University of Virginia Library

THE SNAKE-BIT IRISHMAN.[1]

“What have you got there, Sut?”

“Nuffin but a rattil-tail snake; he's got livin rattils.
I kill'd him a-cumin tu camp on the spur thar. He
made me mind what happened tu a durn'd tater-eatin
Irishman las' fall in these yere mountins, an' I wanted
tu tell hit tu yu. So I fotch him along, tu keep me
frum forgittin hit. Now ef I wer that ar durn'd Paddy,
yu mout jis' bet that hoss ove yur'n, I wudent hev tu
tote a snake tu keep that ar scrape in mind. He's in
Irishdum now ef he kep his oath, whar thar's no
snakes, an' yet I'll swar he dreams ove em an' prays
agin em ove nights, an's watchin fur em an' a-cussin ove
em ove days, an' will keep up that habit till the devil
sends a supener fur him, even ef the ole feller waits
seventy-five years fust.

“If yu cud see that shovel-totin, pipe-smokin, raskil's

gizzard, yu'd fine the picter ove a big snake branded
intu hit es deep es we brands muels.

“Sum three ur four clever fellers frum Knoxville
fix'd tharselves up fur a camp hunt ove a cupple ove
weeks out yere, an' they met up wif me, an' pinted out
two kaigs tied across a muel's back, an' told me tu
smell at the bunghole. I follered em wifout ara halter.
We camp't jist tuther side that high pint yu see yander,
an wer gittin on fust rate, killin lots ove deer an'
sich like, when wun nite here cum that cussed Irishman,
wif a bundil ontu the aind ove a stick, an' jis'
tuck up boardin wif us, never so much es even lookin
tu see ef he wer welcum. He et, an' drunk, an' slep't
thar, es cumfortabil es ef he own'd this country, an' wer
the sassyest, meddelsumest, mos' imperdint son ove a
diggin-mersheen I ever seed, allers 'sceptin a young
suckit rider, ur a duck-laig'd Jew. Sez Jedge Alexander
tu me:

“`Sut, ef yu'll manage tu run that raskil off frum
yere I'll gin ye a par ove boots.'

“Sez I, jumpin tu my feet, `I'll du hit, durn'd ef I
don't! jis' wait till nite.'

“`Now,' sez the kind-hearted Jedge, Sut, yu mustn't
hurt the poor feller, mine that; but I want him
skared away frum this camp.'

“Sez I, `All the hurtin he'll git will cum frum skeer.
I won't hurt him, but I specks the skeer may du hit;
my sperience (an' hits sum on the nater an' workin ove

skeers) is, Jedge, that the hurtin cumin outen a big
ripe skeer, jis' can't be beat on top ove this yeath, enyhow.
Hoss-whips, yaller jackits, an' fire, haint nowhar.
Yu wants him skeer'd clean away frum this
camp. Now s'pose I happens tu put in a leetle too
much powder, an' skeer him plum outen the United
States—what then?'

“Sed he, larfin, `I won't indite yu; jis' go ahead,
Sut.'

“I fix'd things.

“Well, nite cum, an' arter we hed lay down, Irish
stole hissef anuther suck outen the barlm ove life kaig,
an' cum an' jis' rooted his way in atween me an' Jim,
an' fix'd hissef fur a big sleep, went at hit imejuntly,
an' sot up a systim ove the infunelest snorin yu ever
hearn; hit wer the dolefulest, skeeriest soun ever blown
outen a human nose. The cussed allfired ole poshole
digger snored in Irish!

“Now I hed cut off ni ontu about nine foot ove gut,
frum the offal ove a big buck what wer kill'd that day,
an' I tied the ainds wif twine, tu keep in the truck what
wer intu hit, an' sunk hit in the krick, so es tu hev hit
good cold. I ris up rite keerful, put on the Jedge's
spurs, got me a long black-thorn, an' greazed hit wif
hog's fat outen the skillet. I fotch the gut up frum the
krick, an' wer ready tu begin the sponsibil work I hed
on han. The tater-eater hed a hole inter the sittin
down part ove his britches, an' his shut tail hed cum

outen hit tu git sum fresh ar. I tied wun aind ove that
orful gut tite an' fas' tu the ole coarse shut-tail, an'
quiled up the gut nice an' snake-like, clost tu him es
he lay. I lay'd down agin, an' reached down my han
wif the black-thorn in hit till I got in stickin distunce
ove his starn. I felt fur a saft place, an' jis' socked in
the thorn about a inch, four ur five times, 'bout es fas'
es a ho'net ken sting when he hesn't much time tu
spar, an' a big job ove stingin tu du sumwhar else.
Every time I socked in that thorn, I raked him up an'
down the shins wif them Mexican spurs. I hearn them
rattilin ontu his shin-bones like buckshot in a bottil,
an' I wer a-hollerin—yu cud hearn me a mile—`snake!
snake! big snake! oh, lordy! oh, lordee! a big copper-headed
black rattil-snake is crawlin up my britches, up
bof laigs, an' is a-tyin hissef intu a double bow-knot
roun my body. Help! Lordee, oh!'

“The rest on 'em hed the hint, an' all wer shoutin
`Snake! snake! big snake!' es I did. Now hits not
onreasonabil tu tell that this hurtin an' noise woke
Paddy purty eshenshully all over, an' all et onst tu.

“He slaped down his hans each side ove hissef tu
help 'im tu rise, an' laid one ove 'em flat ontu the nice
cold quile ove gut. He went ofen that pallet an' outen
that camp jis' like a sparrer-hawk starts tu fly frum the
soun ove a shot-gun, an' he lit twenty foot out in the
dark, a-straitnin out that gut ontil the string on the hinmos'
aind snapped like ontu a 'cussion cap. Es he

went, his words wer—`Howly mither ove Jayzus!' an'
he sot inter runnin in a sirkil ove about fifty yards
thru the brush, roun an' aroun the camp, a-makin meny
surjestshuns, an prayers, an' uther dierbolical souns.
`Shute the long divil! Shute all ove yees, but don't
aim et his head! Och Shint Patherick! oh, Howly
Vargin! Can't nun ove yees ketch 'im? Stop him!
Och howly wather! how swate he's a-bitin! I tell yees
he's got me by me bottum, an' he's a-mendin his hoult!
Praist, praist, pope, praist! Howly wather! praist,
och, och! Fitch me a cross—a big cross! bring me
me bades, me bades! The divil's own son is a-aitin in
strait fur me kednays.'

“In one ove his sarkits, he run thru the embers ove
the camp-fire, an' the string at the aind ove the gut hed
kotch, an' wer a-burnin like a slow match. Paddy hed
ventered tu peep over his shoulder, an' seed hit a-bobbin
about arter him; he got a bran new idear onder
his har. `Och! Howly Jayzus! he'll ait now as he
plazes; he's a-totin a lite tu see how tu bite by.'

“The very thought ove hit made him ni ontu dubbil
his speed. He tore thru that brush thicket like a bull
wif honey-bees arter him, an' made more nise than a
hoss a-doin the same work at the same speed, an' onder a
like skeer. I wer up ontu a stump, a-hollerin `Snake!
snake! snake!' es regular es a steamboat snorts, an' in
a orful voice, like I hed a Jew's-harp in my froat.

“Arter he'd run ni ontu a mile in that sirkil, an' hed

broke a good sweat, an' when his back wer to'ards the
camp, I bellered out:

“`Fling away yer spade; hit makes agin yu.'

“I wish I may be dodrabbited of he didn't go thru
the moshuns ove flingin a spade back'ards over his
head. He thought he hed his spade, sure es yu ar
born'd. See what a skeer kin du in mixin up the
idears ove a critter what sorter leans to'ards bein a dam
fool, enyhow. Then I hollered, `Go in a strait line an'
out-run yer snake, yu infunelly durn'd fool!' That
idear happened tu go strait tu his brains afore hit tangled,
an' Pat tuck me at my word, an' wer outen site
in the shake ove a lamb's tail. In about a half minit,
way over ontu the nex ridge, I hearn `Howly Jay'—
an' hit wer so far off I cudent hear the aind ove the
word.

“Nex day he wer makin a bee line thru town, to'ards
the East, in a stiff, short, dorg-trot, an' lookin like he'd
been thru a smut-mersheen. A feller hail'd 'im:

“`Hollo, Pat, which way!'

“He looked slowly roun wifout stoppin, wif a hang-dorg
sorter face, an' a-feelin a-hine him wif one han,
he growl'd out a word fur every step he tuck—

“`Strate tu swate Ireland, wher ther's no snakes.'

“An dam ef I don't b'leve he kep his word. I got
two par ove boots, an' ole tangle-foot whisky enuf tu
fill 'em.”