Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
MRS. YARDLEY'S QUILTING. |
 | MRS. YARDLEY'S QUILTING. Sut Lovingood |  |
MRS. YARDLEY'S QUILTING.
“Thar's one durn'd nasty muddy job, an' I is jis'
glad enuf tu take a ho'n ur two, on the straingth ove
hit.”
“What have you been doing, Sut?”
“Helpin tu salt ole Mliss Yardley down.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Fixin her fur rotten cumfurtably, kiverin her up
wif sile, tu keep the buzzards frum cheatin the wurms.”
“Oh, you have been helping to bury a woman.”
“That's hit, by golly! Now why the devil can't I
'splain mysef like yu? I ladles out my words at randum,
like a calf kickin at yaller-jackids; yu jis' rolls
em out tu the pint, like a feller a-layin bricks—every
one fits. How is it that bricks fits so clost enyhow?
Rocks won't ni du hit.”
“Becaze they'se all ove a size,” ventured a man with
a wen over his eye.
“The devil yu say, hon'ey-head! haint reapin-mersheens
ove a size? I'd like tu see two ove em fit clost.
Yu wait ontil yu sprouts tuther ho'n, afore yu venters
Missis Yardley?”
“No.”
“Well, she wer a curious 'oman in her way, an' she
wore shiney specks. Now jis' listen: Whenever yu
see a ole 'oman ahine a par ove shiney specks, yu keep
yer eye skinn'd; they am dang'rus in the extreme.
Thar is jis' no knowin what they ken du. I hed one
a-stradil ove me onst, fur kissin her gal. She went
fur my har, an' she went fur my skin, ontil I tho't she
ment tu kill me, an' wud a-dun hit, ef my hollerin
hadent fotch ole Dave Jordan, a bacheler, tu my aid.
He, like a durn'd fool, cotch her by the laig, an' drug
her back'ards ofen me. She jis' kivered him, an' I run,
by golly! The nex time I seed him he wer bald
headed, an' his face looked like he'd been a-fitin wildcats.
“Ole Missis Yardley wer a great noticer ove littil
things, that nobody else ever seed. She'd say right in
the middil ove sumbody's serious talk: `Law sakes!
thar goes that yaller slut ove a hen, a-flingin straws over
her shoulder; she's arter settin now, an' haint laid but
seven aigs. I'll disapint her, see ef I don't; I'll put a
punkin in her ne's, an' a feather in her nose. An' bless
my soul! jis' look at that cow wif the wilted ho'n,
a-flingin up dirt an' a-smellin the place whar hit cum
frum, wif the rale ginuine still-wurim twis' in her tail,
too; what upon the face ove the yeath kin she be arter
jis' look at that ole sow; she's a-gwine in a fas' trot, wif
her empty bag a-floppin agin her sides. Thar, she hes
stop't, an's a-listenin! massy on us! what a long yearnis
grunt she gin; hit cum frum way back ove her kidneys.
Thar she goes agin; she's arter no good, sich kerryin
on means no good.'
“An' so she wud gabble, no odds who wer a-listenin.
She looked like she mout been made at fust 'bout four
foot long, an' the common thickness ove wimen when
they's at tharsefs, an' then had her har tied tu a stump,
a par ove steers hitched to her heels, an' then straiched
out a-mos' two foot more—mos' ove the straichin
cumin outen her laigs an' naik. Her stockins, a-hangin
on the clothes-line tu dry, looked like a par ove sabre
scabbards, an' her naik looked like a dry beef shank
smoked, an' mout been ni ontu es tough. I never felt
hit mysef, I didn't, I jis' jedges by looks. Her darter
Sal wer bilt at fust 'bout the laingth ove her mam, but
wer never straiched eny by a par ove steers, an' she
wer fat enuf tu kill; she wer taller lyin down than she
wer a-standin up. Hit wer her who gin me the `hump
shoulder.' Jis' look at me; haint I'se got a tech ove the
dromedary back thar bad? haint I humpy? Well,
a-stoopin tu kiss that squatty lard-stan ove a gal is
what dun hit tu me. She wer the fairest-lookin gal I
ever seed. She allers wore thick woolin stockins 'bout
six inches too long fur her laig; they rolled down over
I tell yu she wer a tarin gal enyhow. Luved kissin,
wrastlin, an' biled cabbige, an' hated tite clothes, hot
weather, an' suckit-riders. B'leved strong in married
folk's ways, cradles, an' the remishun ove sins, an'
didn't b'leve in corsets, fleas, peaners, nur the fashun
plates.”
“What caused the death of Mrs. Yardley, Sut?”
“Nuffin, only her heart stop't beatin 'bout losin a
nine dimunt quilt. True, she got a skeer'd hoss tu run
over her, but she'd a-got over that ef a quilt hadn't been
mix'd up in the catastrophy. Yu see quilts wer wun
ove her speshul gifts; she run strong on the bed-kiver
question. Irish chain, star ove Texas, sun-flower, nine
dimunt, saw teeth, checker board, an' shell quilts;
blue, an' white, an' yaller an' black coverlids, an' callickercumfurts
reigned triumphan' 'bout her hous'. They
wer packed in drawers, layin in shelfs full, wer hung
four dubbil on lines in the lof, packed in chists, piled
on cheers, an' wer everywhar, even ontu the beds, an'
wer changed every bed-makin. She told everybody she
cud git tu listen tu hit that she ment tu give every
durn'd one ove them tu Sal when she got married.
Oh, lordy! what es fat a gal es Sal Yardley cud ever
du wif half ove em, an' sleepin wif a husbun at that, is
more nor I ever cud see through. Jis' think ove her
onder twenty layer ove quilts in July, an' yu in thar
too. Gewhillikins! George, look how I is sweatin' now,
steam biler wif a three hundred pound bag ove lard, es
tu make a bisiness ove sleepin wif that gal—'twould
kill a glass-blower.
“Well, tu cum tu the serious part ove this conversashun,
that is how the old quilt-mersheen an' coverlidloom
cum tu stop operashuns on this yeath. She hed
narrated hit thru the neighborhood that nex Saterday
she'd gin a quiltin—three quilts an' one cumfurt tu tie.
`Goblers, fiddils, gals, an' whisky,' wer the words she
sent tu the men-folk, an' more tetchin ur wakenin
words never drap't ofen an 'oman's tongue. She sed
tu the gals, `Sweet toddy, huggin, dancin, an' huggers
in 'bundunce.' Them words struck the gals rite in
the pit ove the stumick, an' spread a ticklin sensashun
bof ways, ontil they scratched thar heads wif one han,
an' thar heels wif tuther.
“Everybody, he an' she, what wer baptized b'levers
in the righteousnes ove quiltins wer thar, an' hit jis' so
happen'd that everybody in them parts, frum fifteen
summers tu fifty winters, wer unannamus b'levers.
Strange, warn't hit? Hit wer the bigges' quiltin ever
Missis Yardley hilt, an' she hed hilt hundreds; everybody
wer thar, 'scept the constibil an' suckit-rider, two
dam easily-spared pussons; the numbers ni ontu even
too; jis' a few more boys nur gals; that made hit more
exhitin, fur hit gin the gals a chance tu kick an' suqeal
a littil, wifout runnin eny risk ove not gittin kissed at
amung the he's. Now es kissin an' fitin am the pepper
an' salt ove all soshul getherins, so hit wer more espishully
wif this ove ours. Es I swung my eyes over the
crowd, George, I thought quiltins, managed in a morril
an' sensibil way, truly am good things—good fur free
drinkin, good fur free eatin, good fur free huggin, good
fur free dancin, good fur free fitin, an' goodest ove all
fur poperlatin a country fas'.
“Thar am a fur-seein wisdum in quiltins, ef they hes
proper trimmins: `vittils, fiddils, an' sperrits in 'bundunce.'
One holesum quiltin am wuf three old pray'r-meetins
on the poperlashun pint, purtickerly ef hits
hilt in the dark ove the moon, an' runs intu the night
a few hours, an' April ur May am the time chosen.
The moon don't suit quiltins whar everybody is well
acquainted an' already fur along in courtin. She dus
help pow'ful tu begin a courtin match onder, but when
hit draws ni ontu a head, nobody wants a moon but the
ole mammys.
“The mornin cum, still, saft, sunshiney; cocks
crowin, hens singin, birds chirpin, tuckeys gobblin—jis'
the day tu sun quilts, kick, kiss, squeal, an' make
love.
“All the plow-lines an' clothes-lines wer straiched tu
every post an' tree. Quilts purvailed. Durn my gizzard
ef two acres roun that ar house warn't jis' one solid
quilt, all out a-sunnin, an' tu be seed. They dazzled
an' perdominated.
“To'ards sundown the he's begun tu drap in. Yearnis'
needil-drivin cummenced tu lose groun; threads
broke ofen, thimbils got los', an' quilts needed anuther
roll. Gigglin, winkin, whisperin, smoofin ove har, an'
gals a-ticklin one anuther, wer a-gainin every inch ove
groun what the needils los'. Did yu ever notis,
George, at all soshul getherins, when the he's begin tu
gather, that the young she's begin tu tickil one anuther
an' the ole maids swell thar tails, roach up thar backs,
an' sharpen thar nails ontu the bed-posts an' door jams,
an' spit an' groan sorter like cats a-courtin? Dus hit
mean rale rath, ur is hit a dare tu the he's, sorter
kivered up wif the outside signs ove danger? I honestly
b'leve that the young shes' ticklin means, `Cum
an' take this job ofen our hans.' But that swellin
I jis' don't onderstan; dus yu? Hit looks skeery,
an' I never tetch one ove em when they am in the
swellin way. I may be mistaken'd 'bout the ticklin
bisiness too; hit may be dun like a feller chaws poplar
bark when he haint got eny terbacker, a-sorter better
nur nun make-shif. I dus know one thing tu a certainty:
that is, when the he's take hold the ticklin
quits, an' ef yu gits one ove the ole maids out tu hersef,
then she subsides an' is the smoofes, sleekes, saft thing
yu ever seed, an' dam ef yu can't hear her purr, jis' es
plain!
“But then, George, gals an' ole maids haint the
things tu fool time away on. Hits widders, by golly,
what am the rale sensibil, steady-goin, never-skeerin,
never-kickin, willin, sperrited, smoof pacers. They
cum clost up tu the hoss-block, standin still wif thar
purty silky years playin, an' the naik-veins a-throbbin,
an' waits fur the word, which ove course yu gives, arter
yu finds yer feet well in the stirrup, an' away they
moves like a cradil on cushioned rockers, ur a spring
buggy runnin in damp san'. A tetch ove the bridil,
an' they knows yu wants em tu turn, an' they dus hit
es willin es ef the idear wer thar own. I be dod rabbited
ef a man can't 'propriate happiness by the skinful
ef he is in contack wif sumbody's widder, an' is smart.
Gin me a willin widder, the yeath over: what they
don't know, haint worth larnin. They hes all been tu
Jamakey an' larnt how sugar's made, an' knows how tu
sweeten wif hit; an' by golly, they is always ready tu
use hit. All yu hes tu du is tu find the spoon, an' then
drink cumfort till yer blind. Nex tu good sperrits an'
my laigs, I likes a twenty-five year ole widder, wif roun
ankils, an' bright eyes, honestly an' squarly lookin intu
yurn, an' sayin es plainly es a partrige sez `Bob White,'
`Don't be afraid ove me; I hes been thar; yu know
hit ef yu hes eny sense, an' thar's no use in eny humbug,
ole feller—cum ahead!'
“Ef yu onderstans widder nater, they ken save yu a
power ove troubil, onsartinty, an' time, an' ef yu is interprisin
soun ove thar littil shoe-heels speak full trainin, an' hes
a knowin click as they tap the floor; an' the rustil ove
thar dress sez, `I dar yu tu ax me.'
“When yu hes made up yer mind tu court one, jis'
go at hit like hit wer a job ove rail-maulin. Ware yer
workin close, use yer common, every-day moshuns an'
words, an' abuv all, fling away yer cinamint ile vial an'
burn all yer love songs. No use in tryin tu fool em,
fur they sees plum thru yu, a durn'd sight plainer
than they dus thru thar veils. No use in a pasted
shut; she's been thar. No use in borrowin a cavortin
fat hoss; she's been thar. No use in har-dye; she's
been thar. No use in cloves, tu kill whisky breff; she's
been thar. No use in buyin clost curtains fur yer bed,
fur she has been thar. Widders am a speshul means,
George, fur ripenin green men, killin off weak ones,
an makin 'ternally happy the soun ones.
“Well, es I sed afore, I flew the track an' got ontu
the widders. The fellers begun tu ride up an' walk up,
sorter slow, like they warn't in a hurry, the durn'd
'saitful raskils, hitchin thar critters tu enything they
cud find. One red-comb'd, long-spurr'd, dominecker
feller, frum town, in a red an' white grid-iron jackid
an' patent leather gaiters, hitched his hoss, a wild,
skeery, wall-eyed devil, inside the yard palins, tu a
cherry tree lim'. Thinks I, that hoss hes a skeer
intu him big enuf tu run intu town, an' perhaps
thinkin.
“One aind ove a long clothes-line, wif nine dimunt
quilts ontu hit, wer tied tu the same cherry tree that
the hoss wer. I tuck my knife and socked hit thru
every quilt, 'bout the middil, an' jis' below the rope, an'
tied them thar wif bark, so they cudent slip. Then I
went tu the back aind, an' ontied hit frum the pos',
knottin in a hoe-handil, by the middil, tu keep the
quilts frum slippin off ef my bark strings failed, an'
laid hit on the groun. Then I went tu the tuther aind:
thar wer 'bout ten foot tu spar, a-lyin on the groun arter
tyin tu the tree. I tuck hit atwix Wall-eye's hine
laigs, an' tied hit fas' tu bof stirrups, an' then cut the
cherry tree lim' betwix his bridil an' the tree, almos'
off. Now, mine yu thar wer two ur three uther ropes
full ove quilts atween me an' the hous', so I wer purty
well hid frum thar. I jis' tore off a palin frum the
fence, an' tuck hit in bof hans, an' arter raisin hit 'way
up yander, I fotch hit down, es hard es I cud, flatsided
to'ards the groun, an' hit acksidentally happen'd tu hit
Wall-eye, 'bout nine inches ahead ove the root ove his
tail. Hit landed so hard that hit made my hans tingle,
an' then busted intu splinters. The first thing I did,
wer tu feel ove mysef, on the same spot whar hit hed
hit the hoss. I cudent help duin hit tu save my life,
an' I swar I felt sum ove Wall-eye's sensashun, jis' es
plain. The fust thing he did, wer tu tare down the
Thinks I, now yu hev dun hit, yu durn'd wall-eyed
fool! tarin down that lim' wer the beginin ove all the
troubil, an' the hoss did hit hissef; my conshuns felt
clar es a mountin spring, an' I wer in a frame ove mine
tu obsarve things es they happen'd, an' they soon begun
tu happen purty clost arter one anuther rite then,
an' thar, an' tharabouts, clean ontu town, thru hit, an'
still wer a-happenin, in the woods beyant thar ni ontu
eleven mile frum ole man Yardley's gate, an' four beyant
town.
“The fust line ove quilts he tried tu jump, but broke
hit down; the nex one he ran onder; the rope cotch
ontu the ho'n ove the saddil, broke at bof ainds, an'
went along wif the hoss, the cherry tree lim' an' the
fust line ove quilts, what I hed proverdensally tied fas'
tu the rope. That's what I calls foresight. George.
Right furnint the frunt door he cum in contack wif ole
Missis Yardley hersef, an' anuther ole 'oman; they wer
a-holdin a nine dimunt quilt spread out, a-'zaminin hit,
an' a-praisin hits purfeckshuns. The durn'd onmanerly,
wall-eyed fool run plum over Missis Yardley,
frum ahine, stompt one hine foot through the quilt,
takin hit along, a-kickin ontil he made hits corners snap
like a whip. The gals screamed, the men hollered wo!
an' the ole 'oman wer toted intu the hous' limber es a
wet string, an' every word she sed wer, `Oh, my preshus
nine dimunt quilt!'
“Wall-eye busted thru the palins, an' Dominicker
sed 'im, made a mortal rush fur his bitts, wer too late
fur them, but in good time fur the strings ove flyin
quilts, got tangled amung em, an' the gridiron jackid
patren wer los' tu my sight amung star an' Irish chain
quilts; he went frum that quiltin at the rate ove thuty
miles tu the hour. Nuffin lef on the lot ove the hole
consarn, but a nine biler hat, a par ove gloves, an'
the jack ove hearts.
“What a onmanerly, suddin way ove leavin places
sum folks hev got, enyhow.
“Thinks I, well, that fool hoss, tarin down that
cherry tree lim', hes dun sum good, enyhow; hit hes
put the ole 'oman outen the way fur the balance ove
the quiltin, an' tuck Dominicker outen the way an'
outen danger, fur that gridiron jackid wud a-bred a
scab on his nose afore midnite; hit wer morrily boun
tu du hit.
“Two months arterwards, I tracked the route that
hoss tuck in his kalamatus skeer, by quilt rags, tufts
ove cotton, bunches ove har, (human an' hoss,) an'
scraps ove a gridiron jackid stickin ontu the bushes,
an' plum at the aind ove hit, whar all signs gin out, I
foun a piece ove watch chain an' a hosses head. The
places what know'd Dominicker, know'd 'im no more.
“Well, arter they'd tuck the ole 'oman up stairs an'
camfired her tu sleep, things begun tu work agin. The
widders broke the ice, an' arter a littil gigilin, goblin,
a widder sed that. Pop!—`Oh, don't!' Pfip!—`Oh,
yu quit!' Plosh!—`Go way yu awkerd critter, yu
kissed me in the eye!' anuther widder sed that. Bop!
`Now yu ar satisfied, I recon, big mouf!' Vip!—`That
haint fair!' Spat!—`Oh, lordy! May, cum pull Bill
away; he's a-tanglin my har.' Thut!—`I jis' d-a-r-e
yu tu du that agin!' a widder sed that, too. Hit
sounded all 'roun that room like poppin co'n in a hot
skillet, an' wer pow'ful sujestif.
“Hit kep on ontil I be durn'd ef my bristils didn't
begin tu rise, an' sumthin like a cold buckshot wud
run down the marrow in my back-bone 'bout every ten
secons, an' then run up agin, tolerabil hot. I kep a
swallerin wif nuthin tu swaller, an' my face felt swell'd;
an' yet I wer fear'd tu make a bulge. Thinks I, I'll
ketch one out tu hersef torreckly, an' then I guess we'll
rastil. Purty soon Sal Yardley started fur the smoke'ous,
so I jis' gin my head I few short shakes, let down
one ove my wings a-trailin, an' sirkiled roun her wif a
side twis' in my naik, steppin sidewise, an' a-fetchin up
my hinmos' foot wif a sorter jerkin slide at every step.
Sez I, `Too coo-took a-too.' She onderstood hit, an
stopt, sorter spreadin her shoulders. An' jis' es I hed
pouch'd out my mouf, an' wer a-reachin forrid wif hit,
fur the article hitsef, sunthin interfared wif me, hit did.
George, wer yu ever ontu yer hans an' knees, an' let a
hell-tarin big, mad ram, wif a ten-yard run, but yu
back-bone?”
“No, you fool; why do you ask?”
“Kaze I wanted tu know ef yu cud hev a realizin'
noshun ove my shock. Hits scarcely worth while tu
try tu make yu onderstan the case by words only, onless
yu hev been tetched in that way. Gr-eat golly!
the fust thing I felt, I tuck hit tu be a back-ackshun
yeathquake; an' the fust thing I seed wer my chaw'r
terbacker a-flyin over Sal's head like a skeer'd bat.
My mouf wer pouch'd out, ready fur the article hitsef,
yu know, an' hit went outen the roun hole like the
wad outen a pop-gun—thug! an' the fust thing I
know'd, I wer a flyin over Sal's head too, an' a-gainin
on the chaw'r terbacker fast. I wer straitened out
strait, toes hinemos', middil finger-nails foremos', an'
the fust thing I hearn wer, `Yu dam Shanghi!' Great
Jerus-a-lam! I lit ontu my all fours jis' in time tu but
the yard gate ofen hits hinges, an' skeer loose sum more
hosses—kep on in a four-footed gallop, clean acrost the
lane afore I cud straiten up, an' yere I cotch up wif my
chaw'r terbacker, stickin flat agin a fence-rail. I hed
got so good a start that I thot hit a pity tu spile hit, so
I jis' jump'd the fence an' tuck thru the orchurd. I tell
yu I dusted these yere close, fur I tho't hit wer arter
me.
“Arter runnin a spell, I ventered tu feel roun back
thar, fur sum signs ove what hed happened tu me.
vamp an' sole ove one ove ole man Yardley's big
brogans, what he hed los' amung my coat-tails. Dre'ful!
dre'ful! Arter I got hit away frum thar, my
flesh went fas' asleep, frum abuv my kidneys tu my
knees; about now, fur the fust time, the idear struck
me, what hit wer that hed interfar'd wif me, an' los' me
the kiss. Hit wer ole Yardley hed kicked me. I
walked fur a month like I wer straddlin a thorn hedge.
Sich a shock, at sich a time, an' on sich a place—jis'
think ove hit! hit am tremenjus, haint hit? The place
feels num, right now.”
“Well, Sut, how did the quilting come out?”
“How the hell du yu 'speck me tu know? I warn't
thar eny more.”
| MRS. YARDLEY'S QUILTING. Sut Lovingood | |