Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
OLD SKISSIM'S MIDDLE BOY. |
 | OLD SKISSIM'S MIDDLE BOY. Sut Lovingood |  |
OLD SKISSIM'S MIDDLE BOY.
When I war a littil over half grown, hed sprouted
my tail feathers, an' wer beginnin tu crow, thar wer a
livin in the neighborhood a dredful fat, mean, lazy boy,
'bout my age. He wer the middil son ove a ole lark,
name Skissim. He tinkered ontu ole clocks, an' spinin
wheels, et lye hominy, an' exhortid at meetin fur a
livin, while this middil boy ove hisen, did the sleepin
fur the hole famurly. He cud beat a hog an' a hungry
dorg eatin, an' then beat his eatin wif his sleepin, es bad
es his eatin beat the eatin ove a rat, arter bein shut in a
church, ur a snake in a jug wif no mouf tu hit. They
waked him tu eat, an' then hed tu wake him agin tu
make him quit eatin; waked him tu go tu the spring,
an' waked him tu start back agin; waked him tu say
his prayers, an' waked him tu stop sayin 'em. In fac
they wer allers a-wakin him, an' he wer allers a-goin
tu sleep agin. Ole Skissim waked 'im wif a waggin
whip, an' a buckshot in the cracker, what he toted
apupus. His mam waked him wif the tea-kittil an'
scaldin warter. Bof the buck-shot cracker an' the warter
los thar vartu et las, an' they jis' gin him over tu
Charley Dickins's son, the fat boy, mout been es ni kin
tu him es a secund cuzzin, ef his mam wer a pow'ful
wakeful 'oman.
I hedn't foun' out then, sartinly, that I wer a natr'l
born durnd fool. I sorter suspishiond hit, but still hed
hopes. So I wer fool enuf tu think I wer smart enuff
tu break him frum snoozin all the time, so I lay wake
ove nites fur a week, fixin the way tu du hit; an' that
minds me tu tell yu what I thinks ove plannin an' studdyin:
hit am ginerly no count. All pends, et las' on
what yu dus an' how yu kerries yursef at the moment
ove ackshun. Sarcumstances turn about pow'ful fas',
an' all yu kin du is tu think jis' es fas es they kin turn,
an' jis' es they turn, an' ef yu du this, I'm durnd ef yu
don't git out sumhow. Long studyin am like preparin
a supply ove warter intu a wurm hole barril, tu put out
fire: when the fire dus cum, durn'd ef yu don't hev tu
hustil roun pow'ful fas', an' git more warter, fur thar's
nun in the barril. But es I wer a-tellin yu, I studied
out at las' a plan what I thort wud wake the devil; an'
I sot in tu kerrin hit out.
The ole man Skissim an' his wife went tu a nite
meetin, an' tuck the ballance ove his ur rather her brats
—a feller shu'd allers be pow'ful keerful in speakin on
that pint. I'se allers hearn that hit tuck a mons'us
wise brat tu know hits daddy, an' I thinks hit takes a
wiser daddy tu know his own brats. Dad never wud
counted fur that by sayin I wer by a long shot tu cussed
a fool tu belong tu enybody else, so I am a Lovingood.
My long laigs sumtimes sorter bothers me, but
then mam tuck a pow'ful skeer et a san-hill crane a-sittin
on a peel'd well-pole, an' she out-run her shadder
thuty yards in cumin half a mile. I speek I owes my
laigs an' speed tu that sarcumstance an' not tu eny fraud
on mam's part.
Well, they went tu nite meetin an' lef him in the
kitchin fas' asleep, belevin tu fine him right thar when
they cum back; but they wer mistaken'd that pop, fur
when they cum they foun the widest awake boy ever
born'd in that ur eny uther house, ur outen doors either,
an' es tu bein rite thar he warn't by a durn'd site; he
wer here, thar, an' every whar, et the same time, an' ef
he hed any apertite fur vittils jis' then, he didn't hang
out his sign, that I cud see.
They lef him sittin ontu a split-bottom cheer, plum
asleep all over, even tu his ole hat. I tuck about thuty
foot ove clothes line, an' tied him tu the cheer by his
neck, body, an' arms, levin his laigs loose. He looked
sorter like the Lion in the spellin-book, when the rat
wer a-cuttin a fish net off ove him. That wern't a
skeer'd rat, wer he? I hed him safe now tu practize on,
an' I sot in tu duin hit, sorter this way: I painted his
face the culler ove a nigger coal-burner, scept a white
ring roun his eyes; an' frum the corners ove his mouf,
made his mouf look sorter like ontu a hoss track an'
ni ontu es big. He wer a fine picter tu study, ef your
mind wer fond ove skeery things. He look't savidge
es a sot steel trap, baited wif asnick, an wer jis' fit fur
tresun, straterjim, an' tu spile things. Tu this day,
when I dreams ove the devil, dad, Passun Bullin, an'
uther orful oppressive things, that infunel boy, es he
look't that nite, am durnd intermitly mix't wif the hole
ove em. I speck he's dead is the reason ove hit.
I screw'd ontu each ove his years a par ove iron hanvices,
what his dad squeezed ole clocks, an' crac't warnuts
wif, an' they hung down like over-grow'd year-rings;
I tied a gridiron tu wun ankil, an' a par ove
fire-tongs tu tuther; I pour'd a bottil ove groun red-pepper
down his back, onder his shut; I turn'd loose a
pint ove June-bugs, what I kotch apupus, intu his buzzum,
an' buttoned em up; I tied a baskit full ove fire
crakers tu the cheer back, tu his har, an' tu his wrists;
I button'd up a big grey-whisker'd aggravated ole rat,
tied wif a string intu the slack ove his britches; tuther
aind ove the string wer fas' ontu his gallus button, an
the rat, like all the res' ove that tribe, imejuntly sot in
cuttin his way out; but owin tu his parvarse nater ur
the darkness ove the place, he sot in tu cuttin the wrong
way; he wer a workin towards the back-bone, an' furder
frum the britches, every cut. I learnt this fac'
frum the cheer risin frum the flure, an' fallin agin jis'
ove snort, snore, grunt, an' groan, which he wer beginin
tu isoo tolabil fas', an' gettin louder every bounce
ove the cheer, an' becumin more like ontu a howl every
pop. In the beginin ove his oneasines he dream'd ove
wagin whip, nex' he dream'd ove a tea-kittil es big es a
still, an' lots ove bilin wartar, an' nex he drempt ove
bof ove 'em; an' now he wer a dreamin that the tea-kittil
wer a steam ingine, a drivin the waggin whip, an'
a cottin gin wif red hot saws fifteen hundred licks a
minit, an' that he wer in the cottin hopper.
I now thot hit ni ontu the proper time tu tetch the
crackers, so es tu hev everything bar hits shar in the
kontemplated cummin wakinin. An' I did hit. The
fust handful ur so gwine off help'd, wif the industry ove
that energetic ole rat, the sarchin ove the red pepper, an'
the permiskus scratchin roun ove the bugs, tu begin tu
wake him sorter gradully, a littil faster nor light bread
rises, an' a littil slower then a yeathquake wakes-weazels.
A few hundred more gwine off, still hevin the
rat, pepper, an' insex tu back em, got him wide enuf
awake tu bleve that he wer threatened wif sum orful
pussonal calamerty, what wanted pow'ful quick work
on his part tu dodge. He wer awake now all over,
even tu his durnd ole hat, an' he show'd hit in es meny
ways es a cat dus, lock'd up in a empty room wif a
strange an' interprisin big dorg.
He grabbed the fire shovil, an' boune'd half bent
a strikin over-handed, onder-handed, up-handed,
down-handed, an' lef-handed, at every 'spishus shadder
he seed. He fit by the light ove ten million sparks; he
wer es active as a smut-mercheen in full blast, an' every
grain ove wheat a spark. An' he wer a hollerin everything
anybody ever did holler in dredful tribulashun ove
spirit, even tu, “Now I lay me down tu sleep,” an'
“Gloree.”
When I'se in trubbil, skeer, ur tormint, I dus but
wun thing, an' that's onresistabil, onekeled, an' durn'd
fas' runnin, an' I jis' keeps at hit till I gits cumfort.
Now his big idear onder nise an' varigated hurtin wer
tu fite, an' keep on a-fitin, ontil peace ove mine cum.
I never seed sich keryins on in all my born'd days.
He made more fuss, hit more licks at more things, wer
in more places, an' in more shapes, in a shorter time,
then eny mortal auctioneer cud tell ef he hed es meny
tungs es a baskit full ove buckils. Every now an' then
he'd gin his head a vishus, vigrus shake, an' the hanvices
wud hit him fore an' arter, till his skull rattiled
like ontu a ole gourd.
The ole Skissim an' his tribe cum home frum meetin,
an' hearin the onyeathly riot, thort sumbody hed
opened a dorggery in thar kitchen, an' that a neighborhood
fite wer gwine on, an' every feller's dorg along.
They rushed in tu drive out the crowd, an' capter the
whisky, an' a durnder more misfortinit mistake never
brats, since ole Bill Shivers went fur a runnin threshinmeesheen
tu smash hit, thinkin hit wer a big musick-box.
The ole hoss hisse'f imejuntly cum in contack wif
a holesum knock down, what calm'd him intu sumthin
mons'us like sleep, fur about a minit. Now a heap ove
things ken happen in a minit, purtickerly ef thar's sumbody
who hes sot his hole soul tu the bisiness ove
makin em happen. Hit wer so in that kitchen. Agin
the ole feller cum tu the ole 'oman wer knocked hed
fust intu the meal-barril, whar she wer breathin more
meal nur air, an' she wer snortin hit up over the aidges
ove the barril like hit wer a fountin playin corn meal.
The ol'est gal wer sturn fus' in a soap-kittil, an' she wor
a-makin suds outen sum ove hit. The nex' wun wer
laingthwise belly down in the pot corner. The biggest
boy wer whar the back-log orter been, ontu his all fours
a-scratchin up all the embers an' ashes, a-tryin tu cum
out frum thar. Anuther cub, in a jackid wif a wun
inch tail, wer knocked plum thru the tin intu the safe
amung the cold vitils an' things. A littil gal, doll baby
an' all, wer on the top shelf ove the cup-board, amung
the delf, a-screamin like a littil steam whistil.
The neighbors wer a-getherin in roun the nise an'
rumpus, an' not a durn'd wun hed the least idear ove
what wer wrong, sceptin ove me. I onderstood hit all,
durn'd fool es I is. Tu 'scape frum bein 'spishioned, I
a-keepin outen the range ove that flyin fire shovil, fur hit
wer still spreadin hurtin an' mischief on a perpetul
moshun plan. Everybody hit totch fell, an' everything
hit cum agin got grief. The tin buckits look'd like
drunk men's hats. Pails hed lef' thar hoops, an' the
delf war was in scrimpshuns. When he got divorced
frum the cheer, I tho't he'd sorter simmer down. But
no sir! He got wus, an' did his work faster an' better;
he wer as crazy as a bed-bug, an' as savidge as a maddorg.
I seed a-cummin, a ole widder, what wer a pow'ful
pius turn'd pusson, in the same church wif ole Skissim,
an' she wer the news-kerrier gineral ove the neighborhood.
Folks sed that they hed a religus feelin fur each
uther, what led tu meny love-feas, wif nobody at em but
tharsefs, an' wer bof doin mouns'ous well, considerin
the thorn in the flesh. Sez she—
“Oh, my soul! Du tell me what hes happened! Oh,
lordy massy!” sed I, “hits a-happenin yet!” a-lookin
orful solemn in the moonshine. Sez I, “I'll tell yu, es
I knows yu won't speak ove hit; fur ef hit gits out, hit
mout make the pepil sorter think hard ove Mister Skissim.
He cum home frum meetin plum crazy, talkin
about the seventh cumandment, an' he's sot intu murderin
hes folks wif a crowbar. He hes dun got his wife
an' six ove the brats; thar a-lyin in thar es cold es
krout; an' he's hot arter the rest ove em; sez he's in a
afore day. Now I know by that he's turn'd durned
fool.”
She never sed a word, but put out fur Squir
Haley's, an' swore her life agin ole Skissim, an' tuck
out a warrint fur him a-chargin murder, arson, blasfemy,
fleabottomry an' rape. Hit skeer'd ole Skissim ontil
he run away.
By the time I got dun inlitenin the widder, that ar
onquinchable boy hed the kitchen all tu hissef. Everybody
wer feard tu go ni the door. Now yu cudent
guess in ten year what he then went an' did. He jis'
made a piller outen the cheer, an' sot intu sleepin agin.
Ef ever I'se call'd on tu stop his sleepin eny more agin,
I'll try a muskit an' sixteen buckshot, at jis' about ten
steps.
| OLD SKISSIM'S MIDDLE BOY. Sut Lovingood | |