Читать книгу The Characteristics of American Humour - Various Authors - Страница 15

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Our old friend, Kit Kuncker, as he put us to bed on the night of a big frolic at his house, exacted a promise that we would visit him again, shortly thereafter; promising us, on his part, that he would ride all over the settlement with us; and more especially, that he would go with us to the house of Jim Kent, whose sister, Beck, was so ugly “that the flies wouldn’t light on her face,” and about whose going to mill, he assured me, there was a very pleasant story to be told.

Poor old Kit! But the other day we saw him—and how altered by the lapse of a few years! His head has become white, his figure more bent, and his laughing old face—merry still!—was furrowed with an hundred additional wrinkles. His eye, too, was dull—had lost the twinkle that used so mischievously to light up his countenance. And then, too, he walked with a staff; and when he went to mount “Fiddler Bill,” he said, “Help me, Squire,” instead of vaulting into the saddle, as of yore! “Thank you, Squire. God bless your Union heart—old Hickory and the Union for ever! I’m gittin’ old now, Squire, and can’t git about, like I used to”—the old man sighed—“Fiddler Bill is old, too—notice how gray his face is—we’re all gittin’ old—yer Aunt Hetty as well’s the rest; and, God bless yer soul, Squire,” (here the old man warmed into animation), “she’s uglier than ever—uglier than the devil—he! he! ya! ya! It’s wuth while coming, jist to take a look at her! With that old long bonnet on”—here the old fellow bent down on his horse’s neck, in a paroxysm of laughter—“he! he! hea! ya! ya! and her mouth skrootched up, ya! ya! the go-to-meetin’ way; I’ll be cust, ef she ain’t so bad to look at, it’s enuff to fotch sickness in the family! But,” he added, wiping the tears from his eyes, “Squire, I’m old now, yer Aunt Hetty’s old, and Fiddler Bill is old—all old! old! old! Ah, me!”

But we are digressing. It was of our Ride with old Kit, in 1840, that we began to write—and not of his chattering in 1849.

We went to old Kit’s house on the day appointed, at a very early hour, and found the old fellow waiting for us, with “Fiddler Bill” hitched at the gate.

“You can’t see yer Aunt Hetty, Squire,” he said, “for she’s laid up with a pain in her jaw. It’s swelled mighty bad, enny how, and makes her look so much better, ’twouldn’t be no curiosity to see her now—so we may as well ride. Another time when she’s at herself—and her ‘ugly’ out in full bloom, I’ll show her to you—he! he! yah! That bonnet o’ hern, too, hit’s some. ’Tain’t like nothin’ ever growed, except the baskets the Injin wimmin makes to tote their young ones in!” And the old rascal laughed at his wife and her bonnet, until the woods rang again.

Walking our horses leisurely along the road leading down the creek to the river, Uncle Kit, tapping his steed lightly across the neck with his switch, began, as he had promised, to tell us how he obtained him.

“You see, Squire, me and my Jim was a haulin’ a load of whiskey up from Wetumpky, in the spring of ’36, and we had a mighty dull old horse under the saddle. The like of him never was on the yeth for hard trottin’. He was powerful hard. You’ve set and watched a saw-mill gate jerk up and down, havn’t you—up and down, up and down, like it was goin’ into fits? Well, that was his motion adzactly. Ses Jim, one day, ‘daddy I’m gwine to swop ‘old Hoss’ off, fust chance I git.’ Ses I, ‘Nobody’s fool enough to give you anything better’n an old cow for him.’ Ses he, ‘You’ll see.’ Well ’twarn’t long afore we ketcht up with a traveller—it was in the piney woods ’twixt Oakfuskee and Dudleyville—walkin’ and leadin’ his horse, which was Fiddler Bill. I’ll tell you, Squire,”—old Kit raised his voice and gesticulated vehemently—“he was a horse then—none o’ your little grays—as Homer Hinds ses—but a reg’lar horse, with head and legs like a deer, a body like a barrel, and put up like a jack-screw. He wos jist risin’ four year old, fat, and hilt his head like the Queen of Sheby!

“So Jim bantered the stranger purty quick for a swap—but fust we found out he was walkin’ bekase he was afeard of his horse. He was a Norrud raised man and talked mighty proper—he said his horse was ‘very rested’—which you might see he had been layin’ by corn and fodder for some time—and had throwed him and disculpated his shoulder a’most! Then he axed us about the Injuns—this was jist afore the infernal devils began their devilment, and the thing had leaked out and was talked of, all over the country—and Jim seein’ he was afeared of them too, let on like they was mighty thick and hostile in them woods.

“ ‘Stranger,’ says he, ‘what would you do ef you was to see a red-skin peepin’ from behind that big pine yonder—and you afeared o’ your horse?’

“ ‘God only knows,’ ses the Yanky.

“ ‘Well now I’ll tell you,’ ses Jim, ‘thar’s a crittur under that saddle’—p’intin’ to ‘old Hoss’—‘that could take you outen the way like goose-grease! How’ll you trade?’

“The Yanky let on like he tho’t his horse was the most vallyble, but Jim out-talked him to deth. He praised old one, ’twell I had to go behind the wagin and laugh. Bimeby ses he, ‘ain’t that a Injun holler?’ and with that the stranger looked white, and axed Jim how he’d trade?

“ ‘You must give me ten dollars to boot,’ ses Jim.

“ ‘But my horse is the most vallyble,’ ses the Yanky.

“ ‘He ain’t half-broke,’ ses Jim, ‘and I’d be most afeard to ride him—let’s see!’

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

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

“Can’t guess,” we replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Kit was highly excited—he continued:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then I looked more pertickler, and seed how ’twas. The horse had stopped to drink, and Becky had let go the bridle, and when she tried to git it agin, the bag slipped furder over to the side she warn’t a settin’ on—so when I got thar, she had let all go but the bag, and she was a settin’ on one eend o’ that, leanin’ forward, and with her hands behind her, one to each side o’ the bag, a pullin’ agin the weight of the big eend, ’twell her face was as red as a gobbler’s snout. ’Twas a reg’lar dead strain—the weight of Beck and the little eend of the bag, agin the big eend—and, I tell you, she had to lean well forward to keep from goin’ over backwards!

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

“ ‘My honey, my love,

My turkle-dove,

Will you take it amiss,

Ef I give you a kiss?’

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

“ ‘Horraw, Becky! rise gall! I was lookin’ t’other way!’ ses I, for I knowed she was ’shamed!! I laughed, however, and she mighty nigh cussed!

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

“ ‘You’re a drotted old hog,’ ses she.

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

“Did you send him?”

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

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