Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
BLOWN UP WITH SODA. |
 | BLOWN UP WITH SODA. Sut Lovingood |  |
BLOWN UP WITH SODA.
Sut's hide is healed—the wounds received in his
sudden separation from his new shirt have ceased to
pain, and, true to his instincts, or rather “a famerly
dispersition,” es he calls it, he “pitches in,” and gets
awfully blown up by a wild mountain girl. Hear him,
poor fellow!
“George, did yu ever see Sicily Burns? Her dad
lives at the Rattil-snake Spring, clost ontu the Georgia
line.”
“Yes, a very handsome girl.”
“Handsome! that ar word don't kiver the case; hit
souns sorter like callin good whiskey strong water,
when yu ar ten mile frum a still-hous, hit a rainin, an'
yer flask only haf full. She shows amung wimen like
a sunflower amung dorg fennil, ur a hollyhawk in a
patch ove smartweed. Sich a buzzim! Jis' think ove
two snow balls wif a strawberry stuck but-ainded intu
bof on em. She takes adzactly fifteen inches ove garter
clar ove the knot, stans sixteen an' a 'alf hans hi, an'
weighs one hundred an' twenty-six in her petticoatail
wif bof heads stove out, nur sit in a common arm-cheer,
while yu cud lock the top hoop ove a chun, ur a big
dorg collar, roun the huggin place.”
“The what, Sut?”
“The wais' yu durn oninishiated gourd, yu! Her
har's es black es a crow's wing et midnite, ur a nigger
hanlin charcoal when he's hed no brekfus'; hit am es
slick es this yere bottil, an' es long es a hoss's tail. I've
seed her jump over a split-bottim cheer wifout showin
her ankils, ur ketchin her dress ontu the knobs. She
cud cry an' larf et the same time, an' either lov'd ur
hated yu all over. Ef her hate fell ontu yu, yu'd feel
like yu'd been whipp'd wif a pizen vine, ur a broom
made outen nettils when yer breeches an' shut wer bof
in the wash-tub. She kerried enuf devil about her tu
run crazy a big settilment ove Job's children; her skin
wer es white es the inside ove a frogstool, an' her
cheeks an' lips es rosey es a pearch's gills in dorgwood
blossum time—an' sich a smile! why, when hit struck
yu far an' squar hit felt jis' like a big ho'n ove onrectified
ole Munongahaley, arter yu'd been sober fur a
month, a tendin ove a ten hoss prayer-meetin twist a
day, an' mos' ove the nites.
“Three ove her smiles when she wer a tryin ove hersef,
taken keerfully ten minutes apart, wud make the
gran' captin ove a temprunce s'iety so durn'd drunk, he
wudn't no his britches frum a par ove bellowses, ur a
hits eny use talkin, that ar gal cud make me murder ole
Bishop Soul, hissef, ur kill mam, not tu speak ove dad,
ef she jis' hinted she wanted sich a thing dun. Sich an
'oman cud du more devilmint nur a loose stud hoss et
a muster groun', ef she only know'd what tools she
totes, an' I'se sorter beginin tu think she no's the use
ove the las' durnd wun, tu a dot. Her ankils wer es
roun', an' not much bigger nur the wrist ove a rifle-gun,
an' when she wer a-dancin, ur makin up a bed, ur gittin
over a fence— Oh durn sich wimen! Why aint they
all made on the hempbreak plan, like mam, ur Betts
Carr, ur Suke Miller, so they wundn't bother a feller's
thinker et all.
“George, this worl am all 'rong enyhow, more temtashun
than perventitive; ef hit wer ekal, I'd stand hit.
What kin the ole prechurs an' the ugly wimen 'spect
ove us, 'sposed es we ar tu sich invenshuns es she am?
Oh, hits jis' no use in thar talkin, an' groanin, an'
sweatin tharsefs about hit; they mus' jis' upset nater ontu
her head, an' keep her thar, ur shet up. Less taste
this yere whisky.”
Sut continued, wiping his mouth on his shirt-sleeve:
“I'se hearn in the mountins a fust rate fourth proof
smash ove thunder cum onexpected, an' shake the yeath,
bringin along a string ove litenin es long es a quarter
track, an' es bright es a weldin heat, a-racin down a big
pine tree, tarin hit intu broom-splits, an' toof pickers,
lim's wif a smell sorter like the devil wer about, an'
the long darnin needil leaves fallin roun wif a tif—tif—
quiet sorter soun, an' then a quiverin on the yeath es
littil snakes die; an' I felt quar in my in'ards, sorter
ha'f cumfurt, wif a littil glad an' rite smart ove sorry
mix'd wif hit.
“I'se seed the rattil-snake squar hissef tu cum at me,
a sayin z-e-e-e-e, wif that nisey tail ove his'n, an' I felt
quar agin—mons'rous quar. I've seed the Oconee River
jumpin mad frum rock tu rock wif hits clear, cool
warter, white foam, an' music”—
“What, Sut?”
“Music; the rushin warter dus make music; so dus
the wind, an' the fire in the mountin, an' hit gin me an
oneasy queerness agin; but every time I look'd at that
gal Sicily Burns, I hed all the feelins mix'd up, ove the
litenin, the river, an' the snake, wif a totch ove the
quicksilver sensashun a huntin thru all my veins fur
my ticklish place.
“Tu gether hit all in a bunch, an' tie hit, she wer gal
all over, frum the pint ove her toe-nails tu the aind ove
the longes' har on the highis knob on her head—gal all
the time, everywhar, an' wun ove the exhitenis kine.
Ove corse I lean'd up tu her, es clost es I dar tu, an' in
spite ove these yere laigs, an' my appertite fur whisky,
that ar shut-skinin bisness, an' dad's actin hoss, she sorter
lean'd tu me, jis' a scrimpshun, sorter like a keerful
tu bring em back tu the lick-bog sum day—that's the
way she salted me, an' I 'tended the lick-log es reg'lar
es the old bell cow; an' I wer jis' beginin tu think I
wer ontu the rite trail tu es much cumfurt, an' stayin
awake a-purpus, es ole Brigham Young wif all his saddil-culler'd
wimen, an' the papers tu fetch more, ef he
wants em.
“Well, wun day a cussed, palaverin, inyun-eatin
Yankee pedlar, all jack-nife an' jaw, cum tu ole man
Burns wif a carryall full ove appil-parin-mersheens,
jewsharps, calliker, ribbons, sody-powder, an' uther
durn'd truck.
“Now mine, I'd never hearn tell ove sody-powder in
my born'd days; I didn't know hit frum Beltashazur's
off ox; but I no's now that hit am wus nur gunpowder
fur hurtin, an' durn'd ni es smart tu go off.
“That ar Yankee pedlar hes my piusest prayer, an' I
jis wish I hed a kaig ove the truck intu his cussed
paunch, wif a slow match cumin out at his mouf,
an' I hed a chunk ove fire. The feller what foun a
mossel ove 'im big enuf tu feed a cockroach, orter be
turn'd loose tu pastur amung seventy-five purty wimen,
an' foun in whisky fur life, becase ove his good eyes in
huntin los' things. George, a Yankee pedlar's soul
wud hev more room in a turnip-seed tu fly roun in.
than a leather-wing bat hes in a meetin-hous; that's
jis' so.
“Sicily hed bot a tin box ove the cold bilin truck,
an' hid hit till I cum tu the lick-log agin, yu know.
Well, I jis' happen'd tu pass nex' day, an' ove corse
stopp'd tu injoy a look at the temtashun, an' she wer
mity luvin tu me. I never felt the like—put wun arm
roun my naik, an' tuther whar the susingil goes roun a
hoss, tuck the inturn ontu me wif her lef' foot, an' gin
me a kiss. Sez she—
“Sutty, luv, I'se got sumthin fur yu, a new sensashun”—
“An' I b'leve in hit strong, fur I begun tu feel hit
pow'ful. My toes felt like I wer in a warm krick wif
minners a-nibblin at em; a cole streak wer a racin up
an' down my back like a lizzard wif a tucky hen arter
'im; my hans tuck the ager, an' my hart felt hot an on-satisfied
like. Then hit wer that I'd a-cut ole Soul's froat
wif a hansaw, an' never batted my eye, ef she'd a-hinted
the needsesity.
“Then she pour'd 'bout ten blue papers ove the
fizilin powder intu a great big tumbler, an' es meny
white papers intu anuther, an' put ni ontu a pint ove
warter intu bof on em, stir'd em up wif a case-nife, an'
gritted a morsel ove nutmaig on top, the 'saitful she
torment lookin es solemn es a jasack in a snow storm,
when the fodder gin out. She hilt wun, an' tole me tu
drink tuther. I swaller'd hit at wun run; tasted sorter
salty like, but I tho't hit wer part ove the sensashun.
But I wer slitely mistaken'd; hit wer yet tu cum, an'
all sensashuns ove every spot an' stripe! I say. Then
she gin me tuther, an' I sent hit a chasin the fus' instalmint
tu the sag ove my paunch, race-hoss way. Yu
see I'd got the idear onder my har that hit wer luv-powders,
an' I'd swaller'd the devil red hot frum home,
a-thinkin that. Luv-powders frum her! jis' think ove
hit yerse'f solemnly a minit, an' sit still ef yu kin.
“Jis' 'bout the time I wer ketchin my breff, I tho't
I'd swaller'd a thrashin-meersheen in full blast, wif a
cuppil ove bull-dorgs, an' they hed sot intu fitin; an' I
felt sumthin cumin up my swaller, monstrus like a
hi pressur steamboat. I cud hear hit a-snortin, and
scizzin. Kotch agin, by the great golly! tho't I; same
famerly dispersishun tu make a durn'd fool ove myse'f
jis' es ofen es the sun sets, an' fifteen times ofener ef
thar's a half a chance. Durn dad evermore, amen! I
say.
“I happen'd tu think ove my hoss, an' I broke
fur him. I stole a hang-dorg look back, an' thar
lay Sicily, flat ove her back in the porch, clapin
her hans, screamin wif laughin, her feet up in the
air, a-kickin em a-pas' each uther like she wer tryin
tu kick her slippers off. I'se pow'ful sorry I wer
too bizzy tu look at em. Thar wer a road ove foam
frum the hous' tu the hoss two foot wide, an' shoe
mouf deep—looked like hit hed been snowin—a-poppin,
an' a-hissin, an' a-bilin like a tub ove soap-suds
tree lim' es I run, an' I lit a-straddil ove ole Blackey,
a-thrashin his hide like the devil beatin tan-bark, an'
a-hissin wus nur four thousin mad ganders outen my
mouf, eyes, nose, an' years. All this waked the ole
hoss, an' he fotch one rar, one kiek, an' then he went
—he jis' mizzel'd, skar'd. Oh lordy! how the foam
rolled, an' the hoss flew! Es we turned the corner ove
the gardin lot, I hearn Sicily call, es clar es a bugle:
“`Hole hit down, Mister Lovingood! hole hit down!
hits a cure fur puppy luv; hole hit down!'
“Hole hit down! Hu ever hearn sich a onpossibil—
Why, rite then I wer a-feelin the bottim ove my
paunch cumin up arter hit, inside out, jis' like the bottim
ove a green champain bottil. I wer spectin tu see
hit every blast. That, wif what Sicily sed, wer a-hurtin
my thinker pow'ful bad, an' then the ise-warter idear,
that hit warn't a luv-powder arter all that hurtin—takin
all tugether, I wer sorter wishin hit mout keep on till
I wer all biled tu foam, plum tu my heel-strings.
“I wer aimin fur Dr. Goodman's, at the Hiwasee
Copper Mine, tu git sumthin tu simmer hit down wif,
when I met ole Clapshaw, the suckit-rider, a-travelin
to'ards sumbody's hot biskit an' fried chicken. As I
cum tarin along, he hilt up his hans like he wanted tu
pray fur me; but es I wanted sumthin tu reach furder,
an' take a ranker holt nur his prars cud, I jis' rambled
ahead. I wer hot arter a ten-hoss dubbil-actin steam
BLOWN UP WITH SODA.
"Hole hit down, Mister Lovingood! hole hit down! hits a cure for puppy luv; hole it down!" Page 82.
[Description: 565EAF. Illustration Page. Image of two men on horseback, an older man and a younger one. The older one looks on as the younger man vomits.]
lake, an' a strong manbody doctur at tuther; hit wer
my big want jis' then. He tuck a skeer, es I wer cumin
strait fur him; his faith gin out, an' he dodged, flat
hat, hoss, an' saddil-bags, intu the thicket. I seed his
hoss's tail fly up over his back, es he disappear'd intu
the bushes; thar mus' a-been spurrin gwine on 'bout
thar. I liked his moshuns onder a skeer rite well; he
made that dodge jis' like a mud-turkil draps ofen a log
when a big steamboat cums tarin a-pas'. Es he pass'd
ole man Burns's, Sicily hailed 'im tu ax ef he met enybody
gwine up the road in a sorter hurry. The poor
devil tho't that p'raps he mout; warnt sure, but he hed
seed a dreadful forewarnin, ur a ghos', ur ole Belzebub,
ur the Tariff. Takin all things tugether, however, in
the litil time spar'd tu 'im fur 'flection, hit mus' a-been
a crazy, long-laiged shakin Quaker, fleein frum the rath
tu cum, on a black an' white spotted hoss, a-whipin 'im
wif a big brush; an' he hed a white beard what cum
frum jis onder his eyes down tu the pumil ove the saddil,
an' then forked an' went tu his knees, an' frum
thar drapp'd in bunches es big es a crow's nes', tu the
groun; an' he hearn a soun like ontu the rushin ove
mitey warters, an' he wer pow'fully exersized 'bout hit
enyhow. Well, I guess he wer, an' so wer his fat hoss,
an' so wer ole Blackey, an' more so by a durn'd site wer
me mysef. Arter he cumpos'd hissef he rit out his fool
noshuns fur Sicily, that hit wer a new steam invenshun,
tu pastur in distunt lans, made outen sheet iron, ingin
rubber, tann'd leather, ise cream, an' fat pine, an' that
the hoss's tail wer made outen iron wire, red hot at the
pint, an' a stream ove sparks es long es the steerin-oar
ove a flatboat foller'd thararter; an' takin hit all tugether
hit warnt a safe thing tu meet in a lane ove a
dark nite; an' he tho't he hed a call over the mountin
tu anuther sarkit; that chickens warnt es plenty over
thar, but then he wer a self-denyin man.
“Now, George, all this beard, an' spotted hoss, an'
steam, an' fire, an' snow, an' wire tails, wer durn'd
skeer'd suckit rider's humbug; hit all cum outen my
paunch, wifout eny vomitin ur coaxin, an' ef hit hedn't,
I'd a dun been busted intu more scraps nur thar's aigs
in a big catfish.
“`Hole hit down, Mister Lovingood! hole hit down!'
Now warnt that jis' the durndes' onreasonabil reques'
ever an 'oman made ove man? She mout jis es well
ax'd me tu swaller my hoss, an' then skin the cat on
a cob-web. She's pow'ful on docterin tho', I'll swar
tu that.”
“Why, Sut?”
“Kase she cur'd my puppy-luv wif wun dost, durn
her! George, am sody pizen?”
“No; why?”
“I sorter 'spected hit wer, an' I sot in, an' et yarbs,
an' grass, an' roots, till I'se pounch'd out like ontu a ole
sole leather. I axes rot-gut no odds now. Yere's a
drink tu the durndes' fool in the worl'—jis' me!”
And the bottom of Sut's flask flashed in the sun-light.
| BLOWN UP WITH SODA. Sut Lovingood | |