our neck o’ woods has a little human in um, and this feller know’d as much about a gun as I do ’bout preachin’; so when Ike was lickin’ the dogs, he jest blowed all the powder outen the pan, an’ to make all safe, he tuk the flint out too, and that’s the way he warn’t skeered when Ike was snappin’ at him.”

III.
COUSIN GUSS.[^[7]]

“Well, how de dew? I’m right glad to see you, I swow. I rather guess I can say suthin’ about the Revolution business, purty good varsion, tew, by jingo. My father, old Josh Addams, had his fist in it: any on you know him? Old Josh Addams, as well known as the Schuylkill water-works. He was born in Boston: he didn’t die there, ’cause he died in Philadelphia. He used to wear an old genuine ’76 coat, little cut down to suit the fashion, made it a razee. One might have known the old man a mile off. If it hadn’t been for Cousin Guss, he’d have been livin’ to this ere day. You may see Guss in Chestnut Street—any of you know him?—dressed like a peacock, and got whiskers big enough to stuff a sofa bottom. He went down t’other day to see the wild beasts in 5th street; jest as he was comin’ away, he met a hull squad of little children a comin’ in: when they saw Cousin Guss, if they didn’t squeal like ten thousand devils. The old man says, what’s the matter, young ones? Oh dear, papa, see, they’ve let one of the monkeys loose. Cousin Guss didn’t show his face in Chestnut Street for a week. Guss telled the old man he must have his coat cut again, and altered to the fashion; so he coaxed old Josh to let him take it down to his artist, as he called him, down in 3rd street. Well, the good-natured old critter said he might: when he got it back, sich a lookin’ thing as it was, you might have fallen down and worshipped it, without breaking the ten commandments. When we saw it, we all larfed; sister Jedide, she snickered right out. The old man looked at it for about a minute, didn’t say a word, by jingo—the tears rolled out of his eyes as big as hail-stones. He jest folded it up, put it under his pillow, laid himself down on the bed, and never got up again: it broke his heart: he died from a curtailed coat.

“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.’ ”

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.

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.