Mary ses she’s sorry she couldn’t send you no more cake, but Mr. Mountgomery’s saddle-bags wouldn’t hold half she rapped up for you. Don’t forgit to put our marriage in the Miscellany. No more from
Your frend, ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
LETTER VIII.
Pineville, March 28th, 1843.
Dear Sir,
I really owe you a apology for not writin’ to you so long; but the fact is, I’ve been too happy ever sense I was married, to think about writin’ or ennything else much. Besides I use to have time to write nites; but now my time is tuck up with so many things, receivin’ cumpany and payin’ visits, and goin’ to quiltens and partys of one kind another, that I haint no time for nothing; and as for writin’ letters, when my wife’s all the time lookin’ over my shoulder, pullin’ my ears, and tickelen me, and disputin’ bout my spellin’, it aint no kind of use to try. She’s gone over to mother’s this afternoon with her sisters, and her mother’s out in the gardin, lookin’ if the frost is killed the peas, so I thought I’d rite you a few lines jest to let you know how we was all cumin’ on.
We’s all pretty well, ’cept the old woman, who’s been in a monstrous flustration ’bout the comet, and the yeathquakes, and the harrycanes, and snowstorms, and sich things, for more’n a month, and I’ve had a most bominable sore throat, which I got lookin’ at the comet jest to please her; but Mary soon cured that with some sage tea and turpentime. I’m livin’ with Mary’s mother for the present; but that makes mother monstrous jealous, and to satisfy both the old wimin, Mary and me is gwine to housekeepin’ next fall to ourselves.
I don’t know what to make of the weather—the months is eather got mixed up and January’s swapped places with March this time, or that bominable grate big comet is got ’tween our yeath and the sun, and is soakin’ all the sunshine up in its everlastin’ big tail, which the newspapers say is more’n two thousand miles long. We planted sum corn most a month ago, but it’s all rotten or froze to deth; and if the weather don’t get no better I don’t know when we’ll plant enny more; and if cotton’s gwine clean down to nothing, I don’t mean to put a sead in the ground this year.
Old Miss Stallins reads the Bibel most all the time, and ses she’s jest as sure as she wants to be that sumthing’s gwine to turn up. She ses that comet’s sent to let us know the judgment day’s a cumin’, and these yeathquakes and harrycanes is signs that it ain’t far off. She’s all the time lookin’ out, and she’s got a grate big cow-bell fixed rite by her bed, so the least tetch will make it ring, so she can tell when the yeath-quake cums next time. T’other nite old Sooky, the cook, who’s ’bout as big as a cow, slipped up in the snow on the porch, and shuck the whole house and made the bell ring. The old woman jumped out of bed and lit a candle in a minit, and had us all up with her hollerin’ about the yeath-quake; and last nite, when it lightened so, I thought she’d die shore enuff. She sed t’other eend of the world was a fire, and we’d all be burnt into cracklins afore mornin—she shouted and clapped her hands, and prayed, and bid good-by to us all; and I do b’lieve if it hadn’t thundered as soon and as loud as it did, she would’ve kick’d the bucket shore enuff. Jest hearin’ so much about that dratted old Miller, has played the wild with the old woman’s senses. It’s a grate pity ther ain’t sum way to stop that old feller’s goins on. He ought to be put in the penetentiary for tryin’ to make people b’lieve he’s sich a monstrous sight smarter than the Lord ever intended him to be, that he can tell when the world’s gwine to cum to a eend. The Bibel ses that thing was to be kep a grate secret and nobody in heaven or yeath should know anything about it. Well, ain’t it most oudacious insurance, then, for him to cum and say he’s found it out—that he knows all about it? And if he did know it, he ought to have principle and good breedin’ enuff not to go and blab it all about, jest to scare fokes to deth. He ought to be brought to the eend of a rope jest for his meanness.
For my part I hain’t no notion of the world bustin’ up yit, though things does look kind of skeery jest now. It would jest be my luck if sum ’bominable thing like a war or a coleramorbus, or a starvation was to cum along now that I’ve got the hansomest and smartest gall in Georgia for a wife. They say ther is no sich thing as cumplete happiness on this yeath, and that makes me think so more, for nothing short of sum monstrous grate calamity could rumple my feathers now. But I do hope it will all blow over. I do b’lieve Mary grows hansomer every day, and if things could stay jest as they is now, I’d like to live ’til I was old enuff to be grandaddy to Methusla. But it’s time I was gwine over to mother’s to bring her home. So no more from
Your frend, ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
LETTER IX.
Pineville, June 19th, 1843.
Dear Sir,
Everything’s went on pretty smooth sense I writ my last letter to you. Mary soon got over her skare, but the way she’s mad at Cousin Pete won’t wear off in a coon’s age. She ses he musent never put his foot in our house, if he don’t want to get his old red whiskers scalded off his fool face. She ses she always thought Pete hadsome sense, but now, she ses, she don’t know whether he’s a bigger rascal than he is a fool.
Wimmin’s monstrous curious critters, now ’tween you and me, and it takes more hed than I’ve got to manage ’em without some diffikilties now and then. It seems to me Mary’s gittin’ curiouser every day. I don’t know what upon yeath to make of her sometimes, she acts so quar. Lord knows, I does everything in my power to please her—I gits everything she wants—I always lets her have her own way in everything, and I stays home with her more’n half my time—but every now and then she takes a cryin’ spell, jest for nothin’. Now, I’ll jest tell you one little circumstance, jest to let you see how curious she does do me sometimes.
Two or three months ago little Sally Rogers gin her one of the leetlest dogs I reckon you ever did see. It’s a little white curly thing ’bout as big as my fist, with little red eyes and a little bushy tail screwed rite over its back so tite that it can’t hardly touch its hind legs to the floor, and when it barks it’s got a little sharp voice that goes rite through a body’s hed like a cotton gimblet. Well, Mary and the galls is all the time washin’ and comin’, and fixin’ it off with ribbons on its neck and tail, and nursin’ it in ther laps till they’ve got the dratted thing so sasy that ther ain’t no gittin’ along with it.
Whenever I go ’bout Mary it’s a snarlin’ and snappin’ at me, and when ennybody comes in the house, it flies at ’em like it was gwine to tare ’em all to pieces, and makes more racket than all the dogs on the place. It’s bit my fingers two or three times, and if I jest tetch it, it’ll squall out like its back was broke, and run rite to the wimmin and git under ther chairs, and then the very old harry’s to pay.
If ever I say anything about it, then they all say I’m “jealous of poor little Tip,” and that I ought to be ashamed of myself to be mad at “the dear little feller.” Well, I always laugh it off the best way I can, but I reckon I’ve wished some rat would catch “poor little Tip” more’n a thousand times, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was to be tuck suddenly sick and die some of these days, ’thout enybody knowing the cause. But I jest want to tell a instance of the devilment he kicks up sometimes.
Last night we was all settin’ in the parlour—the galls was sowin’, and Mary and me was playin’ a game of drafts, and I was jest about to pen her with three kings, when one of the checks happened to drap off the board rite down by Mary’s foot. I stooped over to pick it up, when the fust thing I knowd, snap the little devil of a dog tuck me rite by the finger, and then set up a terrible barkin’ and run rite behind Mary’s foot.
I never wanted to hit nothin’ so bad in my life, and I leaned over to tap him on the head, but Mary put her little foot out before him, and I missed Tip’s nose about an inch, and he snapped agin. I leaned over further and further, and tried to hit him, but Mary’s foot was always in the way every time, and the last time when I was reachin’ jest as fur as I could, and her foot was in the way, and the little cus was squealin’ and snappin’ as hard as he could, I got sort o’ out of patience tryin’ to hit him, and ses I:
“Don’tput your foot in the way!”
Jest then down went the “History of England” and all the checks on the floor, and Tip run under Mary’s chair, clear out of sight, squallin’ like he was killed, when ther wasn’t a hair of him tetched. When I ris up my face was a little red, and I would gin a five dollar bill jest to tramp that infernal dog out of his hide. Well, what do you think? the fust thing I knowed Mary was a cryin’ like her hart was gwine to brake.
“Why,” ses I, “Mary, what’s the matter with you? I didn’t touch Tip.”
She didn’t say nothing but jest went on cryin’ worse and worse, and told Miss Carline to hand her the colone water; and ther she sot and cried and snuffed the colone and sighed, and nobody didn’t know what the matter was.
“Why, Mary,” ses I, “what upon yeath ails you? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Y-e-s, you-oo-did. I-didn’t-think-you-oo-would-speak-so to-oo me, Joseph. I didn’t think you’d git mad at me-e-e, so I didn’t.”
“Why, lord bless your dear soul, I ain’t mad at you, Mary!” ses I, “what makes you think I could git mad at you?”
“ ’Cause I didn’t want you to hurt poor little Tip—poor little feller, he didn’t know no better.”
“But, Mary, I wasn’t mad at you at all,” ses I, “what makes you think so?”
“ ’Cause you never saiddon’tso cross to me before—you said it jest as cross as you could.”
“But I wasn’t mad, honey—it was reachin’ over so fur made me speak sort o’ quick,” ses I, “I never was mad at you in my life.”
But in spite of all I could say or do I couldn’t git her in a good humour the whole evenin’, jest ’cause I said “don’t” to her when she kep’ puttin’ her foot in my way. It’s all over now, but I dasn’t look sideways at Tip for fear he’ll kick up another fuss. It’s monstrous curious. I know Mary loves me, and ther ain’t a sweeter tempered nor a better gall in Georgia, but they all have such curious ways sometimes. Old Miss Stallins say it’s always so at first, but she ses Mary’ll git over all them little childish notions one of these days. Ther’s one thing certain, I wish ther was no little dogs in our family.
I never was so supprised in my life as when I heard ’bout them oudacious bank robbers. I think they better alter the law about jurys, so that when they want to try criminal cases hereafter, they can jest send to the Penitentiary and git twelve fellers at once to come and be jurymen. They’d answer the purpose jest as well, and then honest men wouldn’t be put to no trouble to go to court jest to be objected to by the lawyers on account of ther good charaters. Besides it’s a insult to a decent man to be put on a jury now, in a criminal case.
Ther was a trial in our county not long ago of a feller what had killed a man and robbed him of a heap of money. Ther was lots of lawyers here in his favour, and when they come to pick out the jury ther was hardly twelve men in the county that the lawyers thought mean enough to set on the case. They was two days a gittin’ a jury, and every time they called up a decent lookin’ man, the prisoner’s lawyers would look at him and say, “give him the book,” and if he sed he hadn’t formed and expressed no opinion as to the gilt of the prisoner, (which most every man that cared anything about law or justice had done,) they’d look at him close, and then whisper to one another, and if they hadn’t never heard of his robin’ anybody’s hen-roost or stealin’ anything, they’d say, “object.”
Mose Sanders was called up, and Mose ain’t a very good-lookin’ feller, though he’s a honest man as ever lived. They looked at Mose awhile, and he felt sort o’ bashful I s’pose, and looked sort o’ mean, and they said “content.” Well, the case was tryed, and it was such a perfect open and shut bisness that they couldn’t help bringin’ the feller in guilty in spite of the lawyers. But ther ain’t a man in the county that is got any confidence in Mose Sanders after that—his character is completely ruined, cause everybody thinks the lawyers wouldn’t tuck him on that jury if they didn’t know he was a rascal. For my own part I would jest as leav be s’picioned of stealin’ a sheep, as to be put upon a criminal jury by the lawyers now-a-days. No more from
Your frend, ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
LETTER X.
Pineville, Ga., March 21st, 1844.
Dear Sir,
You mustn’t think hard cause I hain’t rit you a letter for so long a time. Sense the arrival of the little stranger, my time what I’ve had to spare from the plantation is been pretty much tuck up with nussin’ and gwine to town after doctor stuff for it.
Babys is wundrous supprisin’ things, Mr. Thompson, as you know, and when one thinks how much trouble they give a body, we almost wunder what makes us so anxious to have ’em. You mustn’t think I’m beginnin’ to git tired of mine. No indeed, not by no means. I wouldn’t give my little Harry Clay for all the niggers and plantations in Georgy, as much trouble and worryment as he gives me. Ain’t it curious what store we do set by the little creeters, even before we’ve had ’em long enuff to know anything about ’em. It seems like a new fountin of happyness is opened in our harts, a new value given to everything we’ve got, and a new purpose to our lives, when for the fust time we look upon a little helpless bein’ that is born of our love, and is dependent on us for support and protection. How anxious we is to do everything we can for ’em! What pleasure we find in the pains we take to make ’em happy. But you is a man of experience in these matters, Mr. Thompson, and I needn’t tell you nothin’ abou’ it. I must tell you though, what a terrible skeer we had t’other night with the baby.
I had been down to Tom Stallinses mill, to see about gittin’ out some lumber to bild me a new gin-house, and had been ridin’ and workin’ hard all day in the wet, and cum home monstrous tired, late in the evenin’. Mary and the baby was all well, and I went to bed pretty early, thinkin’ to git a good nite’s rest for the fust time in a month. Well, how long I’d been sleepin’, I can’t tell, but the fust thing I know’d was Mary pullin’ my hair to make me wake up.
“Joseph!—Joseph!” ses she.
“Ha! what’s the matter?” ses I, when I seed her leanin’ over in the bed with the lamp in her hand, and her face as pale as the gown she had on.
“Oh, Joseph, do git up,” ses she, “something’s the matter with the baby.”
That was enuff for me, and in a twinklin’ I was settin’ up in the bed, as wide awake as if I hadn’t been asleep in a week.
“Look at him, Joseph—he acts so curious,” ses she, as she tuck the little feller out of his crib, and laid him down in the bed between us.
For ’bout two minits we both sot and looked at the baby, ’thout drawin’ a breth. Thar it lay on its back, with its little hands down by its side. Fust it would spread its mouth like it was laughin’ at something—then it would roll its eyes about in its bed and wink ’em at us—then it would twitch all over, and ketch its breth—then it would lay right still and stop breathin’ for a second or two, and then it would twitch its little lims agin, and roll its eyes about the strangest I ever seed anything in my life, and then it would coo, so pitiful, like a little dove, two or three times, till it would kind of smuther like, and stop breathin’ agin.
I could hear Mary’s hart beat quite plain, and I felt the cold blood runnin’ back to mine like a mill-tail. I looked at Mary, and she looked at me, and such a expression as she had in her eyes I never seed in any human.
“Joseph!” ses she.
“Mary!” ses I.
“Oh, dear!” ses she, the big tears fillin’ her butiful eyes. “Oh, dear! the baby is dyin’—I know it is. Oh, whatshallwe do?”
“Oh no, Mary, don’t get skeered,” ses I, with what little breth I could summons up for the effort.
“Oh yes, I know it is. I know’d something was gwine to happen, I had sich a dreadful dream last night. Git up, Joseph, and call muther and the galls, quick as you can. Oh dear me, my poor little baby!”
“Don’t take on, Mary—maybe ’taint nothin’ bad,” ses I, tryin’ to compose her all I could, though I was scared as bad as she was, and put my trowsers on wrong side before in my hurryment.
In a minit I had all the fam’ly up, and by the time I got the fire kindled, here cum old Miss Stallins and the galls, all in ther nite clothes, skeered almost out of ther senses.
“Dear me, what upon yeath’s the matter?” ses old Miss Stallins.
“Oh, the baby! the baby!” cried Mary.
“What is happened?” ses all of ’em, getherin’ round the bed.
“I don’t know what ails it,” ses Mary, “but it acts so strange—like it was gwine to dy.”
“Mercy on us!” ses the galls.
“Don’t take on so, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins. “It mought be very bad for you.”
But poor Mary didn’t think of anything but the baby.
“What’s good for it, muther? what’ll cure it?” ses she.
The old woman put on her specticles, and looked at it, and felt it all over, while Mary was holdin’ it in her lap by the fire.
“Don’t be skared,” ses she. “Don’t be skared, my child, maybe it’s nothing but the hives, or the yaller thrash, or some other baby ailment, what won’t hurt it.”
“Oh, it’ll dy—I know it will,” ses Mary.
“Maybe its only sick at its little stummick, muther,” ses sister Carline, “and some sut tea is the best thing in the world for that, they say.”
“And if it’s the thrash, some catnip tea will drive it out in half a ower,” ses the old woman. “Prissy, make some catnip tea, quick as you can.”
“And have some water warmed to bathe its little feet in,” ses sister Kesiah; “for maybe its spasomy.”
“Oh dear, see how it winks its eyes!” ses Mary.
“That ain’t nothing uncommon, dear,” ses her muther.
“Now it’s twitchin’ its little lims again. Oh, it will dy, I know it will.”
“Wouldn’t some saffron tea be good for it?” ses Miss Carline. “Poor little dear!”
“Yes, and a musterd poultice for its little bowels,” ses the old woman.
By this time all the niggers on the place was up gettin’ hot-baths, and teas, and musterd poultices, and ingun-juice, and Lord knows what all, for the baby. Muther and the galls was flyin’ about like they was crazy, and I was so tarrified myself that I didn’t know which eend I stood on. In the hurryment and confusion, Aunt Katy upsot the tea-kittle and scalded little Moses, and he sot up a yell in the kitchin loud enuff to be heard a mile, and I knocked the lamp off the table, and spilled the oil all everything, tryin’ to turn round three ways at the same time. After breakin’ two or three cups and sassers, and settin’ Mary’s night-cap afire with the candle, old Miss Stallins made out to git a tea-spoonful of sut tea in the baby’s mouth, hot enuff to scald its life out, and then ther was such another to-do as nobody ever did hear before.
“Wa!—wa-ya!—ke-wa!—ke-wa-ah!” went the baby.
“Good gracious! mother, the tea’s bilin’ hot,” ses sister Carline.
“My lord! Prissy, hain’t you got no better sense? What upon yeath did you give it to me so hot for?” ses the old woman when she put her finger in the cup.
“Miss Kesiah tell me pour bilin’ water on it,” ses Prissy, with her eyes as big as sassers.
“Wa-ya! ke-wa-ah! ke-wa!” ses the baby, kickin’ and fistin’ away like all rath.
“Whar’s the draps, Joseph? Git the draps, it must be colicky,” ses old Miss Stallins.
I got the parrygorrick as quick as I could, and tried to pour out five draps, as she told me. But my hand trimbled so I couldn’t drap it to save me.
“Give it to me, Joseph,” ses she; “you’s too agitated.”
And she tuck the vial, and poured half of it on her lap, tryin’ to hit the spoon—the poor old woman’s eyes is so bad. Then she told sister Carline to drap it—but both the galls was ’fraid they mought pour too much. So Mary had to do it herself. Then the next difficulty was to git it in the baby’s mouth, and when they did git it thar, it liked to choke it to deth before it could swaller it.
Pretty soon after that it got quiet, and went sound to sleep in Mary’s lap, and we all begun to feel a good deal better. Old Miss Stallins sed she know’d what it wanted as soon as she had time to think, and she wondered she didn’t think of it before. Lord only know’d what mought happened if we hadn’t the parrygorrick in the house. We all felt so good after we got over our skare, that we sot thar and congratulated one another a little while before gwine to bed agin.
While we was all chattin’ and old Miss Stallins was beginnin’ to nod, I noticed Mary was watchin’ the baby monstrous close, and her eyes was beginnin’ to git bigger and bigger, as she looked at its face. Bimeby it groaned one of the longest kind of groans.
“Oh dear!” ses Mary, “I do b’lieve it’s dyin’ agin!”
We all jumped up and run to her, and shure enuff, it looked a heap worse than it did before, and kep’ all the time moanin’ like it was breathin’ its last gasp.
“Oh, mother, its gwine! It’s jest as limber as a rag, and it’s got sich a terrible deth look. Send for the docter, quick,” ses Mary, trimblin’ all over, and lookin’ as if she was gwine to faint in her cheer.
Miss Carline tuck hold of its little hands, and moved ’em, but they was jest like a ded baby’s, and staid anywhar she put ’em.
Ned was sent to town for Doctor Gaiter, as hard as the hoss could go—Mary and the galls all fell a-cryin’ like they was at a funerel, and I felt so fainty myself that I couldn’t hardly stand on my feet. Old Miss Stallins would give the baby some ingin-juice, and have it put in a warm bath all over; but nothing we could do for it done it any good, and we jest had to wait in a agony of suspense ’til the doctor cum.
It ain’t only three miles to town, and Selim’s one of the fastest hosses in Georgia, but it seemed like the docter would never cum.
“Poor little thing!” ses Mary; “I know’d my hart was sot on him too much—I know’d it was too pretty and sweet to live. Oh, dear!”
“How it does suffer—poor little angel,” ses Miss Carline; “what kin ail the child?”
“I wish the docter would cum,” ses all of ’em.
Sich thoughts as I had in that ower, I never want to have agin, as long as I live. A coffin, with a little baby in its shroud, was all the time before my eyes, and a whole funeral procession was passin’ through my hed. The sermon was ringin’ in my ears, and I could almost hear the rumblin’ of the fust shovelful of yeath on the grave boards of my little boy, as I walked round and round the room, stoppin’ now and then to take a look at the pore little thing, and to speak a word of incouragement to Mary. It was a dredful feelin’ Mr. Thompson, and I do b’lieve I’ve felt ten years older ever sense.
Bimeby we heard the hosses feet—all of us drawed a long breth, and every face brightened up at the sound. In a minit more the docter laid his saddle-bags on the table.
“Good evenin’, ladies,” ses he, jest as pleasin’ and perlite as if nothing wasn’t the matter. “Good evenin’, Majer; how are you this—”
“The baby! the baby!” ses all of ’em. “Docter, can’t you cure the baby?”
“Yes, docter,” ses Mary, “our only hope is in you, docter.”
“And Providence, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins.
It seemed like the docter never would git all his grate-coats, and gloves, and hankerchers off, though the wimmin was hurryin’ him and helpin’ him all they could. Bimeby he drawed a cheer up to whar Mary was sittin’ to look at the baby.
“What’s the matter with yer child, Mrs. Jones?” ses he, pullin’ away its gown and feelin’ its pulse.
“I don’t know, docter; but it’s dredful sick,” ses Mary.
“When was it tuck sick, and what is its simptoms?” ses the docter.
All of ’em begun to tell at once, ’til the docter told ’em he could understand ’em better if they’d only talk one at a time, and then Mary told him all about it.
“And how much parrygorrick did you give it?” ses Docter Gaiter.
“Five draps,” ses old Miss Stallins, “I wanted to give it more, but the children was all so skeery.”
“Let me see your parrygorrick,” ses the docter.
He tuck it and smelled it, and tasted it, and then, says he:
“You’re sure you didn’t give it only five draps, Madam?”
“No, no more’n five,” ses Mary, “for I poured it out myself.”
Then the docter looked monstrous wise at the baby, for ’bout a minit, and if you could jest seed the wimmin lookin’ at him. None of us breathed a single breth, and poor Mary looked rite in the docter’s face, as if she wanted to see his very thoughts.
“Doc—”
“Is—”
“Don’t be ’larmed, Madam,” ses he, “ther ain’t no danger!”
Sich a change as cum over the crowd! The room seemed to git lighter in a instant. It was like the sunlight breakin’ through a midnight sky.
Mary cried like a child, and hugged her baby to her bussum, and kissed it a dozen times, and talked baby talk to it; and the galls begun puttin’ the room to rights, so it would be fit for the docter to see it.
“Is you sure ther ain’t no danger, docter?” ses old Miss Stallins.
“None in the least, Madam,” ses he. “Ther’s nothing in the world the matter of the child, only it had a little touch of the hives, what made it laugh and roll its eyes about in its sleep. In your fright, you burnt its mouth with yer hot teas, till it cried a little, and then you’ve doctered it with hot baths, ingin-juice, and parrygorrick, till you’ve stupified it a little. That’s all, Madam. By mornin’ it’ll be well as ever it was, if you don’t give it no more big doses of parrygorrick.”
“I sed so,” ses old Miss Stallins. “I told the child ther was no use in takin’ on so ’bout the baby. But young people is so easy skeered, you know, docter.”
“Yes, and old grandmothers too, sumtimes,” ses he, laughin’.
The baby soon quit moanin’ so bad, and Mary laid it in the bed and kiver’d it over with kisses.
“Bless it, mudder’s tweetest ’ittle darlin’ baby—its dittin’ well, so it is—and dey sant dive it no more natty fisies, and burn its tweet ’ittle mouf no more, so dey sant,” ses she; and the galls got round, and sich a everlastin’ gabblement as they did keep up.
By this time it was most daylight, and after drinkin’ a cup of strong coffee what old Miss Stallins had made for him, and laughin’ at us for bein’ so skared at nothing, the good old docter bundled on his clothes, and went home to charge me five dollars for routin’ him out of his bed and makin’ him ride six miles in the cold. But I ain’t sorry we sent for him, for I do b’lieve if he hadn’t cum, we would dosed poor little Harry ded as a door nail before mornin’. The little feller is doin’ prime now, and if he was to have another attack of the hives, I’ll take monstrous good care they don’t give him no more dratted parrygorrick. So no more from
Your frend, ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
LETTER XI.
Pineville, Ga., April 10th, 1844.
Dear Sir,
I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout ritin’ a letter one of these days, but the fact is, sense last Febuary, I hain’t had much time for nothing. The baby’s been cross as the mischief, most all the time sense it had the hives, and Mary, she’s beep ailin’ a good deal, ever sense she got that terrible scare last month—and then you know this time of year we planters is all as bissy as we can be, fixin’ for the crap.
Nothin’ very uncommon hain’t took place down here sense I rit my last letter to you, only t’other day a catasterfy happened in our family that come monstrous nigh puttin’ a eend to the whole generation of us. I never was so near skeered out of my senses afore in all my born days, and I don’t b’lieve old Miss Stallins ever will git over it, if she was to live a thousand years. But I’ll tell you all about it.
Last Monday mornin’ all of us got up well and harty as could be, and I sot in our room with Mary, and played with the baby till breckfust time, little thinkin’ what was gwine to happen so soon. The little feller was jumpin’ and crowin’ so I couldn’t hardly hold him in my arms, and spreadin’ his little mouth, and laughin’ jest like he know’d everything we sed to him.
Bimeby, Ant Prissy cum to tell us breckfust was reddy, and we all went into t’other room to eat, ’cept sister Kesiah, who sed she would stay and take care of little Henry Clay, till we was done. Mary’s so careful she won’t trust the baby with none of the niggers a single minit, and she’s always dredful oneasy when Kesiah’s got it, she’s so wild and so careless.
Well we sot down to breckfust, and Kesiah, she scampered up stairs to her room with the baby, jumpin’ it up, and kissin’ it, and talkin’ to it as hard as she could.
“Now, sis, do be careful of my precious little darlin’,” ses Mary, loud as she could to her, when she was gwine up stairs.
“Oh, eat your breckfust, child, and don’t be so tarrified ’bout the baby,” ses old Miss Stallins—“you don’t ’low yerself a minit’s peace when it’s out of yer sight.”
“That’s a fact,” ses sister Carline, “she won’t let nobody do anything for little Henry but herself. I know I wouldn’t be so crazy ’bout no child of mine.”
“Well, but you know sister Kiz is so careless—I’m always afraid she’ll let it swaller something, or git a fall some way,” ses Mary.
“Tut, tut,” ses the old woman, “ther ain’t no sense in bein’ all the time scared to deth ’bout nothing. People’s got enuff to do in this world to bear ther trouble when it comes, ’thout studdyin’ it up all the time. Take some of them good hot corn muffins,” ses she, “they’s mighty nice.”
We was all eatin’ along—the old woman was talkin’ ’bout her garden and the frost, how it had nipped her Inglish peas, and I was jest raisin my coffee cup to my mouth, when I heard Kesiah scream out:
“Oh, my Lord! the baby! the baby!” and kerslash! it cum rite down stairs on to the floor.
Lightnin’ couldn’t knocked me off my seat quicker! Down went the coffee, and over went the table and all the vittles. Mary screamed, and old Miss Stallins fainted rite away in her cheer. I was so blind I couldn’t hardly see, but I never breathed a breth ’til I grabbed it up in my arms and run round the house two or three times, ’fore I had the hart to look at the poor little thing, to see if it was ded.
By this time the galls was holt of my coat tail, hollerin’ “April Fool! April Fool!” as hard as they could, and when I cum to look, I had nothing in my arms but a bundle of rags with little Henry Clay’s clothes on. I shuck all over like I had the ager, and felt a monstrous sight more like cussin’ than laughin’.
“April Fool, dingnation!” ses I: “fun’s fun; but I’m dad blamed if ther’s any fun in any sich doin’s,” and I was jest gwine to blow out a little, when I heard Mary screamin’ for me to cum to her mother.
When we got in the dinin’ room, thar the old woman was, keeled over in her cheer, with her eyes sot in her hed and a corn muffin stickin’ in her mouth. Mary was takin’ on at a terrible rate, and all she could do was jest to clapp her hands and holler.
“Oh, mother’s dyin’! mother’s dyin’! whar’s the baby? Oh, my poor mother! Oh, my darlin’ baby!”
I tuck Mary and splained it all to her and tried to quiet the poor gall, and the galls got at the old woman; but it tuck all sorts of rubbin’, and ever so much assafedity, and campfire and hartshorn, and burnt hen’s feathers to bring her too; and then she wouldn’t stay brung too more’n a minit ’fore she’d keel over agin, and I do b’lieve if they hadn’t brung little Henry Clay to her, so she could see him and feel him, and hear him squall, she never would got her senses agin. She aint more’n half at herself yit. All the gals kin do they can’t make her understand the April Fool bisiness, and she won’t let nobody else but herself nuss the baby ever sense.
As soon as I had time to think a little, I was so monstrous glad it wasn’t no worse, that I couldn’t stay mad with the galls. But I tell you what, I was terrible rathy for a few minits. I don’t b’lieve in this April foolin’. Last year the galls deviled me almost to deth with ther bominable nonsense, sowin’ up the legs of my trowsers, punchin’ holes in the water gourd, so I wet my shirt busom all over when I went to drink, and heatin’ the handle of the tongs, and cuttin’ the cowhide bottoms of the cheers loose, so I’d fall through ’em when I went to set down, and all sich devilment. I know the Bible ses there’s a time for all things; but I think the least a body has to do with fool bisiness at any time the better for ’em. I’m monstrous tired of sich doin’s myself, and if I didn’t think the galls had got ther fill of April foolin’ this time, I’d try to git a almynack next year what didn’t have no fust day of April in it.
No more from your frend ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.
XXVI.DOWN-EAST CURIOSITY.[16]
On my voyage up the North River, I was seated in the cabin reading a newspaper, when I observed an odd-looking individual reading over my shoulder. I looked up in his face, when the fellow, with his hands in his pocket, and not in the least disconcerted at being caught in so impertinent and unmannerly an act, exclaimed:
“Any news in particular?”
“No, Sir; will you accept the paper?”
“Oh no! can’t; ain’t got time. It’s the first time I’ve been up this river, and I want to be looking reound. How can they take a fellow up this river for a dollar and found. They can’t dew it. It’s a take-in.”
“How is that?”
“Why they charge one dollar to take you in, and when you git up to Albany, you’ve got to pay another dollar to git eout. Got this place all fixed up so. Sophy’s all reound tew. I never use Sophy’s myself, but once courted a gal by that name, and it looks a kind o’ natural to see Sophy’s reound; and them stuffed-bottom chairs eout there. I thought I’d set deown on ’em; by thunder, I jumped up three feet. Oh, I’ll be darned if I didn’t think I was sitting down on somebody’s baby. You see I chaw tobacco; grandfather chawed, and father he chawed, and mother, she—eh—no, she didn’t she snuffed, so you see I have to keep running up to expectorate—as our doctor says, overboard. I expect I shall have to go again in about a minute.”
“You need not take that trouble, Sir,” said I “here are spittoons.”
“Spittoons! Oh yes, I know’d what them was for, but they’ve got ’em brightened up so, I didn’t like to nasty ’em. I went to the the-ater to see you t’other night. Didn’t you see me? I sot right in front of you.”
“No, Sir, I did not.”
“Wal, I don’t suppose you could; there was a hull lot of fellers there. I got jammed in. I had on a striped vest, the fronts were new, but the backs being made of cotton, sometimes will give eout. By golly, I got tew laughing, so away went the back, slitted right up to the collar. I was a little the tornest critter you ever did see.”
“I am very sorry for your misfortune,” I remarked.
“Oh, you needn’t fret abeout it, stranger. I shouldn’t a wore it much more nor three weeks longer, any how. You see I never wear my best clothes to sich places, ’cause it kind a rips them eout a leetle. I had a bet abeout you. Some feller said you was born on Long Island. I told him you wasn’t, you was born down-east.”
“You were right, Sir, I was born in one of the Eastern States.”
“There, I know’d you was, ’cause I know’d you couldn’t get along so well as you did, if you wasn’t born deown that way somewhere. Have you been in Massachusetts?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said.
“Been in the State of Maine?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Been in New Hampshire?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Ah! Maybe you was born there? They’ve got a good many Hills.”
“No, Sir, I was not.”
“Wal, you might have been. Ever been in Vermont?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You know old Zeke Hill?”
“No, Sir.”
“Nor I nuther, but I’ve hearn tell there was such a feller, didn’t know but you might have known him tew.”
“Have you ever been in Connecticut?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Ever been in Rhode Island? that little bit of a thing in there.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Have you ever been in Boston?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Having thus obtained nothing very satisfactory from me, in relation to my birth-place, he commenced asking me if I had been to the Capital of this State, and then the other, until he had got through the whole of them; he then, to my astonishment, commenced with the country towns, doubtless with the hope of hitting at last upon the one in which I was born. Getting a little out of patience, I said:
“I presume, Sir, you wish to ascertain where I was born?”
“Wal, yes, I shouldn’t mind knowing, if you have no objection to tell, and if you had told me before, you would have saved me a darned sight of trouble.”
“Well,” I said, “I was born in Boston, in the year 1809, on the 8th day of October, at six o’clock in the morning.”
“At six o’clock, eh?”
“At six o’clock precisely, down in Water Street.”
“Dew tell. But, stranger,dew you remember the number of the house?”