Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
BART DAVIS'S DANCE. |
 | BART DAVIS'S DANCE. Sut Lovingood |  |
BART DAVIS'S DANCE.
“Du yu know that bow-laiged boy on the fence
thar?” said Sut.
“No; who is he?”
“That's Bart Davis's yungest son, name Obed. Jis'
obsarve how his snout's skin'd an' his year slit an' so
forth.”
“Yes, I see; how did it happen?”
“Happen? hit didn't happen et all, hit wer dun
a-pupos, permeditated a-pupos. Ther wer a dance et
his dad's, las' Sat'day nite wer two weeks ago, what hed
like tu bred a berryin ur two; the corpses wer mos'
redy, an' nuffin but acksidint kep em frum bein finished.
I wer thar mysef, an' kin say an' swar that the
chances run mity even, a-tween mirth an' mournin.
Fur a spell hit wer the exhitenest time I ever seed
on sich a ocashun, not tu hev no more whisky nur we
hed. Thar warn't but 'bout half a barril when we begun,
an' when we quit, we burnt the hoops an' staves
tu dance the las' reel by.
“Everybody knows Bart is a durn'd no-count, jug-kerryin,
Calinian, plays a three-string fiddil wif a grasshopper
jirk, while his wife totes the wood. He hes but two
gifs wuf a durn: wun is, he'll vide his whisky wif yu
down tu the las' half pint; thar he stops, fur that's jis' a
horn yu know; an' tuther is, he ain't feard ove enything
a-livin, sept ole Peg. I don't wunder et that, fur
hit mus' take a man wif a onnatrally big melt, not tu be
fear'd ove his wife, onless she's blind ur hes a sweethart.
Peg (she's his ole quilt, yu know) is a regular steel-trap
ove an 'oman; she goes wif wun side ove her frock
tucked up at the hips, her har down her back, an' a
roasted hickory onder her arm tu scold the brats wif,
an' tu skeer Bart. They's bof great on dancin ove
Sat'day nites et home, an' sumwhar else on tuther
nites. Ef thar's a frolic enywhar in five mile, Bart is
sure tu be thar, an' Peg, too, ef she's in travilin fix,
which ain't more nur five months in the year. She
goes fur two reasons: wun is, tu eat an' dance, an'
tuther tu watch Bart. He hes two reasons also: wun
is tu suck in all the whisky floatin roun, an' tu du a
heap ove things what needs watchin. They giner'lly
hes a dermestic discussun arter they gets home, in
which, teeth, claws, an' beggin am the argymints, an'
`I won't du so no more,' the aind ove hit. They am a
lively an' even yok'd par. Nobody else on the green
yeath orter be tied tu either ove em.
“Well they mounted that par ove hames yu see on
sent him tu the still-hous, tu narrate hit that thar wud
be a dance et home the nex nite, an' fur every feller
what warn't married tu fetch a gal, an' them what wer
married tu fetch two. Now this rangement show'd
Bart's good sence, fur he know'd that hit takes more
gals tu du married fellers then single wuns. Caze people
what hes but one kind ove vittils et home, hit
allers takes more tu du em abroad.
“When the nite cum they wer all thar, a hous' plum
full, an' amung em a lot ove counter-hoppers wif strip'd
sugar candy in ther pockets, an' young lawyers wif cinamint
ile ontu ther har; all on em frum town, an' jis'
ole enuf tu begin tu strut an' gobble. Thunder and
litnin, an' sun-flower pattrin calliker, mixed wif check
an' stripe, homspun swept all about thar, wif one, jis'
one black silk. They laid off two reels, wun call'd the
leather shoe reel, an' tuther, the barfoot reel. I danced
in the wun I nam'd las'.”
“Why did they divide that way, Sut?”
“Why, durn hit, don't yu know that the dancin wud
turn intu fitin afore the fust set got ofen the flure, ef
they mix'd em? The shoes wud scronch the bar toes
in dancin, and' rite then an' thar they'd mix fur a fite.
A hard-shell preacher wif his mouf mortised intu his
face in shape like a muel's shoe, heels down, fotch hissef
thar soon arter dark, an' made moshuns like he
ment tu stay all nite. He got intu a corner, an' commenced
a-shakin ove his head, an' lookin like he hed the belly-ake.
He cudn't hev look'd more solemcoly, ef his
mam hed died that mornin a-owin him two dullars an'
a 'alf. All these wimin an' luvely souns an' moshuns
wer made on count ove the dancin, an' p'raps the cussin
an' kissin. The whisky part ove that inturtainment
he'd nuffin against. I know'd that, fur every time he
roll'd his eyes to'ards the barril, he'd lick his lips sorter
sloppy like, jis' es ef he'd been dippin his bill intu a
crock ove chicken gravy, an' wer tryin tu save the
stray draps, what hung outside his face. Oh! he wer
jis' a-honin arter that ball-face whisky; he'd a jis' kiss'd
hit es sweet, an' es long, es ef hit hed been a willin gal.
I sorter aidged up a-side him, an' sez I—
“`Mister, will yu hev a few draps ove camfire,
ur laudamy? Yu seems tu be pow'ful ailin in yer
innards. Yu hesent swallered a live rat, ur a mole, hes
yu?'
“He shook his head, an' fotch a sigh, what ainded in
a groan. Sez I—
“`Rats ur moles am onhelthy things tu swaller afore
they'se departed this life.'
“He blow'd out a orful sigh, part outen his nose, but
mos' ove hit out whar the toe ove the muel-shoe wer,
an' sez he—
“`This am a wicked an' a parvarse generashun ove
vipurs, yung man.'
“`An' gin up tu hardness over hart, an' deviltry,
an' belevin thunderin lies,' said I; an' I puff'd out a
big sigh, wif a little groan fur a tail. Sez he—
“`Thar am no-o-o-o dancin in hell,' an sot intu
shakin ove his head, till I thot he'd keep on fur everlastin,
an' ever more. Sez I—
“`Haint yu slitely mistaken'd in that las' re-mark ove
yourn? Ef thar's es much hot truck, an' brimstone, an'
cinders, an' hickory smoke, an' big hurtin, in hell es
yu folks sez thar am, thar mus' be sum dancin, purtickelerly
jigs an' quick-steps; they don't lack fur
music, I reckon, fur I'se allers hearn hell wer full ove
fiddlers, an' thar's Yankees enuf thar tu invent fireproof
fiddils fur em, so they don't want fur tchunes.
All on yeath that bothers me is the rosim.'
“`Ah, yung onregenerit man,' sez he, `thar's more
rosim in hell than thar's in all Noth Caliny.'
“`But hit ain't quite hard enuf tu rub ontu fiddil
bows, is hit?' sez I.
“He groan'd an' shook his head, an' sent wun one
ove his eyes to'ards the whisky corner. I went an' fotch
'im a big slug intu a gourd. That shovel-shaped onder
lip ove his'n jis' fell out'ards like ontu the fallin
door ove a stone coal stove, an' he upsot the gourd
inside ove his teef. I seed the mark ove the truck
gwine down his froat jis' like a snake travelin thru a
wet sassidge gut. He smelt intu the gourd a good long
smell, turned up his eyes, an' sed `Barlm ove life.'
“Thinks I, ole Sock, I know what fotch yu tu this
frolic besides yu're hoss an' our whisky. Bart now
cum up, an' Hardshell tole him he'd cum tu stay all
nite, ef he suited all roun.
“`Sartinly, oh yas, an' welcum,' sed Bart.
“The ole Sock, never alterin the shape ove the
hole tore in his face, sed, mity sneerin like, `Yu is
hosspitabil.' I seed Bart sorter start, an' look at him,
an' go off a-winkin at me tu foller him. We went
outside the hous', intu a chimbly corner, an' thar
wer two fellers, wun ove em a she, a-whisperin. We
went tu tuther corner, an' thar wer two more; then we
went tu the stabil, an' hearn whisperin thar; hit mout
been rats a-runnin in straw. So Bart cud hold in no
longer. Sez he—
“`Never mine, I don't keer a durn who hears me.
I b'leve I'se been 'sulted in my own hous'; didn't that
durn'd preachin mersheen call me a hoss?'
“`That's jis' what he sed. He call'd yu a hoss-pitabil,'
sez I.
“`Pitabil, pitabil,' sez Bart, `dam ef I don't b'leve
that's wus nur the hoss.'
“`Sartinly,' sez I, `pitabil is a sorter Latin tail stuck
tu hit so yu moutn't onderstand; hit means pitiful hoss
in Inglish, an' ef I wer yu, I'd see that his stumack
wer spiled fur Peg's fried chicken an' biskit. I'd go
rite in an' show him how a hoss ken kick an' sich like.'
he jis' gritted his teef, like he wer a-chompin aigshells,
his shut sleeves es he went, plum up tu his arm-pit.
“The durn'd, hiperkritikil, groanin ole Hardshell
raskil hed dun got the dancin stop't; he'd tuck the fiiddil
away frum the nigger, an' wer a-holdin hit by the
naik in wun han, an' a-makin gesters wif the bow in
tuther. He wer mounted ontu a cheer, clost by the
meal barril, an' wer exortin em orfully 'bout thar sins
ove omishun an' cummishun, purtickerly the cummishun
wuns, wif the dancin sins at the head, warin sun-flower
caliker wuns nex'; an' then cum thar smaller
sins, sich es ridin a-hine fellers on the same hoss, whisperin
outen doors, an' a-winkin a-hine fans, tuckey-tails
an' handkechers, an' sed that black silk wer plenty in
hell, that hit wer used fur mournin thar, an' not tu
dance in. The he sins, ove the small sort, wer cumin
frum town ove nites, a-warin store clothes, smellin ove
cinamint ile, an' a-totin striped sugar candy in thar
pockets, tu turn the minds ove the weak gals, instead
ove a flask ove that good holesum ole truck, what
they've got in towns, name `coniack.'
“The wimmen folks wer backed up in bunches, in
the corners, an' agin the beds, wif thar fingers in thar
moufs, an' wun ur two ove the saftest ove em wer gettin
up a quiet sort ove dry cryin.
“The he fellers all looked like they'd mos' es leave
fite es not, ef they knew how tu start the thing, when in
bounced Bart; he looked like a catamount; wun jump
ove Hardshell, his har a-swayin about wif pure mad,
like a patch ove ripe rye in a wind, an' his eyes wer es
roun an' es red as a bull's when he's a-jinin in battil
wif anuther bull frum Bashan. He struck wun fistes
away out a-hine, an' wif tuther reachin at arm's laingth,
he cummenc'd borin, like he hed a gimblit in his shot
fis', rite onder the snout ove the thunderin Hardshell,
like he wer tryin tu bore his mouf inter a better shape,
an' a-narratin thru his teef tlrese facs, in words what
sounded like grittin hard co'n.
“`Yu durn'd infunel, incumpassabil warter-dorg!
yu cuss'd hiperkritikal, ongrateful ole mus-rat! yu h—ll
fir'd, divin, splatterin, pond-makin, iron-jacket'd ole
son ove a mud-turtil, yu hes 'sulted me in my own
hous', an' in Latin et that, an' then yu've tuck the imperdent
liberty tu skare these yere children outen thar
innersent mucement, (still borin away frum left tu
right, wif that horny fis' ove his'n, an' the Hardshell's
head gwine furder back every twist.) Call'd me a
hoss— Git ofen that cheer!'
“Es he sed `git,' he loaned the passun a mos' tremenjus
contushun, rite in the bull curl. I seed his shoe-soles
a-gwine up each side ove Bart's fis' afore he hed
time tu muve hit, arter he struck. Hit wer a lick,
George, that hed hit been a kick, a four year ole muel
wud hev been pow'ful proud ove. I seed ni ontu a
gallon ove sparks ove fire fly outen the passun's eyes
his curl. He let the fiddil go when he wer in the
highes part ove his backward summerset, an' the nigger
what hed been watchin up at hit all this time, wis'ful
like, es a dorg watches a meat-skin when yu holds hit
too high fur him tu grab, cotch his fiddil in bof hans
afore hit toch the yeath.
“`Dar by golly, you no git tu smash dis fiddil, wid
yu durn fool fitin an' preachin.'
“An' holdin it wavinly abuv his head, he dodged
outen the surkil ove imejut danger. The old Shell lit
ontu his all fours, hit bein that much more nur a full
summerset, an' the black silk lit a-stradil ove him. I
know'd hit wer the black silk, bekase I seed the white
stockins an' grey garters. Hev I mention'd that thar
wer one hundred an' twenty-five pouns ove live, black-eyed
gal in under that black silk?”
“No, Sut.”
“Well, thar wer, an' that she wer bof live an' willin,
ole Dipper wer soon redy tu swar. `Black silk in hell
is thar,' scream'd she, a-hissin like ontu a cat, an' cummenced
a-pullin up by the roots his long har, like hit
wer flax, wif bof hans, an' a-shakin the bunches ofen
her fingers, an' then gwine fur more, the hissin gittin a
littl louder every pull. George, that wer the fust
spessamin ove a smokin mad gal I've seed in a hen's
age; she kerried out my idear ove a fust-rate flax-puller,
pullin agin two, fur a bet. I think she gin the ole Shell
head ni ontu the saws ove a activ cotton gin.
“Now the boy name Obed, with the hame laigs, hevin
a sorter jestis' ove the peace turn ove mine, run in tu
pull her off, an' cudn't du hit afore she made a rake fur
his har, an' got hit. She jis' mixed the hanful wif the
pile on the flure, an' gin hersef back tu the job ove preparin
the passun fur a wig. A hawk-billed, weazel-eyed,
rat-mouthed feller, what hed been a-struttin roun
Black Silk all nite, a-trailin wun wing, an' a-lickin his
lips, seed the fool boy name Obed, a-tryin tu git her
tu lite ofen the ole Sock, so he jis' growl'd low, an'
barked once, an' kiver'd him, an' afore his mam Peg,
an' me, an' five uther gals, cud git him loose, he hed
made her cub the speckterkil yu sees roostin on that
ar fence, an' he's hed ni ontu three weeks tu mend his
looks in, by Jew David's plarster, sweet ile, an' the
keer ove his mam.
“The fitin now got tu be gineral on mos' parts ove
the field, an' es the cuppils cum in frum outen doors,
lookin sorter sneakin, an' pale, (frum the nise ove the
rumpus, I speck,) wun at leas', outen every par, got
jump't on by sumbody. P'raps a gal wud kiver a
cumin in gal, anuther gal wud go fur the har an' skin
ove a cumin in he feller; then, agin, the fis' ove a he
wud meet anuther cumin in he, right atween the eyes,
an' so on till the thing got tu be durn'dably mix'd up
an' lively. Peg boun up the boy name Obed's wouns,
BART DAVIS'S DANCE.
"Black silk in hell is thar', scream'd she, a-hissin' like ontu a cat, an commenced apullin'
up by the roots his long har like it wer flax." Page 190.
[Description: 565EAF. Illustration Page. Image of a man and woman in the center of a crowd of men. The man is down on all fours, and the woman is astride him. In her raised fist are strands of hair.]
cookin, like all wer quiet on the Pertomack.
“Es soon es ole Shell begun tu cum to, frum Bart's
dubbil distill'd thunder-bolt, the hurtin all over his head
begun tu attrack his 'tenshun, an' soaked thru his skull,
an' in thar tuck the shape ove an idear; the idear shaped
hitsef intu spoken wurds, an' they wer, `Gird up yer
loins an' git.' I seed the wurkin ove his mind, so I jis'
shouted es loud es I cud beller, `The Pherlistshuns be
upon yu Sampsin.' He hearn hit, an' wer struck wif
the force ove the remark, an' started fur the back door,
still on his all fours, in a single foot rack. Es soon es
Black Silk felt him movin, she cummenced spurrin him
wif her heels; while she hilt tu his har wif wun han, she
tuck a pin outen her collar wif tuther, an' made a cushion
fur hit in the hill, ontu the north side ove the pint
ove his back-bone; he kicked up an' snorted, an'
changed the single foot rack intu a tarin pace, loped
outen the door intu outer darkness, an' his heel-tops
wer the last I seed ove him. He stumbled an' fell
down the log-steps, an' flung Black Silk like ontu a full
balloon over his head, (I seed a heap ove white shinin
es she went.) He felt his way in the dark, thru the
woods, fur more pleasant places, an' she cum in larfin,
`Black silk in hell, hey?' wer every word she sed.”
“Go on, Sut.”
“That's all. I ain't like ole Glabbergab; when I'se
spoke off what I knows, I stops talkin.”
“Well, what became of Hardshell?”
“Oh! es tu that, he made his 'pearance las' Sunday,
in the pulpit, es bald es a jug, wif a black spot aidged
wif green an' yaller, 'bout the size ove a prickly par, on
his forehead, an' preach't 'bout the orful konsekenses
ove Absalom's hevin long har, human depravity, an' the
Salt Lake; sed he wer gwine thar right off, an' he'll du
hit.”
| BART DAVIS'S DANCE. Sut Lovingood | |