University of Virginia Library

OLD BURNS'S BULL-RIDE.

Well, now, George, while yu am waitin' fur yer
chain-kerriers, I'll tell yu how old Burns finish'd that
onspeakable Bull-ride, an' how I won my race agin all
his sons, thar houns, an the neighborhood ginirally
Well, arter he got outen the lane, they struck a piece
ove timber lan', an' thar he los' his baskit. Then he
betuck hissef tu onwindin the rope ofen the bull's ho'ns,
an' wrapp'd hit roun his lef han.

Now es hit happens, Squire Mills hes a bull too—a
mons'rous fitin, cross ole cuss, what hes the Frog Mountain
fur his surkit this year. He jis' goes whar he
durn'd please, an' thinks he is the bes' man in the
range. He happen'd tu be browsin about in this piece
ove woods, an' hearin ole Sock a-bellerin, tuck hit fur
a challenge; so he raked up sum dirt wif his huff, an'
sprinkild hit over his back; then he dug sum outen a
bank wif his ho'ns, an' smelt ove hit; then he tuck a
twis' ur two intu his tail, an' histed hit, an' felt hissef
then ready fur activ sarvice.

Ole Sock an' his rider cum in site a-tarin, an' they
smelt each uther. Both wer dead game an' mad, so a

big fite wer morrily durn'd certin. Es soon es old
Burns seed tuther bull, he onderstood adzackly what
wer a-cumin, an' when; so he leaned hissef back ontu
the rope pow'ful, till he pull'd the stirrup loops tight
ontu his feet, an' hauled ole Sock's nose an' lip 'way
up atween his eyes by the ring, sorter like bustin
a rawhide outen a rat wif a ho'n hook. His face look'd
like hit wer skin'd, ur a dead beef's head on a live
bull's body. He wer the wust lookin cow brute, in the
face, yu ever seed, an' hit made his bellerin soun like
he hed the rattils. But in spite ove all this, he steamed
strait ahead fur the inemy. He didn't keer a durn fur
enything, since his intercourse wif the bees, an' his
mistification in the baskit.

Ole Burns cumenced snatchin brush frum the trees,
fust one side an' then tuther, es he pass'd, an' then warin
ove em out over the inside ove ole Sock's histed
lip, squar down atwix his ho'ns. Es fas' es he wore em
out, he wud snatch fur more; he's jis' the bes' man fur
usin baskits ur brush in an emargincy I ever seed.
How he'd thrive in a bad 'skeeter country! They'd
never git in suckin distance ove him. But hit wer all
hard thrashin wasted. The bellerin-mersheans associated,
an' they sot thar heads tugether like two drunk
locomotives wud. When they hit, down cum thar
tails, but they histed em agin in a moment, an' a-shakin
em at the pints, like they wanted tu git the dust outen
the har. The shock fotch ole Burns outen the dorgwood

saddil, an' ontu the naik; but he craw-fish'd back
durn'd quick, an' never stopt his thrashin ove em over
thar heads an' eyes fur one momunt. The nex time
they mix'd, they cum by guess wif thar eyes shot, fur
fear ove that perpetul-motion brush. Hit jis' rain'd
brush, well mix'd wif sum orful off-han' cussin.

The Mills bull's a mity smart critter, tu be only a
cow beas', an' he preshiated adzactly ole Burns's power
wif a hanful ove brush. So while old Sock wer a
gwine thru a gran' charge blind, he tuck a circumbendibus
roun, an' gin him Marcy's game on ole Fuss an'
Feathers—a-bustin hot fire in the rar. He jis' cum in
atween his hine laigs, an' burried his head an' ho'ns
thar onder a full run, a histin Sock's starn two foot clar
ove the yeath, an' rite then down cum his tail wif a
swish, an' he wer tuck along wheel-barrow fashun, ontu
his fore laigs, pow'ful agin his will an' cumfort, wif
the smellin aind ove his head draw'd higher nor ever
to'ards his curl, the brush-mershean in full blast, an'
gittin faster an' harder, an' ole Burns a-snatchin ove
more. The bellerin an' cussin wer mix'd now ni ontu
es ekal es a keerful man mixes whisky an' wartar, an'
the mixtry made a mos' doleful soun. Ef you'd a
hearn hit at half a mile, yu wud a know'd thar wer
a heap ove hurtin an' rath a-gwine on whar hit cum
frum.

Ole Sock wer hurried on in this onnaterel an' onmanerly
manner over a fell pine tree, an' thar old Mills

[ILLUSTRATION]

OLD BURN'S BULL RIDE.
"He jist cum in atwixt his hine laigs, an' burried head, an' hon's thar onder a full run, a histen socks starn
full two foot, clar of the yeath, an' right then his tail come down with a swish." Page 100.

[Description: 565EAF. Illustration Page. Image of fat balding man with a switch in his hand riding a bull. A second bull rams the first bull from behind.]

stopt, I spose tu see the effeck ove his new plan ove
fitein, an' thar he did a durn'd fool thing; fur if he hed
a-kept that ar head ove hisn in clost communion wif
old Sock's sturn, he wud been boun' tu spoke the
word afore long. But es hit wer, hit gin him time tu
turn roun' wif 'cumulated rath, the natrel bull fitein
way.

Ole Mills hed a holesum fear ove the steam brush-mill,
what Sock toted on his upper deck. So he cum
it bline agin, an' the nex time they met they miss'd, an'
the ho'n run onder old Burns's laig, an' atwix the rope
girth an' ole Sock's hide. He gin a twis an' busted the
girth, swung that misfortinat ole man an' the saddil
roun, an' then lent em a big hist. Up they went, saddil
fust, an' hit hung ontu the snag lim ove a ded pine,
jis' high enuf tu let ole Burns's hans sorter tetch groun'.
Thar he hung by the heels.

He sot in now, an' cussed in rale yearnis. He mixed
in a littil prayin wif hit now an' then, fur thar wer a
streak ove skeer in his mad, es he foun' hissef hung
hog-fashun, an' a par ove bulls a-fitein roun him. His
voice wer changed so yu wudent a-know'd 'im by hit;
hit sounded like he wer down in a well; ur hed a locus'
in his throat. He bemoan'd his condishun pow'ful,
cuss'd Sicily awhile as the fus' cause, an' Clapshaw as
the secon' cause, an' then went way back twenty-five
years an' cussed hissef fur ever marryin at all, as that
wer the beginnin ove hit; talked dredful tu hear 'bout

shot-guns, hickory clubs, an' the devil's brimstone-works,
a-mensunin my name often in these las' remarks.

I tell yu hit wer tremenjusly orful tu listen tu, cumin
frum a man ove famerly an' property, hung up by the
heels whar two dredful ole bulls wer at war. Wun got
a-runnin go ontu tuther, an' backed in agin the old
man pow'ful fas'; they pushed him es fur es the ropelet
em, an' tu make hit wus, he, a durn'd ole fool,
grabb'd a death holt ontu the tail, an' hilt on as long
as he cud stan' hit fur his ankils. At las' he let
go, an' away he swung—tick, tick, like a durn'd ole
clock, what wer behine time, an' wer a-tryin tu ketch
up again; an' him a-snatchin at the weeds, an' grass, a
fetchin handsful every swing—the prayin an' cussin
never slackin off fur enything. I tell yu he hes lots
ove san' in his gizzard; he is the bes' pluck I ever
seed.

Well thar they fit, roun an' roun, tarin up the yeath
an' roots, an' bull meat; he a-watchin em es well es he
cud wif his head down. Torreckly they cum agin frum
ahine, slather agin the ole feller, an' kerried 'im forrid
this time, an' not clock-fashun, sidewise. Jis' es soon
es the sturn ove the Mills bull totch 'im, he went fur tail
holt agin, an' by golly, he hilt hit this time ontil his
shoes cum off, an' he fell smack atop ove Mills, face tu
the tail. He tuck hissef good han' holt intu each ove
the flanks, an' locked his laigs roun the critter's naik.

Oh! durn 'im! he is jis' es redy an' quick es a cat; his
'rangemints wer made tu stay thar all nite, an' fur fear
ove acksidents he tuck a good bill holt on the tail wif
his teeth.

Ole Mills now dident begin tu onderstan' what wer
atop ove 'im; hit wer sumthin sartin what hed bof
claws an' teeth, an'—painter, flash'd ontu his mine
wif all the force the bill holt ontu his tail cud give hit.
Dredful, dredful tho't! His pluck wilted, an' he jis'
turn'd tail tu the battil groun, an' went aimin fur North
Caliney, ole Sock a-trottin arter 'im, sorter keerless
like.

Now the ticklin intu his flanks, the chokin roun'
his naik, an' the steel trap sprung ontu his tail, did discumfort
'im pow'ful. He jis' mizzild. Every few
jumps, he'd giv a hurried hurtin short beller, an' kick
bof heels es hi es he cud; but ole Burns wer thar, still
thar. By golly, golly, he wer grow'd thar. He struck
the river at a pint whar the bluff wer sixty feet high,
abuv warter thuty foot deep. Durn'd ef ever he tho't
even ove measurin hit, but jis' loped over head down,
an' ove course the ole man wer gwine tail down. Jis'
es soon es he seed the warter onder 'im, quick es a cat
agin, he sot in tu climbin the tail, overhandid; but hit
warn't eny use, George, fur they bof went outen site,
jis' bustin the river plum open. The las' part gwine
onder wer one ove Burns's hans a-huntin roun' fur
more tail tu climb. I never seed sich waves in the

Oconee afore ur since, an' the bluff wer wet tu the top,
an' draps ove warter wer fallin off the cedars on hits
brow.

Thinks I, great Jemimy! will they never cum up?
Arter a long time, up popp'd the ole man, already a-headin
fur this shore, an' away yander, the bull ris
ho'ns fus, an' he aim'd fur tuther bank. They bof
crawl'd out, lay down in the san' an' eyed each uther
acrost the ruver. If iether ove em ho'nd up a mossel
ove dirt, I dident see em du hit; but jis' took hit out
in restin, watchin each uther, an' 'vengeful tho'ts.
That man an' that bull wer mortul inemys fur life.

His sons foun' ole Burns, an' haul'd 'im home ontu a
sled, kivered wif straw an' a bed-quilt. Mills's bull
sought hissef aunther suckit, an' becum es morril es a
draft-steer. Ole Sock becum more depraved, an' run
wile in the mountins, an' I is jis' about es I wer, the
durndes' fool in the mess.

I jis' hearn frum ole Burns yesterday. He am powerful
bad off; made his will, a-cuttin off old Sock wif
a shillin, leavin Sicily an' me his maladickshuns, (what
am they eny how?) an' fifty dullurs in trus' in ole Bullen's
hans fur the cumpasmint ove my death. To ole
Clapshaw, he's lef fifteen feet ove new hemp rope, an'
tu his wife, an' ole Missis Clapshaw, a dullar tu buy
asnick.

Then thinkin the bissines ove this world dun, he jis'
went plum crazy—crazy es a bed-bug in July; talks

nuffin but nonsince; sez the house is upside down;
hears bees a humin ove nights, an' sees hole droves
ove bulls a-fitein all day; an' that I is a-standin atop
ove the bureau, wif a baskit ove bees, a flingin hanfuls
at his hed every time he looks tuther way—jis' turn'd
dam fool, that's all.

All the old quilts ove wimen, an' the old soggy men
roun thar' visits 'im. The wimen fans 'im, fixes the
bed close, an' biles yarbs fur 'im; an' the men iles his
bruses, an' poltusis his body. Ole Missis Burns is
mad as a ho'net bout that asnick claws in his will, an'
won't cum a-nigh him; sez she hes plenty ove swellins
ove her own tu swage, an' haint time tu waste on no
durn'd old ongrateful murderin fool. An' strange tu
tell, George, she sticks tu me; sez I am the bes' ove
the lot; sez, too, that I haint one half es durn'd a fool
es ole Burns, an' ten times more ove a Cristshun than
Clapshaw. Wonder ef hit kin be possabil that 'oman
is right? One thing am sartin, she am my frien'.

Well, the vardick ove the neighborhood wer, that I
wer the cause ove all the hole thing. Greater injestice
wer never dun; fur all that I did in the worild, wer
jist tu help ole Sock git a few grains ove shatter'd co'n,
by liftin the baskit over his ho'ns; an' when I did hit,
the fuss warn't begun a tall. Arter'ards, I did nuffin
but stan clar ove danger, an' watch things happen.
When they tuck the vote on hu wer the cause, every
durn'd one ove em voted “Sut,” 'scept Sicily an' her

mam. Sicily voted “bull an' bees;” her mam voted
“Clapshaw.”

Well, they all got tugether, headed by Burns's two
big fox-huntin sons, an' tuck my case in han'. The fust
thing I know'd, they wer ontu my trail, hosses, houns,
ho'ns, muskits, shot-guns, cur dorgs, an' all. Now my
superfine runnin begun.

Arter a long time, I seed frum a high pint that one
ove the houns, down the mountin below me, wer a
great way ahead ove everything else, an' wud soon
cum up wif the slack ove my britches, so I waited fur
'im; when he bulged fur my throat, I reached fur hisn,
flung 'im down, slit a hole in each year, an' run his
hine laigs thro 'em over the hock, gin 'im sum cumfortin
advice wif a keen hickory, an' laid 'im down ontu
my trail—he did look powerful sorry fur what he had
dun—an' then I went tu travelin agin. When the ballunce
ove the dorgs cum up, (human like,) they all
pitched into the poor helpless devil, an' when the two-laiged
dorgs cum up, he wer a-pas' prayin fur, at leas'
ha'f a mile. I beat em so bad, my trail got too cold tu
foller. That's what I calls runnin. I feels, tho', George,
like my time mos' cum. Fifty dullars am a heap ove
money, an' the mos' ove the wimen am agin me; that's
the danjerus part ove hit.

I'se a goner I 'speck, an' I jis don't keer a durn. I'm
no count, no how. Jis' look at me! Did yu ever see
sich a sampil ove a human afore? I feels like I'd be

glad tu be dead, only I'se feard ove the dyin. I don't
keer fur herearter, fur hits onpossibil fur me tu hev ara
soul. Who ever seed a soul in jis' sich a rack heap
ove bones an' rags es this? I's nuffin but sum newfangil'd
sort ove beas', a sorter cross atween a crazy
ole monkey an' a durn'd wore-out hominy-mill. I is
one ove dad's explites at makin cussed fool invenshuns,
an' cum afore my time. I blames him fur all
ove hit, allers a-tryin tu be king fool. He hes a heap
tu count fur, George—a heap.