Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
TAURUS IN LYNCHBURG MARKET. |
 | TAURUS IN LYNCHBURG MARKET. Sut Lovingood |  |
TAURUS IN LYNCHBURG MARKET.
Human nater, human nater!
“Mammy fried a pan full,
Sop an' tater, sop an' tater.”
“Stop that noise Sut, I can't sleep.”
“Nize? Well, I be durn'd! Calls superfine singin
ove a hart-breakin luv song, what's purtier by a gallun
an' a 'alf, than that cussed fool thing yu wer a-readin, jis
arter supper 'bout the youf what toted a flag up a mountin
by hissef ove a nite, wif `Exelcider' writ ontu hit,
nize! Why, I speck yu'd call the singin ove the
cherrybeans, howlin. Yu be durn'd.”
“That was no love song, you jackass, that you were
bawling just now.”
“The devil hit warn't! I hedn't got tu the luv
part. Eatin allers goes jis' afore luv. 'Less a feller
hes his belly stretched wif vittils, he can't luv tu much
pupus, that's so. Vittils, whisky, an' the spring ove
the year, is what makes luv; an' yu jis' bring em all tu
bar tugether, an' yu'll see luv tu sum pupus, I'm
gal sot on steel springs wif injun rubber heels, an
cinamint ile smell tu help yu?”
“No; shut up!”
“Oh, yas, hit am onplesant tu yu, es the ole maid
sed when a gal kiss'd her; hits sorter like smellin ole
Burbon thru a jail winder—aint jist the thing.
“Now yu's a cussin at my luv song, I wants tu say a
word about that `Excelcider' youf ove your'n, what
sum Longfeller writ. I say, an' I'll swar tu hit, that
eny feller, I don't keer hu the devil he is, what starts
up a mountin, kiver'd wif snow an' ise, arter sundown,
wif nuffin but a flag, an' no whisky, arter a purty gal
hed offer'd her bussum fur a pillar, in a rume wif a big
hath, kiver'd wif hot coals, an' vittils, [here Sut rose
to his tip-toes, and elevated his clenched fists high
above his head,] am a dod durn'd, complikated, full-blooded,
plum nat'ral born durn'd fool; he warn't
smart enuf tu fine his mouf wifout a leadin string; he
orter froze es stiff es a crow-bar, an' then been thaw'd
out by the devil; dod durn him! An' there's Lum
Jack yu tole about, darin the litenin.”
“Ajax, I suppose you mean.”
“Yas, ove cours; didn't I say so? An' he wer a
jack, ove the longes' year'd kine, fus', because eny fool
mout know the litenin wudn't mine him no more nur a
locomotum wud mine a tumble-bug. An' then, spose
hit hed met him dar, why durn me ef thar'd been a
wif.
“Now I sets him down es wun ove the fore-daddys
ove the Lovingoods, sure. Our famerly am an' ole
wun. Dad used tu trace hit back tu Joseph in Yegipt,
an' he sed hit wer pufeckly useless tu hunt furder fur
better fool blood. I'se furgot what that feller's name
wer, hu's wife got his coat! Hits no odds, he wer no
count, nohow. I sorter sumtimes thinks he mout been
the fust ove the unicks—poor 'oman!
“Singin that song 'bout the bline bull, minds me
ove what happen'd tu me at Lynchburg, in ole Firginny.
Hits a town chock full ove clever fellers, an' jis' es few
nat'ral born durn'd fools as ever yu seed in any town.
A ole Dutchman bilt hit, an' sot hit up on hits aidge
tu dry. The Injuns chased him clean away, an' the
town stans on hits aidge tu this day. Sumtimes the
boys gits ontu a `tare' ove nites, an' tries tu upset hit
ontu hits side, but haint never got hit turn'd down
yet.
“A drovyer tuck sum hogs thar wunst frum Tennessee,
an' I foller'd his dorg the hole way. When I
got thar, I wer mon'sous shy an' keerful, fur thar aint
much good groun bout thar tu run on, ef a feller happen'd
tu take a runnin skeer.
“Wun mornin I wer standin ni ontu the top ove the
hill, lookin roun stonish'd till I wer benum'd all over
at the sites. I seed, rite in the middil ove the street, a
wer jis' a-tasselin; they warn't es fur on es roasin-ear
time nohow, an' they foun hit too small at that; an'
hit sorter look't like wimen hed lived thar, an' the boys
hed stove in the sides an' ainds wif rocks, jis' leavin
the corners tu hole up the ruff. I larnt frum a nigger,
that hit wer a market hous, whar they sells oncook'd
vittils ove every kine, frum a rabbit tu a cow's laig, an
gardin truck tu kill. Hit wer plum full.
“I wer wonderin my levil bes', keepin a skin'd eye
an' a open year fur trubbil ur a skeer, when I hearn a
tarin big fuss on tuther side, squawkin, cussin, hollerin,
an' a gineral soun ove things a-smashin, an' seed people
a-mixin tharsefs pow'ful, sorter like bees a-fixin tu
swarm. Thinks I, Look out Sut, hit am cumin; hits
mos' time; yu haint hed a skeer fur ni ontu three days
—when yere cum roun the corner ove the market house,
jis' a-tarin, a thuteen hunder' poun' black an' white
bull, wif his tail es strait up in the air es a telegraf
pole, an' a chesnut fence rail tied acrost his ho'ns wif
hickory withs. He wer a-totin his hed low, an' every
lick he made at eny pusson ur thing, he'd blow whoff,
outen his snout. He wer a citizen ove Amherst County,
an' ove the Devonshear persuashun, an' mout a-hed
good standin at home fur all I knows, but he wer actin
like a durn'd blackgard in Lynchburg, an' I b'leves he
wer one.
“I'se sorter fear'd tu try tu tell yu, George, the devilment
He wer a-killin, smashin, ur spilin everything he toch
wif ho'ns, huffs, ur fence rail. He look'd like he wer
mad—'sulted an' plum crazy, an' gittin wus fas'. He'd
say whoff! an' a hunder' an' sixty poun' nigger wud
fly up in the air like ontu a grasshopper, an' cum back
spread like a frog. Whoff! an' a fat she nigger wud
dart hanketcher aind fus' thru sumbody's glass winder.
Whoff! agin, an' a boy wud turn ten sumersets
towards the river. Whoff! an' a Amherst 'oman lit
a-straddil ove a ole fat feller's neck, wif a jolt what
jumped his terbacker outen his mouf an' serunched
him, while she went on down hill on all fours in a fox
trot. Whoff! an' a set ove hoops, an' a par ove black
stockins wif white garters, lit atop ove a kiver'd waggin
an' slid down feet fus' on tuther side.
“A littil bal'-heded man, dress'd in gole specks an'
a gole-heded walkin stick, wer a-passin, an' duin nuffin
tu nobody; he look'd like he wer a-cyferin out a
sum in the Qbrute, in his hed. Whoff! an' the specks
lit on the ruff ove the market hous', an' the stick, gole
aind fus', sot in a milk can sixty foot off. As tu ball
head hissef, I los' site ove 'im while the specks wer in
the air; he jis' disappear'd frum mortul vishun sumhow,
sorter like breff frum a lookin-glass. I wunders ef he
lef a widder. Smack! an' the sides ove a milk can
cum tugether, an' a squt ove milk shot up, an' trickl'd
often the house eaves. Crash! an' a baskit went way up
Anuther baskit wud start up, an' torreckly we'd hev a
thunder shower ove cherrys; the bull furnish'd the
thunder, plenty ove hit.
“The air wer full ove things; stockins wif laigs in
em, showin tu mos' 'vantage; hats wif heds in em
wer cumin down like they wer hir'd tu ram the pavemint
that way. Truck ove all kind wer flyin ur lyin
about jis durn'd permiscusly. The street wer white wif
milk an' aigshells; hit wer red wif cherrys; hit wer
black wif blackberrys, an' hit wer green wif gardin
truck. Cherrys roll'd down hill in the cracks atween
the stones, in litil rivers ove milk. The dead chickens
lay whar they fell, an' the live ones lit on the ruffs.
Oh! gemeny Jerusalem! I never seed sich a mixtry
ove oncook'd vittils in all my born'd days! Blowin
up a powder-hous', while a harycane am ragin, mixes
things mon'sous' well I reckon, but I gins my vote tu
that Amherst bull.
“I wer a-standin ni ontu what I tuck tu be the upper
aind ove the steepil ove a chu'ch, what they hed
buried onder groun', not likin the perswashun ur the
passun, an' hed lef the pint ove the steepil stickin out,
fur a grave stone, an' a warnin tu the uther chu'ches
how tu kery tharsefs; but on 'zaminin hit clost, I foun'
hit wer a lam'-postez, made outen iron, whar they
burns sum greasy kine ove air, tu lite fellers home
what stay out late ove nites. They'se mity good things,
when he's layin off the wum ove a fence, onder a deck-load
ove tangle-laig whisky. I obsarved also that
they'se jis' the thing tu freeze fas' ontu when the watchman's
got yu, an' yu don't want tu go, an' yu'll say,
afore I'se dun, they can't be beat at stoppin bulls frum
actin durn'd fool. Lam'-postez tharfore am good
things, when they keeps outen your way. A cushion
roun em about es hi es a comon man's nose frum the
groun', an' a cock what wud run sweetened whisky,
wud make em a public invenshun.
“Well, that ar insashate bull, in flyin roun, got his
sturn clos tu me, an' I, like a durn'd fool as I is, tuck
sides in the fite agin the critter; I reached up fur the
tassil on his tail, an' run twist roun the lam'-postez wif
hit, my fingers fas' wove intu the har, bonnit plat fashun,
sot my foots agin the iron, an' tuck a leanin pull.
A feller, a-lookin outen a small crack ove a door, gin
me a cumfortin word. Sez he: `That's a good holt,
laigs; ef raw-hide don't tar, yu've got im till the devil
freezes.'
“Sez I, `Hes these postez got deep roots?'
“`Seventeen foot, sez he.'
“`Then,' sez I, `this yere bull's tail will dry wif two
kinks in hit; what's beef wuf?'
“The bull sed whoff! an' sot in tu pull his tail outen
his sturn by the root; but hit wer well sot, an' he
didn't du hit. He swung hissef frum side tu side, an'
ove tarin out his tail. At las' he beller'd, an' I
obsarv'd that the lam'-postez an' my footses warn't es
clean as a dinner plate. Thinks I, that's a sign ove
givin in, an' I hearn my frien' holler, `Two tu one on
laigs.'
“My han's begun tu cramp orful, an' I felt my big
skeer a cumin on. I look'd roun', an' thar warn't a
soul in site but my frien', an' I know'd I cudent count
on him only fur kind words, by the way he hilt the door.
Everybody gone glimerin, even the huxters, an' Amherst
wimen.
“Thar I wer, froze tu a savidge bull's tail, no frien's,
an' hed begun hit mysef. My skeer wer now ripe,
redy tu bust, an' knowin but wun thing fit tu du in
sich cases, I look'd which way I'd run. I hearn the
durn'd raskil what hed been my frien' say, `Ha! ha!
two tu one on the bull!' That las' remark broke my
hart. I made up my mine tu go home tu the tavrin,
on the river, as hit wer down hill, an' I know'd `Owens'
wer my frien'.
“The bull wer showin white mix'd wif bloody veins
all roun his eyes, while the midil wer green as a bottil.
I hed mistaken'd the givin-in signs; he wer madder nor
ever. I watched fur him tu wink his eyes, an' while he
wer duin hit I hearn the cussed cole-harted devil a-hine
the door now offer four tu one on the bull. He wink'd
at las', an' while his eyes wer shot, I let go the bes' holt
the cramp, skeer, an' that feller's bettin agin me, I'd
been thar yet, a monument ove enjurance, parsavarance,
an' dam fool, still holdin a dry bull's hide by the tail.
“As I let go, I sot these yere laigs a-gwine onder
three hunder' pound preshure ove pure skeer. Long
es they is, they went apast each uther as fas' as the
spokes ove two spinnin wheels a runnin contrary ways.
That hell-cat ahine the door parsecuted me tu the
las', fur he now cum out an' farly yell'd: `Ten tu
one on the bull, an' iseters fur the wun what takes the
bet.'
“I look'd roun, an' seed one aind ove the fence rail
wif the yaller ove aigs on hit, an' a lettuce leaf stickin
on a splinter, jist one good jump ahine that part ove
me what wud git all the kickin if ole Burns ever cotch
me. Well, all I kin say is, I didn't go any slower fur
that orful glimpse. I cud hear fust one aind an' then
tuther ove that dry chesnut fence rail strike the rocks,
as he wud try tu hist me with a whoff! every lunge.
Owens, the lanlord, wer a-gwine up on the pavement,
an' know'd me. Clever tu the las', even ef I wer onder
par, he holler'd—
“`Number ten, Sut, the key's in the door; ha! ha!'
“Them wer cumfortin words, an' I put on a scrimshun
more steam, 'bout all I had. I never 'spected tu
see number ten agin.
“A feller wif a face like a dry sheep-skin, what hed
winder: `Go hit, dubbil laigs! he's lost his rail.'
“Now this wer kine ove him, but hit warn't any use.
I wer at the top ove my speed aready, an' at las' hit
proved tu be a durn'd lie.
“When I got tu whar a warter rail-road fur boats,
an' ducks, runs onder the street, I begun tu try tu bar
tu the lef, so as tu hit the tavrin door, but I wer a
gwine so fas', I cudn't sheer a bit, but struck the flatform
about the midil, cross'd hit like a shot, busted
thru the railin an' a bainch, carryin away bout six foot
ove each, an' a sleepin nigger. Down, down—kerlunge,
twenty-five foot intu the river. I lit a-swimin,
fur I spected every moment tu hev tail, rail, an' ho'ns,
wif thuteen hundr' poun's ove bull meat, atop ove me.
I swum out tu a rock pile, an' hearn him lumberin thru
the bridge like he weighed four tons. I seed him run
outen tuther aind, rail an' all, an' his tail es strait up in
the air as hit wer when he wer histin aig-baskits an'
wimin, scept hit hed two kinks in hit, put thar by the
lam'-postez. He disappeared amung the Amherst hills,
a smarter bull by a durn'd site, ef 'sperience am wuth
a durn. I'll bet he often counts the valuer ove a tail
in fly-time, agin the bother ove one in fitin, an' envys
stump-tail bulls 'cordinly. That's the las' muss I hes
tuck sides in, whar I din't keer a cuss which whipp'd
an' I hed tu du a marster fool thing while hit wer
gwine on.”
“What do you allude to, Sut?”
“Why, instead ove freezin tu that bull's tail, what
didn't pay, I orter saved them gole specks, an' stick
ut what wud pay.
“They telegrafed tu Stantun fur a committee ove
doctors, tu 'zamine me fur the honors ove the lunatic
asslum. When they got thar, they foun' nuffin tu
'zamine, but the karacter I hed lef fur bein a nat'ral
born durn'd fool, an' a crack'd whisky flask. They
wer sittin on hit, when I hearn frum em las', an' hed
sent fur the bull tu take his testimony. I bet he
don't cum, by thunder!”
| TAURUS IN LYNCHBURG MARKET. Sut Lovingood | |