University of Virginia Library

RARE RIPE GARDEN-SEED.

“I tell yu now, I minds my fust big skeer jis' es
well as rich boys minds thar fust boots, ur seein the
fust spotted hoss sirkis. The red top ove them boots
am still a rich red stripe in thar minds, an' the burnin
red ove my fust skeer hes lef es deep a scar ontu my
thinkin works. Mam hed me a standin atwixt her
knees. I kin feel the knobs ove her jints a-rattlin
a-pas' my ribs yet. She didn't hev much petticoats tu
speak ove, an' I hed but one, an' hit wer calliker slit
frum the nap ove my naik tu the tail, hilt tugether at
the top wif a draw-string, an' at the bottom by the
hem; hit wer the handiest close I ever seed, an' wud
be pow'ful cumfurtin in summer if hit warn't fur the
flies. Ef they was good tu run in, I'd war one yet.
They beats pasted shuts, an' britches, es bad es a
feather bed beats a bag ove warnut shells fur sleepin
on.

“Say, George, wudn't yu like tu see me intu one
'bout haf fadid, slit, an' a-walkin jis' so, up the middil

street ove yure city chuch, a-aimin fur yure pew
pen, an' hit chock full ove yure fine city gal friends,
jis' arter the peopil hed sot down frum the fust prayer,
an' the orgin beginin tu groan; what wud yu du in
sich a margincy? say hoss?”

“Why, I'd shoot you dead, Monday morning before
eight o'clock,” was my reply.

“Well, I speck yu wud; but yu'd take a rale ole
maid faint fus, rite amung them ar gals. Lordy!
wudn't yu be shamed ove me! Yit why not ten
chuch in sich a suit, when yu hesn't got no store
clothes?

“Well, es I wer sayin, mam wer feedin us brats
ontu mush an' milk, wifout the milk, an' es I wer the
baby then, she hilt me so es tu see that I got my sheer.
Whar thar ain't enuf feed, big childer roots littil childer
outen the troff, an' gobbils up thar part. Jis' so the
yeath over: bishops eats elders, elders eats common
peopil; they eats sich cattil es me, I eats possums, possums
eats chickins, chickins swallers wums, an' wums
am content tu eat dus, an' the dus am the aind ove hit
all. Hit am all es regilur es the souns frum the tribil
down tu the bull base ove a fiddil in good tchune, an'
I speck hit am right, ur hit wudn't be 'lowed.

“`The sheriff!' his'd mam in a keen trimblin whisper,
hit sounded tu me like the skreech ove a hen
when she sez `hawk,' tu her little roun-sturn'd, fuzzy,
bead-eyed, stripid-backs.

“I actid jis' adzacly as they dus; I darted on all
fours onder mam's petticoatails, an' thar I met, face tu
face, the wooden bowl, an' the mush, an' the spoon
what she slid onder frum tuther side. I'se mad at mysef
yet, fur rite thar I show'd the fust flash ove the
nat'ral born durn fool what I now is. I orter et hit all
up, in jestis tu my stumick an' my growin, while the
sheriff wer levyin ontu the bed an' the cheers. Tu this
day, ef enybody sez `sheriff,' I feels skeer, an' ef I hears
constabil menshun'd, my laigs goes thru runnin moshuns,
even ef I is asleep. Did yu ever watch a dorg
dreamin ove rabbit huntin? Thems the moshuns, an'
the feelin am the rabbit's.

“Sherifs am orful 'spectabil peopil; everybody looks
up tu em. I never adzacly seed the 'spectabil part
mysef. I'se too fear'd ove em, I reckon, tu 'zamin fur
hit much. One thing I knows, no country atwix
yere an' Tophit kin ever 'lect me tu sell out widders'
plunder, ur poor men's co'n, an' the tho'ts ove hit gins
me a good feelin; hit sorter flashes thru my heart when
I thinks ove hit. I axed a passun onst, whan hit cud
be, an' he pernounced hit tu be onregenerit pride, what
I orter squelch in prayer, an' in tendin chuch on colleckshun
days. I wer in hopes hit mout be 'ligion, ur
sence, a-soakin intu me; hit feels good, enyhow, an' I
don't keer ef every suckit rider outen jail knows hit.
Sheriffs' shuts allers hes nettil dus ur fleas inside ove
em when they lies down tu sleep, an' I'se glad ove hit,

fur they'se allers discumfortin me, durn em. I scarcely
ever git tu drink a ho'n, ur eat a mess in peace. I'll
hurt one sum day, see ef I don't. Show me a sheriff
a-steppin softly roun, an' a-sorter sightin at me, an' I'll
show yu a far sampil ove the speed ove a express in-gine,
fired up wif rich, dry, rosiny skeers. They don't
ketch me much, usin only human laigs es wepuns.

“Ole John Doltin wer a 'spectabil sheriff, monsusly
so, an' hed the bes' scent fur poor fugatif devils, an'
wimen, I ever seed; he wer sure fire. Well, he toted
a warrun fur this yere skinful ove durn'd fool, 'bout
that ar misfortnit nigger meetin bisness, ontil he wore
hit intu six seperit squar bits, an' hed wore out much
shoe leather a-chasin ove me. I'd foun a doggery in
full milk, an' hated pow'ful bad tu leave that settilment
while hit suck'd free; so I sot intu sorter try an' wean
him off frum botherin me so much. I suckseedid so
well that he not only quit racin ove me, an' wimen, but
he wer tetotaly spiled es as a sheriff, an' los' the 'spectabil
seckshun ove his karacter. Tu make yu fool fellers
onderstan how hit wer done, I mus' interjuice yure
minds tu one Wat Mastin, a bullit-headed yung blacksmith.

“Well, las' year—no hit wer the year afore las'—in
struttin an' gobblin time, Wat felt his keepin right
warm, so he sot intu bellerin an' pawin up dus in the
neighborhood roun the ole widder McKildrin's. The
more dus he flung up, the wus he got, ontil at las' he

jis cudn't stan the ticklin sensashuns anutner minnit;
so he put fur the county court clark's offis, wif his hans
sock'd down deep intu his britchis pockets, like he wer
fear'd ove pick-pockets, his back roach'd roun, an'
a-chompin his teef ontil he splotch'd his whiskers wif
foam. Oh! he wer yearnis' hot, an' es restless es a
cockroach in a hot skillit.”

“What was the matter with this Mr. Mastin? I
cannot understand you, Mr. Lovingood; had he hydrophobia?”
remarked a man in a square-tail coat, and
cloth gaiters, who was obtaining subscribers for some
forthcoming Encyclopedia of Useful Knowledge, who
had quartered at our camp, uninvited, and really
unwanted.

“What du yu mean by high-dry-foby?” and Sut
looked puzzled.

“A madness produced by being bit by some rabid
animal,” explained Square-tail, in a pompous manner.

“Yas, hoss, he hed high-dry-foby orful, an' Mary
McKildrin, the widder McKildrin's only darter, hed
gin him the complaint; I don't know whether she bit
'im ur not; he mout a-cotch hit frum her bref, an' he
wer now in the roach back, chompin stage ove the
sickness, so he wer arter the clark fur a tickit tu the
hospital. Well, the clark sole 'im a piece ove paper,
part printin an' part ritin, wif a picter ove two pigs'
hearts, what sum boy hed shot a arrer thru, an' lef hit
stickin, printed at the top. That paper wer a splicin

pass—sum calls hit a par ove licins—an' that very nite
he tuck Mary, fur better, fur wus, tu hev an' tu hole
tu him his heirs, an'—”

“Allow me to interrupt you,” said our guest; “you
do not quote the marriage ceremony correctly.”

“Yu go tu hell, mistofer; yu bothers me.”

This outrageous rebuff took the stranger all aback,
and he sat down.

“Whar wer I? Oh yas, he married Mary tight an'
fas', an' nex day he wer abil tu be about. His coat
tho', an' his trousis look'd jis' a skrimshun too big,
loose like, an' heavy tu tote. I axed him ef he felt
soun. He sed yas, but he'd welded a steamboat shaftez
the day afore, an' wer sorter tired like. Thar he tole a
durn lie, fur he'd been a-ho'nin up dirt mos' ove the
day, roun the widder's garden, an' bellerin in the orchard.
Mary an' him sot squar intu hous'-keepin, an'
'mung uther things he bot a lot ove rar ripe garden-seed,
frum a Yankee peddler. Rar ripe co'n, rar ripe peas,
rar ripe taters, rar ripe everything, an' the two yung
durn'd fools wer dreadfully exereis'd 'bout hit. Wat sed
he ment tu git him a rar ripe hammer an' avil, an' Mary
vow'd tu grashus, that she'd hev a rar ripe wheel an'
loom, ef money wud git em. Purty soon arter he hed
made the garden, he tuck a noshun tu work a spell
down tu Ataylanty, in the railroad shep, es he sed he hed
a sorter ailin in his back, an' he tho't weldin rail car-tire
an' ingine axiltrees, wer lighter work nur sharpinin

plows, an' puttin lap-links in trace-chains. So down
he went, an' foun hit agreed wif him, fur he didn't cum
back ontil the middil ove August. The fust thing he
seed when he landid intu his cabin-door, wer a shoe-box
wif rockers onder hit, an' the nex thing he seed,
wer Mary hersef, propped up in bed, an' the nex thing
he seed arter that, wer a par ove littil rat-eyes a-shinin
abuv the aind ove the quilt, ontu Mary's arm, an' the
nex an' las' thing he seed wer the two littil rat-eyes
aforesed, a-turnin intu two hundred thousand big green
stars, an' a-swingin roun an' roun the room, faster an'
faster, ontil they mix'd intu one orful green flash. He
drap't intu a limber pile on the floor. The durn'd
fool what hed weldid the steamboat shaftez hed fainted
safe an' soun es a gal skeered at a mad bull. Mary
fotch a weak cat-scream, an' kivered her head, an' sot
intu work ontu a whifflin dry cry, while littil Rat-eyes
gin hitssef up tu suckin. Cryin an' suckin bof at onst
ain't far; mus' cum pow'ful strainin on the wet seckshun
ove an' 'oman's constitushun; yet hit am ofen
dun, an' more too. Ole Missis McKildrin, what wer
a-nussin Mary, jis' got up frum knittin, an' flung a big
gourd ove warter squar intu Wat's face, then she fotch
a glass bottil ove swell-skull whisky outen the three-cornered
cupboard, an' stood furnint Wat, a-holdin hit
in wun han, an' the tin-cup in tuther, waitin fur Wat
tu cum to. She wer the piusses lookin ole 'oman jis'
then, yu ever seed outside ove a prayer-meetin. Arter
a spell, Wat begun tu move, twitchin his fingers, an'
battin his eyes, sorter 'stonished like. That pius lookin
statue sed tu him:

“`My son, jis' take a drap ove sperrits, honey. Yu'se
very sick, dumplin, don't take on darlin, ef yu kin
help hit, ducky, fur poor Margarit Jane am mons'ous
ailin, an' the leas' nise ur takin on will kill the poor
sufferin dear, an' yu'll loose yure tuckil ducky duv ove
a sweet wifey, arter all she's dun gone thru fur yu. My
dear son Watty, yu mus' consider her feelins a littil.'
Sez Wat, a-turnin up his eyes at that vartus ole relick,
sorter sick like—

“`I is a-considerin em a heap, rite now'

“`Oh that's right, my good kine child.'

“Oh dam ef ole muther-in-lors can't plaster humbug
over a feller, jis' es saft an' easy es they spreads a camrick
hanketcher over a three hour ole baby's face; yu
don't feel hit at all, but hit am thar, a plum inch thick,
an' stickin fas es court-plaster. She raised Wat's head,
an' sot the aidge ove the tin cup agin his lower teef, an'
turned up the bottim slow an' keerful, a-winkin at
Mary, hu wer a-peepin over the aidge ove the coverlid,
tu see ef Wat tuck the perskripshun, fur a heap ove
famerly cumfort 'pended on that ar ho'n ove sperrits.
Wun ho'n allers saftens a man, the yeath over. Wat
keep a-battin his eyes, wus nur a owl in daylight; at las'
he raised hissef ontu wun elbow, an' rested his head in
that han, sorter weak like. Sez he, mons'ous trimblin an'

slow: `Aprile—May—June—July—an' mos'—haf—
ove—August,' a-countin the munths ontu the fingers
ove tuther han, wif the thumb, a-shakin ove his head,
an' lookin at his spread fingers like they warn't his'n,
ur they wer nastied wif sumfin. Then he counted em
agin, slower, Aprile—May—June—July—an', mos'
haf ove August, an' he run his thumb atwixt his fingers,
es meanin mos' haf ove August, an' look'd at the
pint ove hit, like hit mout be a snake's head. He raised
his eyes tu the widder's face, who wer standin jis' es
steady es a hitchin pos', an' still a-warin that pius
'spression ontu her pussonal feturs, an' a flood ove
saft luv fur Wat, a-shinin strait frum her eyes intu
his'n. Sez he, `That jis' makes four munths, an' mos'
a half, don't hit, Missis McKildrin?' She never sed
one word. Wat reached fur the hath, an' got a dead
fire-coal; then he made a mark clean acrost a floor-plank.
Sez he, `Aprile,' a-holdin down the coal ontu
the aind ove the mark, like he wer fear'd hit mout
blow away afore he got hit christened Aprile. Sez he,
`May'—an' he marked across the board agin; then he
counted the marks, one, two, a-dottin at em wif the
coal. `June,' an' he marked agin, one, two, three;
counted wif the pint ove the coal. He scratched his
head wif the littil finger ove the han holdin the charcoal,
an' he drawed hit slowly acrost the board agin,
peepin onder his wrist tu see when hit reached the
crack, an' sez he `July,' es he lifted the coal; `one, two
three, four,' countin frum lef tu right, an' then frum
right tu lef. `That haint but four, no way I kin fix
hit. Ole Pike hissef cudn't make hit five, ef he wer tu
sifer ontu hit ontil his laigs turned intu figger eights.'
Then he made a mark, haf acrost a plank, spit on his
finger, an' rubbed off a haf inch ove the aind, an' sez
he, `Mos' haf ove August. He looked up at the widder,
an' thar she wer, same es ever, still a-holdin the
flask agin her bussum, an' sez he `Four months, an'
mos' a haf. Haint enuf, is hit mammy? hits jis' 'bout
(lackin a littil) haf enuf, haint hit, mammy?'

“Missis McKildrin shuck her head sorter onsartin
like, an' sez she, `Take a drap more sperrits, Watty,
my dear pet; dus yu mine buyin that ar rar ripe seed,
frum the peddler?' Wat nodded his head, an' looked
`what ove hit,' but didn't say hit.

“`This is what cums ove hit, an' four months an' a
haf am rar ripe time fur babys, adzackly. Tu be sure,
hit lacks a day ur two, but Margarit Jane wer allers a
pow'ful interprizin gal, an' a yearly rizer.' Sez Wat,

“`How about the 'taters?'

“`Oh, we et 'taters es big es goose aigs, afore ole
Missis Collinze's blossomed.'

“`How 'bout co'n?'

“`Oh, we shaved down roasin years afore hern tassel'd—'

“`An' peas?'

“`Yes son, we hed gobs an' lots in three weeks.

Everything cums in adzackly half the time that hit
takes the ole sort, an' yu knows, my darlin son, yu
planted hit waseful. I tho't then yu'd rar ripe everything
on the place. Yu planted often, too, didn't yu
luv? fur fear hit wudn't cum up.'

“`Ye-ye-s-s he—he did,' sed Mary a-cryin. Wat
studied pow'ful deep a spell, an' the widder jis' waited.
Widders allers wait, an' allers win. At las, sez he,
`Mammy.' She looked at Mary, an' winked these yere
words at her, es plain es she cud a-talked em. `Yu
hearn him call me mammy twiste. I'se got him now.
His back-bone's a-limberin fas', he'll own the baby yet,
see ef he don't. Jis' hole still my darter, an' let yer
mammy knead this dough, then yu may bake hit es
brown es yu please.'

“`Mammy, when I married on the fust day ove
Aprile'— The widder look'd oneasy; she tho't he
mout be a-cupplin that day, his weddin, an' the idear,
dam fool, tugether. But he warn't, fur he sed `That day
I gin ole man Collins my note ove han fur a hundred
dullars, jew in one year arter date, the balluns on this
lan. Dus yu think that ar seed will change the time
eny, ur will hit alter the amount?' An' Wat looked at
her powerful ankshus. She raised the whisky bottil
way abuv her head, wif her thumb on the mouf, an'
fotch the bottim down ontu her han, spat. Sez she,
`Watty, my dear b'lovid son, pripar tu pay two hundred
dullars 'bout the fust ove October, fur hit'll be

jew jis' then, es sure es that littil black-eyed angel in
the bed thar, am yer darter.'

“Wat drap't his head, an' sed, `Then hits a dam sure
thing.' Rite yere, the baby fotch a rattlin loud squall,
(I speck Mary wer sorter figetty jis' then, an' hurt hit.)
`Yas,' sez Wat, a-wallin a red eye to'ards the bed; `my
littil she—what wer hit yu called her name, mammy?'
`I called her a sweet littil angel, an' she is wun, es sure
es yu're her daddy, my b'loved son.' `Well,' sez Wat,
`my littil sweet, patent rar ripe she angel, ef yu lives
tu marryin time, yu'll 'stonish sum man body outen
his shut, ef yu don't rar ripe lose hits vartu arter the
fust plantin, that's all.' He rared up on aind, wif his
mouf pouch'd out. He had a pow'ful forrid, fur-reachin,
bread funnel, enyhow—cud a-bit the aigs
outen a catfish, in two-foot warter, wifout wettin his
eyebrows. `Dod durn rar ripe seed, an' rar ripe pedlers,
an' rar ripe notes tu the hottes' corner ove —'

“`Stop Watty, darlin, don't swar; 'member yu belongs
tu meetin.'

“`My blacksmith's fire,' ainded Wat, an' he studied
a long spell; sez he,

“`Did you save eny ove that infunnel doubil-trigger
seed?' `Yas,' sez the widder, `thar in that bag by the
cupboard. Wat got up ofen the floor, tuck a countin sorter
look at the charcoal marks, an' reached down the
bag; he went tu the door an' called `Suke, muley!
Suke, Suke, cow, chick, chick, chicky chick.' `What's

yu gwine tu du now, my dear son?' sed Missis McKildrin.
`I'se jis' gwine tu feed this actif smart truck tu
the cow, an' the hens, that's what I'se gwine tu du
Ole muley haint hed a calf in two years, an' I'll eat
sum rar ripe aigs.' Mary now venter'd tu speak:
`Husban, I ain't sure hit'll work on hens; cum an' kiss
me my luv.' `I haint sure hit'll work on hens, either,'
sed Wat. `They's powerful onsartin in thar ways, well
es wimen,' an' he flung out a hanful spiteful like. Takin
the rar ripe invenshun all tugether, frum 'taters an' peas
tu notes ove han, an' childer, I can't say I likes hit
much,' an' he flung out anuther hanful. `Yer mam
hed thuteen the ole way, an' ef this truck stays 'bout
the hous', yu'se good fur twenty-six, maybe thuty, fur
yu'se a pow'ful interprizin gal, yer mam sez,' an' he
flung out anuther hanful, overhandid, es hard es ef he
wer flingin rocks at a stealin sow. `Make yere mine
easy,' sed the widder; `hit never works on married
folks only the fust time.' `Say them words agin,' sed
Wat, `I'se glad tu hear em. Is hit the same way wif
notes ove han?' `I speck hit am,' answer'd the widder,
wif jis' a taste ove strong vinegar in the words, es she
sot the flask in the cupboard wif a push.

“Jis' then ole Doltin, the sheriff, rid up, an' started
'stonished when he seed Wat, but he, quick es an 'oman
kin hide a strange hat, drawed the puckerin-string ove
that legil face ove his'n, an' fotch hit up tu the `know'd
yu wer at home,' sorter look, an' wishin Wat much joy,

sed he'd fotch the baby a present, a par ove red shoes,
an' a calliker dress, fur the luv he bore hits granmam.
Missis McKildrin tole him what the rar ripe hed dun,
an' he swore hit allers worked jis' that way, an' wer
'stonished at Wat's not knowin hit; an' they talked so
fas', an' so much, that the more Wat listened the less
he know'd.

“Arter the sheriff lef, they onrolled the bundil, an'
Wat straitched out the calliker in the yard. He step't
hit off keerfully, ten yards, an a littil the rise. He puss'd
up his mouf, an' blow'd out a whistil seven foot long,
lookin up an' down the middil stripe ove the drygoods,
frum aind tu aind. Sez he, `Missis McKildrin, that'll
make Rar Ripe a good full frock, won't hit?' `Y-a-s,'
sed she, wif her hans laid up along her jaw, like she
wer studyin the thing keerfully. `My son, I thinks
hit will, an' I wer jis' a-thinkin ef hit wer cut tu 'vantage,
thar mout be nuff lef, squeezed out tu make yu a
Sunday shutin shut, makin the ruffils an' ban outen sumthin
else.' `Put hit in the bag what the rar ripe wer
in, an' by mornin thar'll be nuff fur the ruffils an' bans,
an' yu mout make the tail tu drag the yeath, wifout
squeezin ur pecin,' sez Wat, an' he put a few small
wrinkils in the pint ove his nose, what seemed tu
bother the widder tu make out the meanin ove; they
look'd mons'ous like the outward signs ove an onb'lever.
Jis' then his eyes sot fas' ontu sumthin a-lyin
on the groun whar he'd onrolled the bundil; he walk'd

up tu hit slow, sorter like a feller goes up tu a log,
arter he thinks he seed a snake run onder. He walk'd
clean roun hit twiste, never takin his eyes often hit.
At las' he lifted hit on his instep, an' hilt out his laig
strait at that widdered muther-in-lor ove his'n. Sez he,
`What mout yu call that? Red baby's shoes don't giner'lly
hev teeth, dus they?' `Don't yu know hits a
tuckin comb, Watty? The store-keeper's made a sorter
blunder, I speck,' sed that vartus petticoatful ove
widderhood. `Maybe he hes; I'se durn sure I hes,' sed
Wat, an' he wrinkil'd his nose agin, mons'ous botherinly
tu that watchful widder. He scratched his head a
spell; sez he, `Ten yards an' the rise fur a baby's frock,
an' hit rar ripe at that, gits me; an' that ar tuckin comb
gits me wus.' `Oh, fiddlesticks an' flusterashun,' sez
she. `Save the comb; baby'll soon want hit.' `That's
so, mammy, I'm dam ef hit don't,' an' he slip't his foot
frum onder hit, an' hit scarcely totch the yeath afore
he stomp't hit, an' the teeth flew all over the widder.
He look'd like he'd been stompin a blowin adder, an'
went apas' the 'oman intu the cabin, in a rale Aprile
tucky gobbler strut. When he tore the rapper off the
sheriff's present, I seed a littil bit ove white paper fall
out. Onbenowenst tu enybody, I sot my foot ontu hit,
an' when they went in I socked hit deep intu my
pocket, an' went over tu the still-'ous. I tuck Jim
Dunkin out, an' arter swarin 'im wif a uplifted han', tu
keep dark, got him tu read hit tu me, ontil hit wer
printed on the mindin seckshun ove my brain. Hit
run jis' so:

An' tu that ar las' remark he'd sot a big D. I reckon
he ment that fur dam Wat.

“Now, I jis' know'd es long es I hed that paper, I
hilt four aces ontu the sheriff, an' I ment tu bet on the
han, an' go halves wif Wat, fur I wer sorry fur him, he
wer so infunely 'posed upon. I went tu school tu
Sicily Burns, tu larn 'oman tricks, an' I tuck a dirplomer,
I did, an' now I'd jes' like tu see the pussonal
feeters ove the she 'oman what cud stock rar ripe kerds
on me, durn'd fool es I is. I hed a talk wif Wat, an'
soon foun out that his mine hed simmer'd down intu a
strong belief that the sheriff an' Mary wer doin thar
weavin in the same loom.

“Then I show'd him my four aces, an' that chip
made the pot bile over, an' he jis' 'greed tu be led by
me, spontanashusly.

“Jis' think on that fac' a minnit boys; a man what

hed sense enuf tu turn a hoss shoe, an' then nail hit on
toe aind foremos', bein led by me, looks sorter like a
plum tree barin tumil bug-balls, but hit wer jis' so, an'
durn my pictur, ef I didn't lead him tu victory, strait
along.

“Wat narrated hit, that he b'leved strong in rar ripe,
frum beans, thru notes ove han, plum tu babys, an'
that his cabin shud never be wifout hit. The widder
wer cheerful, Mary wer luvin, an' the sheriff wer told
on the sly, by ole Mister McKildrin's remainin, an'
mos' pius she half, that Wat wer es plum blind es ef
his eyes wer two tuckil aigs. So the wool grow'd over
his eyes, ontil hit wer fit tu shear, an' dam ef I warn't
at the shearin.

“Things, tharfore, went smoof, an' es quiet es a
greased waggin, runnin in san. Hits allers so, jis'
afore a tarin big storm.

“By the time littil Rar Ripe wer ten weeks ole, Doltin
begun tu be pow'ful plenty in the neighborhood.
Even the brats know'd his hoss's tracks, an' go whar
he wud, the road led ni ontu Wat's, ur the widder's, tu
git thar. My time tu play my four aces hed 'bout
cum.”

“And so has orderly bed time. I wish to repose,”
remarked the man of Useful Knowledge, in the square-tail
coat, and cloth gaiters.

Sut opened his eyes in wonder.

“Yu wish tu du what?”

“I wish to go to sleep.”

“Then why the h—l didn't yu say so? Yu mus'
talk Inglish tu me, ur not git yersef onderstood. I
warn't edikated at no Injun ur nigger school. Say,
bunty, warn't yu standid deep in sum creek, when the
taylure man put the string to yu, fur that ar cross atwix
a rounabout an' a flour barril, what yu'se got on in
place of a coat?”

My self-made guest looked appealingly at me, as he
untied his gaiters, evidently deeply insulted. I shook
my head at Sut, who was lying on his breast, with his
arms crossed for a pillow, but with head elevated like
a lizard's, watching the traveler's motions with great
interest.

“Say, George, what dus repose mean? That wurd
wer used at me jis' now.”

“Repose means rest.”

“Oh, the devil hit dus! I'se glad tu hear hit, I tho't
hit wer pussonal. I kin repose now, mysef. Say, ole
Onsightly Peter, repose sum tu, ef yu kin in that
flour barril. I ain't gwine tu hunt fur yure har
ontil mor—” and Sut slept. When morning broke,
the Encyclopedia, or Onsightly Peter as Sut pronounced
it, had