University of Virginia Library

SUT'S NEW-FANGLED SHIRT.

I met Sut, one morning, weaving along in his usual
rambling uncertain gait. His appearance satisfied me
at once that something was wrong. He had been sick
—whipped in a free fight, or was just getting on his
legs again, from a “big drunk.”

But upon this point I was soon enlightened.

“Why, Sut, what's wrong now?” you look sick.

“Heaps wrong, durn my skin—no my haslets—ef I
haint mos' ded, an' my looks don't lie when they hints
that I'se sick. I is sick—I'se skin'd.”

“Who skinned you—old Bullen?”

“No, hoss, a durnder fool nor Bullen did hit; I jis
skin'd mysef.”

“What in the name of common sense did you do it
for?”

“Didn't du hit in the name ove common sense; did
hit in the name, an' wif the sperit, ove plum natral
born durn fool.

“Lite ofen that ar hoss, an' take a ho'n; I wants two
ove 'em, (shaking his constant companion, a whisky

flask, at me,) an' plant yersef ontu that ar log, an' I'll
tell ef I kin, but hit's a'mos beyant tellin.

“I'se a durnder fool nor enybody outside a Assalum,
ur Kongriss, 'sceptin ove my own dad, fur he actid
hoss, an' I haint tried that yet. I'se allers intu sum
trap what wudn't ketch a saidge-field sheep. I'll drownd
mysef sum day, jis see ef I don't. I spects that wud
stop the famerly dispersition tu act durn fool, so fur es
Sut's consarn'd.”

“Well, how is it Sut; have you been beat playing
cards or drinking?”

“Nara wun, by geminy! them jobs can't be did in
these yere parts, es enybody no's on, but seein hits yu
I'll tell hit. I'se sick-sham'd-sorry-sore-an'-mad tu kill, I
is. Yu no I boards wif Bill Carr, at his cabin ontu the
mountin, an' pays fur sich es I gits when I hes munny,
an' when I hesent eny, why he takes wun third outer
me in holesum hot cussin; an' she, that's his wife Betts,
takes tuther three thirds out wif the battlin stick, an'
the intrus' wif her sharp tongue, an' she takes more
intrus' nur principal. She's the cussedes' oman I ever
seed eny how, fur jaw, breedin, an' pride. She kin
scold a blister rite plum ontu a bull's curl in two minits.
She outbreeds enything frum thar tu the river,
takin in the minks—an' patterns arter all new fangl'd
fashuns she hears tell on, frum bussils tu britches. Oh!
she's wun ove em, an' sumtimes she's two ur three,
she is.

“Well, yu see I'd got hole on sum homade cottin
cloff, fur a shirt, an' coax'd Betts tu make hit, an' bout
the time hit wer dun, yere cum a cussed stuck up lawyer,
name Jonsin, an' ax'd fur brekfus'—rite yere I
wishes the bread had been asnick, an' the meat strike-nine,
an' that he'd a staid an tuck dinner too, fur he
hes ni ontu fotch about my aind, durn his sashararer
mitimurs ole soul tu thunder!

“I wonder hit didn't work 'im pow'ful es hit wer; fur
Betts cooks up sum tarifyin mixtrys ove vittils, when
she tries hersef. I'se pizen proof my sef; fur thuty
dullars, I jis' let a sluice ove aquafotis run thru me fur
ha'f a day, an' then live tu spen' the las' durn cent, fur
churnbrain whiskey; ef I warnt (holding up his flask
and peeping through it,) I'd dun been ded long ago.

“Well, while he wer eatin, she spied out that his shut
wer mons'ous stiff, an' es slick es glass, so she never
rested ontill she wurmed hit outen 'im that hit wer
dun wif a flour preparashun. She went wif 'im a piece
ove the way down the mountin, tu git the purticulers,
an' when she cum back she sed she had em. I thot
she had myse'f.

“She imejuntly sot in, an' biled a big pot ove paste,
ni ontu a peck ove hit, an' tole me I wer gwine tu hev
`the gonest purty shut in that range.' Well, she wer
sorter rite, fur when I las seed hit hit wer purty—yas
orful purty, tu a rat, ur a buzzard, ur eny uther varmint
fon ove dirty, skary lookin things; but frum the time I

staid inside ove hit, I can't say that es a human shut
I'd gin a durn fur a dozin ove em. `Gonest purty
shut'—the cussed ole hen jay bird, I jis' wish she hed
tu war it wif a redpepper linin' on till she gits a-pas'
hatchin, an' that wud be ni ontu eleving year, ef she
tells the truff.

“She soused my shut intu the pot, an' soaked hit
thar, ontil hit tuck up mos' ove the paste; then she
tuck hit an' iron'd hit out flat, an' dry, an' sot hit on
hits aidge agin the cabin in the sun. Thar hit stood,
like a dry hoss hide, an' hit rattiled like ontu a sheet
ove iron, hit did, pasted tugether all over—`gonest
purty shut!'—durn'd huzzy!

“When I cum tu dinner, nuffin wud du Betts, but I
mus' put myse'f inside hit rite thar. She partid the tails
a littil piece wif a case nife, an' arter I got my hed started
up intu hit, she'd pull down, fus' at wun tail, an'
then tuther, ontil I wer farly inside ove hit, an' button'd
in. Durn the everlastin, infunel, new fangled
sheet iron cuss ove a shut! I say. I felt like I'd crowded
intu a ole bee-gum, an' hit all full ove pissants; but
hit wer a `born'd twin ove Lawyer Jonsin's,' Betts
sed, an' I felt like standin es much pussonal discumfurt
es he cud, jis tu git tu sampil arter sumbody human.
I didn't know, tu, but what hit hed the vartu ove makin
a lawyer outen me agin hit got limber.

“I sot in tu bildin ove a ash-hopper fur Betts, an'
work'd pow'ful hard, sweat like a hoss, an' then the

shut quit hits hurtin, an' tuck tu feelin slippery.
Thinks I, that's sorter lawyer like enyhow, an' I wer hope
up bout the shut, an' what mout cum outen hit.

“Arter I got dun work, I tuck me a four finger dost
ove bumble-bee whisky, went up intu the lof' an' fell
asleep a-thinkin bout bein a rale sashararer lawyer,
hoss, saddil bags, an' books; an' Bets went over the top
tu see her mam.

“Well, arter a while I waked up; I'd jis' been dreamin
that the judge ove the supreme cort had me sowed
up in a raw hide, an' sot up agin a hot pottery kill tu
dry, an' the dryin woke me.

“I now thort I wer ded, an' hed died ove rhumaticks
ove the hurtines' kind. All the jints I cud muve wer
my ankils, knees, an' wrists; cudn't even move my hed,
an' scarsely wink my eyes; the cussed shut wer pasted
fas' ontu me all over, frum the ainds ove the tails tu
the pints ove the broad-axe collar over my years. Hit
sot tu me es clost es a poor cow dus tu her hide in March.
I worm'd an' strain'd an' cuss'd an' grunted, till I got hit
sorter broke at the shoulders an' elbows, an' then I dun
the durndes' fool thing ever did in these yere mountins.
I shuffl'd an' tore my britches off, an' skin'd
loose frum my hide bout two inches ove the tail all
roun in orful pain, an quick-stingin trebulashun. Oh!
great golly grampus, how it hurt! Then I tuck up a
plank outen the lof', an' hung my laigs down thru the
hole, sot in, an' nail'd the aidge ove the frunt tail tu

the floor afore me, an' the hine tail I nail'd tu the plank
what I sot on. I flung the hammer outen my reach, tu
keep my hart frum failin me, onbutton'd the collar an'
risbans, raised my hans way abuv my hed, shot up
my eyes, sed a short grace, an' jump'd thru tu the
groun' floor, jis' thuteen foot wun inch clear ove
jists.”

Here Sut remarked, sadly shaking his head, “George,
I'se a durnder fool nor dad, hoss, ho'nets, an' gopher.
I'll hev tu drown'd mysef sum ove these days, see ef I
don't.”

“Well, go on Sut; did the shirt come off?”

“I—t-h-i-n-k—h-i-t—d-id.

“I hearn a nise like tarin a shingle ruff ofen a hous' at
wun rake, an' felt like my bones wer all what lef the
shut, an' reach'd the floor. I stagger'd tu my feet, an'
tuck a moanful look up at my shut. The nails hed
hilt thar holt, an' so hed the tail hem; thar hit wer hangin
arms down, inside out, an' jis' es stiff es ever. Hit
look'd like a map ove Mexico, arter one ove the wurst
battils. A patch ove my skin 'bout the size ove a dullar,
ur a dullar an' a'alf bill yere, a bunch ove har bout
like a bird's nes' thar, then sum more skin, then sum
paste, then a littil more har, then a heap ove skin—
har an' skin straight along all over that newfangl'd
everlastin', infunel pasted cuss ove a durnd shut! Hit
wer a picter tu look at, an' so wer I.

“The hide, har, an' paste wer about ekally devided

[ILLUSTRATION]

SUT'S NEW-FANGLED SHIRT.
"I hearn a n'ise tarin' a shingle ruff ofen a hous' at wun rake, an' felt like my bones wer
all what lef the shut, an' reached the floor." Page 84.

[Description: 565EAF. Illustration Page. Image of the back of a rather bony naked man hanging from the rafters by his shirt, which has been pulled up over his head and is caught around his head and arms.]

atwix me an' hit. George, listen tu me: hit looked adzactly
like the skin ove sum wile beas' tore off alive,
ur a bag what hed toted a laig ove fresh beef frum a
shootin match.

“Bill cum home wif Betts, an' wer the fust inter the
cabin. He backed outen hit agin an' sez he, `Marcyful
payrint! thar's been murderin dun yere; hits been ole
Bullen; he's skinn'd Sut, an' thars his hide hung up tu
dry.' Betts walked roun hit a zaminin hit, till at
las' she venter'd clost, an' know'd her sowin.

“Sez she, `Yu dad dratted ole pot-head, that's his
Sunday shut. Hes hed a drefful fite tho' wif sumbody;
didn't they go fur his har ofen?' `An rine in 'bundance,'
sed Bill. `Yas hoss,' sed Betts agine, `an' ef I'd
been him, I'd a shed hit, I wudnt a fit es nasty a fite es
that wer, in my fines' shut, wu'd yu, Bill?'

“Now, George, I's boun tu put up Jonsin's meat fur im
on site, wifout regardin good killin weather, an' ef ever
a 'oman flattins out a shut fur me agin, durn my everlastin
picter ef I dont flattin her out, es thin es a stepchile's
bread an' butter. I'll du hit ef hit takes me a
week.

“Hits a retribushun sartin, the biggest kine ove a
preacher's regular retribushun, what am tu be foun' in
the Holy Book.

“Dus yu mine my racin dad, wif sum ho'nets, an' so
forth, intu the krick?

“Well, this am what cums ove hit. I'll drownd mysef,

see ef I don't, that is ef I don't die frum that hellfired
shut. Now George, ef a red-heded 'oman wif a reel
foot axes yu tu marry her, yu may du hit; ef an 'oman
wants yu tu kill her husbun, yu may do hit; ef a gal
axes yu tu rob the bank, an' take her tu Californy, yu
may du hit; ef wun on em wants yu tu quit whisky,
yu mout even du that. But ef ever an 'oman, ole ur
yung, purty es a sunflower ur ugly es a skin'd hoss,
offers yu a shut aninted wif paste tu put on, jis' yu kill
her in her tracks, an' burn the cussed pisnus shut rite
thar. Take a ho'n?