 | CHAPTER III. Dukesborough tales |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
“And now, Philip, I'm comin to the interestin part; I'm a gainin on
it fast. That man ar a book — a far book. If I war goin to write a
book I should write a book on Jonas Lively and the awful skenes,
so to speak, o' that blessed and ontimely night. But in cose you
know, Philipmon, I don't expect to write no book, becase I haint the
edyecation nor the time. But now, lo and behold! it war a foggy
evenin, and specially at Cousin Malviny's, whar you knows they lives
close onto Rocky Creek. Well, no sooner I got to my room than I
slyly slips out onto the pe-azer, and out into the yard, and walks quiet
and easy as I kin to the backside o' the office, whar thar war a
winder. I war detumined to get thar befo' the old feller blowed out
his candle and got to bed. I had seed befo' night that a little piece
war broke out o' the winder. I didn't like ezactly to be a peepin'
in on the old man, and I should a felt sorter bad ef he had a caught
him a civil question; it war his fault and not mine. My skeerts is
cler.”
It was pleasant to see my friend thus able to rid himself of responsibility
in a matter in which it was rather plain that blame must attach
somewhere.
“So I crope up thar, I did, and found that he had let down the
curtin. But I tuck a pin and draw the curtin up to the hole in the
glass, and then tuck my pen-knife and slit a little hole in the curtin, so
I could go one eye on him. I couldn't go but one eye; but I see a
plenty with that — a plenty for one time. In the first place, Phlim,
thar aint a man in the whole town of Dukesborough exceptin me that
know Mr. Lively ar a smoker. I don't blieve that Cousin Malviny
know it. As soon as I got my eye in the room I see him onlock his
trunk, which it war by the head o' his bed, and take out a little tin-box,
which it have the littlest pad-lock that ever I see: and then he
onlock it with a key accordin, and he tuck out the onliest lookin
pipe! I do blieve it war made out o' crockery. It war long, and
shape like a pitcher; and it had a kiver, and the kiver it war yaller
and have little holes, it 'pear like, like a pepper-box; and which it
have also a crooked stem made out o' somethin black; and ef it
warn't chained to his pipe by a little chain I'm the biggest liar in and
about Dukesborough! Well, Sir, he take out this pipe, and then he
take outen the trunk another little box, and which it have tobarker in
it, all cut up and ready for smokin. Well, Sir, he fill up that pipe, and
which I think it hilt nigh and in and about my hand-full of tobarker;
and then of all the smokes which I ever see a mortal man smoke, or
mortal woming either, that war the most tremenjus and ontimeliest!
It ar perfecly certin that that man never smoke but that one time in
the twenty-four hours. I tell you he war hongry for his smoke; and
when he smoke, he smoke. And the way he do blow! I could farly
hear him whistle as he shoot out the smoke. He don't seem to take
no consolation in his smokin, as fur as I could see; becase sich everlastin
blowin made him look like he war monstous tired at the last.
Sich vilence can't last, and he got through mighty soon. But he have
to git through quick for another reason; and which I ar now goin to
tell you what that other reason ar — that is providin, Squire, you keers
about hearin it.”
Notwithstanding some capital doubts upon the legality of the
sufficiently interested to hear further, and I so intimated.
“Yes, I thought,” Mr. Bill continued with a smile, “that may be
you mout wish to hear some more about his carrins on. That man
ar a book, Philyermon Pearch — a far book. Well then, to perceed
on with the perceedences of that awful and ontimely night, Mr. Lively
he have no candle more'n a inch long. Outen that same trunk he tuck
out another box. I never see sich a man for boxes; he have more
boxes than clothes, certin. I see two or three more boxes in that
trunk. What war in 'em Mr. Lively know — I don't; but in that other
box what I'm a speakin about now I see at least fifteen little pieces o'
candle about a inch long. Mr. Lively have tuck out one o' them
candles and lit it for to see better how to go to bed by. He have
a fire; but he want more light, it appear like. That candle it can't
last so mighty powerful long; but it have got to last jest so long
for him. I never see jest sich a man befo'. Interestin as he war a
smokin, it war nothin to his goin to bed. Arfter he put up his pipe,
and fix his boxes back and lock up his trunk, he begin to fix hisself
for goin to bed. And which it, in cose, ar a single bed, as by good
rights, accordin to all human, reasonable understandin, it ought to be.”
Mr. Bill regarded me in silence for a moment with an expression
which I understood to be perfectly serious.
“I should say, Philerimon Pearch, that bed of Jonas Lively by
good rights it ought to be a single bed. Ef Mr. Lively was to ever
have to sleep with anybody, and — well — I don't know. It's a ontimely
world, and they aint no tellin what people will do; and you
can't alter 'em, and it aint worth while to try. But that's neither here
nor thar. At the present Mr. Lively certinly do occupy a single bed,
and which I say by good rights he ought to.”
These parenthetical remarks sounded very mysteriously to my ear,
and seemed to convey, I suspected, an admonition to some person in
particular, or perhaps to the world in general.
“It war a monstous plain bedstead, and which I have heerd Cousin
Malviny say, when she used to laugh at him, and didn't seem to look
up to him like she do here lately, which she used to say he made it
hisself. It have a shuck mattress, with one blanket and one quilt;
but nary piller, nor nary sheet. That ar a bed which it ar monstous
easy to make it up, and which Mr. Lively, he say, Cousin Malviny
used to say, he didn't wish nobody to pester it and rather make up
go to bed, ef a body mout call sich a thing a bed. The first thing he
do, it ar to pull his little table up agin to the foot of his bed. Then
he pull off his boots. That ar perfectly natral, of cose: yit I sposen
he war goin to pull off his hat first; which it war the onliest thing I
mostly wanted to see, and was a waitin too see. But no hat off yit.
And what do you think he do with them boots?”
I ventured to guess that he put them under the bed or against
the wall.
“Not a bit of nary one. No, Sir. Make a piller of 'em. Yes,
Sir, he twist 'em up and wrap 'em up in a old newspaper, and put
'em under his mattress for a piller. Some people mout be called
extravigant; but it wouldn't be Jonas Lively. Then what you sposen
that man pull off next?”
“His coat. No, his hat!”
“Never!” answered Mr. Bill emphatically, “nary one. It was his
briches! And now about them briches. I always thought, Cousin
Malviny thought, everybody in Dukesborough, includin the surroundin
country and the whole neighborhood, we all thought that Mr.
Lively have two par of briches, one black and one gray. Well,
Philipmon Pearch, I ar now prepard to say, ef I mout so speak, that
Mr. Lively have not got but one par of briches: leastways exceptin
you mout call it two par when one par is linded with t'other par, and
t'other par is linded with them par. For that's jest the fact o' the
case: they ar linded with one another. He have 'em made so.
People that lives in town, my honest friend, they sees a heap o' things.
That man ar a book — a far book. And now thar stand Mr. Lively in
his prisent and ontimely sitovation; and he do look lively, I tell you.”
Mr. Bill chuckled, and winked and rubbed his hands at this remark,
and evidently felt that none other than an inhabitant of Dukesborough,
or some other equally extensive and densely populated place,
could have perpetrated so brilliant a pun. It was the first I had
ever heard, and I could but remark how much Mr. Bill had improved.
“And now I'm goin to tell you another thing. I tell you, Philip, I
aint near done with Jonas Lively. He ar a book — a far book. You
mout think now, and specially in cold weather, that Mr. Lively mout
war draws. It look reasonable. But no draw! But I tell you what
he do war. He war the longest shirt that I ever see to a man person
of his highth. It come plum down below the bone of his knees. I
was his legs, speakin comparative. Yit don't you blieve I ezactly
sees Mr. Lively's legs. And becase why? Does you give it up?”
Of course I did.
Mr. Bill looked at me with an expression partly humorous and
partly compassionate, and then ejaculated:
“Stockens!! Yes, Sir, stockens! The onliest tiem I ever
knowed a man person to war stockens, exceptin in a show, where
them that wars 'em wars 'em for you to laugh at him fur warin 'em.
And them stockens comes up ezactly perpendicler to the very pint
whar his long shirt retches down to, and they fits him tight. As for
Mr. Lively's legs, I wouldn't wish to do injestice to no man's legs, but
they're the littlest and spindlest legs that ever I see to car what they
have to car. Them legs mout a had calves to 'em, but I never see
'em. I don't say he never had calves; I merily say I never see 'em.
“When Mr. Lively take off his briches he turned 'em wrong side
outerds and thar is another par, and then he lay 'em keerful on the
table with the top part todes the bed; and then arfter he take out of
his pocket his big red pocket-hankercher, he take his coat off and lay
it keerful on top o' his briches, collar fomost. And now he ar ready
to take off his hat, and I perceed to the interestin part o' the
subjick.”
Mr. Bill rubbed his hands afresh and his dull eyes almost watered
while he was describing this operation.
“When he ar ready to take off his hat he sit down on the bed,
poke his hands under his har like he war goin to scratch, and it appear
like he war onfastenin somethin on top o' his ears; and then he bob
down his head, give a sudding jerk, and lo and behold! here come
Mr. Lively's hat carrin with it every har upon the top o' Mr. Lively's
head! Oh, Philip, I war satisfied. I always spicioned he war a wig,
and now I knowed it, becase thar I seed his har in his hat, and his
round, slick, ontimely old head a shinin befo' me. And oh, ef it
don't shine, and ef it don't do him good to rub it!”
And Mr. Bill laughed, and shed tears and laughed, making the
grove ring. He wiped his eyes and resumed.
“But, jest like his smokin, he ar mighty soon through that operation
also. And then he tie his head in that pocket-hankercher, and
slip his hat and its con-tents under the bed. So thar stand Mr.
Lively ready for bed; and ef you didn't know it war him, but some
couldn't say, ef it was to save your life, whether it war Mr. Lively, or
Miss Lively, or the old lady Lively. If it warn't for his westcoat you
would say it war a woman person, becase thar's his long shirt, which
it looks like a gowen; and notwithstandin his legs is oncommon
small, thar's his stockens. And ef it warn't for his long shirt and his
stockens you would say it war a man person, becase thar's his westcoat.
As it ar, your mind ar in a confusion and a state o' hesitatin
doubt which ar highly amusin. I don't speak o' myself, becase I
knowed him, and seed him as he shucked hisself, and I follered him
thoo and thoo the varous — ah — tranmogifications — so to speak — o'
that blessed and ontimely evenin.”
“But didn't he take off his waistcoat?” I inquired.
“Yes, indeed: but whot for? Jest to turn her over and put her on
agin, which dinged ef she aint jest like his briches in bein linded with
itself. I tell you, Phlinimon, a little more and that man would a
been linded with hisself.”
Mr. Bill again laughed and shed tears.
“But what makes him sleep in it?”
“Thar now! becase westcoats is cheaper'n blankets. Leastways
westcoats by theirselves is cheaper than westcoats and blankets put
together.”
Mr. Bill announced this with as much emphasis and gravity as if it
had been a newly discovered principle of political economy.
“And now Mr. Lively ar ready for bed, as I war a sayin; and he
know he got to go quick, becase his little piece o' candle are most
gone. So he take up his walkin-stick, and liftin up the kiver creep in
slow and gradyul.”
“His walking-stick?”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Mr. Bill with immense firmness, “his walkin-stick,
and which he have a use for it. Didn't I tell you he war a
book? With that stick he smoove down his shirt in the first place,
and then he tuck that blanket and that quilt under hisself good,
turnin hisself about, and he poke here and pull thar on top o' hisself,
under hisself, on both sides o' hisself, till he look snug and tight as a
sassenge. When he ar done with that business, lo and behold! he
retch down that stick and hook it on to his coat under the collar,
which thar it ar a waitin for him, and he pull it up slow and gradyul,
lettin the tails hang jest immegeantly over his toes. You say prehaps,
And sich it ar. But I now ax the question whar's his briches? Don't
you forgit, my honest friend, whar I told you he put them briches,
which I mout call 'em the double briches — don't you forgit whar I told
you he put 'em when he pulled 'em off o' them interestin and ontimely
legs o' his'n. With that same hooked stick he retch down, he lift up
them briches, he fetch them briches up, he turn and wrap them briches
in more ways than you could tie a rope, all about his arms and his
neck and his jaws. And then finnally he ar the snuggest man person,
take him up and down, by and large, over and under — he ar the snuggest
person, man person I say, that ever I went anywar and see, be
it — I takes the responsibility to say it — be it wheresomever or
whomsoever or whatsomever it mout. Mr. Lively are a good calkerlater.
It warn't more'n fifteen seconds arfter he had fixed hisself when
his little piece o' candle gin out and he war a snorin, and I tell you
he knocked it off perpendickler. By this time I war tolerable cool,
and I crope back to the house and went to bed. And I thinks I to
myself, Mr. Lively, you are one of e'm. You ar a book, Mr. Lively —
a far book. We ar even now, Mr. Lively; and which I laid thar a long
time a meditatin on this interestin and ontimely case. I ax myself, ar
this the lot o' them which has no wife and gits old in them conditions,
and has no har on the top o' thar head? Is it sich in all the circumsances
of sich a awful and ontimely sitovation? Ef so, fair be it
from William Williams!”
Mr. Bill delivered this reflection with becoming seriousness. Indeed
he looked a little sad, but whether in contemplation of possible
bachelorhood or possible baldness I could not say.
“The next mornin we was all up good and soon. When we went
to breakfast I felt sorter mean when I look at the old man, and a
little sort o' skeerd to boot. But he look like he have got a good
night's rest, and I have owed him somethin, becase I have ax him a
civil question; and so I thinks I, Mr. Lively, you and me's about
even — only I mout have a leetle the advantage. When I told 'em all
good-bye, I told the old man that I'm a thinkin I'll go to old North
Calliner some o' these days and see them old people; and which I
tell you he look at me mighty hard. But what struck me war to see
how Cousin Malviny look up to him. But wimming's wimming,
Philiminon. You can't alter 'em, and it aint worth while to try.”
| CHAPTER III. Dukesborough tales | |