A quarter race in Kentucky and other sketches, illustrative of scenes, characters, and incidents throughout "the universal Yankee nation." |
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DICK HARLAN'S TENNESSEE FROLIC. |
 | A quarter race in Kentucky |  |
DICK HARLAN'S TENNESSEE FROLIC.
BY "S —L," OF TENNESSEE.
We wish we were at liberty to disclose the name and habitation
of the writer of the incident annexed, for then we are assured
his friends would insist upon his becoming a more regular correspondent
of the "Spirit of the Times," in the columns of which
he made his debut.
You may talk of your bar hunts, Mister Porter, and
your deer hunts, and knottin tigers' tails thru the bungholes
of barrels, an cock fitin, and all that, but if a regular
bilt frolick in the Nobs of "Old Knox," don't beat 'em
all blind for fun, then I'm no judge of fun, that's all! I
said fun, and I say it agin, from a kiss that cracks like
a wagin-whip up to a fite that rouses up all out-doors—
and as to laffin, why they invented laffin, and the last laff
will be hearn at a Nob dance about three in the morning!
I'm jest gettin so I can ride arter the motions I made at
one at Jo Spraggins's a few days ago.
I'll try and tell you who Jo Spraggins is. He's a
squire, a school comishoner, overlooker of a mile of Nob
road that leads towards Roody's still-house—a fiddler, a
judge of a hoss, and a hoss himself! He can belt six
shillins worth of corn-juice at still-house rates and travel
—can out-shute and out-lie any feller from the Smoky
Mounting to Noxville, and, if they'll bar one feller in
Nox, I'll say to the old Kaintuck Line! (I'm sorter feared
of him, for they say that he lied a jackass to death in two
thrash more wheat an more men than any one-eyed
man I know on. He hates a circuit rider, a nigger, and
a shot gun—loves a woman, old sledge, and sin in eny
shape. He lives in a log hous about ten yards squar:
it has two rooms, one at the bottom an one at the top of
the ladder—has all out ove doors fur a yard, and all the
South fur its occupants at times. He gives a frolick onst
in three weeks in plowin time, and one every Saturday-nite
the balance of the year, and only axes a "fip" for
a reel, and two "bits" fur what corn-juice you suck;
he throws the galls in, and a bed too in the hay, if you
git too hot to locomote. The supper is made up by the
fellers; every one fetches sumthin; sum a lick of meal,
sum a middlin of bacon, sum a hen, sum a possum, sum
a punkin, sum a grab of taters, or a pocket full of peas,
or dried apples, an sum only fetches a good appetite and
a skin chock full of particular devilry, and if thars been
a shutin match for beef the day before, why a leg finds
its way to Jo's sure, without eny help from the balance
of the critter. He gives Jim Smith (the store-keeper
over Bay's Mounting) warnin to fetch a skane of silk fur
fiddle strings, and sum "Orleans" for sweetnin, or not
to fetch himself; the silk and sugar has never failed
to be thar yet. Jo then mounts Punkinslinger bar backed,
about three hours afore sun down, and gives all the
galls item. He does this a lettle of the slickest—jist
rides past in a peart rack, singin,
A axin his way to the fro-l-i-c-k?
Wha-a-he! wha he! wha he! wha ke he-ke-he!"
That's enuf! The galls nows that aint a jackass, so
pissants out of an old log when tother end's afire, jest
"as fine as silk" and full of fun, fixed out in all sorts
of fancy doins, from the broad-striped homespun to the
sunflower calico, with the thunder-and-lightnin ground.
As for silk, if one had a silk gown she'd be too smart to
wear it to Jo Spraggins's, fur if she did she'd go home
in hir petticote-tale sartin, for the homespun wud tare
it off of hir quicker nor winkin, and if the sunflowers
dident help the homespuns, they woudn't do the silk eny
good, so you see that silk is never ratlin about your ears
at a Nob dance.
The sun had about sot afore I got the things fed an
had Barkmill saddled, (you'll larn directly why I call
my poney Barkmill,) but an owl couldent have cotch a
rat afore I was in site of Jo's with my gall, Jule Sawyers,
up behind me. She hugged me mity tite she was "so
feerd of fallin off that drated poney." She said she
didn't mind a fall, but it mought break hir leg an then
good bye frolicks—she'd be fit fur nuthin but to nuss brats
ollers arterwards. I now hearn the fiddle ting-tong-dingdomb.
The yard was full of fellers, and two tall fine-lookin
galls was standin in the door, face to face, holdin
up the door posts with their backs, laffin, an castin sly
looks into the house, an now an then kickin each other
with their knees, an then the one kicked wud bow so
perlite, and quick at that, and then they'd laff agin an
turn red. Jo was a standin in the hous helpin the galls
to hold the facins up, an when they'd kick each other
he'd wink at the fellers in the yard an grin. Jule, she
bounced off just like a bag of wool-rolls, and I hitched
my bark-machine up to a saplin that warn't skinned, so
giv Jule a kiss to sorter molify my natur an put her in
heart like, and in we walked. "Hey! hurray!" said
the boys; "My gracious!" said the galls, "if here aint
Dick an Jule!" jist like we hadent been rite thar only
last Saturday nite. "Well, I know we'll have reel now!"
"Hurraw!—Go it while you'r young!" "Hurraw for
the brimstone kiln—every man praise his country!"
"Clar the ring!" "Misses Spraggins, drive out these
dratted tow-headed brats of your'n—give room!"
"Who-oo-whoop! whar's the crock of bald-face, and
that gourd of honey? Jim Smith, hand over that spoon,
an quit a lickin it like "sank in a bean-pot." "You, Jake
Snyder, don't holler so!" says the old 'oman—"why you
are worse nor a painter." "Holler! why I was jist
whispering to that gall on the bed—who-a-whoopee! now
I'm beginning to holler! Did you hear that, Misses
Spraggins, and be darned to your bar legs? You'd
make a nice hemp-brake, you would." "Come here,
Suse Thompson, and let me pin your dress behind?
Your back looks adzactly like a blaze on a white oak!"
"My back ain't nuffin to you, Mister Smarty!" "Bill
Jones, quit a smashin that ar cat's tail!" "Well let hir
keep hir tail clar of my ant killers!" "Het Goins, stop
tumblin that bed an tie your sock!" "Thankee, marm,
its a longer stockin than you've got—look at it!" "Jim
Clark has gone to the woods for fat pine, and Peggy
Willet is along to take a lite for him—they've been gone
a coon's age. Oh, here comes the lost `babes in the wood,'
and no lite!" "Whar's that lite! whar's that torch! I
say, Peggy, whar is that bundle of lite wood?" "Why,
I fell over a log an lost it, and we hunted clar to the
no how—nuthin but a little pine—who cares?"
"Hello, thar, gin us `Forked Deer," old fiddle-teazer,
or I'll give you forked litnin! Ar you a goin to tum-tum
all nite on that pot-gutted old pine box of a fiddle, say?"
"Give him a soak at the crock and a lick at the patent
bee-hive—it'll ile his elbows." "Misses Spraggins,
you're a hoss! cook on, don't mind me—I dident aim
to slap you; it was Suze Winters I wanted to hit; but
you stooped so fair—" "Yes, and it's well for your
good looks that you didn't hit to hurt me, old feller!"
"Turn over them rashes of bacon, they're a burnin!"
"Mind your own business, Bob Proffit, I've cooked for
frolicks afore you shed your petticotes—so jist hush an
talk to Marth Giffin! See! she is beckonin to you!"
"That's a lie, marm! If he comes a near me I'll unjint
his dratted neck! No sech fool that when a gall puts hir
arm round his neck will break and run, shall look at me,
that's flat! Go an try Bet Holden!" "Thankee, marm,
I don't take your leavins," says Bet, hir face lookin like
a full cross between a gridiron and a steel-trap.
"Whoop! hurraw! Gether your galls for a break
down! Give us `Forked Deer!' " "No, give us
`Natchez-under-the-hill!' " "Oh, Shucks! give us
`Rocky Mounting,' or `Misses McCloud!' " " `Misses
McCloud' be darned, and `Rocky Mounting' too!
jist give us
"She woudent, and she coudent, and she dident come at all!"
"Thar! that's it! Now make a brake! Tang! Thar
is a brake—a string's gone!" "Thar'll be a head broke
afore long!" "Giv him goss—no giv him a horn and
every time he stops repeat the dose, and nar another string
and if I know what goin it is, we did go it.
About midnite, Misses Spraggins sung out "stop that
ar dancin and come and get your supper!" It was sot
in the yard on a table made of forks stuck in the ground
and plank of the stable loft, with sheets for table cloths.
We had danced, kissed, and drank ourselves into a perfect
thrashin-machine apetite, and the vittals hid themselves
in a way quite alarmin to tavern-keepers. Jo sung
out "Nives is scase, so give what thar is to the galls an
let the balance use thar paws—they was invented afore
nives, eney how. Now, Gents, jist walk into the fat of
this land. I'm sorter feerd the honey wont last till day
break, but the liquor will, I think, so you men when you
drink your'n, run an kiss the galls fur sweetnin—let them
have the honey—it belongs to them, naturaly!"—"Hurraw,
my Jo! You know how to do things rite!"
"Well, I rayther think I do; I never was rong but onst
in my life an then I mistook a camp meetin for a political
speechifyin, so I rid up an axed the speaker `how much
Tarrif there was on rot-gut?' and he said `about here, there
appeared to be none!' That rayther sot me, as I was right
smartly smoked, myself, jist at that time. I had enough
liquor plump in me to swim a skunk, so I come again at
him. I axed him `Who was the bigest fool the Bible
told of?' an he said `Noah for he'd get tite?' I thought,
mind, I only thought he might be a pokin his dead cat
at somebody what lives in this holler; I felt my bristles
a raisin my jacket-back up like a tent cloth, so I axed
him if he'd `ever seed the Elephant?' He said no, but
he had seen a grocery walk, and he expected to see one
rot down from its totterin looks, purty soon!' Thinks I,
I spurr'd and sot old Punkinslinger to cavortin like he
was skeered, an I wheeled and twisted out of that crowd,
an when I did git out of site the way I did sail was a caution
to turtles and all the other slow varmints."
Well, we danced, and hurrawed without eny thing of
very perticular interest to happen, till about three o'clock,
when the darndest muss was kicked up you ever did see.
Jim Smith sot down on the bed alongside of Bet Holden
(the steel-trap gall,) and jist fell to huggin of hir bar fashion.
She tuck it very kind till she seed Sam Henry a
looking on from behind about a dozen galls, then she fell
to kickin an a hollerin, an a screetchin like all rath. Sam
he come up an told Jim to let Bet go! Jim told him to
go to a far off countrie whar they give away brimestone
and throw in the fire to burn it. Sam hit him strate atween
the eyes, an after a few licks the fitin started. Oh
hush! It makes my mouth water now to think what a
beautiful row we had. One feller from Cady's Cove,
nocked a hole in the bottom of a fryin-pan over Dan
Turner's head, and left it a hangin round his neck, the
handle flyin about like a long que, ane thar it hung till
Jabe Thurman cut it off with a cold chissel next day!
That was his share, fur that nite, sure. Another feller
got nocked into a meal-barrel: he was as mealy as an Irish
tater and as hot as hoss-radish; when he bursted the hoops
and cum out he rared a few. Two fellers fit out of the
door, down the hill, and into the creek, and thar ended
it, in a quiet way, all alone. A perfect mule from Stock
Creek hit me a wipe with a pair of windin blades: he
made kindlin-wood of them, an I lit on him. We had
it head-and-tails fur a very long time, all over the house,
me nice, so, jist to save his time I hollered! The lickin
he give me made me sorter oneasy and hostile like; it
wakened my wolf wide awake, so I begin to look about
for a man I could lick and no mistake! The little fiddler
come a scrougin past, holdin his fiddle up over his head
to keep it in tune, for the fitin was gettin tolerable brisk.
You're the one, thinks I, and I jist grabbed the dough-tray
and split it plumb open over his head! He rotted
down, right thar, and I paddled his 'tother end with one
of the pieces!—while I was a molifyin my feelings in
that way his gall slip'd up behind me and fetcht'd me a
rake with the pot-hooks. Jule Sawyer was thar, and jist
anexed to her rite off, and a mity nice fite it was. Jule
carried enuf har from hir hed to make a sifter, and
striped and checked her face nice, like a partridge-net
hung on a white fence. She hollered fur hir fiddler, but
oh, shaw! he coudent do hir a bit of good; he was
too buisy a rubbin first his broken head and then his
blistered extremities, so when I thought Jule had given
her a plenty I pulled hir off and put hir in a good humour
by given hir about as many kisses as would cover a
barn door.
Well, I thought at last, if I had a drink I'd be about
done, so I started for the creek; and the first thing I saw
was more stars with my eyes shut than I ever did with
them open. I looked round, and it was the little fiddler's
big brother! I knowed what it meant, so we locked horns
without a word, thar all alone, and I do think we fit an
hour. At last some fellers hearn the jolts at the house,
and they cum and dug us out, for we had fit into a hole
whar a big pine stump had burnt out, and thar we was,
dodgin!
Well, it is now sixteen days since that fite, and last
nite Jule picked gravels out of my knees as big as squirell
shot. Luck rayther run agin me that nite, fur I dident
lick eny body but the fiddler, and had three fites—but
Jule licked her gall, that's some comfort, and I suppose
a feller cant always win! Arter my fite in the ground
we made friends all round, (except the fiddler—he's hot
yet,) and danced and liquored at the tail of every Reel
till sun up, when them that was sober enuff went home,
and them that was wounded staid whar they fell. I was
in the list of wounded, but could have got away if my
bark-mill hadn't ground off the saplin and gone home
without a parting word; so Dick and Jule had to ride
"Shanks' mar," and a rite peart four-leged nag she is.
She was weak in two of hir legs, but 'tother two—oh, my
stars and possum dogs! they make a man swaller tobacker
jist to look at 'em, and feel sorter like a June
bug was crawlin up his trowses and the waistband too
tite for it to git out. I'm agoin to marry Jule, I swar I
am, and sich a cross! Think of a locomotive and a cotton
gin! Who! whoopee!
| A quarter race in Kentucky | |