University of Virginia Library

SICILY BURNS'S WEDDING.

“Hey Ge-orge!” rang among the mountain slopes;
and looking up to my left, I saw “Sut,” tearing along
down a steep point, heading me off, in a long kangaroo
lope, holding his flask high above his head, and hat in
hand. He brought up near me, banteringly shaking
the half-full “tickler,” within an inch of my face.

“Whar am yu gwine? take a suck, hoss? This yere
truck's ole. I kotch hit myse'f, hot this mornin frum
the still wum. Nara durn'd bit ove strike-nine in hit—
I put that ar piece ove burnt dried peach in myse'f tu
gin hit color—better nur ole Bullen's plan: he puts in
tan ooze, in what he sells, an' when that haint handy,
he uses the red warter outen a pon' jis' below his barn;
—makes a pow'ful natral color, but don't help the taste
much. Then he correcks that wif red pepper; hits an
orful mixtry, that whisky ole Bullen makes; no wonder
he seed `Hell-sarpints.' He's pisent ni ontu three
quarters ove the b'levin parts ove his congregashun wif
hit, an' tuther quarter he's sot intu ruff stealin an'
cussin. Ef his still-'ous don't burn down, ur he peg
out hisse'f, the neighborhood am ruinated a-pas' salvashun.

Haint he the durndes sampil ove a passun yu
ever seed enyhow?

“Say George, du yu see these yere well-poles what I
uses fur laigs? Yu sez yu sees em, dus yu?”

“Yes.”

“Very well; I passed 'em a-pas' each uther tuther day,
right peart. I put one out a-head jis' so, an' then
tuther 'bout nine feet a-head ove hit agin jis' so, an'
then kep on a-duin hit. I'll jis' gin yu leave tu go tu
the devil ha'f hamon, ef I didn't make fewer tracks tu
the mile, an' more tu the minit, than wer ever made by
eny human man body, since Bark Wilson beat the sawlog
frum the top ove the Frog Mountin intu the Oconee
River, an' dove, an' dodged hit at las'. I hes allers
look'd ontu that performince ove Bark's as onekel'd in
histery, allers givin way tu dad's ho'net race, however.

“George, every livin thing hes hits pint, a pint ove
sum sort. Ole Bullen's pint is a durn'ed fust rate,
three bladed, dubbil barril'd, warter-proof, hypockracy,
an' a never-tirein appertite fur bal'-face. Sicily Burns's
pint am tu drive men folks plum crazy, an' then bring
em too agin. Gin em a rale Orleans fever in five minits,
an' then in five minits more, gin them a Floridy
ager. Durn her, she's down on her heels flat-footed
now. Dad's pint is tu be king ove all durn'd fools,
ever since the day ove that feller what cribb'd up so
much co'n down in Yegipt, long time ago, (he run outen
his coat yu minds.) The Bibil tells us hu wer the

stronges' man—hu wer the bes' man—hu wer the
meekis' man, an' hu the wises' man, but leaves yu tu
guess hu wer the bigges' fool.

“Well, eny man what cudent guess arter readin that
ar scrimmage wif an 'oman 'bout the coat, haint sense
enuf tu run intu the hous', ef hit wer rainin ded cats,
that's all. Mam's pint am in kitchen insex, bakin hoecake,
bilin greens, an' runnin bar laiged. My pint am in
takin aboard big skeers, an' then beatin enybody's hoss,
ur skared dorg, a-runnin frum onder em agin. I used
tu think my pint an' dad's wer jis' the same, sulky, unmix'd
king durn'd fool; but when he acted hoss, an'
mistook hossflies fur ho'nets, I los' heart. Never mine,
when I gits his 'sperence, I may be king fool ybut, et
great golly, he gets frum bad tu wus, monstrus fas'.

“Now ef a feller happens tu know what his pint
am, he kin allers git along, sumhow, purvided he
don't swar away his liberty tu a temprins s'ciety, live
tu fur frum a still-'ous, an' too ni a chu'ch ur a jail.
Them's my sentimints on `pints,'—an' yere's my
sentimints ontu folks: Men wer made a-purpus jis'
tu eat, drink, an' fur stayin awake in the yearly
part ove the nites: an' wimen wer made tu cook
the vittils, mix the sperits, an' help the men du the
stayin awake. That's all, an' nuthin more, onless hits
fur the wimen tu raise the devil atwix meals, an' knit
socks atwix drams, an' the men tu play short kerds,
swap hosses wif fools, an' fite fur exersise, at odd spells.

“George, yu don't onderstan life yet scarcely at all,
got a heap tu larn, a heap. But 'bout my swappin my
laigs so fas'—these yere very par ove laigs. I hed got
about a fox squirril skin full ove biled co'n juice
packed onder my shut, an' onder my hide too, I mout
es well add, an' wer aimin fur Bill Carr's on foot.
When I got in sight ove ole man Burns's, I seed ni ontu
fifty hosses an' muels hitch'd tu the fence. Durnashun!
I jis' then tho't ove hit, 'twer Sicily's wedding
day. She married ole Clapshaw, the suckit rider.
The very feller hu's faith gin out when he met me
sendin sody all over creashun. Suckit-riders am surjestif
things tu me. They preaches agin me, an' I hes
no chance tu preach back at them. Ef I cud I'd make
the institushun behave hitsef better nur hit dus. They
hes sum wunderful pints, George. Thar am two things
nobody never seed: wun am a dead muel, an' tuther
is a suckit-rider's grave. Kaze why, the he muels all
turn intu old field school-masters, an' the she ones intu
strong minded wimen, an' then when thar time cums,
they dies sorter like uther folks. An' the suckit-riders
ride ontil they marry; ef they marrys money, they
turns intu store-keepers, swaps hosses, an' stays away
ove colleckshun Sundays. Them what marrys, an' by
sum orful mistake misses the money, jis' turns intu polertishuns,
sells `ile well stock,' and' dies sorter in the
human way too.

“But 'bout the wedding. Ole Burns hed a big black

an' white bull, wif a ring in his snout, an' the rope tied
up roun his ho'ns. They rid 'im tu mill, an' sich like
wif a saddil made outen two dorgwood forks, an' two
clapboards, kivered wif a ole piece ove carpet, rope girth,
an' rope stirrups wif a loop in hit fur the foot. Ole
`Sock,' es they call'd the bull, hed jis' got back frum
mill, an' wer turn'd intu the yard, saddil an' all, tu
solace hissef a-pickin grass. I wer slungin roun the
outside ove the hous', fur they hedn't hed the manners
tu ax me in, when they sot down tu dinner. I wer
pow'fully hurt 'bout hit, an' happen'd tu think—SODY.
So I sot in a-watchin fur a chance tu du sumthin. I
fus' tho't I'd shave ole Clapshaw's hoss's tail, go tu the
stabil an' shave Sicily's mare's tail, an' ketch ole Burns
out, an' shave his tail too. While I wer a-studyin 'bout
this, ole Sock wer a-nosin 'roun, an' cum up ontu a big
baskit what hilt a littil shattered co'n; he dipp'd in his
head tu git hit, an' I slipp'd up an' jerked the handil
over his ho'ns.

“Now, George, ef yu knows the nater ove a cow
brute, they is the durndes' fools amung all the beastes,
('scept the Lovingoods;) when they gits intu tribulashun,
they knows nuffin but tu shot thar eyes, beller,
an' back, an' keep a-backin. Well, when ole Sock
raised his head an' foun hissef in darkness, he jis'
twisted up his tail, snorted the shatter'd co'n outen the
baskit, an' made a tremenjus lunge agin the hous'. I
hearn the picters a-hangin agin the wall on the inside

a-fallin. He fotch a deep loud rusty beller, mout been
hearn a mile, an' then sot intu a onendin sistem ove
backin. A big craw-fish wif a hungry coon a-reachin
fur him, wer jis' nowhar. Fust agin one thing, then
over anuther, an' at las' agin the bee-bainch, knockin
hit an' a dozen stan ove bees heads over heels, an' then
stompin back'ards thru the mess. Hit haint much wuf
while tu tell what the bees did, ur how soon they sot
intu duin hit. They am pow'ful quick-tempered littil
critters, enyhow. The air wer dark wif 'em, an' Sock
wer kivered all over, frum snout tu tail, so clost yu
cudent a-sot down a grain ove wheat fur bees, an' they
wer a-fitin one anuther in the air, fur a place on the
bull. The hous' stood on sidelin groun, an' the back
door wer even wif hit. So Sock happen tu hit hit
plum, jis' backed intu the hous' onder 'bout two hundred
an' fifty pouns ove steam, bawlin orful, an' every
snort he fotch he snorted away a quart ove bees ofen
his sweaty snout. He wer the leader ove the bigges'
an' the madest army ove bees in the worild. Thar wer
at leas' five solid bushels ove 'em. They hed filled the
baskit, an' hed lodged ontu his tail, ten deep, ontil hit
wer es thick es a waggin tung. He hed hit stuck-strait
up in the air, an' hit looked adzackly like a dead pine
kivered wif ivey. I think he wer the hottes' and wus
hurtin bull then livin; his temper, too, seemed tu be
pow'fully flustrated. Ove all the durn'd times an' kerryins
on yu ever hearn tell on wer thar an' thar abouts.
He cum tail fust agin the ole two story Dutch clock, an'
fotch hit, bustin hits runnin geer outen hit, the littil
wheels a-trundlin over the floor, an' the bees even
chasin them. Nex pass, he fotch up agin the foot ove
a big dubbil injine bedstead, rarin hit on aind, an'
punchin one ove the posts thru a glass winder. The
nex tail fus' experdishun wer made aginst the caticorner'd
cupboard, outen which he made a perfeck
momox. Fus' he upsot hit, smashin in the glass doors,
an' then jis' sot in an' stomp'd everything on the shelves
intu giblits, a-tryin tu back furder in that direckshun,
an' tu git the bees often his laigs.

“Pickil crocks, perserves jars, vinegar jugs, seed
bags, yarb bunches, paragorick bottils, aig baskits, an'
delf war—all mix'd dam permiskusly, an' not worth the
sortin, by a duller an' a 'alf. Nex he got a far back
acrost the room agin the board pertishun; he went thru
hit like hit hed been paper, takin wif him 'bout six foot
squar ove hit in splinters, an' broken boards, intu the
nex room, whar they wer catin dinner, an' rite yere
the fitin becum gineral, an' the dancin, squawkin,
cussin, an' dodgin begun.

“Clapshaw's ole mam wer es deaf es a dogiron, an
sot at the aind ove the tabil, nex tu whar ole Sock busted
thru the wall; tail fus' he cum agin her cheer,
a-histin her an' hit ontu the tabil. Now, the smashin
ove delf, an' the mixin ove vittils begun. They hed
sot severil tabils tugether tu make hit long enuf. So

he jis' rolled 'em up a-top ove one anuther, an' thar sot
ole Missis Clapshaw, a-straddil ove the top ove the pile,
a-fitin bees like a mad wind-mill, wif her calliker cap
in one han, fur a wepun, an' a cract frame in tuther,
an' a-kickin, an' a-spurrin like she wer ridin a lazy
hoss arter the doctor, an' a-screamin rape, fire, an' murder,
es fas' es she cud name 'em over.

“Taters, cabbige, meat, soup, beans, sop, dumplins,
an' the truck what yu wallers em in; milk, plates,
pies, puddins, an' every durn fixin yu cud think ove in
a week, wer thar, mix'd an' mashed, like hit had been
thru a thrashin-meesheen. Ole Sock still kep a-backin,
an' backed the hole pile, ole 'oman an' all, also sum
cheers, outen the frunt door, an' down seven steps intu
the lane, an' then by golly, turn'd a fifteen hundred poun
summerset hissef arter em, lit a-top ove the mix'd up
mess, flat ove his back, an' then kicked hissef ontu his
feet agin. About the time he ris, ole man Burns—yu
know how fat, an' stumpy, an' cross-grained he is, enyhow—made
a vigrus mad snatch at the baskit, an' got a
savin holt ontu hit, but cudent let go quick enuf; fur ole
Sock jis' snorted, bawled, an' histed the ole cuss heels
fust up intu the air, an' he lit on the bull's back, an' hed
the baskit in his han.

“Jis' es soon es ole Blackey got the use ove his eyes,
he tore off down the lane tu out-run the bees, so durn'd
fas' that ole Burns wer feard tu try tu git off. So he
jis' socked his feet intu the rope loops, an' then cummenc'd

the durndes' bull-ride ever mortal man ondertuck.
Sock run atwix the hitched critters an' the railfence,
ole Burns fust fitin him over the head wif the
baskit tu stop him, an' then fitin the bees wif hit. I'll
jis' be durn'd ef I didn't think he hed four ur five baskits,
hit wer in so meny places at onst. Well, Burns,
baskit, an' bull, an' bees, skared every durn'd hoss
an' muel loose frum that fence—bees ontu all ove 'em,
bees, by golly, everywhar. Mos' on 'em, too, tuck a
fence rail along, fas' tu the bridil reins. Now I'll jis'
gin yu leave tu kiss my sister Sall till she squalls, ef
ever sich a sight wer seed ur sich nises hearn, es filled
up that long lane. A heavy cloud ove dus', like a
harycane hed been blowin, hid all the hosses, an' away
abuv hit yu cud see tails, an' ainds ove fence-rails
a-flyin about; now an' then a par ove bright hine shoes
wud flash in the sun like two sparks, an' away ahead
wer the baskit a-sirklin roun an' about at randum.
Brayin, nickerin, the bellerin ove the bull, clatterin ove
runnin hoofs, an' a mons'ous rushin soun, made up the
noise. Lively times in that lane jis' then, warnt thar?

“I swar ole Burns kin beat eny man on top ove the
yeath a-fitin bees wif a baskit. Jis' set 'im a-straddil ove
a mad bull, an' let thar be bees enuf tu exhite the ole
man, an' the man what beats him kin break me.
Hosses an' muels wer tuck up all over the county, an'
sum wer forever los'. Yu cudent go eny course, in a
cirkil ove a mile, an' not find buckils, stirrups, straps,

saddil blankits, ur sumthin belongin tu a saddil hoss.
Now don't forgit that about that hous' thar wer a good
time bein had ginerally. Fellers an' gals loped outen
windows, they rolled outen the doors in bunches, they
clomb the chimleys, they darted onder the house jis'
tu dart out agin, they tuck tu the thicket, they rolled
in the wheat field, lay down in the krick, did everything
but stan still. Sum made a strait run fur home,
an' sum es strait a run frum home; livelyest folks I
ever did see. Clapshaw crawled onder a straw pile in
the barn, an' sot intu prayin—yu cud a-hearn him a
mile—sumthin 'bout the plagues ove Yegipt, an' the
pains ove the secon death. I tell yu now he lumbered.

“Sicily, she squatted in the cold spring, up tu her
years, an' turn'd a milk crock over her head, while she
wer a drownin a mess ove bees onder her coats. I
went tu her, an' sez I, `Yu hes got anuther new sensashun
haint yu?' Sez she—

“`Shet yer mouth, yu cussed fool!'

“Sez I, `Power'ful sarchin feelin bees gins a body,
don't they?'

“`Oh, lordy, lordy, Sut, these yere 'bominabil insex
is jis' burnin me up!'

“`Gin 'em a mess ove SODY,' sez I, `that'll cool 'em
off, an' skeer the las' durn'd one ofen the place.'

“She lifted the crock, so she cud flash her eyes at
me, an' sed, `Yu go tu hell!' jis es plain. I thought,
takin all things tugether, that p'raps I mout es well put

the mountin atwix me an' that plantashun; an' I did
hit.

“Thar warnt an' 'oman, ur a gal at that weddin, but
what thar frocks, an' stockins wer too tite fur a week.
Bees am wus on wimen than men, enyhow. They
hev a farer chance at 'em. Nex day I passed ole Hawley's,
an' his gal Betts wer sittin in the porch, wif a
white hankerchef tied roun her jaws; her face wer es
red es a beet, an' her eyebrows hung 'way over heavy.
Sez I, `Hed a fine time at the weddin, didn't yu?' `Yu
mus' be a durn'd fool,' wer every word she sed. I
hadent gone a hundred yards, ontil I met Missis Brady,
her hans fat, an' her ankils swelled ontil they shined.
Sez she,—

“`Whar yu gwine, Sut?'

“`Bee huntin,' sez I.

“`Yu jis' say bees agin, yu infunel gallinipper, an'
I'll scab yer head wif a rock.'

“Now haint hit strange how tetchus they am, on the
subjick ove bees?

“Ove all the durn'd misfortinit weddins ever since ole
Adam married that heifer, what wer so fon' ove talkin
tu snaix, an' eatin appils, down ontil now, that one ove
Sicily's an' Clapshaw's wer the worst one fur noise, disappintment,
skeer, breakin things, hurtin, trubbil, vexashun
ove spirrit, an' gineral swellin. Why, George, her
an' him cudent sleep tugether fur ni ontu a week, on account
ove the doins ove them ar hot-footed, `vengeful,

'bominabil littil insex. They never will gee tugether,
got tu bad a start, mine what I tell yu. Yu haint time
now tu hear how ole Burns finished his bull-ride, an'
how I cum tu du that lofty, topliftical speciment ove
fas' runnin. I'll tell yu all that, sum uther time. Ef
eny ove 'em axes after me, tell 'em that I'm over in Fannin,
on my way tu Dahlonega. They is huntin me tu
kill me, I is fear'd.

“Hit am an orful thing, George, tu be a natral born
durn'd fool. Yu'se never 'sperienced hit pussonally,
hev yu? Hits made pow'fully agin our famerly, an
all owin tu dad. I orter bust my head open agin a
bluff ove rocks, an' jis' wud du hit, ef I warnt a cussed
coward. All my yeathly 'pendence is in these yere
laigs—d'ye see 'em? Ef they don't fail, I may turn
human sum day, that is sorter human, enuf tu be a
Squire, ur school cummisiner. Ef I wer jis' es smart
es I am mean, an' ornary, I'd be President ove a Wild
Cat Bank in less nor a week. Is sperrits plenty over
wif yu?”