University of Virginia Library

A RAZOR-GRINDER IN A THUNDER-STORM.

“Frum the orful faces yu's a-makin at that ar scrap
ove lookin-glass, yu wants tu skeer yure picter, ur yu's
et sumthin what hes cuttin aidges; which is hit,
George?”

“Neither” said I.

“Well, p'raps sumbody hes been a-cuttin shoe-strings
outen a sandy deer-skin wif yur rayshure; yu wants
hit ground, don't yu? Bake Boyd's man cud a dun
hit.”

“Who was Bake Boyd's man? was he a negro?”

“Wus nor that; he wer a mtghty mean Yankee rayshure
grinder, what wunst cum tu Knoxville a footback,
wif a mercheen strapt ontu his shoulders like ontu
a patent corn-sheller, an' he narated hit about, that
he would grind raysures, scissors, ur pint needils, mons'ous
cheap. He soon got tu grindin away fus' rate.
He wer a pow'ful slow-speakin, dignerfied sorter varmint,
an' thort that hissef an' mercheen cummanded
the respeck an' submishun ove the poperlashun, wharever
he went. That idear wus chased outen his skull

thru his years, mons'ous quick, at Knoxville. He
cudn't hev cum tu a better place than hit wer in them
days, fur sweepin out the inside ove stuft up fellers'
skulls clean ove all ole rusty, cob-web, bigited idears,
an' then a fillin hit up fresh wif sumthin new an' activ;
an' in the 'sort-mint wer allers wun king idear sure, an'
hit wer in words sorter so: `If I gits away alive, durn
ef ever I cum yere agin.' I speck ni ontu a thousin
fellers, off an' on, cum tu that ole town sufferin pow'ful
wif a onintemitant attack ove swell-head, an' every
durn'd wun ove em lef thar wif the words I spoke jis
now, a-drapin ofen thar limber onder lips, sorter like a
ole heart-broken hoss slobbers.

“Bake Boyd (Bake wer the short fur Bacon, an'
Bacon wer his nickname yu know) wer ni ontu es clever
a feller es ever wer born'd. Thar wer durn'd littil
weevil in his wheat, mity small chance ove warter in
his whisky, an' not a drap ove streakid blood in his
veins. But he hed a besettin sin: he wer pow'fully pursessed
wif the devil; he wer so chock full ove hit that
his har wudn't lie still. He watched fur openins tu
work off sum kind ove devilment, jist es clost es a ole
'oman what wer wunst onsanctified hersef, watches her
darters when a suckus ur a camp meetin am in heat.

“Well, Bake thort he seed a openin in that ar raysure-grindin
establishmint, so he sot in tu make the
durnd fool bleve that lecterin ontu the skyance ove
raysure-sharpenin wer his speshul gif, an' that rite thar

wer the place tu try that sock on. Bake dwelt long
ontu the crop ove dimes tu be gethered frum that field;
that he'd make more than thar wer spots ontu forty
fawns in July, not tu speak ove the big gobs ove repertashun
he'd tote away, a shinin all over his close, like
litnin bugs ontu a dorg fennil top. The argymint fotch
him, purticularly the spotted fawn part ove hit. But
he wer a Yankee, an' wanted tu know, afore he begun,
how many spots thar wur ontu wun fawn: so he went
tu the stabil, an' axed ole Dick, Bake's hossler.

“The ole niggar scratched his hed, an' tole him,
`Marster, I'se never counted em, but I specks thar am
a gallun, suah an' sartin.'

“He got Bake tu git sum 'vartisments printed, an'
stuck up all over town. Bake show'd that he onderstood
the 'vartisment bisness, fur he put the picter ove
a rarin stud hoss at the top, a runaway buck niggar wif
a bundil each side, while two barrils marked whisky, a
wool-cardin mersheen, an' a cider mill top't off the bottum.

“While Bake wer a-doin ove this, ole Grinder wer
a-ritin out the lecter. Hit wer a complikated sort ove
dockymint—talked sorter like a feller wud tu a Kon
stable, tu take his mind ofen the warrant he know'd he
hed fur him, ontill he seed a chance tu run. Hit spoke
in purtickeler ove the commit, Niagray Falls, the merlennium,
hatchin chickins, fallin frum grace, an' makin
mush outen sawdust, an' generally ove everything on

the A'mitey's green yeath, sceptin raysure-grindin, an'
the depravity ove man, when he am a boy. He ortent
tu hev lef that pint out, fur hit wer boys what he wer
dealin wif jis' then, an' a rite tight preacher mout hev
call'd them deprav'd or onsanctified at leas'.

“Well, that nite the Court Hous wer plum full;
everybody wer thar, sceptin Lum Jones, an' he wer
hid out frum the Free Masons. Bake sot ahine the
lecterin-mersheen, tu read frum the paper tu him when
he furgot what wer in hit. Thar wer fotch intu the
yard, clost tu the winder whar they wer a-standin, a ole
brass canyun full tu the muzzle, wif powder an' red
clay. Up in the lof by a trap door, an' plum over the
feller's hed, sot Joe Jacksin, a-holdin ontu a half barril
full ove warter outen a puddil, whar a misfortinat dead
sow hed been floatin fur ten days.

“Well, the lecter begun, an' promised tu las' till day-break,
fur the mersheen soon stall'd, an' Bake's juty
wer tu gin hit ile by readin frum the paper; but he
red so low that the man cudn't make out what he sed,
so he twistid roun his hed an' whisper'd, `louder an'
plainer.' Bake, instid ove duin better, got wus—sot
intu readin in sum furrin tung, sorter like Cherokee,
wif a sprinkil ove Irish. Hit wer loud enuf; so fur
so good; but hit lacked a durn'd site ove bein plainer.
The raysure renovatur stood wif his hed high an'
squar tu the congregashun, his eyes takin a site jis'
abuv thar heds, an' a-gittin rounder an' bigger at every

word; you cud see the whites all roun them; an' he
wer a pursin up his mouf like ontu a tied bag. I wer
listnin fur him tu whistil nex thing.

“`Tshish! tshish!' sorter low like, now begun tu cum
outen the wimin an' boys, all over the house. The
ole men's specks begun tu shine, an' thar mouf ainds
hed started towar'd thar years. The feller hissef begun
tu twist sorter like pisants wer surveyin a railroad
route up his laigs; eyes still spreadin, an' the infunel
Cherokee gittin louder—not a durnd word in Inglish—
when `bo-lang' went the canyun, litin up all the town
smashin in the winders, an' shakin down the plasterin.
Imejuntly Joe Jacksin up-sot the kaig, kerswish-selush
cum the warter ontu Mr. Grinder's hed, every drap
ove hit.

“Fur a momint he look'd like a iron statoot ove a
durn'd fool in a playin fountin.

“He wer dresst in a linnin bob-tail coat, an' trowsis,
an' no drawers; the warter made them hug him pow'ful
clost, an' look a heap thinner; yu cud see the adjact
laingth ove his shut-tail, the width ove the hem, an'
even tu the moles on his laigs, an' the har on his shins.

“He cum tu hissef like he wer used tu bein duck't,
shook the warter often hissef like ontu a dorg, an' sez
he: `Ladies an' gentlemen, when I seed the litenin,
an' hearn the thunder, I 'spected a pow'ful rain-storm,
an' hit am here.” (Here he tuck a smell ove fust wun
coat sleeve, an' then tuther, an' turn'd up the pint ove

his nose.) `So, owin tu the inclemuncy ove the nite, I
dismissis this yere congregashun, siner diar,' (here he
tuck anuther smell at his sleeve;) `an' ef yu hesn't been
vaxinashun'd fur the yaller fever, cholery, an' the
black-tung, yu'd better leave this yere town, fur they's
all a-cummin if thar's enything in the smell ove a rain.
Nobody claim'd back thar dime, an' Bake can't fur the
soul ove him fix that case up tu this day, hu got the
bes' of hit, the raysure-grinder ur tuther side; sumtimes
he thinks wun, sumtimes tuther.”

While Sut was telling this story, a fat-headed young
man listened throughout without moving a muscle of
his face; when it was finished he raised his expressionless
eyes and asked: “Did anybody laugh at the unfortunate
man that night, Mr. Lovingood?”

Sut eye'd him for a moment, from head to foot and
back again, with an expression of supreme contempt,
and shambling off, looking back over his shoulder,
said: “Yu mus' be a dam fool.”