Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
PARSON JOHN BULLEN'S LIZARDS. |
 | PARSON JOHN BULLEN'S LIZARDS. Sut Lovingood |  |
PARSON JOHN BULLEN'S LIZARDS.
AIT ($8) DULLARS REW-ARD.
'TENSHUN BELEVERS AND KONSTABLES! KETCH 'IM!
KETCH 'IM!
This kash wil be pade in korn, ur uther projuce, tu
be kolected at ur about nex camp-meetin, ur tharater,
by eny wun what ketches him, fur the karkus ove a
sartin wun Sut Lovingood, dead ur alive, ur ailin,
an' safely giv over tu the purtectin care ove Parson
John Bullin, ur lef' well tied, at Squire Mackjunkins,
fur the raisin ove the devil pussonely, an' permiskusly
discumfurtin the wimen very powerful, an' skeerin ove
folks generly a heap, an' bustin up a promisin, big
warm meetin, an' a makin the wickid larf, an' wus, an'
wus, insultin ove the passun orful.
Test, Jehu Wethero.
Sined by me,
John Bullen, the passun.
I found written copies of the above highly intelligible
and vindictive proclamation, stuck up on every
Mountain Range. Its blood-thirsty spirit, its style, and
above all, its chirography, interested me to the extent
of taking one down from a tree for preservation.
In a few days I found Sut in a good crowd in front
of Capehart's Doggery, and as he seemed to be about in
good tune, I read it to him.
“Yas, George, that ar dockymint am in dead yearnist
sartin. Them hard shells over thar dus want me
the wus kine, powrful bad. But, I spect ait dullers
won't fetch me, nither wud ait hundred, bekase thar's
nun ove 'em fas' enuf tu ketch me, nither is thar hosses
by the livin jingo! Say, George, much talk 'bout this
fuss up whar yu're been?” For the sake of a joke I
said yes, a great deal.
“Jis' es I 'spected, durn 'em, all git drunk, an' skeer
thar fool sefs ni ontu deth, an' then lay hit ontu me, a
poor innersent youf, an' es soun' a belever es they is.
Lite, lite, ole feller an' let that roan ove yourn blow a
litil, an' I'll 'splain this cussed misfortnit affar: hit hes
ruinated my karacter es a pius pusson in the s'ciety
roun' yere, an' is a spreadin faster nur meazils. When
ever yu hear eny on 'em a spreadin hit, gin hit the dam
lie squar, will yu? I haint dun nuffin tu one ove 'em.
Hits true, I did sorter frustrate a few lizzards a littil,
but they haint members, es I knows on.
“You see, las' year I went tu the big meetin at
Rattlesnake Springs, an' wer a sittin in a nice shady
berry thickit, jis' duin nuffin tu nobody an' makin no
fuss, when, the fust thing I remembers, I woke up
frum a trance what I hed been knocked inter by a four-year
old hickory-stick, hilt in the paw ove ole Passun
Bullin, durn his alligater hide; an' he wer standin a
striddil ove me, a foamin at the mouf, a-chompin his
teeth—gesterin wif the hickory club—an' a-preachin
tu me so you cud a-hearn him a mile, about a sartin
sins gineraly, an' my wickedness pussonely; an' mensunin
the name ove my frien' loud enuf tu be hearn
tu the meetin 'ous. My poor innersent frien' wer dun
gone an' I wer glad ove hit, fur I tho't he ment tu kill
me rite whar I lay, an' I didn't want her tu see me die.”
“Who was she, the friend you speak of Sut?” Sut
opened his eyes wide.
“Hu the devil, an' durnashun tole yu that hit wer a
she?”
“Why, you did, Sut”—
“I didn't, durn ef I did. Ole Bullin dun hit, an' I'll
hev tu kill him yet, the cussed, infernel ole talebarer!”—
“Well, well, Sut, who was she?”
“Nun ove y-u-r-e b-i-s-n-i-s-s, durn yure littil ankshus
picter! I sees yu a lickin ove yure lips. I will tell you
one thing, George; that night, a neighbor gal got a all-fired,
overhandid stroppin frum her mam, wif a stirrup
leather, an' ole Passun Bullin, hed et supper thar, an'
dun her levil bes' a cookin hit fur 'im. She begged
him, a trimblin, an' a-cryin not tu tell on her. He et
her cookin, he promised her he'd keep dark—an' then
went strait an' tole her mam. Warnt that rale low
down, wolf mean? The durnd infunel, hiperkritikal,
pot-bellied, scaley-hided, whisky-wastin, stinkin ole
groun'-hog. He'd a heap better a stole sum man's hoss;
I'd a tho't more ove 'im. But I paid him plum up fur
hit, an' I means tu keep a payin him, ontil one ur
tuther, ove our toes pints up tu the roots ove the grass.
“Well, yere's the way I lifted that note ove han'. At
the nex big meetin at Rattilsnaik—las' week hit wer—I
wer on han' es solemn es a ole hat kivver on collection
day. I hed my face draw'd out intu the shape an'
perporshun ove a taylwer's sleeve-board, pint down. I
hed put on the convicted sinner so pufeckly that an'
ole obsarvin she pillar ove the church sed tu a ole he
pillar, es I walked up tu my bainch:
“`Law sakes alive, ef thar ain't that orful sinner, Sut
Lovingood, pearced plum thru; hu's nex?'
“Yu see, by golly, George, I hed tu promis the ole
tub ove soap-greas tu cum an' hev myself convarted,
jis' tu keep him frum killin me. An' es I know'd hit
wudn't interfare wif the relashun I bore tu the still
housis roun' thar, I didn't keer a durn. I jis' wanted
tu git ni ole Bullin, onst onsuspected, an' this wer the
bes' way tu du hit. I tuk a seat on the side steps ove
es I could wif my han's, tu prove I wer in yearnis.
Hit tuck powerful—fur I hearn a sorter thankful kine
ove buzzin all over the congregashun. Ole Bullin hissef
looked down at me, over his ole copper specks, an'
hit sed jis' es plain es a look cud say hit: `Yu am
thar, ar you—durn yu, hits well fur yu that yu cum.' I
tho't sorter different frum that. I tho't hit wud a been
well fur yu, ef I hadent a-cum, but I didn't say hit jis
then. Thar wer a monstrus crowd in that grove, fur the
weather wer fine, an' b'levers wer plenty roun' about
Rattilsnaik Springs. Ole Bullin gin out, an' they sung
that hyme, yu know:
On that dredful day tu cum.”
“Thinks I, ole hoss, kin hit be possibil enybody hes
tole yu what's a gwine tu happin; an' then I tho't that
nobody know'd hit but me, and I wer cumforted. He
nex tuck hisself a tex pow'fly mixed wif brimstone, an'
trim'd wif blue flames, an' then he open'd. He cummenced
ontu the sinners; he threaten'd 'em orful, tried
tu skeer 'em wif all the wust varmints he cud think
ove, an' arter a while he got ontu the idear ove Hell-sarpints,
and he dwelt on it sum. He tole 'em how the
ole Hell-sarpints wud sarve em if they didn't repent;
how cold they'd crawl over thar nakid bodys, an' how
like ontu pitch they'd stick tu 'em es they crawled; how
thar tungs up thar noses, an' hiss intu thar years. This
wer the way they wer tu sarve men folks. Then he
turned ontu the wimmen: tole 'em how they'd quile intu
thar buzzims, an' how they wud crawl down onder
thar frock-strings, no odds how tite they tied 'em, an' how
sum ove the oldes' an' wus ones wud crawl up thar
laigs, an' travil onder thar garters, no odds how tight
they tied them, an' when the two armys ove Hell-sarpents
met, then— That las' remark fotch 'em. Ove
all the screamin, an' hollerin, an' loud cryin, I ever
hearn, begun all at onst, all over the hole groun' jis'
es he hollered out that word `then.' He kep on a bellerin,
but I got so buisy jis' then; that I didn't listen tu
him much, fur I saw that my time fur ackshun hed
cum. Now yu see, George, I'd cotch seven ur eight big
pot-bellied lizzards, an' hed 'em in a littil narrer bag,
what I had made a-purpus. Thar tails all at the bottim,
an' so crowdid fur room that they cudent turn
roun'. So when he wer a-ravin ontu his tip-toes, an'
a-poundin the pulpit wif his fis'—onbenowenst tu enybody,
I ontied my bag ove reptiles, put the mouf ove
hit onder the bottim ove his britches-laig, an' sot intu
pinchin thar tails. Quick es gunpowder they all tuck
up his bar laig, makin a nise like squirrils a-climbin a
shell-bark hickory. He stop't preachin rite in the
middil ove the word `damnation,' an' looked fur a moment
like he wer a listenin fur sumthin—sorter like a
The tarifick shape ove his feeters stopp't the shoutin
an' screamin; instuntly yu cud hearn a cricket chirp,
I gin a long groan, an' hilt my head a-twixt my knees.
He gin hisself sum orful open-handed slaps wif fust one
han' an' then tuther, about the place whar yu cut the
bes' steak outen a beef. Then he'd fetch a vigrus ruff
rub whar a hosses tail sprouts; then he'd stomp one
foot, then tuther, then bof at onst. Then he run his
han' atween his waisbun an' his shut an' reach'd way
down, an' roun' wif hit; then he spread his big laigs,
an' gin his back a good rattlin rub agin the pulpit, like
a hog scratches hisself agin a stump, leanin tu hit
pow'ful, an' twitchin, an' squirmin all over, es ef he'd
slept in a dorg bed, ur ontu a pisant hill. About this
time, one ove my lizzards scared an' hurt by all this
poundin' an' feelin, an' scratchin, popp'd out his head
frum the passun's shut collar, an' his ole brown naik,
an' wer a-surveyin the crowd, when ole Bullin struck
at 'im, jis' too late, fur he'd dodged back agin. The
hell desarvin ole raskil's speech now cum tu 'im, a'n
sez he, `Pray fur me brethren an' sisteren, fur I is a-rastilin
wif the great inimy rite now! an' his voice wer
the mos' pitiful, trimblin thing I ever hearn. Sum ove
the wimmen fotch a painter yell, an' a young docter,
wif ramrod laigs, lean'd toward me monstrus knowin
like, an' sez he, `Clar case ove Delishus Tremenjus.' I
nodded my head, an' sez I, `Yas, spechuly the tremenjus
Bullin's eyes wer a-stickin out like ontu two buckeyes
flung agin a mud wall, an' he wer a-cuttin up more
shines nor a cockroach in a hot skillet. Off went the
clamhammer coat, an' he flung hit ahine 'im like he wer
a-gwine intu a fight; he hed no jackid tu take off, so
he unbuttond his galluses, an' vigrusly flung the ainds
back over his head. He fotch his shut over-handed a
durnd site faster nor I got outen my pasted one, an' then
flung hit strait up in the air, like he jis' wanted hit tu
keep on up furever; but hit lodged ontu a black-jack,
an' I sed one ove my lizzards wif his tail up, a-racin
about all over the ole dirty shut, skared too bad tu,
jump. Then he gin a sorter shake, an' a stompin kine
ove twis', an' he cum outer his britches. He tuck 'em
by the bottim ove the laigs, an' swung 'em roun' his
head a time ur two, an' then fotch 'em down cherall-up
over the frunt ove the pulpit. You cud a hearn the
smash a quarter ove a mile! Ni ontu fifteen shorten'd
biskits, a boiled chicken, wif hits laigs crossed, a big
dubbil-bladed knife, a hunk ove terbacker, a cob-pipe,
sum copper ore, lots ove broken glass, a cork, a sprinkil
ove whisky, a squirt, an' three lizzards flew permiskusly
all over that meetin-groun', outen the upper aind
ove them big flax britches. One ove the smartes' ove
my lizzards lit head-fust intu the buzzim ove a fat
'oman, es big es a skin'd hoss, an' ni ontu es ugly, who
sot thuty yards off, a fannin hersef wif a tucky-tail.
runnin down the centre ove her breas'-bone, an' kep on,
I speck. She wer jis' boun' tu faint; an' she did hit
fust rate—flung the tucky-tail up in the air, grabbed
the lap ove her gown, gin hit a big histin an' fallin
shake, rolled down the hill, tangled her laigs an' garters
in the top ove a huckilberry bush, wif her head in the
branch an' jis' lay still. She wer interestin, she wer,
ontil a serious-lookin, pale-faced 'oman hung a nankeen
ridin skirt over the huckilberry bush. That wer all that
wer dun to'ards bringin her too, that I seed. Now
ole Bullin hed nuffin left ontu 'im but a par ove heavy,
low quarter'd shoes, short woolen socks, an' eel-skin
garters tu keep off the cramp. His skeer hed druv him
plum crazy, fur he felt roun' in the air, abuv his head,
like he wer huntin sumthin in the dark, an' he beller'd
out, `Brethren, brethren, take keer ove yerselves, the
Hell-sarpints hes got me!' When this cum out, yu cud
a-hearn the screams tu Halifax. He jis' spit in his
han's, an' loped over the frunt ove the pulpid kerdiff!
He lit on top ove, an' rite amung the mos' pius part ove
the congregashun. Ole Misses Chaneyberry sot wif her
back tu the pulpit, sorter stoopin forrid. He lit a-stradil
ove her long naik, a shuttin her up wif a snap,
her head atwix her knees, like shuttin up a jack-knife,
an' he sot intu gittin away his levil durndest; he went
in a heavy lumberin gallop, like a ole fat waggon hoss,
skared at a locomotive. When he jumpt a bainch he
an' jerked most ove the children wif em, an' the rest he
scrunched. He open'd a purfeckly clar track tu the
woods, ove every livin thing. He weighed ni ontu
three hundred, hed a black stripe down his back, like
ontu a ole bridil rein, an' his belly wer 'bout the size,
an' color ove a beef paunch, an' hit a-swingin out frum
side tu side; he leand back frum hit, like a littil feller
a-totin a big drum, at a muster, an' I hearn hit
plum tu whar I wer. Thar wer cramp-knots on his
laigs es big es walnuts, an' mottled splotches on his
shins; an' takin him all over, he minded ove a durnd
crazy ole elephant, pussessed ove the devil, rared up on
hits hind aind, an' jis' gittin frum sum imijut danger ur
tribulashun. He did the loudest, an' skariest, an' fussiest
runnin I ever seed, tu be no faster nur hit wer,
since dad tried tu outrun the ho'nets.
“Well, he disapear'd in the thicket jis' bustin—an'
ove all the noises yu ever hearn, wer made thar on that
camp groun': sum wimen screamin—they wer the
skeery ones; sum larfin—they wer the wicked ones;
sum cryin—they wer the fool ones, (sorter my stripe yu
know;) sum tryin tu git away wif thar faces red—they
wer the modest ones; sum lookin arter ole Bullin—they
wer the curious ones; sum hangin clost tu thar sweethearts—they
wer the sweet ones; sum on thar knees
wif thar eyes shot, but facin the way the ole mud turtil
wer a-runnin—they wer the 'saitful ones; sum duin
ove all ove em by a durnd long site.
“I tuck a big skeer mysef arter a few rocks, an' sich
like fruit, spattered ontu the pulpit ni ontu my head;
an' es the Lovingoods, durn em! knows nuffin but tu
run, when they gits skeerd, I jis' put out fur the swamp
on the krick. As I started, a black bottil ove bald-face
smashed agin a tree furnist me, arter missin the top
ove my head 'bout a inch. Sum durn'd fool professor
dun this, who hed more zeal or sence; fur I say that
eny man who wud waste a quart ove even mean
sperrits, fur the chance ove knockin a poor ornary
devil like me down wif the bottil, is a bigger fool nor
ole Squire Mackmullen, an' he tried tu shoot hissef wif
a onloaded hoe-handle.”
“Did they catch you Sut?”
“Ketch thunder! No sir! jis' look at these yere
laigs! Skeer me, hoss, jis' skeer me, an' then watch
me while I stay in site, an' yu'll never ax that fool
question agin. Why, durn it, man, that's what the ait
dullers am fur.
“Ole Barbelly Bullin, es they calls 'im now, never
preached ontil yesterday, an' he hadn't the fust durn'd
'oman tu hear 'im, they hev seed too much ove 'im. Passuns
ginerly hev a pow'ful strong holt on wimen; but,
hoss, I tell yu thar ain't meny ove em kin run start
nakid over an' thru a crowd ove three hundred wimen
an' not injure thar karacters sum. Enyhow, hits a
the passun at that. His tex' wer, `Nakid I cum intu
the world, an' nakid I'm a gwine outen hit, ef I'm
spard ontil then.' He sed nakidness warnt much ove a
sin, purtickerly ove dark nights. That he wer a weak,
frail wum ove the dus', an' a heap more sich truck.
Then he totch ontu me; sed I wer a livin proof ove the
hell-desarvin nater ove man, an' that thar warnt grace
enuf in the whole 'sociation tu saften my outside rind;
that I wer `a lost ball' forty years afore I wer born'd,
an' the bes' thing they cud du fur the church, wer tu
turn out, an' still hunt fur me ontil I wer shot. An' he
never said Hell-sarpints onst in the hole preach. I
b'leve, George, the durnd fools am at hit.
“Now, I wants yu tu tell ole Barbelly this fur me, ef
he'll let me an' Sall alone, I'll let him alone—a-while;
an' ef he don't, ef I don't lizzard him agin, I jis' wish I
may be dod durnd! Skeer him if yu ken.
“Let's go tu the spring an' take a ho'n.
“Say George, didn't that ar Hell-sarpint sermon ove
his'n, hev sumthin like a Hell-sarpint aplicashun? Hit
looks sorter so tu me.”
| PARSON JOHN BULLEN'S LIZARDS. Sut Lovingood | |