Etext of Dialect Tales
by Sherwood Bonner aka Katherine Sherwood Bonner McDowell

Dialect Tales
By Sherwood Bonner
New York
Harper & Brothers, Franklin Square
1883
Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1883, by
Harper & Brothers
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. All
Rights Reserved.

Dedicated
TO MY DEAR FRIEND MRS. S. B. S.
WITH LOVE AND GRATITUDE.

Her angel face, 
As the great eye of Heaven, shined bright,  
And made a sunshine in a shady place. 

CONTENTS.
THE GENTLEMEN OF SARSAR
ON THE NINE-MILE
HIERONYMUS POP AND THE BABY
SISTER WEEDEN'S PRAYER
AUNT ANNIKY'S TEETH
DR. JEX'S PREDICAMENT
IN AUNT MELY'S CABIN
THE CASE OF ELIZA BLEYLOCK 
THE BRAN DANCE AT THE APPLE SETTLEMENT
LAME JERRY
JACK AND THE MOUNTAIN PINK

DIALECT TALES.

THE GENTLEMEN OF SARSAR.

I.

SARSAR! The very name of the place was sinister! Who does not
remember De Quincey's "Sarsar wind of desolation," and the chill
shudder that quivered through the soul as the harsh adjective came
blowing like a discord into the music of that incomparable
writing? 

Not a misgiving, however, crossed my heart when, shortly before
Christmas, my father asked me if I thought myself possessed of the
qualifications necessary for collecting a bad debt. 

"The business of collecting, father," said I, with what malicious
friends called my "prize-poem manner," "is odious in some of its
features to a man of spirit; but it may bring into play some of the
finest faculties of the human mind." 

"And body," added my father, in a quiet sort of way. 

"If courage is needed," said I, laughing, "I am the son of my State -
the State that does not know how to surrender!  As for tact,
civility, address, urbanity, and downright stubbornness, these
desirable qualities are surely mine by right of inheritance." 

"Well, well," said my father, meditatively, "it is a pretty rough
place, Sarsar is. The debt is one thousand dollars; and if you get
this sum, or any part of it, I don't mind saying it is yours for a
Christmas-box." 

For many reasons these were delightful words. First, while I fully
intended that my life should teem with good things, at present it
was as bare and empty as a sun-dried skull. My father, with the
best intentions in the world, was so indifferent to the doctrines of
Malthus as to become the parent of a perfect brood of young ones,
each of whom had to stand on his own legs as soon as they were
strong enough. I was at the beginning of my career, and made shift
to get on; but such a sugar-plum as a thousand dollars had never
dropped into my mouth. As befitted my slim purse, I was madly,
unutterably in love - in love with Angie Bell, the prettiest girl, I
would swear, among a million picked beauties. With the thousand
dollars fairly mine, I should be able to offer her those delicate
attentions man delights to lavish on the woman he adores - buggy
drives and bonbons, new music, books, and bouquets. Thus I
should weave myself, as it were, into her life, keep her little heart
in a perpetual simmer of kindly feeling, and dispose her to look
tenderly on my encroaching passion, nor resist when its tide should
sweep her from her moorings into my arms. Unless - reflected I - it
might be better to trust to winning her solely on my merits, and,
the betrothal an accomplished fact, spend all the sum in the 
purchase of a troth gift in some degree worthy of her inspiring
beauty.  

Absorbed in the pleasing perplexity of such a question, I was only
aroused from my reverie by my father's tones, raised a good deal
above their ordinary level. 

"Yes, old Ruck is as saucy and rough a tonic as any man could
swallow. You will need all your mother-wit in dealing with him.
The old scamp swears it is not a just debt, and pay it he will not." 

"Sarsar - nothing more than a backwoods settlement, is it?" 

"Nothing. And there are people up among those hills who actually
try to vote for General Jackson to-day! A good many worthless
negroes have congregated in the place, who fight, quarrel, and
steal without much interference from anybody. There are a lot of
rough fellows, however, calling themselves 'the Gentlemen of
Sarsar,' who regulate things after their own fashion. Chief among
them is your man - Andy Rucker. He has unbounded influence
with his clientŠle, and, they say, understands how to use the
shot-gun better than any man in the county." 

"Never think to daunt me, father," said I, briskly. "I shall go to
Sarsar, and shall fetch back the money." 

A few days later I got off at a station ten miles east of Sarsar, and,
hiring a horse, set out for a ride across the country. The hills were
steep, the road rough, the people rougher. At the cabins where I
stopped to ask the way they looked on me as a stranger from a
far-off land. 

"Do git down and look at your creetur," was their  invariable
remark, and one that puzzled me exceedingly, until I found it was
an hospitable invitation to dismount for a rest. 

Reaching Sarsar, I was directed to "the Widow Joplin's" as a place
of entertainment. The widow, a tired-looking woman, with her lips
drawn down at the corners as if they needed kissing into shape, put
me into the hands of a bright mulatto boy, whom she called Dee
Jay. This worthy conducted me to my chamber, and asked if I
would like some oysters for supper. 

"Oysters, by all means; a couple of dozen, fancy roast." 

"Lor', marster, we ain't got so many in de house; an' ef we had, I
'clar to gracious, marster, two dozen two-poun' cans would kill
you, sho'." 

"Cans! Is it canned oysters you offered me?"

"Yes, sir - Cove. We had some fresh ones onct - I disremember
what year it wus. But, lor'! we didn't know how ter open 'em, an'
we jest pounded away at 'em wid brickbats till Mars' Andy come
an' showed us how. Ain't it curus how dey kin live an' breathe de
breff o' life shet up in dem tight shells?" 

Declining to enter into a discussion on, oysters, I asked if "Mars'
Andy" was Mr. Rucker. 

"Yes, sir. Captin Rucker we mostly calls him. You acquainted wid
him?" 

"No; but to make his acquaintance happens to be my business
here." 

"Is dat so?" cried Dee Jay, with increased respect in his tones. "An'
I made sho' you wus a-drummin' for seggars. Mars' Andy ain't very
fond o' dem drummin' men," he went  on, confidentially; "in fac',
dey ain't popular wid none o' dem lazy, long-legged Rucker boys.
Dey kin fairly devil a stranger out o' toun if dey takes a notion.
Hope you ain't gwine ter tread on de captin's toes, marster. He's a
awful man to have a rassel wid." 

"He must -be a terrible fellow," said I, laughing. 

"Lor', dey ain't no harm in Mars' Andy. He's de head man in dis
toun. He's as full o' pranks an' capers as a unbroke colt; but he's got
as much sense as a horse." 

With that compliment, in every way worthy of a returned Gulliver,
my innocent Yahoo took me to the Widow Joplin's dining-room. 

Before I had well finished my supper a tall man strode into the
room, followed by two of the daintiest, prettiest little black-
and-tan thorough-bred pups I had ever seen. 

"How Angie would dote on them!" thought I.

The master of the pups was a noticeable man. Tall and
broad-shouldered, with clean-cut features, and bright black eyes -
so far not differing from any other. But his hair marked him among
men as Samson's among the Philistines. Long and heavy, and
iron-gray in color, it fell in actual ringlets to his shoulders, and
gave almost a look of ferocity to his countenance. 

"A character!" said I to myself, and longed to hear him speak. 

The wish was not allowed to grow cold, as he came directly to me
with: 

"I hear, sir, there is a stranger in town who wants to see Andy
Rucker. That's my name. Yours is - "  

"Ned Merewether, at your service," said I, rising, with extended
hand. "You have met my father." 

"Oh yes; I am well acquainted with Jack Merewether," he said,
giving me a prolonged look. "Well, Ned, let's take a drink." 

Knowing the offence I should give by a refusal, I assented, though
dreading the villanous compound I should have to swallow under
the name of "old bourbon." 

One drink followed another, and my head began to buzz a little.
Several men dropped in, who were introduced by Mr. Rucker as
kinsmen and friends. I proposed a health to "the Gentlemen of
Sarsar," and the scene grew convivial. 

"What d'ye think of our country, mister?" said an ill-looking youth,
whom they addressed by the tender title of "Honey Rucker." 

"It's as fine a country as I ever saw," responded I. "But you don't
have many rich men, I suppose?" 

"Rich men!" cried Mr. Rucker, in a tone of compassion; "why,
youngster, we are all rich, only we don't like to show off. Good
families - like the Ruckers - never make a parade. Now and then
such a fellow as Yowell wants to spread himself. You remember,
boys, how he went to old Nathan Weeks's funeral?" 

"Rather!" said Honey Rucker, in a gloomy tone.

"It was a big funeral, and most of us walked, for carriages are
unhandy on our roads. But Yowell wanted to make a show, so he
and his must ride. He and his wife were in a four-wheeled gig, and
every Jack and Gill of his seven children was toted by a likely
negro boy, who sat astride a two-  hundred-dollar mule. Now, each
one of those Africans would have sold for fifteen hundred dollars -
aggregate, ten thousand five hundred dollars; the mules summed
up to fourteen hundred dollars - making a clean sum of eleven
thousand nine hundred dollars winding along these hills as
unconcerned as a snake. What do you think of that for style?" 

"Quite in the style of the Arabian Nights!" said I. 

" 'Better worth seeing than the aurora borealis,' " quoted Mr. Honey
Rucker. 

"Ah! there are some queer people up here among these hills," said
Captain Andy, with a shake of the head. 

"What do you do in the way of sport?" asked I.

"Everything - chase foxes, run deer, spear fish. But our grand
sport" - with sudden animation - "our Christmas frolic, is a nigger
hunt." 

"A what?"

"A negro chase perhaps you would call it. You see, our jail is such
a ram-shackle affair that it is next to impossible to keep a prisoner
in bonds, if he has any get-up-and-get in his make-up. The rascals
break out and take to the hills. And when the humor takes us we
hunt them down." 

There was a laughing devil in Mr. Rucker's eye, and I knew not
what to think. Determined, however, not to seem unsophisticated, I
said, coolly, 

"I should think such game would give you but a short run." 

"Humph! put twenty hounds on a black rascal's track - they can
scent it after it's a day old - and he will run faster than a deer, and
out-manoeuvre a fox in dodging corners."  

"Poor souls!"

"They haven't any souls, I fancy," said Mr. Rucker, easily; " 'poor
bodies' would be more to the point, as they have to clip it to a
galloping tune. Come, sir; no use walking on stilts away from
home. Join us in our next hunt." 

The man seemed as sober as a christened saint, but I felt I was the
butt of a joke, and secretly resented it. 

"Well, sir," said I, "I did not come here to make acquaintance with
the sports of the gentry." 

"And may I presume to ask why you did come?" inquired Mr.
Rucker, with vast politeness. 

"You should know best, sir, as I represent the firm of Avery &
Merewether." 

"Aha! I remember something was said of certain moneys that your
people fancied I owed them." 

"Fancy me no fancies, Mr. Rucker" - certainly the whiskey had
gone into my head - "the money has to be paid." 

"And you are the man that's to get it? Well, well, it would be a pity
you should not have what you have come so far to gain - all, and
more. I insist you should have more. I myself ought to make you a
little gift." 

"Very well," I said, good-humoredly, "I will gladly accept these
little beauties" - and I caught up Mr. Rucker's pups. 

"For your sweetheart?"

"For the prettiest girl in the county!" said I, laughing, and with a
warm glow at my heart at the bare thought of my lovely little
angel, Angie Bell.  

II.

Awaking with a clear head the next morning, I hurried out to seek
Mr. Rucker; but, to my annoyance, that eccentric gentleman was
nowhere to be found. Every one of whom I inquired was too stupid
even to guess at his whereabouts. 

"De captin is jes' like de sun," said my sympathizing valet, Dee
Jay: "sometimes he will shine out on folks, an' agin, when de
notion takes him, he will go under a cloud, an' you can't put your
finger on de place whar he is hid." 

"And how long is it his majesty's pleasure to stay under a cloud?" 

"It 'ud take a wizard man to tell dat, marster."

"I went to his house, hoping to see some member of his family; but
no one came to the door, though I rapped and pounded half an
hour." 

"He ain't got no family. De Rucker blood is purty nigh run out in
dis county." 

"Why, I thought every other man in it was a Rucker." 

"Well, dey is mostly cousins, or dey jes' tuk de name fur glory.
Mars' Andy had a lot of brothers onct, an' a par; but dey wus killed,
all along through de war - one a-bushwhackin', one a-fightin' wid
Morgan, one wid de fever, an' so on. Mars' Andy hisself had a
squeak fur his life onct on a time. He wus lyin' on de field bleedin'
from seventeen or eighteen wounds, when along comes a calvary
man a-swingin' of his saviour - " 

"Dee Jay! what in the name of Heaven are you saying?"  

"Along comes a calvary man on a big black horse, a-swingin' his
saviour in de air till it looked as round as a cart-wheel an' flashed
like de moon on fire. Mars' Andy shet his eyes an' begun ter say his
prayers; when pop! bang! off went a musket from behind a tree, an'
down went Mr. Rider jes' like a grasshopper when a turkey gobbler
nips him off a sweet-pertater vine! 

"De captin tuk on mightily about our side gittin' beat," continued
Dee Jay, encouraged by my laughter; "he ain't let his hair grow
sence Vicksburg fell, an' it turned grisly gray dat same night. It was
jes' struck all of a heap. Dat's why de people here think so much o'
Mars' Andy. Dey has sech respec' fur his strong feelin's." 

"I wish his strong feelings would lead him to pay his debts,"
muttered I. 

Mr. Rucker was not so cruel as to stay under a cloud all day. In the
afternoon he burst into my room, beaming like the sun to which he
had been compared. 

"It's all settled, my friend," he cried.

"What! the debt?"

"Bother the debt! A question of money should not arise between
gentlemen." 

"Gentlemen should pay what they owe," said I, grimly. 

"Softly, lad, softly. You are almost on the point of being uncivil, in
which case I should have to leave you to yourself." 

Dreading another disappearance on Mr. Rucker's part, I said, 

"Really, sir, I had no intention of being uncivil. What is it that is
settled?"  

"The chase - the hunt for the horny-heeled son of Ham." 

"That joke again?"

"No joke about it. There is an idle fellow here - Bud Kane by name
- who was caught hog-stealing about a month back. He has been
hiding among the hills, and we think it well to get him off our
hands before Christmas." 

"You wouldn't kill the man?"

"Oh no; only scare him a bit. If he gives us a good run we will let
him off scot-free. And he is the fleetest scamp in the country.
Lucky to be able to offer you such sport." 

"My good Mr. Rucker," said I, attempting to speak with great
moderation, "unequalled as such sport must be, you must allow me
to decline a share in it. You know my object in coming here - " 

"My dear fellow," interrupted Rucker, "that is all right. I have
plenty of money burning for your pocket. But just now I can't think
of anything but the merry hunt! Come! let us have it over, and then
to business. I will promise that you shall be fully satisfied.
Perhaps, however, you are not a rider?" 

It was silly of me, but I was really piqued, and thought I should
like to show this rough man of Sarsar whether I could ride or not. I
reflected, too, that it might be well to humor his wish and join his
hunting-party - it would probably turn out some portentous joke
played by the Gentlemen of Sarsar. After it was "played out," Mr.
Rucker could hardly fail to meet my demands, hand over the
money, and let me get back to civilization - civilization and Angie
Bell. 

"Well, well," said I, carelessly, "get me a decent mount,  and I'll
join your party," whereon Mr. Rucker gave a tremendous grin and
hurried away. 

At a ridiculously early hour the next morning I was aroused by a
wild "Halloo!" under my window. Looking out, I saw the
Gentlemen of Sarsar in force - some twenty or more
vagabond-looking fellows, mounted on horses too nobly built for
such riders, all laughing, gesticulating, and occasionally firing at
the incautious chickens roosting in the trees about the house. They
were rigged out like a lot of banditti. Some were armed with rifles,
and all seemed to have equipped themselves with what was left
over from their war equipments, including horse-pistols and
bowie-knives, cavalry boots and devil-may-care hats. I must say I
felt uncommonly ticklish - as much so as if I had been in Arabia
with a set of Bedouins inviting me for "sport" to plunder one of the
desert caravans. However, I gulped down my scruples with the
morning cocktail which we all took at the bar of the Widow Joplin,
and listened patiently while Mr. Rucker gasconaded about the
wonderful shots he had made, the tremendous leaps his horse had
taken over gullies and logs. 

"Unless you can stand rip-racing through the country as if you
were trying to shake hands with the lightning," said he, "you had
better not try to keep up with the hunt, but take a stand on some
overlooking hill - " 

"Mr. Rucker," cried I, "spare yourself any fears for me!" 

"All right, then. Let's be off; boys!"

They leaped to their saddles with Texan agility; half a dozen
stag-hounds were brought to the front, and with another "Halloo!"
we were off.  

Never shall I forget that ride. The keen morning air was a stimulus
that thrilled every sense to alertness. Mr. Rucker carolled, in a
robust voice: 

"Last night, in my late rambles,
in the isle of Skye,
met a lovely creature,
in the mountains high."

But the only lovely creature we met was the lady-moon queen of
this wild world of wood and mountain and stream, now almost out
of sight, as day was beginning to dawn. The hills, near and far,
rose like waking giants to meet the pale, blinking stars; lights
twinkled from the valley below; little piping birds mingled their
shrill notes with the sound of the wood-chopper's axe. 

We rode at a brisk trot, Mr. Rucker and I in the rear. Suddenly a
cry was heard from one of the advance-guard. I pressed forward,
my mind's eye filled with a fine buck who sniffed the "tainted
gale" and sprung with beautiful fear from his pursuers. Instead of
which I saw a figure on two legs - but  

"Whether man or woman,

ghoul or human,"

I could not tell at the distance - spring across the field as if Satan's
fiends were after him. 

From this time all is confusion in my memory. Wild, wild riding I
recall, and a sense of reckless delight that vented itself in shrill
cries to my horse. The sun was just darting up in slim scarlet
lances. A light wind blew, and the very drops of blood in my veins
seemed to dance like the  pine-needles in the wind. What we
pursued I no longer knew. I was beside myself with the passion of
the chase. Logs, bogs, nor brooks appalled me. Fences and gullies
were as shadows leaped over in a dream. The infernal baying of
the hounds was music to my ear. Noble sport this, truly! Now and
then there was a glimpse of a flying figure - a male Atalanta
bounding over the ground with splendid speed; and finally a
sudden pull-up - a something at bay - and a sound of rifles
snapping and hounds yelping. 

"Fire, lad, fire!" cried Mr. Rucker.

"For God's sake tell me - is it a man?"

"Fire in the air, if you have any doubt," he said, with a great laugh,
and firing his own rifle at a tree-top. Wild with excitement, I
essayed to do the same. My horse plunged - my gun went off - an
awful cry followed the report, and a voice shrieked: "He has killed
him! He has shot Bud Kane!" 

I leaped from my horse and rushed to the spot. There, truly, lay a
man - a muscular, finely-shaped young negro, entirely nude but for
a fox - skin thrown over his shoulders. He was panting heavily, and
his blood was staining the yellow sedge-grass. 

I could not believe my eyes. I was almost distracted. Had I done
this horrible deed? Had I slain an inoffensive fellow-creature,
whose hands were certainly clean toward me, no matter how many
Sarsar hogs he had stolen? Innocent I felt myself, yet guilty with a
horrible guiltiness; for there lay the poor wretch bleeding, like
Marco Bozzaris, and not a man among them all spoke a word of
comfort.  

III.

A LITTER was made of the boughs of pine-trees and Bud Kane
lifted upon it. Mr. Rucker and I rode in advance of the bearers, to
prepare Bud's mother for the reception of her son. 

"Man alive!" cried Andy, impatiently, "why did you not fire in the
air? Did you not see we were all doing so?" 

"I saw nothing. Why did you lead me into such a devil's business?" 

"My dear Merewether," he said in a cool, dry tone, "like
Shakspeare's Jew, you bettered my instruction." 

At the door of a particularly mean-looking cabin Mr. Rucker called
a halt. A veritable hag sat in the door-way - old, black, lean, and
wrinkled, but with a head of crisp wool as bushy as a box-plant.
This person was engaged in the curious operation of "roping" her
hair - that is, dividing it into small strands, each one of which was
wrapped tightly to its end with a white cotton string. 

"Hello, Aunt Diana!" said Mr. Rucker.

"Why, Mars' Andy! Dat you? What brings you here dis hour in de
mornin'? Want a drink o' buttermilk?" 

"No; I've some bad news for you. Bud has met with an accident." 

"What's dat you tell me?"

She sprung to her feet. Anything more uncanny and witch-like than
her appearance cannot be imagined. On one side of her head her
hair stood out like an electrified mane,  evidently fresh from a
vigorous carding; on the other it lay flat in little snaky cotton
twists. Her eyes rolled till they seemed all white. One hand was on
her hip; the other stretched toward us with clinched fist. 

Mr. Rucker ran over the details of the accident without mentioning
my name. But she pinned me on the spot. 

"I s'pose you did it," she said, "seein' as you are a stranger? Der
ain't none o' de boys here would a-been so clumsy." 

"Yes, my horse reared, and my gun went off accidentally. I am
very sorry - " 

"Sorrow don't butter no corn-pone," she interrupted, in a high key.
"I mistrusted sompen wrong yesterday when Mars' Andy Rucker
wus here persuadin' Bud ter take part in his onmannerly,
onchristian rampage." 

"What," cried I, in a passion in my turn, "it was a sell, then after
all?" 

Mr. Rucker smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"You would a-thought so," screamed Mother Kane, "if you had
a-heerd him beggin' Bud an' bribin' him to take de job. Bud warn's
noways anxious to dress hisself up in a fox-skin an' go tarin' over
de country, an' let de hounds be turned loose on him. But says
Mars' Andy, 'We will post horses in de thickets, so that you can
ride from one point to annudder, an' save your strength to dash
across de open fields an' keep ahead o' de hunt. An' it will be a big
frolic, Bud,' he says; 'an' when it's done you shell have a quart o'
rum an' five dollars fur de night's work.' Five dollars looked big
enough to cover de sun an' moon, it did! So he gin his consent, an' 
here's de end of it - Bud killed, an' me left ter scuffle along de
heavenly powers knows how!" 

She threw her apron over her head and began to weep. 

"I knowed mischief wus comin'," she sobbed. "Twarn't on'y las'
week dat ole Debby, de witch 'ooman, tole my fortune on de
shoulder-blade of a sheep, an' likewise de bres' bone of a goose.
'Troubles dark an' many,' she says, 'an' a funeral in de house, an' a
hard row ter hoe!' An' I jis tell you, young man" - dropping her
apron and shaking her extraordinary old head at me - "I'll have de
law of you. Dis ain't nuthin' short of murder, it ain't." 

"It was an accident," I cried; "and whatever I can do to make
amends you may be sure I will do." 

"Den you kin jist hen' me over some money fur de funeral
expenses an' odder matters." 

"How much do you want?"

"Jes' put it to yourself, sir. Don't you think if you wus tore away
from your pa, an' his ole age left widout support, he would ax a
purty high figger to cover de loss?" 

"I think," said I, with much internal bitterness, "if my father could
see me at this moment he would think twenty-five dollars a high
value for my head." 

"Well, gimme dat, marster, an' I'll be satisfied." 

I handed her the sum, and we left the house, just as the men
bearing Bud on the litter came in sight and the old mother began
her distracting screams. 

"Rucker," said I, as we rode away - "Rucker" - and my voice
trembled with rage - "as I am a living man you shall give me
satisfaction for this."  

"Let a harmless jest go by," he said, coldly, "and consider your
own position. I am bound to tell you that you are in some danger.
The negroes here are a wild lot, and, backed by certain lawless
white men I could mention, would just as soon lynch you as not." 

"That I own would be quite in keeping with what I have seen of the
Gentlemen of Sarsar." 

"We will discuss the matter farther when you are rested. You look
fagged out," said Mr. Rucker, with an air of paternal interest. 

At the Widow Joplin's I shut myself into my room, and, throwing
myself on my bed, fell into as profound a sleep as if to shoot a man
before breakfast was nothing more serious than to bag a lot of
birds. 

Toward noon Mr. Rucker came back. His face was drawn into
solemn lines, his ringlets hung damp and uncurled. 

"Kane is dead," he said.

"No!"

"The wound seemed a trifle at first; but traumatic tetanus set in,
and he went off like a shot." 

"I would give my right hand to undo this morning's work." 

"Come, man, don't be cast down. My advice is that you come with
me at once to a magistrate and give yourself up. I will go bail for
your appearance at the April court. I need not ask if you will be
sure to be on hand?" 

"If I allow you to be my bondsman such a question is an insult,"
said I, haughtily. 

"Exactly. I will go your bail for - say two thousand dollars.  And
since this sum, like the rod of Aaron, swallows up the smaller
amount you came to collect, we will let that matter rest over until
you come on to your trial - eh?" 

"I am in your hands, Mr. Rucker," said I, fiercely, and feeling like
a rat in a trap, "and have no alternative but to do as you suggest.
But my father will be here as my legal adviser, and I can tell you
this whole thing will be well sifted." 

"Your father may count on my aid and friendship," said Mr.
Rucker, with the air of a generous potentate, "both for his sake and
yours." 

As he spoke there was a rap at the door, and a trim mulatto girl
answered to my "Come in." There was a gypsy beauty in her bold
black eyes, and mischief lurked in the corners of her mouth; but
she made a tolerably modest courtesy, and said, 

"If you please, sir, I wus gwine ter be married."

"That is not surprising," said Mr. Rucker, seeing me at a loss how
to reply to this unexpected confidence. "I should think all the
young bucks in the country would be after you." 

"I ain't gwine ter boast o' dat, Mars' Andy, for you knows I never
wus one o' dem flirtin', owdacious gals dat would jest as soon sleep
in de calaboose as anywhar else. But I wus gwine ter marry decent
an' respectable as any white lady, an' have a gold ring an'
piller-shams. An' now he's gone an' got killed, and I ain't got
nobody ter marry; and I jes' wish I was dead, too." 

Here she began to weep, and, with a pang at the heart, I realized
that before me stood another victim of my fatal shot. It was Bud
Kane whom she was to marry!  

"My poor girl - " said I.

"Don't you poor girl me!" she cried, viciously. "I'm jest as free as
anybody, and I don't want no foolin' nor soft talk from you nor no
other white gentleman!" 

"Well, what do you want?" said I, roughly.

"My circumstances is these," she said, checking her tears: "that I
have give up a good place I had at five dollars a month, an' have
spent all my savin's an' givin's a-buyin' weddin' clothes an' a
feather-bed, which I am meanin' to swap off to the Widder Joplin
for the tombstone of her fust husband, an' set it up over poor Bud;
the verses on it bein' ekally upproprite, as they only says: 

'He wus too bright fur earth,

wus taken from our hearth.

angels ther wus a dearth,

they welcomed him with mirth.' "

"That is a fine idea of yours," said Mr. Rucker; "but you wander
from the point." 

"No, sir, I'm jest a-comin' to it. Seein' as I am all throwed out an'
disadvantaged, I thought if I had ten or twelve dollars I could go to
town, an' git a place an' earn my livin'; an' it looked like de
gentleman dat shot Bud ought tu holp me along a little to kerry out
my projecs an' git de better o' my afflictions." 

My hand was in my pocket. I pulled it out holding a bill, and bade
good-bye to Bud Kane's interesting sweetheart. 

"You did well," said Mr. Rucker; "a policy of conciliation now, by
all means."  

Our business at the magistrate's was soon transacted; but after
leaving his office we found it a matter of difficulty to get past the
crowd. A mob of negroes had collected, and muttered threats made
my blood run cold. Plainly Sarsar was no longer a safe place for
me. 

On reaching the inn I found myself awaited at the door of my room
by an imposing-looking old darkey, with white hair and a stout
cane. 

"Good-day, sir," said he. "If your name is young Mr. Merewether I
would like a few words wid you." 

"All right, uncle; come in." And I threw open the door and flung
myself into a chair. 

"Give me de satisfacshun to intreduce myse'f," said the old man,
with dignity, "as de parster of de Fust Methodis' Church, limited." 

"Limited to what?" said I, profanely.

"To de godly an' to de seekers; an' to dis latter class our departed
brudder, Bud Kane, belonged. He wus a seekin' sperrit." 

"Bud Kane again!"

"Dat pore wild lad lost his life as so many of our color loses der
manly sperrit - by submittin' to de white folks as if dey wus
monkeys instid o' men. But, in despite of Bud bein' in some sort a
son of Belial, he wanted ter do what wus right; an' he hed agreed
ter give us a small sum toward erectin' a edifice fur prayer an'
praise, de present meetin'-house bein' subject to rats, an' bats, an'
rain, an' de bad boys of Sarsar." 

"I really don't see how this matter concerns me!" cried I, though,
alas! I did see with fatal clearness what he was after.  

"I wus thinkin', marster," he said, severely, "dat it mought be a sort
o' balm o' Gilead to your conscience to supply dat sum." 

"Better give him a trifle," whispered Mr. Rucker; "he has great
influence among the blacks." 

There was no help for it. A five-dollar bill passed from my keeping
into that of the "parster of the Fust Methodis' Church, limited." 

I began to pack my portmanteau.

"What are you about?" said Mr. Rucker.

"About to leave your town. I can catch the night train at L --- by
making good speed." 

"So you can; but take my advice again and leave that luggage." 

"Leave my portmanteau? But why?"

"You won't be allowed to get away. The people are keeping watch.
I can manage it, however. Start out with me as if for a friendly
ride, and we can get on to L --- with nobody the wiser; but if you
start out with that carpet-sack I won't answer for the consequences.
I can send it after you in a day or so." 

Again I had to submit - anything to get out of the accursed place. 

We mounted our horses, Mr. Rucker ostentatiously remarking that
we were going out for a little ride. 

"You won't let him get away, Mars' Andy?" cried a voice. 

"Have no fear, boys - he is in Andy Rucker's charge!" exclaimed
another. 

Once away from them, I thought my trials at an end. But there
were yet other ordeals in store. From a cabin a shade  more dingy
than Mother Kane's there rushed out a fat black female, with three
or four children hanging to her skirts. 

"Stop, stop, gentlemen!" she cried, and we reined in accordingly.
She laid her hand on the bridle of my horse. 

"Ain't you de gentleman dat killed Bud Kane?" she asked. 

Bud Kane's name was fast becoming the red rag to the bull. 

"What's that to you?" roared I.

"Jest this, sir - these is Bud's chillern."

"I wonder if there is anything or anybody in this town that Bud
Kane is not in some way connected with?" said I, violently. "I
suppose you want a little money to buy a black frock?" 

"I ain't pertickeler es ter the frock, but I need the money powerful
bad to help raise the chillern, fur Bud always wus mighty fond of
'em" - and she too began to weep. "He always said he meant ter
have Julius Caesar educated. He wus de favorite, because he wus
de oldest, an' de fust chile Bud ebber had. Den he made a gret pet
o' Leonidas, because he wus de youngest an' prized accordin'; an'
de gal - Mary Margeret - " 

"Why, look here," said I, "I have just seen a girl who told me she
was going to marry Bud." 

"Yes, sir, he tole me he wus gwine ter marry. He wanted me to
have him, but lor! I wouldn't marry Bud, because he didn't belong
to de church!" 

I looked at Mr. Rucker. A grin convulsed his features. There was
nothing to be said. I gave some money to the worthy matron, and
we rode on. 

At last we were well out of Sarsar, and my spirits began to  rise.
Suddenly we heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs coming after us at
a rapid gallop. 

"We are pursued!" said Mr. Rucker.

"Let me give him a run for it," I cried.

"No, no; wait here; guilt flies; you risk nothing in facing
whomsoever it may be." 

The pursuer turned out to be a lean little man, who introduced
himself as Dr. Mellar. 

"I heard you were about leaving town, Mr. Merryfield," he said,
briskly - "Merewether? - excuse me - and I wanted to mention to
you a little bill for attendance on the negro, Bud Kane - his mother
being unable to pay - and hearing you had a fine feeling of honor -
" 

I got down from my horse, squared my elbows, doubled my fists.
"Come on!" said I. 

"Are you mad?" cried the little doctor; and wheeling his horse
sharply round, he fled back to Sarsar. 

Before I mounted again I deliberately loaded my pistol. 

"This is a seven-shooter," said I to Mr. Rucker. "One ball is for the
undertaker, one for the grave-digger, the odd ones for any of the
mourners who may wish to be paid for weeping at Bud Kane's
funeral." 

"I think," cried Mr. Rucker, reeling slightly in his saddle, as if
convulsed by some internal emotion - "I really think we have seen
the last of them. You may shake the dust from your feet, Mr.
Merewether - you are out of Sarsar." 

It was shortly before Christmas that this adventure befell me.
Christmas-day dawned brightly, as it seemed, to all the  world but
me. I had no heart to go to church, feeling in no mood for the
jubilant services. I was alone in the house, and when there came a
ring at the bell I answered the door. There stood a remarkably tall,
lithe negro man, with my portmanteau in one hand, and in the
other a little covered basket. 

"Christmas-gift, marster!" he cried.

"Merry Christmas to you. You can get a glass of eggnog in the
kitchen. I see you are from Sarsar. You have brought back my
portmanteau." 

"Yes, sir. Looks like you ought to know me by name, young
marster. You nearly shot my head off onct. Don't you remember
Bud Kane?" 

"Bud Kane!"

"Yes, sir; dat's me. Mars' Andy tole you I wus dead; but dat wus
jest a joke o' his. Somebody axed him what made him act so
hateful to you, an' he said onct afar wus two men standin' on de
Court-house steps, an' one of 'em ups and knocks de odder off de
steps; an' dey had him up fur 'salt an' battery. An' de judge says,
'What made you knock dat man offen de steps? He wus a stranger
ter you, an' not a-coin' no harm.' An' de man says, 'I knows it,
judge; I didn't have nothin' agin de fellow; but de truth is, he stood
so fair I couldn't help it.' " 

And Bud Kane chuckled as if I would be at no loss to apply his
choice anecdote. 

"Here's a note Mars' Andy sont you," he added.

I took the note, and read as follows:

"DEAR MEREWETHER, - I hope you don't bear malice. I know
you will be glad that Bud Kane is not dead, and send this note by
him to convince  you of the fact. Of course tile bail business was a
farce; and I return the money you so handsomely shelled out to the
various claimants. And I must do myself the justice to say that I
had nothing to do with Mother Kane's onslaught; that was
unpremeditated and original. 

"It is the season of forgiveness, so don't be backward about it. And,
in token of amity, accept the pups you admired - we call them
Prince and Pauper - and give them to your sweetheart. Come again
to Sarsar on a different errand, and I promise you a better welcome
from rough old "ANDY RUCKER."

"You take those pups back," said I, "and tell Mr. Rucker that I will
accept nothing at his hands." 

"Yes, sir," said Bud, with a look of drollery; "but can't I have my
eggnog befo' I start back? Christmas-time, you know, marster." 

"Oh yes, have all the eggnog you want; and when you are ready to
go come to me for a note I shall send to Mr. Rucker." 

Bud Kane disappeared in the direction of the kitchen; and, angry,
mortified, humbled in my own esteem, I set myself to the
realization of how I had been duped. All the details of the fine joke
- just where truth ended and imposture began - I should probably
not know until I met Mr. Rucker. Then I promised myself an
explanation and an ugly quarrel. 

While I brooded over the matter the pups got out of the basket and
began to frisk about the room. Then who should come in but
Angie, rosy and beautiful, on her way home from church. Down
she went on her knees before the little beauties in black-and-tan;
and then she went into such raptures over them, and kissed them
so many times, that I couldn't stand it, but offered her them and
myself on the spot! She accepted  the three of us; and the next
thing I knew I had Angie, Prince, and Pauper in my arms, and was
pressing a first kiss on her smiling lips. Pauper happened to be
somewhere between her heart and mine, and in consequence was
so cruelly squeezed as to give a piercing howl; but it was a
rapturous moment. I loved all the world; I blessed Andy Rucker;
and I forgave the Gentlemen of Sarsar!  
ON THE NINE-MILE.
I. - JANEY.

WHAT I said when I first come as a boarder ter Mr. Jed Burridge's
house on the Nine-mile Perarer wuz that his daughter Janey would
be snapped up before she wuz twenty, an' Mr. B. would hev ter
look out fur another wife. But his sister, Mis' Stackley - commonly
called Little Mary Jane, owin' to her short height, an' to her havin'
been left a widder at the age of eighteen - she says ter me, "I tell
you, brother Jed don't want no more wives." 

"Land!" says I, "how many has he had?"

"One," says she, very severe, "an' that one a handful. Sister Lucilly
wuz a good woman, but ther' wuzn't such a driver on the perarer,
an' she kep' Jed on the jump. If he come in to set down a minnit, it
'ud be 'Jed, you peel them pertaters,' or, 'Jed, tear me off some
carpet rags - change o' work will rest ye.' An' somehow, sence
Lucilly wuz called, I've seen a kind of expression of peace steal
inter Jed's face that wuzn't there o' former years." 

Amos Burridge's wife spoke up, an' says she, with a laugh, 

" 'Beneath this stone my wife cloth lie: 

is at rest, and so am I.' "

"Ther' ain't nothin' o' that sort on Lucilly's tombstone,"  says
another sister o' Jed's - sister Charity Hackleton, who wuz a tall
lady, shaped like a camel, an' powerful religious - "but a nice,
hullsome epitaff settin' forth the virtues of the deceased, an' a text
of Scripture appropriate." 

"That's neither here nor there," says Nancy Jones as wuz, who
married the youngest o' the Burridge boys; "but as to Janey
Burridge bein' married afore she's twenty, I don't believe she will
be married at all. What with her mother a-dyin' an' leavin' so much
orthority in Janey's hands, the girl is plum spoiled. Ther' ain't a
Sunday but the house is filled with beaux, an' she won't say yes, an'
she won't say no. I don't believe in no such doin's. It's flyin' in the
face o' Providence. When a girl has a good offer, she had ought ter
take it." 

"No doubt o' that bein' your opinion, Nancy," said Mis' Amos,
a-smilin' quite amiable; but, fur all that, Nancy colored up like a
turkey-cock, fur folks do say that she snapped at her good offer
afore ever it wuz made. But la! this is a slanderous world. 

"Eben will scatter the boys when he gits home," says Little Mary
Jane; "he ain't a-goin' ter stand the entertainin' of such a crowd." 

"Janey feeds her beaux high," says I, parenthetical. 

"Maybe that's the attraction," sniffs Nancy Jones as wuz. 

"Don't you believe it," cries Amos B.'s wife, very prompt. "It's
Janey herself they are after. An' no wonder. She's as smart as a
steel-trap, an' as pretty as a young pullet. She can pick an' choose." 

"Some folks' incinerations," says Nancy, very furious, "is about as
nasty as this here wool we are a-pickin' out."  

It wuz at a wool-pickin' we wuz conversin', an' about this time I
had to leave, though very reluctant, as I did enjoy a reg'lar set-to
between Janey Burridge's aunts. Git 'em together, an' they use' ter
make me think of a line of poetry in my readin'-book at school: 

"An Austrian army awfully arrayed!" 

They were free an' loud of voice as a pack of hounds, an' when
they didn't agree the din wuz tremenjus. Ther' wuz four of 'em, two
bein' Burridges by birth, an' two havin' married inter the family.
Certainly ther' wuz no porcity of aunts to look after Janey, but as if
enough wuzn't as good as a feast, she always called me aunt too. I
wuz no blood-kin to the child, but my husband wuz connected in a
roundabout way with some o' the Burridges, so I wuz Aunt Fonie
to most o' the young folks, an' I wuz that fussless in my natur' that I
got on peaceable with the hull lot, though the aunts wuz as tryin' as
seven years' aguy, an' Janey would make a sassy speech occasional.
Fur instance, the day o' the wool-pickin', when I got home she wuz
leanin' on the gate a-chattin' ter Roland Selph, who had been cock
o' the walk on the perarer sence he got religion in the spring.
Janey's sleeves wuz rolled up ter the shoulders, an' her arms wuz
all dough, a- showin' she had jest left her bread in the pan to rise or
fall as the Lord willed. "Bread an' beaux," says I to her, speakin'
mild but impressive, "has both to be treated with attention; but the
Queen of England," says I - "no, nor the Sar of Russia - couldn't
'tend to the two simultaneous." 

"Well, Aunt Fonie," cries Janey, "if a person can't do two  things at
onct, what makes you think you can manage your business an'
mine too?" 

I won't deny that my feelin's wuz hurt. People ought ter be mighty
careful what they say ter an isolate female whose partner is
a-restin' with the worms. 

But somehow I never could stay mad with Janey. She wuz such a
cheerful person to have around: somethin' eternally goin' on wher'
she wuz. She wuz as good as a breeze among leaves to set things
a-goin'; an' she could turn out more work in a day than most of us
in a week. She wuz powerful good-lookin' too, Janey wuz, with
crisp black hair, cheeks like apples, an' a big, laughin' mouth full o'
white teeth, that she akchilly thought as much of as if they wuz
diamonds. 

II. - EBEN BURRIDGE COMES HOME.

Nobody don't consider a boy of much account. And I don't say but
that little Elick Farley had a hard time of it at the farm. He wuz a
child that Mr. Burridge had took out of charity - a son of a distant
niece of his, who had married a young man by the name of
Alexander Farley, from St. Louis. 

It wuz the sort of marriage that the song of "Dixie" tells about: 

"Ole mis' she acted a foolish part -  

married a man dat broke her heart." 

Not that Lex Farley meant ter be a bad man. He wuz kind, and
could make money hand over hand in the photographin' line when
he wanted to. But drink seemed ter have a lien on him, an' he
would spree in the awfullest way, always insistin', when the fit wuz
on him, that he should be called General  Harrison. What the p'int
of this idea was nobody ever could exactly see, except that it
seemed a sort o' pride o' natur' comin' out even when he wuz at the
lowest pitch. But he carrid on so ridickerlous in his spells that his
wife's spirits seemed to wear out. She wuz always weakly, an' she
up an' died. The only spark o' fun that wuz ever in the poor girl
showed itself on her dyin' bed. 

"I think," says she, smilin' very pitiful - "I do think I might git up
agen, if it wuzn't fur - "Then she stopped a long while. 

"If it wuzn't for what, Effie?" asks a neighbor.

"Fur General Harrison," she whispers, very gentle. 

After her death, Jed Burridge took her boy to bring him up on the
farm, out o' the reach o' temptation. Elick wuz a wild flitter-gibbet,
always a-needin' to be kept down, but a real worker fur his age. 

One of his chores wuz to go to the post-office. Most o' the folks on
the perarer wuz mighty neglectful as to mail matter, trustin' usually
to the chance of some neighbor inquirin' fur 'em, or lettin' it run on
indefinite; but Jed Burridge always would keep up with things,
bein' a man very advanced in his notions. Once every week reg'lar,
rain or shine, Elick was sent in to the office; most ginerally
Saturday evenin's, so as Jed could git his paper, the Toledo Blade,
fur Sunday readin'. He didn't git to church frequent, but set up an'
chuckled an' swore alternate over that paper; fur it wuz as hot as
ginger, an' Jed, though a powerful peaceful man, agreed with it all,
an' rolled out politics like smoke if a Democrat dropped in fur an
argeyment.  

On a special Saturday Elick fetched home a letter from Eben
Burridge to his pa, sayin' we might expect him by the 15th which
wuz the following Sunday. Eben had been out in Kansas fur a
couple o' years, seekin' a place to locate. It seemed he hadn't found
one, however, fur the next day he arrove at home, like Duffey after
the third round, confident an' smilin', as pompous an' self-satisfied
a little man as ever I see. After dinner the boys came a-droppin' in
as usual, an' what does he do but take the'r visits to hisself! When
Janey come to the sittin'-room door to bid 'em to supper, ther' wuz
as many as a dozen, lookin' at each other like gawks, but all very
perlite to Eben, wantin' to curry favor with Janey. 

"Now, I take this as kind, boys," says Eben, quite affable, as we set
round the table, "that you should all come so soon to see me. It
takes the old perarer fur good fellows. I tell you, out yonder in
Kansas it's scramble, scramble, an' everybody a-suspicionin' of
everybody. If ther' wuz a conflaggeration of a neighbor's house,
every man would be a-crowdin' in ter see what he could git fur
hisself in the way o' pelf, instead o' helpin' to save a sufferin'
fellow-creetur's goods." 

"Sho," says Amos Burridge, "we ain't that bad, though neither air
we what we use' ter be. Fifty years ago, when I settled here, you
might talk. There wuzn't a merkenary man among us. No pullin' an'
haulin' an' cat-scratchin' ter git ahead. Pervide enough ter eat fur
yourself an' your stock, an' you could ride aroun' the balance o' the
time." 

"I'm sure ther's a-plenty of visitin' nowadays," says I, likin' always
to hear my bob in conversation. 

" 'Tain't the same kind. Folks drop in, ter be sure; but  then they
went fur a stayin' spell. The doors wuz made of split boards two or
three inches too short, an' when you left home all you hed to do
wuz ter throw a quilt over the top, an' then folks would know you
wuz out, an' wouldn't holler." 

"Mighty funny way ter make a door!" says Elick Farley. 

"Ther' wuz no winders, don't you see. Not a pane o' glass on the
Nine-mile. I remember the first man that hed any made half his
front door of glass; an' it wuz a sort o' guide: so many miles east or
west o' the cabin with the glass door, folks would say. 

"Wonder what they say about our house?" says Elick, stuffin' a
laugh inter his throat with a piece of bread. "Reckon they talk
about t'other side o' wher' Janey Black-Eyes lives." 

"Hold your jaw!" says Eben, fetchin' Elick a awful tweak o' the ear. 

Elick squeals out: "Ho! you stuck-up Kansas grasshopper! Think
the fellows come ter see you, do you? Ain't got sense enough to
know they're after Janey! They didn't know you wuz looked fur.
They comes every Sunday o' the world. Ho! ho! and you thought
you wuz so pretty that you drawed the whole squad! Ef that ain't a
joke I never!" 

Them young men turned every color, from a pea-green to a grizzly
gray. An' Eben looked red and furious from one ter another. 

"Is this so?" says he, glarin' round. "Is it Janey you've come ter set
up with?" 

As luck would have it, he looked straight at Roland Selph, an'
Roland sence he got religion had swore off from tellin'  lies,
though the boys wuz always tryin' to git him in a tight place where
he couldn't speak the truth without a-hurtin' somebody's feelin's. 

Howsomever, Roland laughed, good-humored, an' says he, "Wher'
ther's honey you must look for flies, Eben." 

"Yes," says Eben, very significant, an' lookin' as if he would like to
bite somethin', "and wher' ther's flies you can look out fur
fly-pizen. What have you to say fur yourself, Charley Winn?" 

"I have ter say that I come a-courtin' Janey," says Mr. Winn, as
bold as brass; "an' she can take me or leave me any day she says
the word." 

"Brother Eben," cries Janey, her face afire, "I wish you wuz back
in Kansas, that I do." 

"Very well," says Eben, quite majestic, "I relieve you of my
company fur the present. "An' out he stalks, puffin' like a mad
gobbler. 

"Boys, we'd better git our hats," says Albert Thing. 

They got up, and every last one of 'em slips away like a whip-tailed
hound. 

Janey burst out a-cryin', without waitin' to wash up the supper
things. 

"Of all the mean sneaks that ever wuz born, Ebenezer Burridge,
you are the worst," she said. 

"Do you want your par eat out of house an' home?"

"Well, on my word! to count company's eatin'!"

"I should say so! A supper spread out fit fur a preacher! Two
dishes of fresh, an' apple butter, an' a stack o' pies, an' dear knows
what! I'll stand nothin' of the sort in my house."  

"Easy, my boy, easy," says his par. "This property belongs to old
Jed Burridge yet a while." 

"Well, it's a-goin' to be mine by the law of primogenicy," says
Eben, very grand; "an' all I have to say is, that if Jane wants ter
marry, she's got to pick one outen the crowd, an' turn the rest off.
My foot is down." 

"La, Eben!" says I, "it's so hard for Janey to choose. She's the most
popperler girl on the perarer." 

"Popperler!" yells Eben. "An' what business has a decent woman to
be popperler? Let her be popperler with her husband, an' that's
enough. I've saw your popperler women - I haven't travelled with
my eyes shut - an' I tell you they've got no more character than
stale eggs." 

The words wuzn't well spoke afore up jumped Janey an' give him
such a slap as might have been heard to the wheat field. Then she
tore off like a cyclone to her room. 

Eben wuz in a blazin' rage; but his par he on'y laughed a little, and
"Ain't she got sperrit?" says he. "Ain't she, though?" Then a sort of
shade came over his face, and "She do put me so much in mind of
her mother," he said, a-knockin' the ashes out of his pipe. 

III. - JANEY MAKES A CHOICE.

It didn't surprise any of us, a few weeks later, when Janey told her
par that she meant to marry Charley Winn; fur he had been comin'
alone quite frequent, an' he an' Janey had set up in the parlor, not
findin' much ter say. 

"I ain't no objection to Charley," says Jed, "an' I shall give Janey
fifty geese an' ten sheep an' a cow."  

"Charley's goin' ter build, par," says Janey - "three rooms an' a ell.
It will be real nice beginnin' all fresh." 

Everybody seemed to think Janey had done well, and most had a
warm word fur her. The aunts would try to fault Charley
occasional, but they couldn't git the best o' Janey; an' neither could
Eben when he fussed with her about wantin' to take so much o' the
furniture out o' the house. 

"It wuz my mother's furniture," says she, "an' I mean ter have it." 

"Well, wozn't she my mother too?" snarls Eben. "D'ye think you
have got a patent on her? Ther' won't be a thing left in the house
for me and my girl to set up with." 

Neither one of 'em appeared to consider the old father as they
wrangled over his things. I made up my mind, if Janey did make a
clean sweep, I should unpack some of my own goods that I had
stored in Peppertown, an' bring 'em over; for though a boarder I
wuz human, an' my feelin's went out to Jed settin' there so
peaceful, with his pipe an' his white head. 

Charley Winn lost no time in gettin' his house put up, an' a good
job it wuz - neat an' nice as a palace, with a bay-window an' plenty
o' closets. Every evenin' Janey would go over to see how it wuz
gittin' along, an' Charley would walk home with her, both of 'em
lookin' as proud an' as pleased as if the whole o' the comin' wheat
crop belonged to 'em. The weddin' wuz to be just after harvestin',
that bein' a time when everybody took a restin' spell. Janey's
weddin' frock wuz bein' made in Peppertown, an' Jed had made her
a present of a whole bolt of domestic that we wuz makin' up as fast
as possible. He wuz a mighty liberal man, Jed wuz, an' Janey's 
aunts said that her outfittin' would be the ruin of every girl on the
perarer. 

The wheat crop this year wuz a very stavin' one, and the farmers
had considerable difficulty in gittin' help. 

"I reckon you'll have to ride the reaper to-morrow, Janey," says
Eben, one night at supper, "if you can spare the time." 

"All right," she said. "My work can wait, an' the wheat can't. It's
already overripe." 

"I don't see how you can be so venturesome as to ride on the
reaper," says I. 

"Janey is an old hand at helpin' in the crop," says her pa. "When
she wuzn't more'n half the size o' Elick here she rid the leadin'
horse when we wuz a-thrashin' out the wheat." 

"Why, uncle, didn't you have a thrashin'-machine?" cries Elick,
stickin' his knife between his teeth, an' proddin' a piece o' pork
with his fork, simultaneous with stretchin' out his other hand for a
biscuit. 

"Machines wuz locked up then in some man's brain," says Jed; "an'
sometimes I wish they had never got out, fur it gives a poor man's
pocket-book the swinney to buy one. The way we thrashed wuz to
set the bundles in a ring about forty feet in diameter, I cal'late, an'
ride around it, the horses' feet a-trampin' out the grain. An' when it
wuz pretty well out we would sweep it up in a cloth." 

"I should think it would 'a been awful unclean."

"Well, our biscuits wuz gritty sometimes," says Jed, with a smile. 

Long before sun-up the next mornin' Ebenezer gave us a call, for at
harvest-time the sooner you could git things to  goin' the better. In
fact, durin' a very dry season, when the sun shone down hot an'
fierce, an' the wheat wuz as brittle as broom straws, an' it wuz a
sheer impossibility to bundle it without breakin', then the men
would often have to work all night, so's ter take advantage o' the
dew. 'Twan't no great hardship, however, with the big yellow
harvest-moon a-shinin' in the sky, an' the air so cool an' pleasant.
But it wuz powerful apt to bring on the chills. 

When Janey jumped out o' bed at Eben's call she said she had a
pain in her left eye, and wuz afeared she wuz goin' ter have a sty,
to which she wuz subject occasional. We had a piece o' broken
lookin'-glass in our room, an' takin' it in her hand, Janey went to
the winder to examine her eye where she could ketch the first
beam o' light. While she stood there, as evil doom would have it,
Elick Farley passed by on his way ter feed the turkeys. 

"Hi, Janey!" he calls, "you'd better come down-stairs an' git the
breakfast, instid of a-primpin' an' a-fixin' an' a-lookin' in the glass
as if you wuz goin' to a party." 

"You go about your business an' let me alone," says Janey firin' up
a little. 

Then what does he do but commence a-dancin' up an' down, an'
a-singin': 

"Janey's mad, an' I am glad,

' I know what'll please her - 

bottle o' wine ter make her shine,

' Charley Winn to squeeze her." 

At this Janey turned real ugly. "See if I can't make you change your
tune," she cries. And without a moment's  thought, I am sure, she
flung the piece o' lookin'-glass square at Elick's head. It struck him
on the forehead, an' he began to bleed and howl simultaneous. We
ran down, considerably skeered; but the cut didn't turn out to be
much, an' wuz soon salved and bound up. Elick's feelin's, however,
wuz all agog. Many a black look he cast at Janey. 

"I'll be even with you yet," says he, "an' you mark my words." But
Janey on'y humped up her shoulders at him, an' went along to the
wheat field. 

Reapin' is hungry work, an' our harvesters could put away four
meals a day quite comfortable. So along about eleven o'clock I
fixed up a lunch of cold biscuit an' pork an' hoecake, an' a jug of
cool buttermilk, an' went ter the field with it. Fur though I wuz a
boarder, I wuz never above doin' any little chores to help the work
along. 

I got to the field just as the reaper wuz comin' up. Janey wuz sittin'
up high under the awnin' drivin', an' Charley Winn stood beside
her, a-tyin' up the bundles very swift. Eben wuz stackin' up in a
distant part o' the field, an' his par had stopped to rest under a big
walnut-tree which wuz a sort o' landmark to people in those parts,
it bein' the tallest tree on the Nine-mile, an' wuz ginerally known
as "Burridge's walnut." Here they gethered ter eat their lunch. 

"Phew! but it's a hot day!" says Jed, takin' a long pull at the
buttermilk, an' passin' the jug to Charley Winn. 

"The wheat field is a mighty purty sight," says I; for it wuz, with
the yellow sun shinin' on the yellow waves o' grain, an' the path
that the reaper had made lookin' as smooth an' clean an' hare as the
dry line through the Red Sea.  

"I don't know about purty," says Jed, "but it's as fine a stand of
wheat as I ever had. Not a spear of cheat in it. An' this one good
year the Hessian fly an' the chinch-bug has let us alone." 

"Ther' ain't a farmer in the country as can compare with you, Mr.
Burridge," says Charley Winn. "I only hope to have half as
good-luck when I am tryin' it single-hand." 

"Sho! you'll have Janey ter help you. She's as good a farmer as I
am. I allays said Janey ought ter 'a bin the boy an' Eben the girl in
our family. Eben has a picayunish, meachin' sort o' way with him
as is nateral to women. His mother hed it," went on the old man,
quite thoughtful, an' chewin' a wheat straw. "But Janey is another
sort, active an' strong, an' muscles like steel." 

"Oh, I love ter work out-doors," cries Janey. "I can do a'most
anything that a man can. I don't know what I should do if I had to
stay shut up in the house." 

"I believe you could throw me in a rassel," says Charley. "What a
muscle, ter be sure!" an' he give her arm a squeeze. 

Janey tossed her head, an' colored up, an' laughed - a big, saucy
laugh. Gracious! if any one had told me that I would never again
hear that laugh, never see her standin', strong an' vigorous as a
young oak, an' red as a poppy bloom, in the golden grain, with her
sweetheart by her side! Well, well! a body may jest as well give up
soon as late a-tryin' ter understand the ways of Providence! 

They set off again, Janey still a-drivin', an' I started fur home. As I
reached the bars I turned an' looked back. The reaper wuz cuttin'
against the wind. Janey's bonnet wuz off,  an' her black hair wuz
blowin' over her face. Suddenly I saw a little sunbeam dancin'
about the head of old Pete, the right-hand horse. He shook his
head, annoyed like; but the little patch of light went bobbin',
bobbin', here an' there, glancin' in eyes, ears, an' nose, quick as a
hummin'-bird, an' finally flashin' full in the eyes of Nelly Grey, the
little mare, that wuz a-drivin' with old Pete. The skittish thing give
an awful jump. The next minnit both frightened animals had
started off on a run, an' Janey, poor Janey, wuz thrown forward in
front of the sickle bar! Great Heaven! what a time it seemed before
the horses could be overtook an' halted! How I got to the spot I
never could tell. When I did, ther' wuz Ebenezer holdin' to the
pantin', tremblin' horses, that wuz rollin' the'r eyes as if in a mortal
fright. An' Charley an' Jed wuz tryin' to lift somethin' from the
knives, red with blood, an' the pointed guards clogged with
mangled flesh. They got her out, and laid her down on the ground.
Charley went over to the house, an' came back with a door that he
had wrenched off, an' we managed to git her on this, knowin' only
by a faint moanin' that the breath wuz still in the poor torn body. 

Eben an' Jed crept across the field with the'r burden, while Charley
jumped on Nelly Grey an' rid like mad fur the doctor. 

I walked a little behind, feelin' stunned an' dazed; an' as I passed
under "Burridge's walnut" I heard a voice callin', "Aunt Fonie!" 

I looked up. A pair of wild eyes peered at me through the
branches. 

"Aunt Fonie," called Elick, "is she dead?"
 

"Come down outen that tree, Elick Farley!" says I, very solemn. 

Down he slid, the most miserable, God-forsakened little wretch.
He had cried white streaks down his cheeks, an' he wuz a-shakin'
all over. In his hand be held a bit of broken looking-glass. 

"What does this mean?" says I.

"I did it," he says, very pitiful. "I wanted to tease her because I wuz
mad, an' wanted to pay her off a little. I knew she never could
guess that I wuz hid up in the tree catchin' the sunbeam with the
same piece of glass that she struck me with. But I didn't mean to
hurt her. I never dreamed o' her bein' thrown on them - them
knives." 

"Elick Farley," says I, takin' him hard by the hand, "come here;"
and I followed the men that wuz a-carryin' poor Janey. 

"Look!" says I - "look!" and along the path wuz a line o' drippin'
blood. 

"Pray," says I, burstin' inter tears - "pray to the good God that that
stain shell not rest forever on your soul." 

The child give a wild cry that seemed as if it had fairly burst from
his heart; then tearin' away from me, he ran like a dart across the
perarer, in the direction of Peppertown. IV. - JANEY'S
COMFORTERS.

Fur many a draggin' week poor Janey lay betwixt life an' death.
The child wuz cut an' bruised over every part of her body. Two of
her ribs wuz broke, an' one limb had been impaled on the guards of
the sickle, an' wuz nearly sawed in two. That she should so much
as survive the shock an'  horrid wounds seemed a miracle; but the
doctor brought her round at last, though he told her quite frank she
would never be able ter walk again. 

"Never ter walk again!" said Janey, flingin' her arms over her head,
with a long, long groan - "never ter walk again! Oh, Lord! oh,
Lord!" 

The aunts wuz all a-settin' round very solemn, an' they sithed an'
rocked themselves back an' forth like trees in a wind. 

"It's the Lords will," says sister Charity Hackleton; "an' mebbe it's
sent es a punishment fur your sins." 

"That's all nonsense," says Janey, very dogged like. "What sins
have I committed, I want ter know? I've worked hard, an' done my
best; an' beyond a sharp word now an' then, I've nothin' on my
conscience. I don't deserve this." 

"We all deserve damnation," says Charity, severe as a Hard-shell
preacher. "Let this turn your soul to God, an' it will prove a blessin'
in disguise." 

"Sho!" says Mis' Amos Burridge; "ther' ain't no use tryin' ter bolster
the poor child up with such talk es that. It's a terrible misfortin -
terrible. It's jest es if she had jumped from twenty years to eighty -
from bein' a strong young girl to a helpless old woman, needin' es
much care es a baby, an' sufferin' perhaps fur a drink o' water even;
because a family do git so wore out waitin' on a invaleed." 

"In my family," says I, "ther' would a' bin no thought o' trouble. We
wuzn't the kind ter count our steps fur the afflicted. Consequently,
when my husband's mother wuz down with the rheumatism fur
years an' years, her room wuz about  the cheerfulest in the house -
fur everybody wuz a-runnin' to her with some lovin' service - an'
the Visitation o' the Sick read quite frequent to enliven us." 

"Never mind all that," says Little Mary Jane, with a wave of her
little fat hand. "Let us be practical. The thing is ter find somethin'
fur Janey ter do. I cal'late she don't mean ter lie round all her days
a burden on folks, so I've bin a-studyin' an' a-studyin' what she
could do. Now, I take it she couldn't do nothin' better than ter buy a
knittin'-machine. She could pervide mittens an' socks fur the whole
country, fur everybody would buy of her on account of her
affliction; an' thusly she could have ockerapation an' a stiddy
income." 

"Knittin'-machines cost a sight o' money," says Amos Burridge's
wife, very dry. "Who's goin' ter pay fur it?" 

"She might sell her geese fur a start."

"An' her relations might all throw in an' help," says I. 

At this there wuz a sort o' silence. Never a Burridge by name or by
birth wuz ever willin' to put his hand in his pocket. 

"Well," says Nancy Jones as wuz, "some has to be burdens, an'
some to bear 'em. I'm one o' the last, an' I don't know but what I'm
the worse off o' the two of us. Twins the first year o' my marriage,
an' a baby ten months after! I am fairly dragged out with nursin',
an' I suppose I shell have a baby in my arms es long es I am able to
move." 

"That's somethin' Janey will never be troubled with, anyhow," says
Mis' Amos, with a laugh, as if she wuz sayin' somethin' of a
soothin' an' agreeable natur'. So far from that bein' the case,
however, it seemed as if that speech wuz the last  straw. I had
noticed fur some time a sort of convulsive movement under the
bedclothes, as if Janey's breast wuz a-heavin' with silent sobs, an'
now ther' came a storm o' tears an' cries, as if natur' had bore an'
bore until a flood came fur relief. 

I jest riz up then, an' says I: "Clear out from here, you onfeelin' set
o' human critters! If I didn't have no more decency than you've got,
I'd go an' hold my head under Big Muddy Creek." 

They wuz skeered at the state they see they'd throwed Janey inter,
so they filed out pretty meek. I took the poor child, an' worked
with her, an' made her drink some hot tea an' take a good
strengthenin' dose of quineen; an' after a while she grew quiet, an'
the big moans stopped comin' from the poor breast where a child's
head would never rest, an' she fell inter a sweet sleep. 

Afore I thought her nap wuz over Eben's head wuz poked in the
door. Says he, "Charley Winn's here, an' would like ter see Janey." 

"Well, he can't," says I, very short, "fur she is asleep." 

"I am awake now, Aunt Fonie," says a voice from the bed. "An'
Charley may come in as soon as you've tidied me up a bit." 

Pretty soon we heard his step on the stair. Janey wuz tremblin', but
she shook hands with him quite calm when he came in, an' she
says, "You go out, Aunt Fonie; I want to talk to Charley by
himself." 

But, dear sakes! I had no notion of effacin' myself, so I stepped
outside o' the door, leavin' it ajee, an' a-settin' myself where I could
look an' listen quite comfortable.  

Janey day there, her big eyes fixed on Charley's face. He stood up,
twirlin' his hat, first on one foot, then on the other, an' lookin'
powerful meachin', fur a fact. 

"Charley," begun poor Janey, "it's hard to come to this." 

"I'd like to kill that little devil!" cried Charley. 

"Oh no, don't say that. Poor child! you know he ran away to his pa:
you remember Lex Farley? Lex wrote a letter ter my father,
expressin' a great deal o' concern. He said it seemed as if Elick's
heart wuz fairly broke. Maybe he'll make a good man yet." 

"If he gits ter be the President, I don't see how that's ter make up
ter me fur losin' you." 

"A-losin' me?" repeats Janey, very slow. "But I ain't dead, Charley,
nor like ter die, the doctor says." 

That hat went round in Charley's fingers as if it wuz possessed.
"But you know, Janey," he stammered - "you know, a man hes to
marry a woman ter do her shear o' the work. And you can't do
anything." 

"True," says Janey, speakin' very loud an' harsh, "I'm laid on the
shelf. An' of course a man marries a woman ter have his meals
cooked reg'lar, an' the harvestin' 'tended to, an' the lard tried out,
an' the apple-butter made, an' the geese plucked, an' the house
cleaned, an' the washin' done on Monday, an' the mendin' Saturday,
an' the odd jobs on Sunday." 

"Exactly," says he, noddin' his head, an' never mistrustin' - the
gawk! - that any woman with feelin's above a dumb beast's would
'a liked fur her beau to add a little tenderness to that bill of
pertikelers. 

Janey swallered a few times, an' then said, quite nateral,  "Of
course, Charley, you will be marryin' some one else before a great
while?" 

"Oh yes," he says. "My house is built, you know, an' I've already
got my seed in that fifty-acre lot. I shell have to git me a wife by
next harvest-time, you know." 

"An' have you made up your mind," says Janey, very polite, "where
you'll go a-courtin' next time?" 

Don't talk to me about a man havin' any gumption! Charley Winn
seemed quite pleased that Janey wuz takin' intrust in his marryin',
an' says he, in a sociable kind o' way, as if he had been talkin' to
his grandmother, "I have been thinkin' of Mahaly Thing." 

"She's powerful untidy," says Janey. "They say she washes her
hands an' makes up her bread in the same bowl. An' I know her
kitchen is the sloppiest on the Nine-mile." 

"What do you think of Hatty Holman?"

"Oh, she would do," says Janey, speakin' quite dry, "if you could
keep two hired girls - one to do the work, an' one to wait on her.
She's as lazy as a snail." 

"Well, ther's Evy Wait; she appears to be of a brisk, active natur'." 

"So much so that they say she can drink more hard cider than any
girl on the perarer." 

Charley knit up his brows, ant looked as if the subject wuz gittin'
very knotty. 

"Suppose I wuz to ask one o' the Whiteside girls?" he suggested;
"they are purty, and smart too." 

"Oh yes; and they'll give a kiss for the askin' to you or the next one
that comes along."  

"I don't like that," says Charley, very stern. "None o' your fast flirts
fur me! That's what I use' ter like about you, Janey. Every fellow
hed to keep his distance. Now, the Biscoe girls are of a very proper
kind. Wonder how it would do fur me to apply there?" 

"Jenny is engaged to Roland Selph; an' as fur Leila, she wouldn't
wipe her shoes on a Western wheat farmer. 

"An' es to Polly Ann Carpenter?"

"She is a waster. She can throw out with a teaspoon faster than a
man can bring in with a shovel." 

"I declare, Janey," said Charley, seemin' quite injured, "it looks es
if you don't want me ter git a wife. You try to set me agen every
girl on the perarer. 'Pears like you can't bear to give me up to
anybody else." 

"You are quite mistaken, Mr. Winn," cries poor Janey, her voice
risin' higher with every word - "quite mistaken, I do assure you.
I've no objection to your havin' forty wives. You might go to Utah
an' join the Mormons; then you could try all kinds, you know - ha!
ha! ha! ha!" 

When I heard this wild laughin' I knew it wuz time to walk in with
the camphor bottle in hand. 

"I think you hed better make yourself scarce," says I to Charley
Winn, with a very viperish look. Pickin' up his hat, he sneaked out
o' the room, an' out o' Janey Burridge's life. An' I may jest as well
mention that it wuzn't six months afore he wuz married to Mahaly
Thing.  
V. - UNEXPECTED THINGS HAPPEN TO JANEY.

Janey didn't seem ter git any better as the days passed on. She took
no intrust in anything in the heavens above nor in the earth
beneath. The doctor said he couldn't do no more fur her, en' except
to make her pretty deef, all the quineen she took didn't have a mite
of effect. Seein' her so dwindlin' an' pinin', I set my wits ter work.
The child ought ter have somethin' to engage her time an' her
mind. An' Little Mary Jane's idea as to the knittin'-machine wuz fur
from bein' a injudishus one. How to git the purchase-money wuz
the trouble. The thought come to me that Lex Farley might jest as
well as not help in the matter; so I wrote him a letter on my own
hook, as the sayin' is, an' presented the case. By the next Saturday
came an answer sayin' he would be proud ter git the machine out
an' out for Janey, but fur me to say nothin' about it till it had
arrove. In the same mail wuz a letter ter me from poor little Elick,
a-sayin' thusly: 

"DEAR AUNT FONIE, - Pa has swore off till he gits Janey's
machine. I am a-helpin' him, an' learnin' the photographin' business
very fast. Give my respex ter Janey. I am very sorry that she got
hurt. Yours truely, E. FARLEY." 

"Seems ter me you're gittin' a lot o' letters," says Eben when he
handed 'em to me; but I only smiled mysterious, an' said not a
word. 

I never had seen Janey so low as she wuz the day before
Thanksgivin'. I wuz bustlin' round preparin' fur nex' day's  dinner,
but she barely raised her eyelids from her cheeks. "What hev I ter
be thankful fur?" she would say when I would try to hearten her up
somewhat. 

Before night, however, Janey took back them words o' hens; fur
old Mr. Thing, passin' by on his way from town, stopped with a
box outen the express office directed to "Miss Janey Burridge." 

"Fur me!" cries Janey, very incredulous, but her eyes sparklin' as I
hadn't seen 'em since her accident. 

We all assembled while Jed knocked off the wooden slats an'
untied the strings; fur, be the hurry what it may, the man wuz that
careful that cut a string he would not. 

An' lo an' behold! there wuz the prettiest knittin'-machine ever
made, with a card: "Compliments and Resects 
of 
Alexander Farley 
to 
Miss Janey Burrirdge." 

Janey wuz pleased enough ter cry, an' I don't believe she slept a
wink that night fur longin' ter try her hand on the little beauty. The
aunts didn't lose no time in comin' over to the house as soon as
they got wind o' Janey's present. An' sister Charity, who understood
how to work machines, offered to stay a week, if need be, to put
Janey in the way o' runnin' hers; which showed she wuzn't a bad
kind o' woman, in spite o' bein' so aggressive in the way o' religion. 

From that time Janey's health an' spirits improved considerable.
She turned out mittens an' socks very fast; an' the  very first pair
wuz sent as a present to Lex Farley. As fur me, seein' how well my
idea had worked, an' though not as a rule approvin' of ridin' a
willin' horse to death, still I thought, while his hand was in, Lex
might as well as not lay up more treasures in heaven. So I up an'
wrote another letter, sayin' that if Janey had a wheel-cheer, it
would be the greatest thing in the world fur her to ease her pain,
an' enable her ter git about. No answer came to this; but I waited
patient, thinkin' somethin' might come of it. An' ther' did. 

Christmas had come, an' we all had bundled up in the big wagon,
an' gone over ter Amos Burridge's to dinner - except, of course,
poor Janey, who wuz left in the charge of one o' the neighbors'
children, little Sally Wysnicker, with a nice dinner ready cooked
for 'em, and set out in the dresser. 

The day wore along as them family spreads usually do, an' about
four o'clock we started fur home. Now, it's a very curious thing,
but as we reached the corner o' Mr. Burridge's wheat field, I had
the most flutterin' sensation erbout the heart, es if somethin' wuz
a-goin' ter happen. It wouldn't hev surprised me a mite ter hev
found the house burnt up, fur I felt the same way twice previous in
my life - once precedin' to our Jersey cow bein' gored, an' agin
before my partner wuz taken with the dropsy that carrid him off.
Howsomever, ther' wuz the house safe an' sound; an' es we neared
the gate the wind bore the sound of laughin' to our ears. Very
cur'ous, we hurried on; but afore we got to the door out broke a
boy, all dressed up, clean as clean, an' a-shoutin' at the top of his
voice, "Howdy, Aunt Fonie! howdy, Uncle Jed! howdy, Eben!
Christmas-gift! Christmas-gift!"  

Of course it wuz Elick. An' of course the slim, long-bearded man
we see through the winder a-talkin' so kindly ter Janey wuz Elick's
par, Lex Farley. But the wonder of all wuz ter see Janey. There she
wuz, bright an' smilin', an' a-sittin' up in the finest kind o' wheeled
cheer, es proud es if she wuz on a throne. 

Well, we wuz all a-talkin' together fur quite a spell; an' Jed he
welcomed Lex real hearty, an' told him he must make himself at
home fur es long es he would like ter stay. An' you never see a boy
so changed as Elick Farley. From bein' a wild, cantankerous limb
that nobody hardly could abide, he wuz a quiet, nice little chap,
modest an' obligin' in his ways, an' a-hangin' on every word that
Janey spoke. 

"It wuz all I could do ter git him ter come," said his par, when he
got a chance fur a word with me. "You see he thought Janey would
be so set agen him that she would want ter hev him arrested or
somethin'; but I told him ter be a man, an' face the music. When
we got inside the hall door here, an' see Janey lookin' so white an'
quiet, as if she might be dead, the child hung back as if he darsn't
go a step farther. But I pushed him inside the room, an' he begun
ter cry. Janey turned her head quick, an' seen him a-standin' ther'.
Somehow she didn't seem a bit surprised. 'Elick,' says she, very
gentle - 'Elick, come here;' an' when he wuz in reach she put her
arms around him an' kissed him." 

"No!" I cried, "Janey Burridge didn't ever do that!" 

"Yes," he said, strokin' his beard, kind o' meditative, "she kissed
him. An' I suppose it's the first time anybody hes kissed him sence
his mother died. An' that she should do it  who lay there a wreck
through his mischief! I tell you, Aunt Fonie, she is a angel." 

It hed never occurred ter me ter look on Janey Burridge in that
light, as you ain't apt to think of a angel bein' strong as a heifer, an'
built for labor rusher than a-flyin' roun' an' singin'; but I wuz glad
ter hev Lex Farley appreshiate her, even though he stretched the
blanket a little in doin' so. 

After supper Mr. Burridge examined the cheer most admirin'. It
wuz made of cherry-wood, an' stuffed with hair, an' set on springs,
an' covered with rep, an' it wuz es fine es a coffin. 

"It must 'a cost a sight o' money," says Jed.

"A matter o' fifty dollars," says Lex Farley; "but you know, Uncle
Jed, I don't ever find it difficult to make money." 

"True, Lex," says the old man, very kind; "you are smart enough
ter do anything when you give the enemy the go-by." 

I wuz a little skeert at this plain-speakin', fearin' Lex might take
offence; but he spoke out quite manful: "Uncle Jed, I haven't
teched a drop of anything stronger than tea sence my boy come in
an' told me what hed happened to Janey. I made up my mind that
instant that ef the poor girl wuz gone, I would pay all the funeral
expenses, an' put her up a handsome monument; an' ef she lived,
that I would come to see her, an' try to make such poor reparation
es I could." 

"I'm sure," says Jed, "that Janey will set more value on your lettin'
the drink alone than on either the knittin'-machine or the
wheel-cheer. You see, it runs in our blood ter be gret on
temperance. Forty year ago, when the Burridges first settled here,
one of our first performances wuz ter git up a  temperance meetin'
at Peppertown. The Yahoos came in an' tried ter put a stop to it." 

"The Yahoos? An' who were they?"

"That wuz the name we give the early settlers. They wuz mostly
riffraff o' the hardest sort, who hed drifted here from Tennessee an'
Kentucky. They wuz dead-set agin temperance. They came
a-whoopin' an' a-ridin' an' a-yellin' inter Peppertown on the
occasion of our meetin'; an' they hed caught a wild wolf, which
they turned loose among the folks, an' nearly skeered the women
ter death. 

"In them days even the preachers hated ter give up the'r whiskey.
Well, it wuz a heap purer article than you git now; you could buy it
by the barrel at a bit a gallon. Everybody drunk it. It wuz handed
around ter women an' children. At the races once old Mrs.
Wysnicker had a barrel that she peddled out by the drink, an' they
said she made enough ter buy a handsome family Bible." 

"I wish they would give us a purer article of whiskey in these
days," said Mr. Farley. 

"Lex - Lex Farley, don't say that!" cried Janey, leanin' for'ard, en'
speakin' with such entreaty as I never heerd from mortal lips. 

"You have gone without it," she says, "from sorrow an' pity fur me,
an' you can keep on in the good course fur love - fur love of God.
Listen to me, Lex. You wuz pleased with my thanks when I told
you how the knittin'-machine had comforted me an' give me a new
start in life; an' you smiled an' almost cried too when I told you
ter-day of the rest your beautiful cheer give to my poor tired body.
Think, think what it  will be when you can bring the gifts of a good
an' manly life ter the Lord, an' receive his thanks, an' know his joy
over the one sinner that repents! Oh, Lex, don't give me more than
you give to your Maker!" 

It came like a thunder-clap. I never would 'a believed Janey
Burridge could have spoke so beautiful. We wuz all moved beyond
speech. But, after a-little, Lex Farley says: "I won't forgit your
words, Janey. God bless you fur 'em!" 

Jed passed his hand across his eyes. "My friends," said he, "it is
Christmas night. Let us unite in prayer." 

An' kneelin' round Janey's cheer, we prayed in silence, an'
somethin' seemed ter whisper that a good new year wuz a-dawnin'
fur us all. 

Well, well, Lex Farley wuz in no hurry to git away. An' one day he
asked our Janey to marry him. 

"He says, Aunt Fonie," said Janey to me, "that I can help him - I, a
poor lame creature, that never expected to be of use or pleasure ter
any livin' soul." 

"He loves you, dear," I said, pattin' her dark head. 

"I can hardly believe it," she said, in a falterin' way. "He says so
many strange things, Aunt Fonie: that to be with me helps an'
heartens him; that he wants nothin' better than to work for me all
his days; that he wants me only to give him my heart - not my
labor an' service, but my heart." 

" 'Ther's nothin' half so sweet in life 

love's young dream,' "

says I, quotin' out of a poetry book.
 

"Don't you think," says she, very timid, "that folks will say he
wanted me from pity, an' that I took him from pride?" 

"Fools may," says I, very decisive.

The end of it all wuz that she put him off six months, durin' which
time he wuz as sober as a horse, an' then she married him. They
went ter St. Louis ter live, an' he got a run o' fashionable
customers, an' soon we heard of 'em as surprisin' prosperous. A
couple o' years later her par an' me went ter visit 'em; fur I hed got
rusher tired o' bein' a boarder an' hed married Jed Burridge. That
wuz a visit! They hed three rooms leadin' out o' the photograph
gallery - an apartment, they called it - an' a servant to do the work,
an' a little maid to 'tend the door. Lex Farley was the proudest,
happiest man in the State. For Janey - bless her! - with a long
trailed gown on, her face pale and pretty, her hair curlin' on her
forehead, walked to meet us, with a snow-white baby cuddlin' in
her arms.  
HIERONYMUS POP AND THE BABY.

"NOW, 'Onymus Pop," said the mother of that gentle boy, "you jes
take keer o' dis chile while I'm gone ter de hangin'. An' don't you
leave dis house on no account, not if de skies fall an' de earth
opens ter swaller yer" 

Hieronymus grunted gloomily. He thought it a burning shame that
he should not go to the hanging; but never had his mother been
willing that he should have the least pleasure  in life. It was either
to tend the baby, or mix the cow's food, or to card wool, or cut
wood, or to pick a chicken, or wash up the floor, or to draw water,
or to sprinkle down the clothes - always something. When
everything else failed, she had a way, that seemed to her son
simply demoniac, of setting him at the alphabet. To be sure, she
did not know the letters herself, but her teaching was none the less
vigorous. 

"What's dat, 'Onymus?" she would say, pointing at random with her
snuff-brush to a letter. 
"Q" - with a sniff.

"Is you sho'?" - in a hollow voice.

Woe be unto young Pop if he faltered, and said it might be a Z.
Mother Pop kept a rod ready, and used it as if she were born for
nothing else. Naturally, he soon learned to stick  brazenly to his
first guess. But, unfortunately, he could not remember from one
day to another what he had said; and his mother learned, after a
time, to distinguish the forms of the letters, and to know that a
curly letter called S on Tuesday could not possibly. be a
square-shaped E on Thursday. Her faith once shattered, 'Onymus
had to suffer in the usual way. 

The lad had been taught at spasmodic intervals by his sister
Savannah - commonly called Sissy - who went to school, put on
airs, and was always clean. Therefore Hieronymus hated her.
Mother Pop herself was a little in awe of her accomplished
daughter, and would ask her no questions, even when most in
doubt as to which was which of the letters G and C. 

"A pretty thing!" she would mutter to herself, "if I must be
a-learnin' things from my own chile, dat wuz de mos' colicky baby
I ever had, an' cos' me unheard-of miseries in de time of her
teethin'." 

It seemed to Hieronymus that the climax of his impositions had
come when he was forced to stay at home and mind the baby,
while his mother and the rest of them trotted off, gay as larks, to
see a man hanged. 

It was a hot afternoon, and the unwilling nurse suffered. The baby
wouldn't go to sleep. He put it on the bed - -a feather- bed - and
why it didn't drop off to sleep, as a proper baby should, was more
than the tired soul of Hieronymus could tell. He did everything to
soothe Tiddlekins. (The infant had not been named as yet, and by
way of affection they addressed it as Tiddlekins.) He even went so
far as to wave the flies away from it with a mulberry branch for the 
space of five or ten minutes. But as it still fretted and tossed he let
it severely alone, and the flies settled on the little black thing as if
it had been a licorice stick. 

After a while Tiddlekins grew aggressive, and began to yell.
Hieronymus, who had almost found consolation in studying a gory
picture pasted on the wall, cut from the weekly paper of a wicked
city, was deprived even of this solace. He picked up "de miserbul
little screech-owl," as he called it in his wrath. He trotted it. He
sung to it the soothing ditty of 

" 'Tain't never gwine to rain no mo'; 

shines down on rich and po'."

But all was vain. Finally, in despair, he undressed Tiddlekins. He
had heard his mother say, "Of'en and of'en when a 
 
chile is a-screamin' its breff away 'tain't nothin' ails it 'cep'n pins." 

But there were no pins. Plenty of strings and hard knots, but not a
pin to account for the antics of the unhappy Tiddlekins. 

How it did scream! It lay on the stiffly braced knees of
Hieronymus, and puckered up its face so tightly that it looked as if
it had come fresh from a wrinkle mould. There were no tears, but
sharp, regular yells, and rollings of its head, and a distracting
monotony in its performances. 

"Dis here chile looks 's if it's got de measles," muttered Hi, gazing
on the squirming atom with calm eyes of despair. Then, running
his fingers over the neck and breast of the small Tiddlekins, he
cried, with the air of one who makes a discovery, "It's got de heat!
Dat's what ails Tiddlekins!" 

There was really a little breaking out on the child's body that might
account for his restlessness and squalls. And it was such a hot day!
Perspiration streamed down Hi's back, while his head was dry.
There was not a quiver in the tree leaves, and the silver-poplars
showed only their leaden side. The sunflowers were drooping their
big heads; the flies seemed to stick to the window-panes, and were
too languid to crawl. 

Hieronymus had in him the materials of which philosophers are
made. He said to himself, " 'Tain't nothin' but heat dat's de matter
wid dis baby; so uf cose he ought ter be cooled off." 

But how to cool him off - that was the great question. Hi knitted
his dark brows and thought intently.  

It happened that the chiefest treasure of the Pop estate was a deep
old well that in the hottest days yielded water as refreshing as iced
champagne. The neighbors all made a convenience of the Pop
well. And half-way down its long, cool hollow hung, pretty much
all of the time, milk cans, butter pats, fresh meats - all things that
needed to be kept cool in summer days. 

He looked at the hot, squirming, wretched black baby on his lap;
then he looked at the well; and, simple, straightforward lad that he
was, he put this and that together. 

"If I wuz ter hang Tiddlekins down de well," he reflected, "
'twouldn't be mo' den three jumps of a flea befo' he's as cool as
Christmas." 

With this quick-witted youth to think was to act. Before many
minutes he had stuffed poor little Tiddlekins into the well bucket,
though it must be mentioned to his credit that he tied the baby
securely in with his own suspenders. 

Warmed up with his exertions, content in this good riddance of
such bad rubbish as Tiddlekins, Hieronymus reposed himself on
the feather-bed, and dropped off into a sweet slumber. From this
he was aroused by the voice of a small boy. 

"Hello, Hi! I say, Hi Pop! whar is yer?"

"Here I is!" cried Hi, starting up. "What you want?" 

Little Jim Rogers stood in the door-way.

"Towzer's dog," he said, in great excitement, "and daddy's bull-pup
is gwine ter have a fight dis evenin'! Come on quick, if yer wants
ter see de fun." 

Up jumped Hi, and the two boys were off like a flash. Not one
thought to Tiddlekins in the well bucket!   

In due time the Pop family got home, and Mother Pop, fanning
herself, was indulging in the moral reflections suitable to the
occasion, when she checked herself suddenly, exclaiming, "But,
land o' Jerusalem! whar's 'Onymus an' de baby?" 

"I witnessed Hieronymus," said the elegant Savannah, "as I
wandered from school. He was with a multitude of boys, who
cheered, without a sign of disapperation, two canine beasts that
tore each other in deadly feud." 

"Yer don't mean ter say, Sissy, dat 'Onymus Pop is gone ter a dog
fight?" 

"Such are my meaning," said Sissy, with dignity.

"Den whar's de baby?"
 

For answer, a long, low wail smote upon their ears, as Savannah
would have said. 

"Fan me!" cried Mother Pop. "Dat's Tiddlekins's voice." 

"Never min' about fannin' mammy," cried Weekly, Savannah's
twin, a youth of fifteen, who could read, and was much addicted to
tales of thunder and blood; "let's fin' de baby. P'r'aps he's been
murdered by dat ruffian Hi, an' cat's his ghos' dat we hears
a-callin'." 
A search was instituted - under the bed, in the bed, in the wash-tub
and the soup-kettle; behind the wood-pile, and in the pea vines; up
the chimney, and in the ash-hopper; but all in vain. No Tiddlekins
appeared, though still they heard him cry.  

"Shade of Ole Hickory!" cried the father Pop, "whar, whar is dat
chile?" Then, with a sudden lighting of the eye, "Unchain de dog,"
said he; "he'll smell him out." 

There was a superannuated blood-hound pertaining to the Pop
m‚nage that they kept tied up all day, under a delusion that he was
fierce. They unchained this wild animal, and with many kicks
endeavored to goad his nostrils to their duty. 

It happened that a piece of fresh pork hung in the well, and Lord
Percy - so was the dog called - was hungry. So he hurried with
vivacity toward the fresh pork. 

"De well!" shrieked Mother Pop, tumbling down all in a heap, and
looking somehow like Turner's "Slave-ship," as one stumpy leg
protruded from the wreck of red flannel and ruffled petticoats. 

"What shall we do?" said Sissy, with a helpless squeak. 

"Why, git him out," said Mr. Pop, who was the practical one of the
family. 

He began to draw up the well bucket, aided by Weekly, who
whispered, darkly, "Dar'll be anudder hangin' in town befo' long,
and Hi won't miss dat hangin'." 

Soon appeared a little woolly head, then half a black body, the rest
of him being securely wedged in the well bucket. He looked like a
Jack-in-the-box. But he was cool, Tiddlekins was - no doubt of
that. 

Mother Pop revived at sight of her offspring, still living, and feebly
sucking his thumb. 

"Ef we had a whiskey bath ter put him in!" she cried. 

Into the house flew Father Pop, seized the quart cup, and  was over
to the white house on the hill in the wink of a cat's eye. 

"He stammered forth his piteous tale," said Savannah, telling the
story the next day to her school-mates; "and Judge Chambers
himself filled his cup with the best of Bourbon, and Miss Clara
came over to see us resusirate the infant."  

Mother Pop had Tiddlekins wrapped in hot flannel when he got
back; and with a never-to-be-sufficiently-admired economy Mr.
Pop moistened a rag with "the best of Bourbon," and 
said to his wife, "Jes rub him awhile, Cynthy, an' see if dat won't
bring him roun'." 

As she rubbed he absent-mindedly raised the quart cup to his lips,
and with three deep and grateful gulps the whiskey bath went to
refresh the inner man of Tiddlekins's papa. 

Then who so valorous and so affectionate as he? Dire  were his
threats against Hieronymus, deep his lamentations over his child. 

"My po' little lammie!" he sobbed. "Work away, Cynthy. Dat chile
mus' be saved, even if I should have ter go over ter de judge's fur
anudder quart o' whiskey. Nuthin' shall be spared to save that
preciousest kid o' my ole age." 

Miss Clara did not encourage his self-sacrificing proposal; but, for
all that, it was not long before Tiddlekins grew warm and lively,
and winked at his father - so that good old man declared - as he lay
on his back, placidly sucking a pig's tail. Savannah had roasted it
in the ashes, and it had been cut from the piece of pork that had
shared the well with Tiddlekins. The pork belonged to a neighbor,
by-the-way; but at  such a time the Pop family felt that they might
dispense with the vain and useless ceremony of asking for it. 

The excitement was over, the baby asleep, Miss Clara gone, and
the sun well on its way to China, when a small figure was seen
hovering diffidently about the gate. It had a limp air of dejection,
and seemed to feel some delicacy about coming farther. 

"The miscreant is got back," remarked Savannah.

"Hieronymus," called Mrs. Pop, "you may thank yo' heavenly stars
dat you ain't a murderer dis summer day - " 

"A-waitin' ter be hung nex' wild-grape-time," finished Weekly,
pleasantly. 

Mr. Pop said nothing. But he reached down from the mantel-shelf
a long, thin something, shaped like a snake, and quivered it in the
air. 

Then he walked out to Hi, and, taking him by the left ear, led him
to the wood-pile. 

And here - But I draw a veil.

SISTER WEEDEN'S PRAYER.

YES we had gethered at the river, as the song says, to see a sight as
might have surprised the angels. Ther' wuz a crowd, sure. They had
come from the four-mile, an' the six-mile, an' the nine-mile, an'
from down in the timber, an' ther' wuz even a pretty smart
sprinklin' o' town folks, kind of apart from the rest, with a plenty of
artificial flowers in the'r hats, an' an air of gentility that differed
'em from the farmers' women, with the'r sun-bonnets an' babies. It
wuz four o'clock of a Sunday afternoon, an' they wuz all assembled
to see young Roland Selph baptized by Preacher Powell, who
expounded the Word four times a year at Big Muddy meetin'-
house. 

It wuz a'most like a meracle. Roland wuz a hard case. My husband
- who, bein' one o' the "swearin' Wallers," as they wuz called in
Grandpar Waller's day, had a sort of ancesterl talent for usin'
strong words - an' better that than for usin' strong drink, says I,
when twitted, for what is words but a slap-dash thrown together of
letters? an' if a man chooses 'em hard, like goose-quills, instead o'
soft, like goose-down, an' nobody's hurt, then where's the harm? -
well, my husband he allays said that Roland wuz the "darnedest
man to cuss on the prairie." He never had had no bringin' up wuz
the  trouble. His father, a rele active, nice man, wuz killed in a mill
six months before he wuz born, an' his mother she took on so that
she didn't have no strength to git him even so far along as teethin'.
So his grandmother she raised him on sheep's milk an' a peach-tree
switch. Kicks an' cuffs wuz sandwiched between the poor child's
meals, until the old woman died an' left him, kithless an' kinless in
the land. A wild-lookin' lad he wuz, with a shock o' black hair that
you couldn't 'a combed with a wool-card, an' big eyes bold as the
hub of a wheel, an' clothed summer an' winter in rags! He wuz
mightily in demand at harvest-time, for he wuz as strong as a
horse, an' hadn't had a chill since his grandmother broke 'em on
him at the age of fourteen with black pepper an' molasses an'
santonine, an' a bag o' camphor at the pit of his stomach. But
people wuz powerful shy of associatin' with him. He wuz druv to
the saloons for company; an' they said he could drink a quart o'
whiskey as if it wuz spring-water. 

How it had come about nobody knew. Brother Powell never wuz
counted to have much influence, an' he looked powerful little an'
meachin'-like beside Roland, tall an' broad-chested, an' as
handsome as anybody in a bran'-new suit o' brown jeans an' a white
shirt clean as clean. 

As he went down into the water the men took off the'r hats with a
soft, loose sweep, an' the women hushed the'r babies at the'r
breasts. The sun shone out broad an' mellow; everything seemed to
listen, somehow, as the words wuz uttered over that wild,
forsakened one that made him a member o' Christ's great family.
Then what a crowdin' roun' an' a han'-shakin' as he came out
drippin', an' castin' a glance round  half beseechin' an' half a-darin'!
It wuz wuth comin' a long way jest to see that poor sinner
a-welcomed inter the fold. 

But I noticed one curious thing. Mrs. Biscoe wuz there, with her
two daughters, Leila an' Jenny - Rose an' Lily we used to call 'em,
seein' as how one wuz a red beauty an' one a white. Jenny - she
wuz the fair one - wuz the most help to her mother. Leila, for all
her rosy cheeks an' black eyes, wuz a lazy little flitter-gibbet. Mrs.
Biscoe she wuz a widow: a little, straight, dark woman, with plenty
of snap to her, who took in sewin' for a livin', an' wuz much
respected in the Baptist society. Well, she gave a quick little nod
to'ards Roland jest before he wuz dipped, an' she said, in kind of an
undertone, "They do look nice girls, don't they?" I studied quite a
spell over this speech, but I couldn't exactly make out what she
meant by it. 

Some days after the baptizin', Mrs. Wysnicker of the four-mile
invited all the society to a wool-pickin'. Ther' wuzn't any
declinations, for Mrs. Wysnicker wuz a master-hand for dinners.
Never did she sit you down to her table unless she had "fresh," an'
maybe a couple o' chickens besides; an' her pie-crust would break
inter honest flakes if you so much as p'inted a knife at it.
Furthermore, we wanted to see if her wool was so much finer than
anybody else's. She had boasted considerable about it, an' we
understood that she sheared fourteen pounds to a sheep. So it was
candle-light breakfast all over the prairie, an' by seven o'clock we
wuz mostly assembled in Mrs. Wysnicker's sittin'-room, ready for
work. The wool wuz on a sheet in the middle of the floor, an' a
powerful big pile it wuz: seemed as if it reached nearly to the
ceilin'. We  wuz all a-settin' round it, pretty prim, a-waitin' for the
stiffness to wear off. 

Ther' wuz one person I wuz surprised to see in the company, an'
that wuz Florindy Daggett. 'Twan't often anybody sighted her at
wool-pickin's or apple-parin's or rag-tackin's, for she set up for a
genteel, an' always washed dishes with, a mop. She wuz a powerful
dressy woman, too. Husband he allays said she wuz the kind that
'ud gin a man's pocket the swinney. But she loved talk beyond
dress. It wuz joked around that old man Daggett told her once that
he'd nuss her cheerful through a twenty-years' spell, if her disease
jest happened to be paralysis of the tongue. Ther's apt to be
mischief, too, in the tongues of these talkie' females. Thar she set,
her mouth a-puckered up, three sand-colored curls a-hangin' as fur
as her nose on each side, an', as a last dyin' touch, kid gloves. We
didn't none of us take much notice of her, but we started out pickin'
wool pretty pears. After a little, Florindy she sithed an' said, "Sister
Wysnicker, what's the duty of one sister in the society when she's
discovered another sister in the act o' backslidin'?" 

"P'raps she might make her a present of Brother Throckmorton's
'Serious Review of Infant Sprinklers,' " says Sister Wysnicker, who
gits a laugh out of most things goin'. 

"This is no matter for jokin'," says Florindy, solemn as Moses in
the bulrushes. 

Farmer Sweet's wife spoke up very excited: "Sister Daggett, you do
surprise me all to pieces! "Hev you reely caught a backslider? A
man, of course. Bad is the best of 'em. Do pray don't wait another
minute. Tell us all about it." She  wuz a little, sharp woman, whose
words tumbled out of her mouth fast as chopped straw out of a
thrashin'-machine, an had jest about as much cash value. 

"No man," says Florindy: "it wuz a woman. An' what she wuz doin'
is so ser'ous an' awful that reveal it I won't unless the sisters here
think it is my duty." 

Well, now, do you know, not one of us had the Christian charity to
say, "Hold your tongue, Florindy." Truth is, we wuz dyin' to hear
what it wuz: so we jest edged our cheers a little closer together, an'
sort of slacked in the wool-pickin'. 

"Last Sunday, about noon," says Florindy, speakin' slow an'
impressive, "as I wuz a-returnin' home after visitin' my brother's
sick child, my throat got so dry that I knew I must have a drink of
water. So I stopped at a certain cottage on the four-mile, where
there is an althea-bush a-growin' in the yard, an' an oleander in a
tub by the steps - " 

"The Biscoes!"

"I name no names. The front door wuz shut, an' the blind wuz
drawn close, an' I mistrusted they wuz not at home. So I opened
the slats very gently an' looked in - " 

"An' what did ye see? Do, for goodness' sake, stop lookin' so
mysterious." An' Farmer Sweet's wife tore at a piece of wool quite
reckless. 

"I saw the three of 'em - on the Lord's-day - in a room dark as
iniquity - a-sewin' for dear life!" 

"Sewin' " "Sewin'!" "Sewin'!" "Sewin'!" "Sewin'!"

You reely would have thought it wuz the hissin' of a ring of geese. 

"I stood there for a minute," says Florindy, "quite stagnated,  as
you may say, with surprise; an', besides, I wanted to see what they
wuz sewin' on. But I couldn't make out, for the life o' me, an' I
didn't dare to open the slats any wider." 

"That ain't the pint at all," says Sister Sweet: "whether 'twas
carpet-rags, or seed-bags, or satin robes for the rich, it's all one.
The sin wuz in sewin' at all on the Lord's-day." 

"Unless it wuz for a corpse," says Sister Wysnicker, "or funeral
clothes for the family." 

"Well it ain't no question of a corpse this time. An' what's to be
done about it?" 

"I'm lookin' for Sister Biscoe every minute. She's a mighty good
hand at wool, an' she promised to come. soon as ever she could git
off." 

"All I have to say," cries Florindy, "is that when she steps in I steps
out. Hold countenance with sinners I won't. You can't touch pitch
an' not be defiled. Ther's doctrine for it." 

Mrs. Wysnicker looked powerful bothered, jest as if she didn't
know which way to turn. "We haven't heard from Sister Weeden
yet," says she: "perhaps she will give us a word in season." 

Sister Weeden wuz the impressivest female in the Baptist society.
She wuz tall an' clean-cut, an' not a bend in her from neck to knee.
What she said wuz said. She had high cheekbones, an' black eyes,
an' a great twist of milk-white hair coiled on top of her head. "I
have listened," says she, "an' if what Sister Daggett charges shell
be proven true, we must expel Dorothy Biscoe from the society an'
leave her to the mercy of God."  

Cold shivers ran down our backs: it wuz jest as if she had said
Selah. 

At this minute I happened to look sideways through a crack in the
door, an' what should I see but Leila Biscoe half stretched out on a
lounge, with a picture-paper crumpled up in her hand! Her head
wuz up, an' she wuz a-listenin' with all her ears, her face red as
fire, an' her eyes sparklin', as lazy brown eyes will when they git
fired up. 

Up she jumped as she caught my eye an' ran out of the other door. I
said nothin' to anybody, but I quietly slipped after the child,
a-leavin' my bonnet behind. I mistrusted she wuz goin' to meet her
mother; an', sure enough, Mrs. Biscoe an' Jenny wuz footin' it
along the road, when Leila flew at 'em, raisin' the dust with a swirl
around her. "Mother," she cries, "dons go near 'em. Don't! the
scandalous old cats!" 

"Leily Biscoe! what under the blue sky air you talkin' about?" She
took the child by the arm an' plumped her down into a
fence-corner. "Now!" says she. 

"Why, mammie, that horrid, sneakin', pryin', white-eyed - " 

"Leila!"

"Well, then, the beautiful Mistress Florinda Daggett peeped into
our windows last Sunday - " 

"Oh!"

"An' saw us sewin'; an' they are havin' no end of a time about it, an'
won't sit in the room with you, an' say you shall be expelled from
the society - " 

"So!"

I put in a word now, an' tried to smooth down matters; but, my
stars! Sister Biscoe looked as if she could bite steel.  

"Let's go home, mammie," said Jenny, beginnin' to cry. 

"Home!" says she: "we're goin' to the wool-pickin'." 

"But I tell you," cried Leila, "they won't have you; they will insult
you." 

"You can go home if you want to."

Leila felt, maybe, that she hadn't deserved sech a snub, so she
tossed her head an' followed her mar. I could hardly keep up with
'em. I hadn't felt so warmed up an' excited not sence I brought
Belle Burns through a congestive chill after the doctor had give her
up. 

My soul! them women jumped when they seen the widow an' her
two daughters standin' at the door, as if the sheared sheep wuz
a-chargin' in after the wool they'd been robbed of. 

"I hear," says Sister Biscoe, "that my friends an' neighbors have
been makin' mighty free with my name." 

"Lor!" says Sister Wysnicker, in a quaverin' sort o' voice; "who's
been a-bearin' any slanderous tale to you?" 

"Slanderous, is it? Well, my daughter Leila is the bearer. I sent her
on ahead of me this mornin', an' she wuzn't no farther from your
talk than the next room." 

"Nobody's said nothin' that they ain't willin' to stand by," snapped
Florindy Daggett. "Women that use God's day for puttin' money in
their pockets must be ready to face the consequences." 

Two red spots came out on the widow's cheeks; her eyes shot
sparks like flints struck together. "I've nothin' to say to you," she
says, turnin' her back on Florindy, "but the rest of you shall hear
what's behind the story she's told. It looks as if those that has
known me all my life, watched me strugglin'  with poverty, workin'
to keep a roof over these two girls that wuz left babes on my
hands, an' never heard so much as a breath against me or mine,
might 'a waited a little before talkin' about expellin' me from the
society." 

Everybody colored up, an' Farmer Sweet's wife she whimpered a
little. 

"I wish you'd take a cheer, Sister Biscoe," said Sister Wysnicker,
real entreatin'. 

"I'll sit in no house nor break bread under no roof till my pardon
has been asked by all that thought ill of me." 

Florindy sniffed, but no one j'ined in.

"Last Friday night a week ago," says Sister Biscoe, "Roland Selph
knocked with his ridin'-whip against my door. Jenny opened it,
a-drawin' back when she saw who it wuz, for Roland has a kiss an'
a joke for every girl who will let him come near enough. But he
walked in very quiet, a-followin' her into the back room, where I
sat sewin'. 

" 'Mrs. Biscoe,' says he, 'can you make me some decent clothes
agin Sunday?' 

" 'Not agin Sunday, Roland,' says I, 'for it's Friday night now.' 

"He set quite a while without sayin' anything, a-hittin' his boot with
his whip, an' finally he said, in a loud, defiant sort of way, that he
hed thought of bein' baptized Sunday, if he could git anything to
put on his back, for he wuz perfectly ragged. 

" 'You baptized!' says Leila, pertly. 'Is the world comin' to an end?' 

" 'Mebbe,' says he, very sullen, an' got up as if he would  go. But I
found strength to stop him. 'Good gracious!' says I, 'don't fly off the
let's talk it over.' 

"The long and the short of it is that I soon saw Roland wuz
a-tremblin' between two worlds. He wuz that unregenerate that he
wouldn't face the public at Big Muddy without the befittin' clothes,
yet the Spirit wuz so workin' within him that he had set his heart
on sealin' himself to God the comin' Sunday. I thought of suggestin'
to him to wait until Brother Powell came round again; but, seein'
as how he wuz just out of the devil's clutches by a needle's length,
as you may say, I didn't dare to say 'put it off' to him. Would any
sister here have done it?" 

"NO!" says Sister Weeden, lettin' the word drop very ponderous. 

"It might be then or never. To be the means of stoppin' him wuz
more of a responsibility than I could shoulder. There wuz tears on
Jenny's cheeks, an' she whispered to me, 'Say that you will,
mammie.' An' even Leila nodded when I looked inquirin' at her.
'Roland,' says I, 'we'll do it. Come for your clothes Sunday noon.
They'll be ready, and without money an' without price, for it's the
Lord's work.' 

"We got 'em cut out that night, an' we worked steady Saturday, an'
Saturday night, an' Sunday mornin'. Yes, we did work on the
Lord's-day, for mortal fingers couldn't 'a finished the job without. 

"By luck an' plannin' we saved all the hand-sewin' till the last, so
that the noise of a machine runnin' on Sunday shouldn't bring
reproach on my house. For many a thing is all right if it's kept quiet
that fools label wrong if it comes to their ears.  

"That's about the whole story. You all saw Roland Selph baptized
that afternoon, an' can bear witness to how modest an' handsome
he looked in his clean new suit, with the light of the Gospel
a-shinin' on his face. I won't speak of myself; but as for my two
girls, who had gone without rest an' food, an' worked their fingers
sore, to put him where he stood, I only hope that all of you said
'Amen' to Brother Powell's prayer with as clean a conscience as
theirs. An' I will say for myself that, just as sure as my name is
Dorothy Biscoe, I would do it all over again! An' it's a business
between me an' my God." 

She had swept us all along; and we wuz throwed into a confusion
when she stopped short an' sudden, as if waitin' for some one to
speak. Nobody knew jest how to lead off, an' it wuz a relief when
Sister Weeden rose up an' says, "Let us pray!" 

Down we all knelt promiscuous, the wool a-scatterin' from our
laps, an' Sister Weeden, without stoppin' a minute to think up her
words - for prayin' comes to her by nature - began: "O Father, our
hearts is vile an' unclean as the wool we've been pickin' out this
day; quick to catch at evil as sheep's backs to catch at brambles an'
briers in pushin' through a thicket; clogged with meanness an'
jealousies an' suspicions, till they're got no will nor power to beat
harmonious with thy Spirit, which is love. O Lord, we'd give up,
despairin', if it wuzn't that immortal patience can cleanse them of
trash that defiles; if it wuzn't that Immanuel's blood can wash the
blackness of blackness away; if it wuzn't that we knew forgiveness
wuz held out free as long as breath held body an' soul together
Every day Satan dangles some new temptation before  us, an' we
fall inter sin. Most especial to-day hev we failed in charity toward
our sister here, condemnin' her without a hearin', an' never
a-dreamin' that it wuz the Lord's work to which she give his day, as
sinless as the act of Him who plucked the ears of corn an' wuz
reproached by the lip-servin' Jews. Put it inter her heart, O Father,
to pardon us without much more said about it. All for the dear sake
of him who died for us. Amen." 

Then we said the Lord's Prayer all together, an' somehow a good,
healthy shame laid hold of us an' made us humble in our own
conceit for once. 

We didn't exactly like to look Sister Biscoe in the eye when we got
up. We didn't know but what she'd hold out till we had made
apologies all 'round; an' how to do it wuz more than we knew. 

But, dear sakes! Sister Wysnicker - she's such a comfortable
woman - she says, quite natural, "Won't you take off your things,
Sister Biscoe, an' help us out with this wool? It's a powerful sight
worse 'n I looked for it to be." 

"To be sure," says Sister Biscoe, a little hystericky, but very
cheerful; "ain't that what I'm here for?" 

So, pretty soon we wuz workin' like bees, an' chattin' by spells, as
neighbors should, about the harvestin', an' the hard work, an' the
aguey, an' the Republican rally, an' the thrivin' business of them
wicked saloons when politics wuz flyin' all abroad, an' other
subjects harmonious to the company. 

Jenny she stood by her mother and helped; but as for Miss Leila,
she tossed her head and walked off home, as unforgivin' a young
one as ever listened to prayer with a stony heart.  

AUNT ANNIKY'S TEETH.

AUNT ANNIKY was an African dame, fifty years old, and of an
imposing presence. As a waffle-maker she possessed a gift beyond
the common, but her unapproachable talent lay in the province of
nursing. She seemed born for the benefit of sick people. She
should have been painted with the apple of healing in her hand.
For the rest, she was a funny, illiterate old darkey, vain, affable,
and neat as a pink. 

On one occasion my mother had a dangerous illness. Aunt Anniky
nursed her through it, giving herself no rest night nor day until her
patient had come "back to de walks an' ways ob life," as she
expressed the dear mother's recovery. My father, overjoyed and
grateful, felt that we owed this result quite as much to Aunt
Anniky as to our family doctor, so he announced his intention of
making her a handsome present, and, like King Herod, left her free
to choose what it should be. I shall never forget how Aunt Anniky
looked as she stood there smiling and bowing, and bobbing the
funniest little courtesies all the way down to the ground. 

And you would never guess what it was the old woman asked for. 

"Well, Mars' Charles," said she (she had been one of our old
servants, and always called my father Mars' Charles), "to  tell you
de livin' trufe, my soul an' body is a-yearnin' fur a han'sum chany
set o' teef." 

"A set of teeth!" cried father, surprised enough. "And have you
none left of your own?" 

"I has gummed it fur a good many ye'rs," said Aunt Anniky, with a
sigh; "but not wishin' ter be ongrateful ter my obligations, I owns
ter havin' five nateral teef. But dey is po' sogers: dey shirks battle.
One ob dem's got a little somethin' in it as lively as a speared
worm, an' I tell you when anything teches it, hot or cold, it jest
makes me dance! An' anudder is in my top jaw, an' ain't got no
match fur it in de bottom one; an' one is broke off nearly to de
root; an' de las' two is  so yeller dat I's ashamed ter show 'em in
company, an' so I lif's my turkey tail ter my mouf every time I
laughs or speaks." 

Father turned to mother with a musing air. "The curious student of
humanity," he remarked, "traces resemblances where they are not
obviously conspicuous. Now, at the first blush one would not think
of any common ground of meeting for our Aunt Anniky and the
Empress Josephine. Yet that fine French lady introduced the
fashion of handkerchiefs by continually raising delicate lace
mouchoirs to her lips to hide her bad teeth. Aunt Anniky lifts her
turkey tail! It really seems that human beings should be classed by
strata, as if they were metals in the earth. Instead of dividing by
nations, let us class by qualities. So we might find Turk, Jew,
Christian, fashionable lady and washer-woman, master and slave,
hanging together, like cats on a clothes-line, by some connecting
cord of affinity - " 

"In the mean time," said my mother, mildly, "Aunt Anniky is
waiting to know if she is to have her teeth." 

"Oh, surely, surely!" cried father, coming out of the clouds, with a
start. "I am going to the village to-morrow, Anniky, in the spring
wagon. I will take you with me, and we will see what the dentist
can do for you." 

"Bless yo' heart, Mars' Charles!" said the delighted Anniky; "you're
jest as good as yo' blood an' yo' name, an' mo' I couldn't say." 

The morrow came, and with it Aunt Anniky, gorgeously arrayed in
a flaming red calico, a bandanna handkerchief, and a string of
carved yellow beads that glistened on her bosom like fresh
buttercups on a hill-slope.  

I had petitioned to go with the party, for, as we lived on a
plantation, a visit to the village was something of an event. 

A brisk drive soon brought us to the centre of "the Square." A
glittering sign hung brazenly from a high window on its western
side, bearing, in raised black letters, the name Doctor Alonzo
Babb. 

Dr. Babb was the dentist and the odd fish of our village. He beams
in my memory as a big, round man, with hair and smiles all over
his face, who talked incessantly, and said things to make your
blood run cold. 

"Do you see this ring?" he said, as he bustled about, polishing his
instruments, and making his preparations for the sacrifice of Aunt
Anniky. He held up his right hand, on the forefinger of which
glistened a ring the size of a dog-collar. "Now, what d'ye s'pose
that's made of?" 

"Brass," suggested father, who was funny when not philosophical. 

"Brass!" cried Dr. Babb, with a withering look: "it's virgin gold,
that ring is. And where d'ye s'pose I found the gold?" 

My father ran his hands into his pockets in a retrospective sort of
way. 

"In the mouths of my patients, every grain of it," said the dentist,
with a perfectly diabolical smack of the lips: "old fillings - plugs,
you know - that I saved, and had made up into this shape. Good
deal of sentiment about such a ring as this." 

"Sentiment of a mixed nature, I should say," murmured my father,
with a grimace. 

"Mixed? - rather! A speck here, a speck there. Some  times an eye,
oftener a jaw, occasionally a front. More than a hundred men, I
s'pose, have helped in the cause." 

"Law, doctor! you beats de birds, you does," cried Aunt Anniky,
whose head was as flat as the floor where her reverence bump
should have been; "you know how dey snatches de wool from
every bush to make deir nests." 

"Lots of company for me that ring is," said the doctor, ignoring the
pertinent, or impertinent, interruption. "Often, as I sit in the
twilight, I twirl it around and around, a-thinking of the
wagon-loads of food it has masticated, the blood that has flowed
over it, the groans that it has cost - Now, old lady, if you will sit
just here - " 

He motioned Aunt Anniky, to the chair, into which she dropped in
a limp sort of way, recovering herself immediately, however, and
sitting bolt-upright in a rigid attitude of defiance. Some moments
of persuasion were necessary before she could be induced to lean
back and allow Dr. Babb's fingers on her nose while she breathed
the laughing-gas; but once settled, the expression faded from her
countenance almost as quickly as a magic-lantern picture vanishes.
I watched her nervously, my attention divided between her
vacant-looking face and a dreadful picture on the wall. It
represented Dr. Babb himself minus the hair, but with double the
number of smiles, standing by a patient from whose mouth he had
apparently just extracted a huge molar that he held triumphantly in
his forceps. A gray-haired old gentleman regarded the pair with
benevolent interest. The photograph was entitled, "His First
Tooth." 

"Attracted by that picture?" said Dr. Alonzo, affably, his  fingers
on Aunt Anniky's pulse. "My par had that struck off the first time I
ever got a tooth out. That's par with the gray hair and the
benediction attitude. Tell you, he was proud of me! I had such an
awful tussle with that tooth! Thought the old fellow's jaw was
bound to break! But I got it out, and after that my par took me with
him 'round the country - starring the provinces, you know - and I
practiced on the natives." 

By this time Aunt Anniky was well under the influence of the gas,
and in an incredibly short space of time her five teeth were out. As
she came to herself, I am sorry to say, she was rather silly, and
quite mortified me by winking at Dr. Babb in the most confidential
manner, and repeating over and over again, "Honey, yer ain't harf
as smart as yer thinks yer is!" 

After a few weeks of sore gums Aunt Anniky appeared radiant
with her new teeth. The effect was certainly funny. In the first
place, blackness itself was not so black as Aunt Anniky. She
looked as if she had been dipped in ink and polished off with
lamp-black. Her very eyes showed but the faintest rim of white.
But those teeth were white enough to make up for everything. She
had selected them herself, and the little, ridiculous, milk-white
things were more fitted for the mouth of a Titania than for the
great cavern in which Aunt Anniky's tongue moved and had its
being. The gums above them were black, and when she spread her
wide mouth in a laugh it always reminded me of a piano-lid
opening suddenly and showing all the black and white ivories at a
glance. Aunt Anniky laughed a good deal, too, after getting her
teeth in,  and declared she had never been so happy in her life. It
was observed, to her credit, that she put on no airs of pride, but
was as sociable as ever, and made nothing of taking out her teeth
and handing them around for inspection among her curious and
admiring visitors. On that principle of human nature which glories
in attracting attention to the weakest part, she delighted in tough
meats, stale bread, green fruits, and all other eatables that test the
biting quality of the teeth. But finally destruction came upon them
in a way that no one could have foreseen.  

Uncle Ned was an old colored man, who lived alone in a cabin not
very far from Aunt Anniky's, but very different from hers in point
of cleanliness and order. In fact, Uncle Ned's wealth, apart from a
little corn crop, consisted in a lot of fine young pigs that ran in and
out of the house at all times, and were treated by their owner as
tenderly as if they had been his children. One fine day the old man
fell sick of a fever, and he sent in haste for Aunt Anniky to come
and nurse him. He agreed to give her a pig in case she brought him
through; should she fail to do so, she was to receive no pay. Well,
Uncle Ned got well, and the next thing we heard was that he
refused to pay the pig. My father was usually called on to settle all
the disputes in the neighborhood; so one morning Anniky and Ned
appeared before him, both looking very indignant. 

"I'd jes like ter tell yer, Mars' Charles," began Uncle Ned, "ov de
trick dis miser'ble ole nigger played on me." 

"Go on, Ned," said my father, with a resigned air. 

"Well, it war de fift' night o' de fever," said Uncle Ned, "an' I wuz
a-tossin' an' a-moanin', an' ole Anniky jes lay back in her cheer an'
snored as ef a dozen frogs wuz in her throat. I wuz a-perishin' an'
a-burnin' wid thirst - an' I hollered to Anniky; but lor! I might as
well 'a hollered to a tombstone! It wuz ice I wanted; an' I knowed
dar wuz a glass somewhar on my table wid cracked ice in it. Lor!
lor! how dry I wuz! I neber longed fur whiskey in my born days ez
I panted fur dat ice. It wuz powerful dark, fur de grease wuz low in
de lamp, an' de wick spluttered wid a dyin' flame. But I felt aroun',
feeble like an' slow, till my fingers touched a glass. I  pulled it to
me, an' I run my hen' in an' grabbed de ice, as I s'posed, an' flung it
in my mouf, an' crunched an' crunched - " 

Here there was an awful pause. Uncle Ned pointed his thumb at
Anniky, looked wildly at my father, and said, in a hollow voice: "It
wuz Anniky's teef." 

My father threw back his head and laughed as I had never heard
him laugh. Mother from her sofa joined in. I was doubled up-like a
jackknife in the corner. But as for the 
 
principals in the affair, neither of their faces moved a muscle.
They saw no joke. Aunt Anniky, in a dreadful, muffled, squashy
sort of voice, took up the tale: 

"Nexsh ting I knowed, Marsh Sharles, somebody's sheizin' me by
de head, a-jammin' it up 'gin de wall, a-jawin' at me like de angel
Gabriel at de rish ole sinners in de bad plashe - an' afar wash ole
Ned a-spittin' like a black cat, an' a-howlin' so dreadful dat I tought
he wash de debil; an' when I got de light, afar wash my beautiful
chany teef a-flung aroun' like scattered seed-corn on de flo', an'
Ned a-swarin' he'd have de law o' me." 

"An' arter all dat," broke in Uncle Ned, "she purtends to lay a claim
fur my pig. But I says no, sir; I don't pay nobody nothin' who's
played me a trick like dat." 

"Trick!" said Aunt Anniky, scornfully; "whar's de trick? Tink I
wanted yer ter eat my teef? An' furdermo', Marsh Sharles, dar's jes
dis about it. When dat night set in dar warn's no mo' hope fur ole
Ned den fur a foundered sheep. Laws-a-mussy! cat's why I went ter
sleep. I wanted ter hev strengt' ter put on his burial clo'es in de
mornin'. But don' yer see, Marsh Sharles, dat when he got so mad it
brought on a sweat dat broke de fever! It saved him! But fur all
dat, arter munchin' an' manglin' my chany teef, he has de
imperdence of tryin' to 'prive me of de pig dat I honestly 'arned." 

It was a hard case. Uncle Ned sat there a very image of injured
dignity, while Aunt Anniky bound a red handkerchief around her
mouth and fanned herself with her turkey tail. 

"I am sure I don't know how to settle the matter," said  father,
helplessly. "Ned, I don't see but that you'll have to pay up." 

"Neber, Mars' Charles - neber!"

"Well, suppose you get married?" suggested father, brilliantly.
"That will unite your interests, you know." 

Aunt Anniky tossed her head. Uncle Ned was old, wizened,
wrinkled as a raisin, but he eyed Anniky over with a supercilious
gaze, and said, with dignity, "Ef I wanted ter marry, I could git a
likely young gal." 

All the four points of Anniky's turban shook with indignation. "Pay
me fur dem chany teef!" she hissed. 

Some visitors interrupted the dispute at this time, and the two old
darkies went away. 

A week later Uncle Ned appeared, with rather a sheepish look. 

"Well, Mars' Charles," he said, "I's 'bout concluded dat I'll marry
Anniky." 

"Ah! is that so?"

" 'Pears like it's de onliest way I kin save my pigs," said Uncle Ned,
with a sigh. "When she's marr