Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
SUT LOVINGOOD'S SERMON.
TOUCHING YE CAT-FISHE TAVERN. |
 | SUT LOVINGOOD'S SERMON.
TOUCHING YE CAT-FISHE TAVERN. Sut Lovingood |  |
SUT LOVINGOOD'S SERMON.
TOUCHING YE CAT-FISHE TAVERN.
I say, George, every critter what hes ever seed me, ef
they hes sence enuff tu hide frum a cummin kalamity,
ur run frum a muskit, jis' knows five great facks in my
case es well es they knows the road tu thar moufs.
Fustly, that I haint got nara a soul, nuffin but a whisky
proof gizzard, sorter like the wust half ove a ole par
ove saddil bags. Seconly, that I'se too durn'd a fool tu
cum even onder millertary lor. Thudly, that I hes the
longes' par ove laigs ever hung tu eny cackus, 'sceptin
only ove a grandaddy spider, an' kin beat him a usen
ove em jis' es bad es a skeer'd dorg kin beat a crippled
mud turkil. Foufly, that I kin chamber more cork-screw,
kill-devil whisky, an' stay on aind, than enything
'sceptin only a broad bottum'd chun. Fivety, an'
las'ly, kin git intu more durn'd misfortnit skeery scrapes,
than enybody, an' then run outen them faster, by golly,
nor enybody.
“Well now, ef these five pow'ful strong pints ove
karactar don't gin me the right tu preach ef I wants tu
frum. I means tu wade intu the bisiness es deep
es wun sermon, on the free will plan enyhow, leavin
out the singin an' totin roun the hat. Listen tu me,
fur I'se in yearnis 'bout this thing. Ef yu hes a par
ove burnin-glass specks, an' hit am a clar day, yu may
fine my texis jis' inside, ur jis' outside, (I'se furgot
which,) ove Longfeller's injun tale, an' hit reads 'bout
so:
“Stop not tu res' whar thar am a sign, fur thar aint
res' onder hits shadder. Neither eat wif a lan'lord fur
he's yer foe. But gird up yer coteail, an' marvil furder,
leas' yu lose yer soul a-cussin, an' hev yer paunch et intu
a partridge net wif pisen. Keep the dus' ove the dining
room ofen yer foot, an' the smell ove the bed-room ofen yer
close, that yer days may be longer in the lan' what yer
daddy's tuck frum the Injuns.'
“Feller suffrers, he an' she: The shakin an' jumblin
ove this yere war ove ourn, hes fotch up tu the top ove
the groun a new kine ove pisonus reptile, which fur
durty ways, an' short turns, kin jis' beat the bes' cross
atwix' a buzzard an' a wolf yu ever seed, es soon es he
bores his way outen the yeath what hatch'd im, an'
whar he orter be yet. He gits him a long house, prints
ontu the frunt ove hit sum ketchin name, tu tote in the
hongry an' onwary, an' the dam fools ginerally, calls
hissef the `Perpryiter,' an' yu mustn't call 'im enything
else, fur ef yu dus, yu'd better gird up yer coteails an
strong swing, a pow'ful long swing, an' a pow'ful
quick swing. He is now perpar'd tu starve, 'sult, swindil,
be-dirty, be-devil, an' turn inside out the puss,
pockid an' stumick ove every misfortnit hungry tired
devil, what am wayfarin on fun, bisness, ur frum a
skeer. He an' she, ole an' young citerzen, ur soger,
he sucks em all out es dry es a spider dus a hoss-fly,
an' turns em out tu thar wayfarin agin, while he looks
'zaminly arter em wif his fis' full ove thar shinplasters,
then he wipes his horny bill ontu the door jam like
ontu a hen arter she hes swaller'd a toad, an' waits fur
the nex' hoss-fly. Oh! keep the dus' ove his dinin-room
ofen yer foot, an' the smell ove his bed-room
ofen yer close, that yer days may be longer in the lan'
what yer daddy's tuck frum the Injuns.
“The Perpryiter's suckshun am strong: he cud
suck a anvil, (if hit wer gold,) down his froat, frum
wun aind ove Cumberland tunnil tu tuther, an' thar's
no lor ove anybody's make, nur the squire's make, nur
the ginerals' make, what kin weakin that suckshun a
mossel, ur make a mark ontu his shell; lor jis' rolls
ofen his back like draps ove warter ofen a duck or mallard,
an' suffrin rolls ofen his casiron conshuns still a
littil faster. I seed a thread-bar, faded, cryin sojer's
widder, wif a skiliton dogratipe ove hits graveless father
in her arms, a-tuggin at a dry bladder, what hed
onst been a 'oman's breast, a-reachin pow'ful arter his
pinted wif a lancit. Hit wer in few words, but every
one ove em wer red, sparklin hot frum a burnin heart.
`Fur the sake of this fatherless infant, don't turn me
away! Here's the last dollar ove the last eleven my
husband lived to draw; yu are most welcome to it.
Give me but a cold mouthful, we are starving, and
oh! look, sir, the rain has turned to sleet. Her blue
lips quiver'd, an' the rain draps ofen her bunnit, an'
the tear draps outen her modes' hopeless eyes, splashed
tugether ofen the littil dogratipe's cheek, hot an' cold
tugether, an' hit hedn't life enuf lef tu skringe. He
looked down at her es cold es the no'th side ove Lookout
Mountin in January, an' tole her wifout payin a
full bill in advance, she couldn't stay; an' he read a
rule ofen the wall, `pussons travelin wifout eny baggage,
mus' pay thar bills in advance. Now my yearers,
yu know I haint got nara a soul, an' dam ef the
`Perpryiter' aint in the same boat.
“Hint tu him that yer bill's bigger nor yer dinner,
an' he'll smile like he luved yu, an' tell yu that he's jis'
ruinatin hissef an' his famerly clean out, es fur es his
wife's cuzzin's dorg, (an' a durn'd inturestin famerly hit
ginerly is too dorg in,) by chargin yu es low es he hes.
My 'sperience amung this sort ove taverins an' grub
factorys hes been orful—tremenjusly orful. I knows,
bein a plum natral born durn'd fool makes agin me
everywhar; but ef thar's wun place wus tu me fur
whar murd'rs, 'dult'rs, hook-nose Jews, suckit-riders,
tavrin folk, an' sich like cattil go tu arter they's swep
frum the face ove yeath by death's broom, tu cumfort
tharsefs drinkin bilin tar, an' eatin red-hot casiron
sassengers. Hit is durn'd infunel single slay'd, pewter
spoon, fly-blown, one hoss, half stock'd, single trigger,
smoof bore tavrins, an' railroad feed troffs. They's
shorten'd my days, they's lainthen'd my nights, they's
poperlated the hole territory ove my cackus, clear'd
lan' an' wood lan', wif all breeds ove dredful insex,
they's gutted my pockid, they's disturb'd my dreams,
they's 'stonish'd my stumck, they's skeer'd my appertite,
they'se spilt my smellin tools, they's deafen'd my
years, they's 'sulted my eyes, an' they's lef a marster
stink all over ontu me furever an' ever more, an'
more so too ay—men. Oh, my dear yearers, `keep
the dus' ove thar dinin-room ofen yer foot, an' the
smell ove thar bed-room ofen yer close, that yer days
may be longer in the lan' what yer daddy's tuck frum
the Injuns.'
“I seed a well appearin man onst, ax one ove em
what lived ahine a las' year's crap ove red hot brass
wire whiskers run tu seed, an' shingled wif har like ontu
mildew'd flax, wet wif saffron warter, an' laid smoof
wif a hot flat-iron, ef he cud spar him a scrimpshun ove
soap? The `perpryiter' anser'd in soun's es sof an'
sweet es a poplar dulcimore, tchuned by a good nater'd
never wer jis' so sorry in all his born'd days tu say no,
but the fac' wer the soljers had stole hit; `a towil
then;' `the soljers hed stole hit;' `a tumbler,' `the soljers
hed stole hit;' `a lookin-glass,' `the soljers hed stole
nit;' `a pitcher ove warter,' `the soljers hed stole hit;'
`then please give me a cleaner room.' Quick es
light cum the same dam lie, `the soljers hed stole hit
too. They buys scalded butter, caze hit crumbles an'
yu can't tote much et a load on yer knife; they keeps
hit four months so yu won't want tu go arter a secon
load. They stops up the figgers an' flowers in the woffil
irons fur hit takes butter tu fill the holes in the
woffils. They makes soup outen dirty towils, an' jimson
burrs; coffee outen niggers' ole wool socks, roasted;
tea frum dorg fennil, an' toas' frum ole brogan insoles.
They keeps bugs in yer bed tu make yu rise in
time fur them tu get the sheet fur a table-cloth. They
gins yu a inch ove candil tu go tu bed by, an' a littil
nigger tu fetch back the stump tu make gravy in the
mornin, fur the hunk ove bull naik yu will swaller fur
brekfus, an' they puts the top sheaf ontu thar orful
merlignerty when they menshuns the size ove yer
bill, an' lasly, while yu're gwine thru yer close wif a
sarch warrun arter fodder enuf tu pay hit, they refreshes
yer memory ove other places, an' other times, by
tellin yu ove the orful high price ove tuckys, aigs,
an' milk. When the dveil takes a likin tu a feller, an'
hit intu his hed to open a cat-fish tavern, with a gran'
rat attachmint, gong 'cumpanimint, bull's neck variashun,
cockroach corus an' bed-bug refrain, an' dam
ef he don't git him es sure es he rattils the fust gong.
An' durn thar onary souls, they looks like they expected
yu tu b'leve that thy am pius, decent, an' fit tu be 'sociated
wif, by lookin down on yu like yu belonged tu the
onregenerit, an' keepin a cussed ole spindel-shank, rattlin
crazy, peaner, wif mud daubers nestes onder the soundin
board, a-bummin out `Days ove Absins,' ur `the Devil's
Dream,' bein druv thar too, by thar long-waisted,
greasey har'd darter, an' listen'd to by jis' sich durn'd
fools es I is. Thar am anuther feeter in the cat-fish tavrin,
what hit haint pufeck wifout. Hit is tu these
sweet scented instertushuns what the twis' is tu the
pig's tail, an' am in the shape ove a ole hairy lipp'd
'oman: Sumtimes she is a motherinlor, sumtimes she
is a she uncle, sumtimes a ole maid sister, wifout the
fust four letters, an' allers a durn'd nuisans ginerally,
an' a match fur the Scotch eatch pussonally. She am
feater'd like ontu a white face muley cow, what hed
been pisen'd wif pizen oak vine. She hes a par ove
san'-bag ankils, her body looks like hit mout a been
moulded in a barril wif a big bulge; she's fond ove
biled taters, an' bad news; she wars roun' shiney
specks, a bunch ove keys, a callicker redicule, an' a
seed-bag cap, wun full ove quilt scraps an' pipes, an'
an' plans tu discumfort folks. She watches the wimmen
custumers' rooms ove nights, an' tells nex day what
she seed, ur hoped tu see. She knows tu a crumb
how much yu hev et, an' begrudge shit tu half a crumb.
She makes her garters outen the hems ove ole shuttails,
an' is so savin, she wars but one et a time; she b'leves
in low quarter'd shoes, fallin frum grace ofen, an' in
dippin es the cure; she cou'dent live a minit enywhar,
but in a cat-fish tavrin, an' I'm durn'd glad she can't.
“Now breatherin an' sistren, outen all this I hes
gether'd the follerin orful facks, what orter be known
tu all passuns, priests, an' pussons who preach. Fustly,
the `purpryiters' ove cat-fish tavrins, an' rail-road
feed troffs, am hell's recruitin ossifers. He goes thar
hissef, in course, afore his toe-nails git cold, an' mos'
ove the misfortnit devils, what hes stopp'd wif 'im,
goes thar too, fur cussin an' 'vengeful thinkin, fotch
about by dirt, sloth, swindle, sufferin, stealin, an' starvashun.
Secon'ly hit am a orful 'sponsabil ondertakin
tu keep a cat-fish tavrin, fur hit hes a brimstone retribushun
es big es a car shed, a-follerin clost arter hit,
an' finerly, I'd jis' ruther du wifout the instertushun intirely;
the plain one-bottil doggery fur my drinkin,
the kitchens fur my vittils, an' the barns fur my bed,
whar the bugs cease tu bite, an' the tired kin rest.
“Wharfore, `stop not tu res' whar thar am a sign, fur
thar aint res' onder hits shadder, neither sup wif a lanlord,
furder, leas' yu lose yer soul a-cussin, an' hev yer
paunch et intu a partridge net wif pisen. Keep the dus
ove the dinin-room ofen yer foot, an' the smell ove the
bed-room ofen yer close, that yer days may be longer
in the lan' what yer daddy's tuck frum the Injuns.
| SUT LOVINGOOD'S SERMON.
TOUCHING YE CAT-FISHE TAVERN. Sut Lovingood | |