Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
THE WIDOW MC CLOUD'S MARE. |
 | THE WIDOW MC CLOUD'S MARE. Sut Lovingood |  |
THE WIDOW MC CLOUD'S MARE.
“Thar cum tu this country, onst, a cussed sneakin
lookin rep-tile, name Stilyards. He wer hatched in a
crack—in the frosty rocks, whar nutmaigs am made
outen maple, an' whar wimmin paints clock-faces an'
pints shoe-paigs, an the men invents rat-traps, mantraps,
an' new fangled doctrins fur the aid ove the devil.
In fac' hit am his gardin, whar he kin grow what won't
sprout eny whar else.
“Well, this critter look't like a cross atween a black
snake an' a fireman's ladder. He wer eighteen an' a
'alf hans high, an' modeled like ontu a shingle maker's
shavin hoss, an' wer es yaller as a warter dorg wif the
janders. His eyes wer like ontu a coon's, an' his foot
wer the biggest chunk ove meat an' knotty bones I
ever seed tu hev no guts intu hit. Now ef he hed wun
gif what wud make yu take tu him, I never seed hit,
an' ef he ever did a good ur a straight ahead thing, I
never hearn ove hit. He cud praps be skar'd intu
actin rite fur a minit ur two at a time, but hit wudn't
las'. He cum amung us a ole field school-marster—
lawyer as ever tuck a fee. Why, he'd a hilt his own
in a pond full ove eels, an' a swallerd the las durn one
ove em, an' then sot the pond tu turnin a shoe-paig
mill. Well he practised on all the misfortinat devils
roun that sarkit, till he got sassy, got niggers, got rich,
got forty maulins fur his nastiness, an' tu put a cap
sheaf ontu his stack ove raskallity, got religion, an'
got tu Congress.
“The fust thing he did thar, wer to proffer tu tend
the Capitol grouns in inyuns, an' beans, on the shears,
an' tu sell the statoot ove Columbus tu a tenpin alley,
fur a sign, an' the she injun wif him, tu send back the
balls. He stole the Romun swoard ofen the stone picter
ove War thar, an' fotch hit tu his wife fur a meat-chopper.
He practised lor ontu yu fur eny thing yu hed,
frum a hanful ove chesnuts tu a plantushun, an' tu tell
hit all in a minit, when he dies, he'll make the fastes
trip tu the senter ove soot, sorrer, an' smoke, on record,
not even sceptin ole Iskariott's fas' time.
“Well, a misfortinit devil happen'd tu steal a hoss by
accidint, got Stilyards tu 'fend him, got intu the penitensary,
an' Stilyards got all he hed—a half houn' dorg,
an' a ole eight day Yankee clock, fur sendin him thar.
“He tuck a big young mar frum a widdar name Mc
Cloud, fur losin a land case. So he walked out intu
that neighborhood tu gether up an' tote home his fees,
an' I met up wif him. He hed the clock tied ontu his
dorg by a rope wif tuther. The dorg wer interprisin an'
led too fas'—the mar wer sulky an' led tu slow, an' the
clock wer heavy, an' the day hot, an' he wer hevin ove
a good time gineraly wif his fees, his sweat, an' his
mean thoughts. So he cumenced tryin tu hire me tu
help him tu town, fur a gill ove whisky.
“Now, whu the devil ever hearn tell ove a gill ove
whisky, in these parts afore? Why hit soundid sorter
like a inch ove cord-wood, ur a ounce ove cornshuks.
Hit 'sulted me. So I sot in tu fix a way tu put a gill
ur so ove pussonal discumfort onder his shut, an' I did
hit. Sez I, `Yu mout save that whisky ef yu dus' es
I tells yu:
“`Jis' yu git atop, an' outside that she hoss thar, tie
that ar dorg's rope roun her neck, set the time-mill up
ontu her back, ahine yu, an' tie hit roun yersef; that
makes her tote the furniture, tote yu, an' lead yer
valerabil dorg, while yu governs the muvemint wif a
good hickory, an' them bridil strings, don't yu see?'
“He pouched out his mouf, nodded his hed five ur six
times, a-bendin but wun jint 'bout the midil ove that
long yaller neck ove hisn, an' said, `Yas, a good surgistshun,
mister Lovingood,' an' I sot in tu help him
fix things. I peeled lots ove good bark, sot the clock
on aind, back tu back wif him ontu the mar's bar cupplin,
an' I tied hit roun his cackus like I ment them tu
stick es long es hit run, ur he lived, an' hit cum durnd
so did I. By golly, I seed the redish brown fire a playin
in the mar's eyes, an' a quick twitchin in her flank,
what I knowd, an' onderstood tu mean, that she'd
make orful things happen purty durn'd soon. The
sharp pint ove Stilyard's tail bone, an' the clock laigs
wer a makin lively surgistshins tu a devil intu her es
big as a yearlin.
“All wer redy fur the show tu begin. `Yu git up,
yu pesky critter,' sed he, a-makin his heels meet, an'
crack onder her belly. Well she did `git up,' rite
then an' thar, an' staid up long enuf tu lite twenty foot
further away, in a broad trimblin squat, her tail hid
a-tween her thighs, an' her years a dancin a-pas' each
uther, like scissors a-cuttin. The jolt ove the litin sot
the clock tu strikin. Bang-zee-bang-zee whang-zee.
She listined pow'ful 'tentive tu the three fus' licks, an'
they seem'd tu go thru an' thru her as quick es quicksilver
wud git thru a sifter. She waited fur no more,
but jis' gin her hole soul up tu the wun job ove runnin
frum onder that infunel Yankee, an' his hive ove
bumble bees, ratil snakes, an' other orful hurtin things,
es she tuck hit tu be. I knows how she felt; I'se been
in the same 'bout five hundred times, an' durn my
cackus ef she didn't kerry out my idears ove gittin outen
trubil fus' rate.
“Every jump she made, she jerk't that misfortinat
dorg six foot upard, an' thurty foot onward. Sumtimes
bof ainds at wunst. He changed sides every uther
lunge, clar over Stilyards, an' his hour-mill tu. He
sed O! Outch! every time he lit, in houn talk loud
enuff tu skeer the devil. An the road wer sprinkled
worm fence fashun, like ontu a drunken man a-totin a
leaky jug.
“The durn'd ole clock, hit got exhited too, an' los'
control ove hits sef, an' furgot tu stop, but jis scizzed
an' whang'd away strait along, an' the mar a hearin hit
all, an' a b'levin the soun' tu be cumin nigher tu her
inards every pop. She thort, too, that four hundred
black an' tan houn' dorgs wer cumpassin her etarnal
ruin.
“She seed em above her, below her—behine her—
afore her—an' on bof sides ove her, eny whar, every
whar, nuffin but houn' dorgs. An she jis' tried tu run
outen her sorril hide. I seed her two hine shoes shinin
way up in the a'r, like two new moons. I know'd she
wer a-mixin in sum high pressure vishus kickin, wif a
heap ove as yearnest, an' fas' runnin es hosses ever
'dulges in.
“`Wo yeow now!' I hearn this, sprinkled in now
an' then wif the yowls ove the dorg, an' the whangin
ove the clock, an' all hit out-dun wif the mity nise ove
clatterin huffs, an' crashin brush.
“Stilyards sot humpt up, his puddin foots lock'd onder
that skeerd critter's belly, an' his paws wove intu
wer a-huggin her, an' she wer durnd near right.
“Thinks I, ole feller, if yu gain this suit, yu may
ax Satun, when yu sees him, fur a par ove lisence tu
practize at his cort. He'll sign em, sure.
“I cut acrost the ridge, what the road woun roun', an'
got whar I cud see em a cummin, sorter to'ards me
agin. She wer streched out strait as a string, an' so
wer he—he wer roostin pow'ful low ontu her withers,
his long arms locked roun her neck, his big feet a flyin
about in the air, each side ove her tail, sorter limber
like, an' the dorg mus' hev been nigh ontu killed
dead, fur bof his hine laigs wer gone plumpt up tu his
cuplin, an' a string ove inards cumin outen the hole his
laigs hed lef, wer a flutterin arter him like a bolt ove
grey ribbon, slappin agin the saplins, an' stumps, an'
gettin longer every slap. His paunch wer a bobbin up
an' down about a foot ahine whar the pint ove his tail
used tu be. Ef he yowld any now, I didn't hear hit.
“That clock, the cussed mischeaf-makin mercheen,
the cause ove all this onyeathly nise, trubbil, an' vexashun
ove sperit, wer still ontu ole Stilyards's back, an'
a maulin away as ef hit wer in the strait line ove a
houshole juty, an the bark wer a holdin hits holt powful
well, considerin the strain. They met a ole bald-heded,
thick-sot feller a-cummin frum mill, a-ridin
ontu a grist ove meal, an' hit on a blaze-face hoss, wif
burs in his tail. He wer totin a kaig ove strain'd honey
wheel ontu her hip. The mar run squar intu the millin
experdishun. Jis' es she did hit, Stilyards holler'd,
`Yeow, cut the bar'—He never addied the K tu that
word, fur sumthin happen'd, jis' then an' tharabouts.”
Sut scratched his head, and seem'd to be in deep
thought.
“Well, Sut, go on.”
“I wer jis' a-studyin how tu gin yu a sorter idear ove
how things look'd arter them two hoss beastes mixed.
Spose yu take a comon size frame doggery, sortar old
an' rotten, wif all the truck generly inside them nesesary
instertushuns; sit hit down squar ontu a railroad
track, jis' so—an' du hit jis' in time fur the kerrs a-cummin
forty miles a hour, an' thar whistil string broke.
How du yu say things wud look bout a minit arterards?”
“Very much injured, I'd say, Sut.”
“An' pow'fuly mixt?”
“Yes.”
“An' tremenjusly scattered?”
“Yes.”
“An' orfully changed in shape?”
“Yes.”
“An' in nater?”
“Yes.”
“An' in valuer?”
“Yes.”
“An' a heap more pieces?”
“Yes.”
“An' smaller wuns?”
“Yes.”
“Splinters, an' scraps perdominant?”
“Yes.”
“An' not wuf a durn, by a duller an' a 'alf?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yu kin sorter take in the tremenjus idear ove
that spot ove sandy road, whar Stilyards met the bald-heded
man. That onlucky ole cuss lit twenty foot out
in the woods, never look'd back, but sot his trampers
tu work, an' distributed hissef sumwhar toward the
Black Oak Ridge. The 'oman hung by wun foot in the
fork ove a black-jack, an' a-holdin tu a dogwood lim' wif
her hans, an' she hollerin, surter spiteful like—`Split
the black-jack, ur fetch a quilt!' Nuffin ove the sort
wer dun whilest I wer thar, es I knows on. Stilyards
wer ni tuther side ove the road, flat ontu his back,
fainted cumfortabil, an' quiet as a sick sow in a snowstorm,
his arms an' laigs stretched till he look'd like a
big letter X. His hat wer sumwhar, an' a boot sumwhar
else. His clothes wer in strings, like he'd been
shot thru a thorn thicket, outen a canyun. His nose
wer a bleedin jis' about rite tu bring 'im too sumtime
to'ards the middil ove the arternoon. His eyes wer
shot up, an' his face wer pucker'd like a wet sheep-skin
afore a hot fire, an' he look'd sorter like he'd been
The dorg—that is what wer lef ove 'im—wer a-lyin
bent over the top ove a saplin stump, an' the tuther
aind ove his inards wer tangled up amung the mar's
hine laigs, an' she wer stretched out in runnin shape, not
hurt a bit, only her naik wer broke, an' a spinin-wheel
spoke a-stickin atween her ribs a foot ur so deep. Ole
Ball-face wer ontu his side, now an' then liftin his head
an' takin a look at the surroundin deserlashun an'
sorrer. The ole time counter wer a-leanin up agin a
tree, sum bark still roun hit, the door gone, the face
smashed, but still true tu what hit thort hits juty, jis
bangin away es reguler es ef hit wer at home; an' I
reckon hits at hit yet. Thar wer honey-kaig hoops,
heads, an' staves, an' spinnin-wheel spokes, permiskusly
scattered all about, an' meal sprinkiled over everybody,
an' everything.
“Jis' then a feller what look't like he mout be a
tract sower, ur a map agent, rid up an' tuck a big look
all roun. Sez he, `Mister, did the litenin hurt yu?'
Sez I, `Wus nur litenin; a powder mill busted.' The
'oman in the black-jack holler'd at him jis' then,
savidge as a cat, `Look tuther way, yu cussed imperdint
houn!' He hed tu turn his hed tu see whar the vise
cum frum; he jis' look't one squint, an' sed, `Great
hevings!' an' gin his hoss a orful dost ove whip an'
spurs, an' lef' a-flyin, an' he tolt at town what he'd
seed. The feller wer orful skeer'd, an' no wonder;
krik.
“I now tuck the meal-bag, put in the remnant ove
the dorg, an' sich ove the honey es I cud scoop
up, an' draw'd hit over Stilyards's head, tied hit tite
roun his naik, in hopes hit mout help fetch him tu
sooner; split the black-jack, an' lef' in a lope. I hearn
the 'oman squall arter me, `Never mind, laigs, I'll pay
yu!' She haint dun hit yet.
“I tuck the road Stilyards, an' the mar, an' his
tuther geer, hed cum over so fur, an' pass'd a cabin
whar a ole 'oman dress'd in a pipe an' a stripid aprun
wer a-standin on the ash-hopper lookin up the road like
she wer 'spectin tu see sumthin soon. Sez she, talkin
'bout es fas' es a flutter-mill: `Say yu, mister, did yu
meet enything onkimon up thar?' I shook my head.
`Well, sez she, jupmin ofen the hopper an' a-shakin
the ashes outen her coteail, an' settin her specks back,
`Mister, I'se plum outdun. Thar's sumthin pow'ful
wickid gwine on. A crazy organ-grinder cum a-pas'
yere jis' a small scrimpshun slower nur chain litenin,
on a hoss wif no tail. His organ wer tied ontu his
back, an' wer a-playin that good tchune, `Sugar in the
Gourd,' ur `Barbary Allin,' I dunno which, an' his monkey
wer a-dancin Hail Columby all over the road, an'
hits tail wer es long es my clothes-line, an' purfeckly
bar ove har. He hed no hat on, an' wun ove his boots
flew off as he passed yere, an' lit on the smoke-'ous.
like ontu a indigo ceroon.'
“All this wer sed wifout takin one breff.
“I tole her hit wer the advance gard ove a big
sarkis purclaimin hits cummin, ur the merlennium, an'
durn'd ef I know'd which.
“She 'lowed hit cudent be the merlennium, fur hit
warnt a playin hyme-tchunes; nur a sarkis either, fur
the hoss warn't spotted. But hit mout be the Devil
arter a tax collector, ur a missionary on his way tu
China; hit look'd ugly enuf tu be one, an' fool enuf tu
be tuther. She wer pow'fully exersised; she sweat an'
snorted onder hit.
“Now don't yu b'leve, es soon es Stilyards cum tu,
an' got outen the bag, he sot in an' burried the mar' so
es tu hide her, an' then, at nex' cort, indited me fur
ŝtealin her, an' durn'd ni provin hit; now haint that the
Devil?”
“What ever become of Stilyards, Sut, anyhow?”
“I dono; ef he haint in Congriss he's gone tu h—l.”
| THE WIDOW MC CLOUD'S MARE. Sut Lovingood | |