Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
SUT AT A NEGRO NIGHT-MEETING. |
 | SUT AT A NEGRO NIGHT-MEETING. Sut Lovingood |  |
SUT AT A NEGRO NIGHT-MEETING.
“Quit yer kerd playin an' ritin, an' listen tu me;
I'se swell'd up wif a tale, an' I'll bust rite yere in this
camp ef I don't git hit outen me. I 'sisted wunst at a
nigger meetin at Log Chapil camp-groun, tu more pupus
an' wif more pint than folks ginerly 'sists on sich
cashuns.”
“You assisted? When?”
“Yas, yu may whistil, but durn ef I didn't. Aint
the word rite? Ef a feller stands up when anuther's
a-gittin tied tu an 'oman, don't the noospapers say he
'sisted? Ef a wun-hoss preacher sits intu the pulpit
while a two-hoss one preaches, don't they print hit that
he 'sisted? An' if a big-bug's wife's dorg wer tu hold a
cow's tail in his teef while she milk'd, they'd say he
'sisted. Well, ef'sistance is what the noospapers makes
hit out tu be, I 'sisted sum, durn'd ef I didn't!
“Well, wun Sat'd'y nite, all the he, an' mos' ove the
she niggers fur ten miles roun, started tu hold a big
meetin. They cum a-foot, on hoss's, on muels, on oxes,
on bulls, on sleds, in carts, waggins an' buggys. The
in flush times, an' yu cud a-smelt hit a mile, afore I
begun tu 'sist, an' fifteen mile arter I 'sisted. An' the
nise—well, when I larns tu spell an' pernounce the
flavor ove a ded hoss, play the shape ove a yeathen
war-jug ontu a fiddil, ur paint the swifness ove these
yere laigs ontu a clap-board, then I'll 'scribe the nise
ove that meetin, purticulerly arter I 'sisted awhile.
`Sumthin mus be lef tu the 'maginashun,' ole Bullen
sed, when he wer givin in his lizzerd 'sperience, an'
hit am es true es sayin yas, when a man axes yu ur
me ef we want a ho'n ove skin-gut when hits rainin,
an' sich kerryins on hesn't been seed since ole Tam
Shadrick wer a-seein the witches a-dansin thru the
ole chu'ch winders what yu narrated tuther nite. I
b'leves intu witches, ghostez, an' all long-nebbed things
myself, an' so dus mos' folks, but they's tu cowardly tu
say so.
“I wer in the setilment runnin a daily line, wif no
failures, atween Wheeler's hill-hous' an' Kidd's grocery,
leavin a mail at ole Missis Cruze's wif the gals,
an' a-shufflin roun' ginerally twixt trips ove a nite. I
hearn hit narrated that the meetin wer a-goin tu be
so I sot in an' fix'd mysef fur hit, so es tu be abil tu
'sist 'em sum.
“I purvided about a dozen ho'nets' nestes, big soun'
wuns, an' stopped em up full ove disapinted, bewild'red
'vengeful, savidge, oncircumsized ball ho'nets, sharpnin
holes tu be open'd, tu spread pizin an' sweet hurtin an'
swellin onder the skin ove everybody. They own'd tu
no non-cumbitants outside them ar nestes.
“Then I got Doctur Stone, hu wer fond uv seein fun,
tu fill a big passel ove beef-bladders wifsum kind ove a'r
ur gas—he call'd hit ox-gin, ur stter-gin, ur sum kind
ove cattil drink, an' I hes furgot plum hits cristen
name.
“Perhaps it was carbureted hydrogen.”
“Durn my ole galluses, an' buttuns tu, ef that warn't
adzackly hit. Hu tole yu? say George? Did yu
smell hit?”
“Oh, often.”
“Well, by golly, that counts fur that shriveled up
nose ove yourn, an' yer cussed ill temper. George, I
furgives yu fur every cussin yu's ever sprinkled ontu
me. No man shu'd be hilt sponsibil fur his acts arter
a sniff at that ar devil's own parfume; hit am the super
latif ove the yeath; yu kin see, feel, an' taste hit six
weeks arter hit hes et up yure power ove smellin altugether.
I hilt a bladder uv hit tu a bull's nose, tu see
ef he wer a jedge ove perfumery. He jis' histed his
tail, like tu hev snorted his brains out at wun snort, an
jis' kill'd hissef a-runnin, a-pawin at his snout wif his
fore-laigs like he wer a-tryin tu scrape off a bull
tarrier. Twer the bes thing he cud do, wer tu die jis'
then.
“I fix't my 'sortment ove stink skins onder the long
seat ove the pulpit in the chu'ch, wif slip nots ontu the
necks, so that pullin wun string ontied all ove em, an'
let down a big slab tu squeese em flat. I planted my
ball ho'nets colonys onder the bainches amung the
straw onder the big shed what jined the chu'ch, an
wun peculuer an' chosen nestes I laid away onder the
exhortin box, ur shed pulpit. All on em hed strings
so I cud open em at wunst frum the thickets, when
I thort hit time tu take sich a sponsabil step. They
hed hawl'd straw untill hit cum up ni ontu levil wif
he tops ove the bainches, tu git happy in, an' du thar
huggin an' wallerin on; hit hid the inemy what I hed
ambush'd thar fus'rate, an' arterwards wer put tu a
different use than gittin happy on, I'll swar tu that
fac'.
“Well, nite cum, an' fotch wif hit the mos pufick
'sortment ove niggers yu ever seed outen Orleans ur
Tophett, a big pine torch-lite at ni ontu every uther
tree roun the shed, an' taller candils intu the chu'ch
hous whar they cumenc'd thar wurk; but I'm sistimatikally
durn'd if they finished hit thar; not by a sirkil
ove five mile.
“A pimpil-face, greasy-collar'd, limber-mouf'd suckit
rider drap't ofen a fat hoss, an' sot in tu sorter startin
the nigger brethrin in the rite track. He warn't fur
frum bein a nat'ral born durn'd fool hissef, fur I seed
him peep onder the seat es he sot down in the pulpit,
out frum onder the slab a littil. He licked his lips,
then smak't em, an' wink'd a oily sort ove wink at a
Baptis' nigger preacher, what sot by him, an' he show'd
all ove his teef arter he'd tuck a peep, an' swaller'd like
he wer gittin down a ho'n. They wer bof on em showin
thar instinks: the suckit rider tuck hit tu be the
breast ove a fat roas hen, an' the Baptis' thot hit wer
the bulge ove a jug. Shapes, George, can't be 'pended
upon, taste am the thing.
“Well, the pot-gutted, ball-heded Baptis' bull nigger,
what wer fool'd on the jug question, sot his specks
an' tuck a tex; hit wer:
“Yu shall smell sweet-smellin yarbs, an' eat honey vittils
dar, fur thars no stink, nur bitter, whar you's gwine, in
Caneyan.
“He wer jis' in the middil ove the sweet-smellin
yarb part, a-citin ove poseys, sinamint draps, fried bacon,
an' the scent ove the cupboard, as good yeathly
smells, a-gittin hot, an' a-breakin a holesum sweat,
when a ole she shouted—
“`Oh, bress hebin! I smell him now.'
“As she smack't her han's, I pull'd the string. The
stinkabus begun tu roll an' rise, an' spread. Oh my
lordy! lordy! Pimple-face wall'd up his eyes, coff'd
blow'd his nose in his hankecher, an' sorter looked behine
the preacher, like he 'spected tu see a buzzard, or
an' onbelever, or sich like, atween him an' the wall.
“The nigger stop't as short as ef he'd been shot, rite
in the middil ove the wurd `Caneyan,' histed the pint
ove his snout up atween his eyes, turn'd his upper lip
inside out, throw'd his head back, an' scented slowly
all roun. I hes seed ole steers du hit adzackly the same
way. He shook his hed till his years slapt like a hog's
when he's a-gittin mad, an' his specks lit in the straw;
then he scented roun' agin.
“By this time bout two hundred miserlanus niggers
wer a-sayin Hu-uu thru thar snouts, wif thar moufs
shot; 'bout half es meny a-coffin, a few sickly wuns
tryin not tu vomit, an' wun skaley heel'd he wer a-stuffin
two corn-cob pints intu his nose, an' a saft wool hat
intu his mouf. Sum ten ur fifteen said `Oh, lor a
massy! what dat?' Wun ole feller wif meal on his
wool, 'lowed sum fat brudder dun bust hissef, an' am
leakin out the cabbage. Better 'tire tu de woods, git
sow' up, an' den stay dar.' One ventered `pole-cat;'
anuther, `twenty pole-cat;' `an' a dorg a-stirrin em,'
added anuther; `ded hoss,' sed a big he, wif a hoarse
cold; `spild crout,' squeak't a she; `buzzard's nes';
frum a back bainch; `rotten aigs an' a heap on em,
grunted a ole mammy wif a belly like a dinner-pot, an'
a wool mitten in her mouf; `wus nur dat, by golly,'
snorted a dandy nigger, a-holdin his snout; 'burnt
leder,' frum a fool gal; `burnt brimstone,' frum a boy;
`maggoty soap grease,' guess'd two or three; `all dem
tings mix an' a-bilin, dat's hit,' said a knowin-lookin
ole she, a-pullin her aprun over her hed. `Redy, heah,
mum?' answered her darter. `Meetin dun busted,'
said one; `hope I neber smell nuder bust,' said anuther.
`Less git outen heah,' said ten, while swarms ove
em wer aready at hit.
“The passun nigger now holler'd, `Sea heah, brudren
an' sistren; sum fool niggah cum trou de back ob
de gardin, an' sile he foot, on he way heah; let 'im make
hesef scase, an' take he shoe wid 'im, fur he 'noxshus
tu dis chosen congregashun, he am.' `Sh-u-u-u-tree
hunder git sile in dat gardin on bof foot, shuah yu
born,' added a chicken stealin yung he, wif feathers
then in his wool.
“Here the passun's feelins overcum him, an' he cummenced
a-yerkin like he'd swaller'd a hame string, an'
the knot hed stuck in his froat.
“`Preachin frum that fool tex what done hit,' growl'd
a ole daddy wif wun toof, as he hobbled apas the passon
a-rubbin his sleeve onder his nose like he wer
sawin wood, an' a snortin like a hoss atween every rub.
“`Missus kill me shuah yu lib, ef I totes dis stink
home wid me. Hu got eny sinamint draps?' said a
trim-lookin cook.
“`Sum ob de sistren am dun faint, holler'd a bow-laiged,
bladder-lipped he, a-rushin thru the crowd wif a
gourd ove warter.
“`Bress de Lord, dey'se rite tu faint, dey no smell
him now,' said a knowin ole darky.
“`This am more disagreabil than whisky an' inyuns'
said Pimple-face, tu me.
“`Yas, perticulerly the inyuns,' sez I.
“He looked at me like he wer sorry fur me, an' wud
es leve pray fur me es not, an' went an' dipt his hed in
the branch.
“By this time the chu'ch wer empty, 'sceptin the
stink, an' hit wer everywhar, oozin thru the shingles
like smoke. The candils burnt dim like thar wer a
fog in the hous', an' hit wer onhelthy tu preach in till
fros', an' thar aint a nigger in that settilment what kin
tell the smell ove a scent bottil frum a barril ove rotten
fish tu this day. They'd be pow'ful good stock tu
wurk in a soap factory. Don't yu speck they wud?
The soggy an' muddy heded wuns hilt a pow-wow, an'
narrated hit that in spite `ob de ole sarpint de debil an'
he stink in he hous,' they ment tu tote on the meetin
tu a shoutin aind, onder the shed. So they shot up
the door an' winder shutters ove the chu'ch, an' as the
wind hed sorter ris, the outside smells warn't much
wus nor yu ginerally smell et pork-killin houses, ur
camp meetins. This wur the wust 'clusion ever a mess
ove niggers did cum tu, since ole Shadwick's darkys ondertuck
tu make white folks outen tharsefs by paintin
thar cackuses wif onslack't lime. Ole Shadwick gethered
enuff wool tu pay thar doctur's bills.
“Well, they blow'd a ho'n, an' `Pimple face' tuck
the crank ove the `make happy cum' mersheen, es all
culler'd bruther. The sistren mos on em got ni ontu the
pulpit, whar the straw wer deepest wif sich ove the he's
es hed a appertite tu help du the huggin an' wallerin.
`Pimpil-face,' blow'd his nose, flung his hanketcher
across the pulpit, an' sed `hit wer all fur the bes' that
they wer druv frum the hous'; grace allers spread hitsef
better an' smoofer, outen doors then hit did in the
hous'. Tu git happy good, yu mus, hev elbow-room
an' straw; these cundishuns wer fill'd, an' he'd be disapinted
ef that wurn't a warm activ meetin.' Thinks
I, wif me to `'sist,' ef hit aint all yu's sed, an' more tu,
I'se no jedge ove the nater ove ball ho'nets, an' the
power ove stimiluses.
“He sed, arter he'd dun preachin, he ment tu pass
roun' a small hat, tu git sum means tu buy flannin petticoats
wif, fur the freezin sistren in Africa. Ef ever
he `pass'd a hat' hit warn't at Log Chappil, 'sceptin
what loose wuns he pass'd a runnin outen thar; I' sisted
in spilin wun coleckshun, I'm durn'd ef I didn't.
“He tuck a tex: Thar shall be weepin an' railin an'
chompin ove teef, bad, an' then wif no teef, shall smash thar
gums tugether like ontu wolf traps. Sez I tu mysef,
that's hit, that is hit, dorg on me ef yu haint draw'd the
rite kerd this pop, fur I know'd I wer 'sistin' ove him.
“He sot in in yeanest, ontied his choke-string, then
shucked his coat, nex his jackid. He play'd pow'ful
bad, didn't he? fur me tu hole the 'sisten han', fur
hit didn't. About the time he drapt his jackid, an' wer
a-tryin tu jump outen his trowsis wifout onbuttunin em,
the niggers wer a-mixin, he an' she, hollerin an' beginin
tu hug, an' rar, an' waller, rite peart, an' nat'ral like,
the dus, an' the same ole stink, wif the sweat variashun
a-risin agin. Wun ole she fotch her fat han's a slap
like killin flies, an' she squall'd `gloree,' an' her mouf
look't like the muzzil ove a boot, wif red linin.
“Thinks I, jis' now is es good a time es eny; the patrollers
mite cum in an' spile hit wif thar durn'd foolishness;
so I jis' draw'd the strings keerfully. The fust
fruit ove that ac', what I notised, wer ontu Pimple-face
hissef. I seed him fotch hissef a lick a-side the hed
what stagger'd him, then he hit hissef wif bof han's
ontu the place whar they brands Freemasons an' mustangs,
an' he shot his belly forwards an' his shoulders
back'ards, like ontu a 'oman shettin the nex' tu the
top drawer ove a beauro; an' he cum outen that pulpit
back'ards a-tarin, his hans a-flyin roun his hed like a
par ove windin blades. I thort he hed eitey fingers an
twenty thumbs. He embraced a bruther, back-holts,
what wer a-tryin tu roll off the hurtin in the straw, an'
they jis' kick'd an' roll'd on in cahoote.
“Thar wer lots ove niggers, mix'd heads an' tails in
that orful straw-pile—heds, laigs, arms, feet, ainds ove
bainches, bunches ove straw an' strings ove dartin ho'nets
a-showin tharsefs a-top fur a moment; then sum
cords ove black cats a-fitin, wif tupentine a
soakin in roun the roots ove all thar tails.
“Sich nises—screechin like painters, cryin, hollerin,
a few a-cussin, an' more a-jinin em, beggin, prayin,
groanin, gruntin, nickerin, an' wun or two fool wuns
singin. Ho'nets don't keer a durn fur music, when
they's a-fitin, while abuv em a-flyin in the ar, jis' like
they weighed nuthin, wer a desirabil 'sortmint ove
hyme books, fans, hanketchers, hats, caps, umerellers,
walkin-sticks, biskits, chicken-laigs, strings ove beads,
Gouber peas, year-rings, ginger-cakes, collars, garters,
babies, terbacker-pipes, ridicules, littil baskits, popco'n,
scent bottils, ribbons, hollyhawk bokays, pint ticklers,
bits ove straw, an' wun shiff—how she got outen hit
wifout takin off her frock, I be durn'd ef I ken tell; but
thar hit wer a-sailin roun wif a deck-load ove ho'nets
ontu hit what wer the resarve I reckon. All this wer
set off tu advantige by dus', an' millions ove insex, jis'
a-hoverin over the sufferers an' then divin down fur a
sting.
“Now, while this wer gwine on onder the shed, niggers
wer a-shootin intu the woods in all direckshuns,
like ontu arrers shot frum orful bows, an' every durn'd
nigger hed a brigade ove insex roun his hed, tellin him
tu hurry an' makin him du hit too, fur they went crashin
outen site intu the brush like canyun shots.
“Now, I thinks the ho'nets hed boun tharsefs wif a
every livin thing they met, frum the way they
actid. Fur them what follered the niggers intu the
woods foun' the hosses, muels, an' oxes, tied out thar,
an' part ove em fastened ontu the beastes, an' they immejuntly
sot in tu imitatin the niggers in actin dam fool;
they jis' broke loose, rar'd, kick'd, fell down, roll'd
over, run away, bawl'd, beller'd, nicker'd, screem'd,
an' bray'd, till they farly shuck the leaves ontu the
trees.
“Wun yoke ove steers wif a big sled cum tarin heds
down, an' tails strait up, rite thru the shed, an' I think
they mus hev swep' out ni ontu thuty niggers, big an'
littil, an' a few bainches, intu the woods wif em, a-stickin
ontu thar ho'ns, ontu the yoke, on thar backs, an' on
the stakes ove the sled. Yere cum a big gray hoss,
like a streak, draggin a buggy ontu hits side wif the
top up. His eyes wer red, an' his years laid back; he
scoop'd up his buggy plum full, an' jis' kep on. I obsarved
Pimpil-face tangled up in the runnin gear, an'
true tu the suckit rider's instink, he wer climbin powful
fur a inside seat. He run a-pas' a postes what hed
a ole tin pan atop ove hit full ove rich pine knots a
burnin: he scoop'd that in amung his cargo ove niggers
tu warm em on thar thorny way, an' then he jis'
run by the lite ove hit. Thar went a big grizly muel,
wif a side saddil way back ontu his rump, an' half a
peach tree fas' tu his bridil; he gobbled up two ur
the trubbil.
“Wun long laiged nigger busted outen the bunch what
wer down in the straw, hollerin `whoosh! Oh goramity!
hit hurts till he feel sorter good,' an' tuck a rush
skull fus' agin a weatherboarded camp, busted thru hit
like hit wer a aig shell, an' out at tuther side thru a
winder, a-totin the sash wif him roun his neck like a
collar, an' his wool full ove plank splinters, broken
glass, an' tangled ball ho'nets. I likes that nigger: he's
the only feller I ever seed what tuck in the rale pure
Lovingood idear ove what orter be dun onder strong
hurtin an' a big skeer. Jis run over ur thru everthing
yure durndest, till yu gits cumfort, that's hit.
“A hames-laiged spur-heel'd wun tuck up a white
oak, sayin `whoosh!' outen his nose every yerk he
made, an' findin no pease ove mine up thar, tuck down
agin hed fus', squirrel fashion, an' run onder the chu'ch
ontu his all fours, sum ho'nets makin the same trip on
the same skedule.
“Wun big she run her hed onder a lean gal's coat-tail
tu save her years, but a few activ ball ho'nets what
wer a scoutin in her rar, made her git up blinefol' wif
the gal 'stradil her neck, her long black snake laigs
stickin strait out ahead, an' she a-holdin on tu the fat
wun's wool thru the dress wif wun han, an' a fitin ho'nets
wif a hat in tuther, her hed throw'd back, an' a yowlin
like a scalded houn. `Fatty' run her derndest, not seein
branch, an' like tu drownded bof ove em, an' sum ho'nets
too.
“Wun slim buck nigger shot rat-like intu a littil jug
closet, onder the pulpit, swell'd up in thar ontil they
hed tu tar up the floor nex day tu git him out. He tuck
in wif him about forty ho'nets, an' they helpt him tu
be cumfortabil in thar; I knows they did frum thar
nater an' what he sed in his hole.
“Jis' bout this time I foun' out how that gal got
outen her shiff, fur I seed sumthin dispersin hitssef intu
the woods, an' frum the glimpse I got hit look'd sorter
like a black munkey shaved wif white hine laigs;
hit wer that tormented gal in white stockins. The
thing wer pufeckly plain, she hed jis' run outen her
dress an' shiff at the same time. That's what cums
ove bein a plum natral born'd durn fool; yu'd hev onderstood
how she got outen hit, without eny studyin at all.
“Now I'se only narrated the main pints, an' hits
tuck me a good spell. But in three minits an' a 'alf
arter I finish'd my 'sistin ove em by pullin them ar
strings, hit wer all over, scept the swellin, hurtin, an'
gittin home. Thar warn't even a dorg lef on that camp-groun',
an' yu cud hear nuffin but the humin ove the
huntin ho'nets, an' the distunt nise ove scatterin niggers,
ur uther beastez still gwine furder frum that place
ove torment, an' general discumfort.
“People wer huntin thar niggers thru the county fur
em, they'd fatten'd so. Dreadful! warn't hit? Thar
haint been a nigger nite meetin hilt in the county since,
an' they's mos' on em becum pius, an' morril.
“Jis' pullin a string wer my hole sheer in all that
ar cumbustifikashun, hurtin, an' trubbil; yet as usual
every body sez I'se tu blame fur the hole ove hit. Yu
know that every time a ho'net shoots a nigger, hit makes
a white spot that's the center ove the imejut hurtin, an'
ove corse mos' ove em looked like ontu secon' mournin
calliker, an' the durn'd fool white folks roun' thar, thot
hit wer the small pox, an' that I hed gin hit tu the niggers,
so they sot in tu huntin fur me, wif shot guns an'
dorgs, but du yu see these yere laigs? they toted me out
enthar safe an' soun.
“I can't git jestis nowhar, fur nuthin I du. I'l, turn
buzzard, an' eat ded hosses fur a livin; I b'leve theyse
not blam'd fur enything much, only thar stink, an' as I
hes got that aready es good es the olest buzzard ontu
the roos', that makes no differ.”
“Well, Sut,” said I, “I think I understand fully now
what `assisting' at a meetin means.”
Sut eyed me for a moment suspiciously, and said
dryly—
“I speck yu dus.”
| SUT AT A NEGRO NIGHT-MEETING. Sut Lovingood | |