Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
FRUSTRATING A FUNERAL. |
 | FRUSTRATING A FUNERAL. Sut Lovingood |  |
FRUSTRATING A FUNERAL.
“Hit mus' be a sorter vexin kine ove thing tu be
buried alive, tu the feller what am in the box, don't
yu think hit am, George?”
“Yes, horrible, Sut; what set you thinking about
such a subject, with as much whisky as you have access
to?”
“Oh, durn hit, I thinks at randum, jis' es I talk an'
dus. I can't help hit, I'se got no steerin oar tu my
brains. 'Sides that I thinks they'se loose 'bout the
middil.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I thinks peopil's brains what hev souls, am
like ontu a chain made outen gristil, forkid at wun
aind; wun fork goes tu the eyes, an' tuther tu the years,
an' tuther aind am welded tu the marrer in the back-bone,
an' hit works sorter so. Thar stans a hoss.
Well, the eyes ketches his shape, jis' a shape, an' gins
that idear tu the fust link ove the chain. He nickers,
an' the years gins that tu tuther fork ove the chain, a
soun, nuffin but a soun. Well, the two ruff idears
start along the chain, an' every link is smarter nur the
dus co'n, ur mash'd feed, an' by the time they gits tu
the back-bone, hit am a hoss an' yu knows hit. Now,
in my case, thar's a hook in the chain, an' hits mos'
ove the time onhook'd, an' then my idears stop thar
half made. Rite thar's whar dad failed in his 'speriment,
puttin in that durn'd fool hook's what me a natral
born fool. The breed wer bad too, on dad's side; they
all run tu durn'd fool an' laigs powerful strong.”
“But what about burying alive, Sut?”
“Oh, yas; I wer a-thinkin ove a case what happen'd
on Hiwassee, what like tu started a new breed ove
durn'd fools, an' did skare plum away a hole neighborhood
ove ole breed.
“Ole Hunicutt hed a niggar name Cesar, they call'd
'im Seize fur short, an' he got sock full ove Wright's
kill-devil whisky, an' tuck a noshun he'd spite ole
Hunicutt by dyin, an' durned ef he didn't du hit. His
marster got a coffin wif a hinge in the led acrost the
breas', fur tuther niggers tu take farwell ove Seize
thru, an' see the orful consekenses ove drinkin kill-devil
by the gallun; at the same time. He ment tu
gin em a temprance lecter when they went tu start tu
the bone-yard, but durn me ef he staid thar hissef till
funeral time. The niggers got Seize sot in the box
mity nice, an' the led on. He wer in a empty room,
'sceptin a bed in wun aind ove a dubbil log nigger
cabin, an' the niggers what sot up wif the corpse did
an' groanin wer plenty. Way in the night a nigger
name `Major' cum tu help du the sittin up, an' he wer
drunk plum thru an' thru; so they fotch 'im intu whar
Seize wer, an' laid him in the bed, whar he soon fell
tu snorin, an' dreamin ove snakes, sky blue lizards, an'
red hot reptiles.
“Now, a yung doctor what hed help'd Seize over
the fence, twixt this an' kingdum cum, wanted his
cackus tu chop up, an' bile, so he gits me tu git hit fur
'im arter hit wer onder the groun, an' I findin out how
the land lay by slungin roun, fixed up a short-cut tu
git hit wifout diggin. I slip't intu the room twixt
midnite an' day, an' foun Maje sorter grumblin in his
sleep, so I shuck him awake enuf tu smell whisky, an'
hilt a tin cupful ove heart-burn, till the las' durn'd
drap run down his froat, an' he sot intu sleepin agin
an' then I swap't niggers.
“Arter I got Maje intu the coffin, an' hed cut sum
air-holes, I sot in an' painted red an' white stripes,
time about, runnin out frum his eyes like ontu the
spokes ove a wheel, an' cross-bar'd his upper lip wif
white, ontil hit looked like boars' tushes, an' I fastened
a cuppil ove yearlin's ho'ns ontu his head, an'
platted a ded black-snake roun the roots ove em, an'
durn my laigs ef I didn't cum ni ontu takin a
runnin skeer mysef, fur he wer a purfeck dogratype
ove the devil, tuck while he wer smokin mad 'bout
matchless sanative all his life, then jinin meetin on his
death-bed, an' 'scapin.
“I now turn my 'tenshun tu Mister Seize. I'd got
'bout a tin cup full ove litnin bugs, an' cut off the lantern
ove the las' durn'd one; I smear'd em all over his
face, har an' years, an' ontu the prongs ove a pitch-fork;
I sot him up in the corner on aind, an' gin him the
fork, prong aind up in his crossed arms. I then pried
open his mouf, an' let his teef shet ontu the back ove a
live bull-frog, an' I smeared hits paws an' belly wif
sum ove my bug-mixtry, an' pinned a littil live garter-snake
by hits middil crosswise in his mouf, smeared
like the frog plum tu the pint ove his tail. The pin
kep him pow'ful bizzy makin suckils an' uther crooked
shapes in the air. Now, rite thar boys, in that corner,
stood the dolefulest skeer makin mersheen, mortal man
ever seed outen a ghost camp. I tell yu now, I b'leves
strong in ghosts, an' in forewarnins too.
“I hearn sum one a-cumin, an' I backed on my all
fours onder the bed. Hit wer `Simon,' the ole preachin
an' exhortin nigger ove the neighborhood. He hilt a lite
made outen a rag an' sum fat, in a ole sasser, an' he
cum sighin an' groanin wif his mouf pouched out, up
tu the coffin wifout seein Seize in the corner at all, an'
histed the led—drap't the sasser, an' los' the lite, an'
sed `Oh! Goramity massy on dis soul; de debil hesef
on top ob brudder Seize!' As he straitened tu run he
orful doleful vise, `Hiperkrit, cum tu hell, I hes a claim
ontu yu fur holdin the bag while Seize stole co'n.' (I seed
em a-doin that job not long afore.) He jis' rar'd backwards,
an' fell outen the door wif his hans locked, an'
sed he in a weak, fever-ager sort ove vise, `Please marster,'
an' jis' fainted, he soon cum to a-runnin, fur I
hearn the co'n crashin thru the big field like a in-gine
wer runnin express thru hit. I haint seed `Simon,' tu
this day.
“Now, ole Hunicutt hed been pow'fully agrawated
'bout the co'n stealin business gwine on; in fact he fell
frum grace about hit bad. So whenever he hearn eny
soun outen doors ove a spishus kine, up he'd jump
wif a shot-gun, an' take a scout roun the barn an'
co'n-crib.
“Well, es soon es Simon cummenced runnin wif the
feebil hope ove beatin the deyil, I shoulder'd Seize, an'
toted him out tu the crib, an' sot him up agin the door,
as hit wer thar the doctor wer tu fine him, 'cordin tu
'greemint. Yu see I wanted tu break him frum suckin
aigs. I thot when he tuck a good 'zamine ove Seize,
an' his pitch-fork, an' bull-frog, an' fire-bugs' tails, hit
wud take away his appertite fur grave-yards an' bil'd
bones, till he got ole enuf tu practize wifout sich dirty
doins, an' mout even make him jine meetins. I cudn't
tell how much good hit mout du the onb'lever. I'd
scarcely got Seize balanced so he'd stan good, when I
jis' betuck mysef onder the co'n-crib, wif my head clost
tu Seize's laigs, an' hid ahine his windin-sheet, onbenowenst
tu him, an' his durn'd ole shot-gun too. The
ole thief-hunter sneak'd mons'ous kerful roun the corner
in his shutail—cum wifin three feet ove the dead nigger,
an' then seed him.
“In the same doleful souns I used ontu Simon, I sed:
`Hunicutt, yu'se fell frum grace; I'll take yu down
home now, leas' yu mout git good, an' die afore yu fell
agin.' Durn my picter ef I didn't cum mons'ous ni
helpin the devil tu wun orful sinner, onexpected rite
thar, in yearnist.
“He drap't in a pile like ontu a wet bed-quilt; as he
struck, he sed, `I haint fell frum gr—' Rite then an'
thar, I reached out an' grabbed his shut, a savin holt
wif bof hans, sot my cold sandy foot agin his bare
back, an' leaned intu pullin pow'ful strong. Sez I,
`Yes yu am fell frum grace, don't yu lie tu me; du yu
know Missis Loftin? Cum wif me.' When I menshun'd
Missis Loftin, he fotch a marster lunge. I hearn
his collar-buttons snap, an' he went outen that shut like
a dorg outen a badger-barril, an' he run, yas, by the great
golly! he flew. I trumpeted arter him, `Stop; I means
tu take Missis Loftin wif yu.' He wer a-runnin squar
an' low till he hearn that, an' durn dad, ef he didn't
rise now six foot in the air every lunge, an' he'd make
two ur three runin moshuns afore he'd lite. I sent
the shot never cotch up. I got a shot-gun and a shut
fur mysef.
“I know'd the pill-roller wudn't venter clost now
arter all the fuss, an' shootin, he'd lose his mess ove
bil'd bones fus'. So I shouldered Seize, an' put over
the hill tu his shop, takin a circumbendibus roun, so
es not tu cum up wif him on the path. He warn't in,
he sure enuf hed started, but the shot-gun hed made
him hide hissef fus', an' arterwards go home.
“I ainded Seize up in his bed, back agin the wall,
an' facin the door. Torrectly I hearn his tin pill-boxes,
his squ't an' his pullicans rattlin in his pockets; he wer
a-cumin. I jis' slid onder the bed, an' stuck my head
up atween hit an' the wall, an' ahine Seize. He step't
intu the dark room, an' by the help ove the fire-bug
plaster he seed a heap, in fact more nur wer cumfortabil
by about sixty-two an' a 'alf cents. Thar wer a
'luminated snake a-wavin roun, thar wer the shiny frog
movin his laigs an' paws like he wer a-swimmin, then
he'd gester wif his arms like he wer makin a stump-speech;
thar wer the pitch-fork wif hits hot prongs,
(the doctor hearn them sciz,) an' more nur all thar wer
the orful corpse, wif hits face an' har all a-fire. Too
much hell-sign on that bed even fur a bone-biler's
narves. He jis' stop't short, froze tu the heart. I felt
his shiverin cum tu me in the floor-planks.
“I tuck the same ole vise what hed sich a muvin
sum bones tu bile, dus yu? Didn't raise eny tu-night,
did yu? I'se in that bisness mysef—follered hit ni
ontu thuty thousand years. I'se a-bilin Ike Green's,
an' Polly Weaver's, an' ole Seize's what yu pizen'd fur
me, an' they sent me arter yu; les's go, my bilin hous' is
warm—yu's cold—cum, sonny.'
“When I spoke ove ole Seize, he know'd I wer that
orful ole king ove sorrer, an' that he wer gwine tu ride
ontu the prongs ove that ar pitch-fork, dripin now wif
the burnin taller ofen Seize's ribs, strait tu whar all
quacks go. Sez he, `W-w-wait, sir, till I gits my phissick-box;
I'se onwell, please.' An' outen the door he
bulged. I hollered arter him, `Bring yer diplomer, I
wants tu 'zamin hit.' `Oh, yes sir.' I hearn this away
back ove the field. In thuty-one days frum that date,
he wer tendin a grist-mill in Californy. Ef he tends hit
on the plan he tended folks yere, he's got hits bones
a-bilin afore now.
“I wish, George, sum smart man-body wud bile the
bones ove a grist-mill, an' find the cause, an' p'raps the
cure fur `mill-sick.”'
“What in the name of the Prophet is `mill-sick?'
Sut.”
“Why, hits a ailin what mills giner'lly hes, hits
mity hurtin too, fur the peopil in the hole neighborhood
kin feel the sufferin ove the misfortinit mill.”
“How does it affect the mills?”
“Why, orfully; they don't pass all they chaws. Yu
sumtimes sees sign ove hit on the miller an' his hogs;
they looks like they hes the dropsy.
“Now durn jis' sich luck; yere I wer wif Seize's
copse on han, an' hit ni ontu daylite, no box, no spade,
no hole, an' wus nur all, no whisky. Durn fools don't
allers hev sich luck es this wer; ef they did, how wud
peopil ever git rich, ur tu Congriss. I made the bes'
I cud outen a bad fix. I jis' toted the ole skare out intu
the woods, an' hid him onder a log, an' went over tu
Hunicutt's agin. I wer boun tu go, fur my whisky
wer hid thar.
“The niggers wer all in a huddle in the kitchin, an'
the white folks all a-cryin, an' a-snufflin. Missis Hunicutt
wer out, a-top the bars, a-callin ove him. `Oh,
Hunicuttee,' like callin cows, an' he warn't answerin.
In fac' everybody wer skar'd durn ni outen thar wits.
I tole em the bes' thing they cud du, wer tu git the
dirt a-top ove that nigger Seize es quick es spades an'
hoes cud du hit; that I know'd sumfin wer wrong
wif Seize; must hev been a orful hiperkrit afore he
died. Passun Simon hed been spirited off wif a burnin
sasser ove fat in his han; Maje warn't in the bed, an
wer too drunk tu git away hissef, an' es I cum yere jis'
afore day, I met Mr. Hunicutt way up in the air, ridin
a-straddil ove a burnin ladder wif Missis Loftin ahine
him, her petticoatail a-blazin, an' she a-singin, `Farwell
vain worl, I'se gwine home.'
“Hunicutt's ole cook rolled up her eyes an' sed,
smackin her hans: `Dar, dats hit, I'se know dis tree
munf Missis Loftin fotch de debil heah afore she dun;
goramity bress de worl, she dun du hit now!'
“Missis Hunicutt look't at me keenly, an' axed me ef
I wer shure hit wer Missis Loftin I seed on the ladder.
I tole her `Yas; I'd swar hit: I know'd her kalliker.'
“Sez she: `Now I kin bar my brevement.' An' she
sot intu comin her har.
“Well, the niggers geard a par ove hosses tu a waggin,
an' put the coffin in wifout scarcely sayin a word,
ur even venterin tu take a farwell look ove the corpse;
they wanted hit away frum thar, sure es yu are born.
Jis' s'pose they hed open'd that led an' seed Maje
dressed up es he wer. Oh, lordy! enuf niggers wud
hev jis' turned inside out, an' then mortified, tu manured
a forty-acre saige-field.
“Suckey—that's Seize's wife—sot on the head ove
the coffin, an the balance ove hit wer soon kivered wif
she niggers; they jis' swarmed ontu the waggin, an' all
roun hit, an' started. When they got intu the aidge ove
town, ni ontu Wright's doggery, maje begun tu wake
frum the joltin, an' sot intu buttin the led wif his hed,
his ho'ns a-rattlin agin hit. Suckey felt sumthin onder
her she didn't like. Butt rattil cum up Maje's head
an' ho'ns harder nur before. Her eyes swelled tu the
size an' looks ove hard-biled aigs, an' she ris hersef
ofen the coffin a littil wif her hans. `Butt, whosh!' sed
thi hed been a loadstone spat.
“`Pete, yu Pete, jis' wo dem hosses, rite heah, an'
leff me off ob dis wagun.' Maje gin anuther suvigrus
butt, an' sed, a-chokin like, `Dis am the debil!' Suckey
lit in the road. `I'se gwine tu my missus, I is,' sed
Suckey, an' back she put, shakin her petticoats, an'
pullin em roun so she cud see the hineparts whar the
led hed actid loadstone. `De debil hesef in dat box
wif Seize, shuah, fur he say so. I tole yu dis Seize, I
hes more time nor I hes har; now yu's gone an' dun
hit, yu hes,' an' she struck a cow gallop fur home.
“Butt, cum Maje's head agin, an' thar bein no
Suckey wif her hundred an' fifty poun ove soap grease
tu hole hit down, over cum the led slap. Maje rared
up on aind. `Whosh! dis am de debil;' he sed. Thuty
screams mixed in one, clatterin ove shoes, an' scrachin
ove toe-nails, an' thar warn't a nigger lef in site afore a
stutterin man cud whistil.
“Now Maje know'd nuffin about how he look't, but
he seed the cuffin, an' the waggin. Sez he: `Well, by
golly! dis am a go; gwine tu burry dis chile, an' neber
ax 'im. Whar de mourners? Whar de passun? an'
whar de corpsis? dats what I wants tu know. Sumfin
wrong heah,' an' he bit his arm savidge es a dorg.
`Outch! I isn't ded, an' I'se a-cummin outen heah. Dus
yu hear my h'on? I is dat. Datdurn 'saitful preachin
Simon dun dis; he want Sally; I kill em bof, de coffin
Whar wer de white folks.' Yere he cummenced a
mons'ous scufflin tu git out. The hosses look'd roun an
seed 'im; ove course they instantly sot intu run away
strong—hit a postes, an' pitched the black box up in
the air whar hit look'd like a big grasshopper a-jumpin.
Hit lit on aind, an' busted the led off; out bounced
Maje, an' shakin hissef he tuck a drunk staggerin look
at hit, an' sez he, a-moshunin the coffin away frum him
wif bof hans, `Sea heah, yu jis go long tu de bone-yard,
yu black debbil, whar yu b'longs, I'se not gwine
wid yu; I sends Simon tu yu dis arternoon.' An' he
started fur the doggery.
“Wright hed cum tu the door, an' wer a-lookin an'
a-wonderin at the upraised coffin, when Maje faced him
an' started at him in a trot; he wanted a ho'n bad.
His head, ho'ns an' snake penertrated Wright's mind
wif the idear that hit wer the devil, an' knowin that the
ole soot-maker hilt several notes ove han agin him,
'bout due, he fix'd it up that he wer gwine tu levy
ontu him, an' he fotch a coffin tu tote him home in.
So he jis' tried tu dodge the lor. He jump't the counter
—out at the back door, an' cummenced a-litnin line fur
the mountain.
“I wer ahine the doggery in the thicket, an' I bellered
out, `Stop, Wright, I owes yu fur a heap ove
sinners; yu sent me Seize, yesterday, an' I'se cum tu
settil fur em.'
“He wer the fust man I ever seed run frum a feller
when he wanted tu pay a debt. Durn ole Hark, ef he
warn't jis' openin a waggin road thru the pine thicket,
thuty mile tu the hour. Yu cud see the limbs an' littil
rocks a-flyin abuv the trees es he went, an' he sounded
like a hurrycane, an' wer a-movin as fast.
“When I spoke them words, the limbs an' littil
rocks farly darkened the air, an' the soun got louder
ef hit wer a heap furder off. He wer es yearnist a
man es ever run. I think he did the mos' onresistabil
runnin I ever seed. Nuffin wer in his way; he jis'
mow'd hit all down es he fled frum es jest a ritribushun
as ever follered eny dnrn'd raskil since ole Shockly
chased Passun Bumpas wif a shot-gun ritribushun, fur
onsantifyin his wife.”
“Did Shockly catch Bumpas, Sut?'
“I dunno; He mus' a-run 'im pow'ful clost, fur he
fotch back his hoss, hat, an' hyme book, an' bof caps on
his gun wer busted, an' nobody name Bumpas hes been
seed 'bout thar since, 'sceptin sum littil flax-headed
fellers scattered thru the sarkit, wif no daddys, an' not
much mammys tu speak ove. Ef I'd a-seed the devil
es plain es Wright did, the day they tried tu bury
Seize, an' didn't, I'd a-ax'd him; he knows whether
Shockly cotch Bumpas, ur not.
“Well, Maje cum blowin mad intu the doggery, an
seein nobody, he jis' grabbed a bottil, an' tuck hissef a
buckload ove popskull, an' slip't the bottil intu his
seed hissef fur the fust time in a big lookin-glass. He
took hit tu be a winder, an' tho't what he seed wer in
tuther room, a-watchin him. `Yu—yu jis' lef me lone;
I'se not yourn; I b'longs tu meetin,' sed Maje, as he back'd
hissef to'ards the door. As he back'd, so did the taryfyin
picter. Maje seed that. `Gwine tu take a runnin
butt, is yu,' sed Maje, as he fell a back summerset intu
the street; as he lit, I groaned out at him: `Major, my
son, I'se cum fur the toll outen ole Hunicutt's co'n.'
`Simon dun got dat toll,' sed Maje, sorter sham'd like.
“He riz, showin a far sampil ove skared nigger runnin.
`Ho'ns an' buttin go tugether, an' dat am de
debil in dar,' sed Maje tu hissef. I holler'd `Leave
Wright's bottil; yu don't want hit, I'll gin yu hotter
truck nur hit is; I'se farly arter yu now.' I seed the
bottil fly over Maje's shoulder, an' lite in the san. I got
hit, I did.
“He made down street fur the river, an' clear'd the
road ove every livin thing. Wimen went head-fust
intu the houses, doors slam'd, sash fell, cats' tails
swell'd es they treed onder stabils, Maje jis' a-tarin
along, his ho'ny head throw'd back, an' his elbows
a-workin like a par ove skeer'd saw-mills runnin empty.
I seed him fling sumthin over his head. I tho't hit
wer anuther bottil, an' went fur hit, but hit wer nuffin
but a greasy testemint.
“Ole Dozier, the sheriff, what hed hung a nigger
street, jis' ahead ove Maje, a-totin his big belly, a hanful
ove papers, an' a quill in his mouf, in a deep study.
He hearn the soun ove Maje's huffs, an' look'd roun.
As he did, I shouted, `Run, sheriff, that's Pomp, an'
yere's his coffin,' a-pintin tu hit.
“George, my 'sperience is that sheriffs, an' lor officers
giner'lly, onderstands the bisness ove runnin better
nur mos' folks, enyhow, an' durn my shut ef ole Dozier
didn't jis' then sustain the kar-acter ove the tribe
mons'ous well.
“He hes pow'ful presence ove mind too, fur I'd
scarcely sed `coffin,' afore he wer at the top ove his
speed to'ards the river. Now Maje, like most durn'd
white fools, b'leved the sheriff tu be greater nur enybody,
an' hed the power tu du enything. So a idear
got onder his ho'ns, an' ahine his eyes, that Dozier cud
help him sumhow, tu git rid ove the chasin devil, an'
he holler'd `Marster Dozier—' Dozier drap't his
quill. `Marster Sheriff—' Sheriff lef loose a cloud
ove flyin papers in the wind. `Stop dar, I hes a word
wid yu.'
“Dozier run outen his hat an' specks wif a jerk, an'
I seed his dinner tub a-swingin out each side ove him,
like a bag wif a skared dorg intu hit, every lope he
made. I galloped caticorner'd across lots, an' got in a
paw-paw thicket on the bank ove the river, afore they
got roun thar; as Dozier whizz'd by, the sweat flyin ofen
grindstone. I spoke tu him in a mournful way:
`Sheriff, yu're time am cum, he's got a rope.'
“Durn ef he didn't sheer outen the road like a
skeer'd hoss, an' went ofen the bluff, frog fashun, intu
the river—an' dove. The waves washed up on tuther
bank, three foot high; a steamboat cudn't hev dun hit
better, an' es good a growin rain fell, fur five minnits,
as wer ever prayed fur, an' not a cloud tu be seed
that day. Yere cum Maje, his eyes an' thar stripes
like buggy wheels, wif red lamps in the hubs. Sez I,
`Yere I is, clost tu yu're starn; I mus' hev my toll
co'n.' Durn ole Paddilford, ef he didn't play skeered
hoss better nur Dozier did, fur he lit furder in the river,
an' we hed anuther refreshin shower; but I swar, I tho't
hit smelt ove whisky. Bof on em wer swimin fur
tuther bank, like ole otters. The sheriff's hot head wer
smokin like a tub ove bil'd shuts, an' Maje's look'd like
black bull yearlin's, jis' a-bilin thru the warter. Es
ole Dozier trotted drippin up the bank, I yell'd: `Rise
sheriff, he's a-reachin fur yu wif his rope, an' hits got a
runnin noose.' He look'd over his shoulder an' seed
the bull yearlin's head clost in shore, an' a-cummin.
He jis' rained san an' gravil intu the river, frum his
heels, an' went outen site in the tall weeds. As Maje
went up the bank, I call'd tu him, `Major, my son,
whar's Wright's bottil?' I seed him feel on his coat-tail;
the durned nigger hed forgot flingin hit over his
I tuck a good holesum pull outen that bottil, an' tho't
what a durn'd discumfortin thing a big skeer is.
“Plenty peopil am redy tu swar that they seed the
devil chasin Dozier, plum tu the mountin, an' one ole
'oman, a-givin in her sperience at meetin, sed she seed
him ketch him, an' eat him plum up. She tole a
durn'd lie, I speck.
“I performed two christshun jutys that night. I
stole the coffin, an' buried Seize out in the woods whar
I'd hid him, an' his rale grave stans open yet, the bes'
frog-trap yu ever seed. See the orful consekenses ove
bein skeery when a nigger dies. Hunicutt gone;
Seize's corpse los', doctor gone, passun gone, sheriff gone,
an' tu cap the stack ove vexashus things, the doggery
keeper gone. Why, the county's ruinated, an' hits
haunted yet wif all sorts ove orful haunts; yu ken buy
land thar fur a dime a acre, on tick at that.”
“What became of Mrs. Hunicutt, and Mrs. Loftin,
Sut?”
“Oh! es tu em, Missis Hunicutt is playin widder,
in red ribbons, an' Missis Loftin's jin'd meetin.
“I'se furgot sumthin; what am hit? Oh! I minds
now; 'twer that tuther christshun juty I performed. I
minister'd ontu Wright's doggery, an' run hit till the
grass burn't up, when hit went dry. I wish hit mout
hev a calf soon.
| FRUSTRATING A FUNERAL. Sut Lovingood | |