University of Virginia Library

HEN BAILY'S REFORMATION.

[This truthful narrative is particularly recommended to the careful
consideration of the Rev. Mr. Stiggins, and his disciples, of the Brick
Lane Branch of the Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association.
This mode of treatment can be fully relied upon.]

We were resting by a fine cool spring, at noon, with
an invitingly clean gourd hanging on a bush over the
the water. Sut, as usual, was at full length on the
grass, intently looking at the gourd.

“Say fellers, that ar long-handil'd gourd thar, mout
cum the temprince dodge over sum ove yu fellers
afore yu wer quite ready fur the oaf. I looks on em
all es dangrus, an' that's a mons'us 'spishus lookin wun,
hit hes sich a durn'd long handil. Allers 'zamin the
inside ove a gourd-handil wif a sharp pinted swich,
afore yu drinks; hits a holesum foresight. Hen Baily
—did eny ove yu know Hen?—he wer a peach wif a
wurm intu hit, enyhow—a durn'd no-count, good, easy,
good-fur-nuthin vagerbone, big es a hoss, an' lazy es a
shingle-maker, but a pow'ful b'lever, not a sarcumsised
b'lever, but a lie b'lever ove the straites seck, swallered
everything he hearn, an' mos' everything he seed.

That ar swallerin gif ove his'n cum wifin a eighth ove a
inch, onst, ove sendin him tu kingdum cum, an' did send
him head fust intu a life-everlastin temprince s'ciety.
I'd a-liked pow'ful well fur tu hearn him gin in his
'sperince, even ef he tole one half. He lov'd biled
drinks orful, never wer a hour's walk frum a still-hous'
ur a doggery since he tuck tu warin breeches.

“Well, yu see the ole man Rogers up on Los' Creek
wer a-paintin his hous' a-new, an' Hen wer suckilatin
roun thar, jis' prospectin fur sperits, an' seed a bottil
wif clar truck in hit what he tuck tu be new sperrits,
so when the painter's back wer turned, he jis' run hits
naik down his froat. He fotch hit out wif a onder-handid
jerk, flung hit ahine him an' put, sputterin an'
yerkin, fur the spring, a-swabbin out his mouf wif his
ole wool hat rolled up. Now, boys, hit wer sperrits,
but orful tu think ove, hit wer sperrits ove tupentine,
fresh frum the rosinny part ove Noth Caliney.

“Me an' a few uther durn'd fools wer at the spring,
sorter es we is now, a-mixin a few draps ove hit wif
sum limber laig-whisky, an' gabblin, when we seed
him a-cumin jis' a-flutterin. Es he run a-pas' the wash
place, he flung the hat swab away, an' snatched the
wash gourd, so es tu save time. The durn'd lazy cuss
wer in a rale tarin hurry; fust time I ever seed him run
ur cum ni runnin in all my born'd days. His mouf
wer es red es a split beef, an' the light big bubbil kine
ove slobber wer a-flyin like snow frum a-runnin hosses

heels. Thinks I, sody, by the great golly! oh, yu dam
fool, sum gal's cum the luv-powder game over yu purfeckly.
He wer trubbil'd in mine, fur at the landin
part ove every jump, he'd say, in souns like he hed a
gob ove scaldin mush stuck tu the ruff ove his mouf,
the words `Hell-fire,' nuffin else; them wer pow'ful
suitabil words tu his case. I didn't think he wer so
good at pickin out talk; they 'splained his ailmint better
nur a doctor cud. He soused the ole soap subs
gourd intu the spring, an' then filled his mouf over
mos' half ove the aidge, quicker nor flea ketchin. Es
he turn'd hit up, I seed a stripid eight inch lizard cum
tarin outen the handil, whar he'd been hid es he thought.
He sot his fore paws ontu the aidge ove the gourd an'
peeped over. Seein us, gin him a turnin skeer, an' he
jis' darted down Hen's froat. I seed his tail fly up agin
Hen's snout, es he started down hill. The rep-tile tuck
his mouf tu be a proverdenshul hole in the groun, an' I
dusn't wunder, fur hit wud a-fool'd a kingfisher enytime.
He drap't the empty gourd, an' holdin his belly
in his lock't hans, sed—

“`Warter makes hit wus, boys.'

“Sez I, `Hen, hits the lizard.'

“He wall'd roun his sweaty stuck out eyes at me, an'
sez he—

“`What lizard?'

“`Why that big striped he lizard what yu let rum
down yer froat jis' now, outen the gourd-handil. I

speck I wer the las' pusson what seed him outside ove
yu, fur I seed the pint ove his tail arter hit passed the
gap whar that ar frunt tooth cum out.'

“He look't a-sorter listenin look, down at the groun,
fur a second, an' sot intu hoppin up an' down ontu wun
laig, an' then ontu tuther, a-shakin in the air the laig
what warn't imejuntly engaged in hoppin, an' mentionin
`Hell-fire,' every time he changed laigs, an' that
wer every two hops. Then he fell down an' sot intu
rollin, wus nur a yung dorg what hes ignurently yamped
a pole-cat. He kep a-tuckin his head sorter onder,
like he wer tryin tu make hit roll faster nor his body.
Sez he—

“`Great fathers, boys, he's a-gallopin roun, he is by
grashus!'

“Sez I, `Hen, he's a-'zaminin yer whisky bag fur a
good spot tu bild his nestes in, he means tu stay.'

“`Oh, lordy!' yell'd Hen, `he's dun foun hit, an's
a-tarin up the linin ove my paunch tu bild hit wif,'
an he roll'd on faster nur ever. `Sut, ef yu please,
run fur a doctor; yu hes the laigs.'

“`Yas,' sez I; `but hits dun gone fur apas' common
doctorin.'

“When he hearn that vardic, he flounced tu his feet,
fotch a yell what ef et hed went thru a three-foot tin
ho'n wud a-busted hit plum open frum aind tu aind,
an' sot intu flingin the bes' kine ove show actor summersets
amung the roun rocks in the spring branch

back'ards twice, forids onst, then sidewise, now a full
turn an' a 'alf that wud fetch him ontu his head, now a
'alf turn, an' that wud lan' him ontu his sturn. Durnation,
how he'd spatter warter when he made the three
quarter turns, then clean over ontu his feet he'd cum,
jis' tu yell an' fling sum more. I counted till hit got
tu thuty-one, an' got outen heart, an' quit: a suckis
agent wud a-gin him big wages jis' then, but hed been
the wust fool'd man ever born'd, onless he ment tu dose
Hen wif tupentine an' lizards, an' I doubts hits movin
him a secon time. Durn'd ef his kerryins on didn't
mine me ove my sody misery in a minnit; hit struck
me so pow'ful that I had a vilent sarchin blow ove
belly-ache rite thar. Sez I—

“`That's hit Hen, jis' yu keep on, an' yu'll soon
make that ar lizard b'leve he's tuck up lodgins in the
cylinder ove a four hoss thrashin-mersheen, an' that
harves time am cum. He's boun tu vacate yu; jis' rastil
on, hoss; that's hit; no mortal lizard kin stan that
sort ove churnin amung sich a mixin es yu ginerly
totes intu yer paunch.'

“`Oh, lordy, Sut, yu'se right, fur I raley du b'leve
he's cuttin his way out now. Can't yu, (an' over he'd
go agin) du sumthin?' (over onst more.)

“`Yu dam fool,' sez I, `I don't know; but ef yu
means tu keep on at that rate, I wud surjis' that yu
swaller a few ove these yere roun rocks, 'bout es big es
goose aigs an' dam ef he ain't a groun up rep-tile

sooner nor ef he wer in a hungry goose's gizzard. He
made a moshun ur two like he wer grabbin fur rocks
es he lit, but jis' then he changed his mine, an' sot intu
runnin roun the spring-hous', a-leanin to'ards hit an'
jis' a-missin the corners. He went so fas' he looked like
three ur four fellers arter each uther, groanin, hollerin,
an' remarkin `Hell-fire,' all roun thar. He's a pow'ful
activ injurin man, when onder stimuluses, that's a fac'.
I tuck a stan ni ontu wun corner, an' es he cum roun,
I cummenced in time, an' sed—

“`Hen, did yer take yer sody seperit?'

“Nex time he cum, sez he, `Sody seperit—h—l!' an'
nex roun sez he, `Aka-fortis,' an' the nex arter that he
addid the words `Fourth-proof at that.' He wer gwine
so fas' that his talkin seemed oninterrupted. The las'
time he cum roan, he hollered in dispar, `I haint
a-gainin on hit a dam bit,' an' tuck hissef up a red elm.
He went up by fas' jerks, jis' adzackly like a cat climbs
a appil tree frum a clost cumin dorg. He locked his
footsis roun the lowis lim's, an' hung hed down, swingin
about, an' smackin his hans like he wer ni the shoutin
pint ove happiness at a ravin camp meetin. Sez I—

“`That won't du; that's a wus idear nur sircklin the
spring-hous' wer, an' don't cumpar wif yer suckis sperimint,
fur the lizard went pow'fully down hill a-gwine
intu that sloppy hole he's intu now, an' he's too smart
tu start down hill eny more fur fear hit'll git wus; he
won't cum, Hen.'

“He answered me mons'ous cross an' spiteful—

“`Let him go up hill then dam 'im; so he keeps
gwine's all I ax.'

“The lizard wer a-tarin roun right peart, I speck,
wadin an' swimin as he wer in a dark pon' ove whisky,
an' tupentine, thickened wif a-breakfus' ove blackberries
an' mush, stirred intu a purfeck hurrycane by Hen's
kerryins on. Hit warn't jis' adzackly the right place
fur even a varmint tu go tu sleep in, enyhow.

“Hen soon foun that hit wud nither go up hill nur
pown hill, but kep a-tarin roun et randum wif hits long
toe-nails, so he los' all hope, let foot holts loose, an' sunk
his nose up tu his years in the branch bank mud, an'
by golly, lay still. I begun tu think the show wer
about tu close, an' I hed rights tu think so; thuty-one
counted summersets, an' lots ove oncounted ones, averidgin
a full turn each, a mile an' a quarter roun a
spring-hous', an' nine hundred yards in rollin, not
countin the small moshuns, in 'bout five minutes wer
ni ontu enuf tu fetch eny man body tu lie still—an' then
the lizard an' turpentine—hit wer a job ove no common
kine, an' speshully fur Hen hit wer mos' wunderful.
Thinks I, ole feller, yu're gwine tu make a die
ove hit, an' sez I—

“`Hen, ole feller, while yu'se a-restin thar, jis' feel
ni yer trousis an' git me that half duller yu borrowed
frum me las' Chrismus; feel easy fur hit an' don't
skeer yer lizard.'

“He never let on like he hearn me. Sez I, `Yere,
Hen, try a littil ove this yere whisky. I menshun
whisky loud; dam ef even that moved the pints ove his
fingers. Sez I, `Boys, he's 'bout dun wif yeathly matters,
he won't notis whisky, an' his herearter's wifin ten
steps ove him rite now.'

“Ole Missis Rogers hearn the fuss, an' seed the crowd
roun her spring-hous', an' the safety ove her milk an'
butter struck her pow'ful. So yere she cum, wif her
ole brass specks ridin a-straddil ove the highes pint ove
her calliker cap crown; thar laigs wer a-usin two locks
ove her red roan har fur stirrups, away below her years.
She hed a biled roasin ear mos' ove the time acrost her
mouf, wif silks an' smashed grains plenty, stickin tu
her ole moley chin, an' her nose. Sez she—

“`What upon yeath yu all duin yere—not holdin
meetin, sure? Ah! yu am thar, am yu, laigs, yu dad-dratted
draggild san-hill crane? Sum devilment on han,
rite now. Clar yersefs, yu nasty, stinkin, low-lived,
sheep-killin dorgs. S-n-e-a-k off, afore yu steals sumthin.
Yere Rove, yere Rove, yere, yere!'

“`Sez I, mouns'us solimn, straitenin mysef up wif
foldid arms, `Missis Rogers, afore yer dorg Rove cums,
take a look at sum ove yu're work. That ar a-dyin feller
bein; let jis' a few ove yer bowils melt, an' pour out
rite yere in pity an' rey-morse.'

“She tuck a short look at Hen. `What ails him?'

“Sez I, wif my arms straiched strait out, `Cholick,

vilent cork-screw cholick, one ove the cholery perswashun;
he jis' tast'd yer buttermilk in thar, an' by
granny, hits dun kill'd 'im, that's all, Missis Rogers.'
Yu see she wer noted fur feedin the work-hans on buttermilk
so sour that hit wud eat hits way outen a
yeathen crock in wun nite. Sez she, wif her hans ontu
her hips, an' standin wide an' strait up, `Yu're a liar,
Mister Lovingood!' I hes allers notis'd nobody ever
calls me Mister Lovingood, (ef they knows me,) onless
they's mad at me. `Very well,' sez I, `we am gwine
tu strip him now, an' yu kin see fur yersef; hits et hits
way outen him by this time; jis' stay an' 'zamin his
belly. I'll bet yu my shut agin that ar momoxed up
roas'in har, that hits chawed intu dish rags, frum his
waisbun clean down tu—' She flung down the roas'in
ear, an' put fur the hous', a-totin her frock-tail high
hilt up wif bof her hans, wifout waitin fur me tu add
`his fork.' I wer gittin sorter skeer'd, an' sorry bof, fur
Hen, the ornary devil, an' wer a-lookin at the groun
studyin ef hit warn't bes' tu knock him on the head
wif a rock, an' put him outen his misery, when I seed
the break an' bulge ove a mole a-plowin. A idear, the
bes' idear I ever own'd, struck plum thru my head, an'
I dug out the mole. Sez I—

“`Boys, listen tu me: that ar feller's mons'us ni ded;
desprit cases wants desprit docterin; let's tie his galluses
roun his waisbun tight, an' start this yere bline,
fury scramblin littil cuss up his breeches laig. When he

feels the scramblin sensashun on the outside, he'll think
the lizard hes got out sumwhar, an' the idear will
make him feel good, enyhow, live ur ded; thar's no
harm in a mole, nohow; les' try hit.'

“We turned Hen ontu his stomick, an' made the
top ove his britches mole tight, an' I set the mole
a-straddil ove his heel-string, an' sunk my thumb-nail
intu hits tail. Away hit went up his bar laig pow'ful
fas', rootin like a hog; he wanted tu go tu his trade ove
diggin agin, yu know, an' wer sarchin fur a saft place.
He warn't outen site very long, when Hen sorter started
forrid on his stomick; that wer the fust sign ove life
he'd show'd since he buried his nose in the blue mud.
Sez I, wif a heap ove hope, `Boys, things am workin; ef
he wudn't notis speerits, he's a-notisin that ar mole.'
He hed a par ove foot-holts agin a root, an' he shot
hissef forrid ten foot intu the branch at one lunge wifout
risin four inches frum the groun. I tho't I hearn
`Hell-fire,' agin in a sorter sick whisper. He ris tu his
all fours, an' shook the warter outen his years pearingly
es strong es ever, an' tuck down the branch in a rale
fas' cavalry lope. He made the mud an' warter fly,
'speshully when he'd kick, an' that wer every two ur
three jumps. He used his hine laigs jis' like a hoss
a-fightin, an' as he'd fling up his shoes he'd menshun
the kine ove fire I'se been tellin yu about, an' he'd
wall a mous'us sarchin oneasy eye over his shoulder
every time he'd kick Sez I, `Boys, the show ain't

over yet; les' see the aind, an' git the wuf ove our
munny. One ur two ove the crowd dodged intu the
bushes sorter des'arted; they wer fear'd tu see eny more.
The res' ove us foller'd Hen. When he'd cum tu a
deep hole, he'd squat intu hit up tu his years, a-sorter
workin hissef roun like a hen a-fixin her nestes, gruntin
orful, an' a-cussin everybody, an' everything in a lump;
then he'd rar forrid ontu his all fours agin, an' jis'
travil. I can't fur the life ove me think what kep him
down tu his all fours. Ef hit hed been my case, yu'd a
seed sum ove the durn'des straites up an' down runnin
ever did by eny livin mortal. P'raps the kerryins on in
his in'ards warn't es sarchin in that position. At las' he
gallop'd out ontu a san bank, an' sunk spread out, wif
his head in a short twis', ni clean gone.

“Sez I, `Boys, the durn'd fool hes drowndid my
mole atwixt his breeches an' his hide, a-squattin in them
holes, an' I hes no hopes ove him now; les' kill 'im.
Jis' then I seed him yerk, sorter vomitin way, so I
straddiled him, an' cotch him by the har, an' pull'd up
his head tu straiten his swaller, when imejuntly yere
cum the lizard tarin outen his mouf, the wust skeer'd
varmint I ever seed in all my born'd days. His eyes
wer es big es fox grapes, an' mos' all ove em outside
ove his head, an' dam ef he didn't hev enuf tu skeer a
lion, fur the mole hed 'im fas' by the tail, an' wer mendin
his holt, an' that ar interprisin littil yeath-borer
hadn't a durn'd mossel ove fur left ontu his hide; hit

wer all lime'd off; he looked rite down slick an' funny,
wif a lizard a-haulin 'im fru the san, I swar he did.
Wunder what they thought hed been happenin.

“Well, we toted Hen home, an' when he got sorter
well, he jined a ole well-sot temprince s'ciety, an' puts
hit up that the hole thing, tupentine, lizards an' mole,
wer interpersishun tu save him frum turnin intu a
drunkard. The cussed hippercrit! he warn't never
enything else. I oughtent tu speak hard ove the misfortnit
critter tho', fur he hes got the dispepsy, the
wust kine.”