Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
CONTEMPT OF COURT—ALMOST. |
 | CONTEMPT OF COURT—ALMOST. Sut Lovingood |  |
CONTEMPT OF COURT—ALMOST.
“Ole Onsightly Peter tuck his squar-tail cackus
kiver away frum this yere horspitable camp, wifout
axin fur his bill, ur even sayin `mornin,' tu us. Le's
look roun a littil; I bet he'se stole sumfin. Fellers ove
his stripe allers dus. They never thinks a night's
lodgin cumplete, onless they hooks a bed-quilt, ur a
candilstick, ur sum sichlike. I hates ole Onsightly
Peter, jis' caze he didn't seem tu like tu hear me narrate
las' night; that's human nater the yeath over, an'
yere's more univarsal onregenerit human nater: ef ever
yu dus enything tu enybody wifout cause, yu hates
em allers arterwards, an' sorter wants tu hurt em agin.
An' yere's anuther human nater: ef enything happens
sum feller, I don't keer ef he's yure bes' frien, an' I
don't keer how sorry yu is fur him, thar's a streak ove
satisfackshun 'bout like a sowin thread a-runnin all
thru yer sorrer. Yu may be shamed ove hit, but durn
me ef hit ain't thar. Hit will show like the white cottin
chain in mean cassinett; brushin hit onder only
yu is tu yung things, ur how kine yu is in treatin em,
when yu sees a littil long laiged lamb a-shakin hits
tail, an' a-dancin staggerinly onder hits mam a-huntin
fur the tit, ontu hits knees, yer fingers will itch tu
seize that ar tail, an' fling the littil ankshus son ove a
mutton over the fence amung the blackberry briars,
not tu hurt hit, but jis' tu disapint hit. Ur say, a littil
calf, a-buttin fas' under the cow's fore-laigs, an' then the
hine, wif the pint ove hits tung stuck out, makin suckin
moshuns, not yet old enuf tu know the bag aind ove
hits mam frum the hookin aind, don't yu want tu
kick hit on the snout, hard enough tu send hit backwards,
say fifteen foot, jis' tu show hit that buttin won't
allers fetch milk? Ur a baby even, rubbin hits heels
apas' each uther, a-rootin an' a-snifflin arter the breas',
an' the mam duin her bes' tu git hit out, over the hem
ove her clothes, don't yu feel hungry tu gin hit jis'
one 'cussion cap slap, rite ontu the place what sum
day'll fit a saddil, ur a sowin cheer, tu show hit what's
atwixt hit an' the grave; that hit stans a pow'ful chance
not tu be fed every time hits hungry, ur in a hurry?
An' agin: ain't thar sum grown up babys what yu
meets, that the moment yer eyes takes em in, yer toes
itch tu tetch thar starns, jis' 'bout es saftly es a muel
kicks in playin; a histin kine ove a tetch, fur the way
they wares thar har, hat, ur watch-chain, the shape ove
thar nose, the cut ove thar eye, ur sumthin ove a like
onst cum intu a doggery whar I wer buzzy a-raisin
steam, an' had got hit a few poun abuv a bladder bustin
pint.
“He tuck off his gloves, slow an' keerful, a-lookin at
me like I mout smell bad. Then he flattened em ontu
the counter, an' laid em in the crown ove his hat, like
he wer packin shuts in a trunk. Then sez he—
“`Baw-keepaw, ole Champaigne Brandy, vintage
ove thuty-eight, ef yu please, aw.'
“He smelt hit slow, a-lookin at hissef in the big
lookin-glass ahine the counter, shook his head, an'
turned up his mustachus, sorter like a goat hists hits tail.
“Mustachus am pow'ful holesum things I speck, tu
them what hes the stumick tu wear em. Bes' buttermilk
strainers on yeath. All the scrimpshuns ove
butter lodges in the har, an' rubbed in makes it grow,
like chicken dung dus inyuns. Strains whisky powerful
good, what hes dead flies in hit, an' then yu kin
comb em off ur let em stay, 'cordin tu yer taste. They
changes the taste ove a kiss clear over; makes hit tas'
an' smell like a mildew'd saddil-blankit, arter hit hed
been rid on a sore-back hoss three hundred miles in
August, an' increases yer appertite fur sich things
'cordinly. I seed a blue-bird devil a feller onst, all
one spring, a-tryin tu git intu his mouf tu bild a nestes,
an' the durn'd fool wer proud ove the bird's preferens,
but wudn't let hit git in.
“Rite then, I thought, well, durn yure artifishul
no-count soul, an' my toes begun tu tingle. He tuck
four trials, a-pourin back an' forrid, afore he got his
dram the right depth, a-lookin thru the tumbler like he
spected tu see a minner, ur a warter-mockasin in hit.
Then he drunk hit, like hit wer caster ile, the infunel
fool. Lordy crimminy! how bad my toes wer itchin
now. He lit a seegar, cocked hit up to'ards one eye,
an' looked at me agin thru the smoke, while he shook
his hat over ontu one ove his years. Sez I, `Mornin
mister.'
“He never sed a word, but turned an' started fur the
door. When he got six foot nine inches distunt, (that's
my bes' kickin range,) the durned agravatin toe itch
overcum me, an' I let one ove these yere hoss-hide
boots go arter 'im; hit imejuntly cotch up wif the fork
ove his coatail, an' went outen my sight, mos' up tu
the straps. He went flyin outen the doggery door,
over the hoss-rack. While he wer in the air, he turned
plum roun an' lit facin me wif a cock't Derringer,
a-starin me squar in the face. I tho't I seed the bullit
in hit lookin es big es a hen's aig. Es I dodged, hit
plowed a track acrost the door-jam, jis' es high es my
eye-brows. I wer one hundred an' nineteen yards
deep in the wheat-field when I hearn hits mate bark, an'
he wer a pow'rful quick moshun'd man wif shootin irons.
“I wer sorter fooled in the nater ove that feller,
that's a fac'. The idear ove Derringers, an' the melt
fool es he show'd, never struck me at all, but I made
my pint on 'im, I cured my toe itch.
“Well, I allers tuck the cumplaint every time I seed
ole Jedge Smarty, but I dusn't try tu cure hit on him,
an' so hit jis' hed tu run hits course, onless I met sumthin
I cud kick.
“Wirt Staples got him onst, bad; 'stonished the ole
bag ove lor amos' outen his dignity, dam ef he didn't,
an' es Wirt tuck a skeer in what's tu cum ove my narashun
about the consekinses ove foolin wif uther men's
wives, I'll tell yu how he 'stonished ole Smarty, an'
then yu'll better onderstand me when I cums tu tell yu
how he help't tu 'stonish ole Doltin.
“Wirt hed changed his grocery range, an' the sperrits
at the new lick-log hed more scrimmage seed an' raisedevil
intu hit than the old biled drink he wer used tu,
an' three ho'ns histed his tail, an' sot his bristils 'bout es
stiff es eight ove the uther doggery juice wud. So
when cort sot at nine o'clock, Wirt wer 'bout es fur
ahead as cleaving, ur half pas' that.
“The hollerin stage ove the disease now struck him,
so he roar'd one good year-quiverin roar, an' riz three
foot inside the doggery door, an' lit nine more out in
the mud, sploshin hit all over the winders, tuther side
the street. He hed a dried venerson ham in one han, an'
a ten-year old he nigger by hits gallus-crossin in tuther.
He waved fus' the nigger an' then the venerson over his
lookin squar atwixt his shoe-heels, wif his shoulders
hump'd hi up. Sez he,
“`Hu—wee,' clear an' loud es a tin ho'n, `run onder
the hen, yere's the blue-tail hawk, an' he's a-flyin low.
The Devil's grist mill-dam's broke; take tu yer canoes.
Then he roared a time ur two, an' look'd up an' down
the street, like a bull looks fur tuther one, when he
thinks he hearn a beller. He riz ontu his tip-toes, an'
finished a good loud `Hu-wee.' Es he drap't ontu his
heels agin, he yelled so hard his head shook an' his
long black har quivered agin; he then shook hit outen
his eyes, wipin the big draps ove sweat ofen his snout
wif his shut-sleeve, still hangin tu the venerson an' the
nigger. Sez he,
“`Look out fur the ingine when yu hears hit whistil;
hits a-whistilin rite now. Nineteen hundred an' eighty
pouns tu the squar scrimpshun by golly, an' eighty-nine
miles in the shake ove a lamb's tail. Purfeckly clear
me jis' ten acres tu du my gesterin on, yu durned Jews,
tape-sellers, gentiles, an' jackasses, I'se jis' a mossel
ove the bes' man what ever laid a shadder ontu this
dirt. Hit wilts grass, my breff pizins skeeters, my yell
breaks winders, an' my tromp gits yeathquakes. I kin
bust the bottom outen a still by blowin in at the wum,
I kin addil a room full ove goose aigs by peepin in at
the key-hole, an' I kin spit a blister ontu a washpot, ontil
the flies blow hit. Listen tu me, oh yu dam puney, panady
town, I'se in yearnis' now.' Then he reared a few
times agin, an' cut the pidgeon-wing three foot high,
finished off wif 'bout haf ove a ho'n-pipe, keepin time
abuv his head wif the venerson an' the littil son ove
midnite. He hilt em straight out at arm's laingth,
leaned way back, an' lookin straight up at the sky,
sung 'bout es loud es a cow bellers, one vearse ove the
sixteen hundred an' ninety-ninth hyme—
The foxis dens in holes,
The sarpints crawls in rocksis,
The yeath's the home ove moles.
Cock a-doodil-do, hits movin,
An' dram time's cum agin.
court-hous' full tu the chimbly tops, ove bull-dorgs,
Bengal tigers, an' pizen bitin things, wif that ar pusley-gutted,
leather whisky jug ove a jedge, tu laig fur em.
Cum out yere, yu ole false apostil ove lor, yu cussed,
termatis-nosed desipil ove supeners, an' let me gin yu a
charge. I'll bet high hit busts yu plum open, frum
fork tu forrid, yu hary, sulky, choliky durn'd son ove a
slush-tub. Cum out yere, oh yu coward's skeer, yu
widder's night-mar, yu poor man's heart ache, yu constabil's
god, yu lawyer's king, yu treasury's tape-wum,
yer wife's dam barril ove soap-grease, saften'd wif unbought
whisky.'
“Thinks I, that's hit; now Wirt yu'se draw'd an ace
kerd at las', fur the winders wer histed an' the cort
hearn every word.
“Wirt wer bilin hot; nobody tu gainsay him, hed
made him piedied all over; he wer plum pizen. So
arter finishin his las' narashun, aim'd at Jedge Smarty,
he tuck a vigrus look at the yung nigger, what he still
hilt squirmin an' twistin his face, what warn't eyes,
glazed all over wif tears, an' starch outen his nose, an'
sez he, `Go.' He flung hit up'ards, an' es hit cum
down, hit met one ove Wirt's boots. Away hit flew,
spread like ontu a flyin squirrel, smash thru a watch-tinker's
winder, totin in broken sash, an' glass, an'
bull's-eye watches, an' sasser watches, an' spoons, an'
doll heads, an' clay pipes, an' fishin reels, an' sum
noise. A ole ball-headed cuss wer a-sittin a-peepin intu
a ole watch, arter spiders, wif a thing like a big
black wart kiverin one eye, when the smashery cum,
an' the fus' thing he knowed, he wer flat ove his back,
wif a small, pow'fully skeer'd, ash-culler'd nigger,
a-straddil his naik, littil brass wheels spinnin on the
floor, an' watches singin like rattil-snakes all roun. I
wer a-peepin outen the ole doggery door, an' thinks I,
thar, by jingo, Wirt, yu'se draw'd anuther ace, an' ef yu
hilt enything ove a han afore, yu hes got a sure thing
now; so better bet fas', ole feller, fur I rather think the
jedge'll `call yu' purty soon. Wirt seed me, an' ove
course tho't ove whisky that moment; so he cum over
at him, yu cudn't think fur the life ove yu, that he hed
over-bragged a single word. His britches wer buttoned
tite roun his loins, an' stuffed 'bout half intu his boots,
his shut bagg'd out abuv, an' wer es white es milk,
his sleeves wer rolled up tu his arm-pits, an' his collar
wer es wide open es a gate, the mussils on his arms
moved about like rabbits onder the skin, an' ontu his
hips an' thighs they play'd like the swell on the river,
his skin wer clear red an' white, an' his eyes a deep,
sparklin, wickid blue, while a smile fluttered like a
hummin bird roun his mouf all the while. When the
State-fair offers a premin fur men like they now dus fur
jackasses, I means tu enter Wirt Staples, an' I'll git
hit, ef thar's five thousand entrys. I seed ole Doltin
cumin waddlin outen the court-hous', wif a paper in his
han, an' a big stick onder his arm, lookin to'ards the
doggery wif his mouf puss'd up, an' his brows draw'd
down. Sez I, `Wirt, look thar, thar's a `herearter,'
a-huntin yu; du yu see hit? whar's yer hoss?' He tuck
one wickid, blazin look, an' slip't intu the stret wif his
arms folded acrost his venerson laig.
“Now Wirt wer Wat Mastin's cuzzin, an' know'd all
about the rar ripe bisness, an' tuck sides wif Wat strong.
I'd show'd him the sheriff's note tu Mary, an' he hed
hit by heart. The crowd wer now follerin Doltin tu see
the fun. When he got in about ten steps, sez Wirt:
“`Stop rite thar; ef yu don't, thar's no calliker ur
lightnin. I'll stay wif yu till thar's enuf fros' in hell tu
kill snap-beans.'
“When Wirt menshun'd snap-beans, I seed the
sheriff sorter start, an git pale ahine the years.
“`Git intu that ar hog-pen, quick, (a-pintin at the
court-hous' wif the venerson laig,) ur I'll split yer head
plum tu the swaller wif this yere buck's laig, yu durn'd
ole skaley-heel'd, bob-tail old muley bull; I'll spile yer
appertite fur the grass in uther men's pasturs.'
“`Don't talk so loud, Mister Staples; hit discombo-berates
the court. I hes no papers agin yu. Jis' keep
quiet,' sez Doltin, aidgin up slow, an' two ur three depertys
sorter flankin.
“Wirt seed the signs. He jis' roared `the lion's
loose! Shet yer doors.' I seed his har a-flyin es he
sprung, an' I hearn a soun like smashin a dry gourd.
thar wer a rushin tugether ove depertys an' humans,
an' hit look'd like bees a-swarmin. Yere cum Wirt,
mowin his way outen the crowd, wif his venerson, an'
sprung ontu his hoss. Thar lay Doltin, flat ove his
back, his belly pintin up like a big tater-hill, an' eight
ur nine more in es many shapes, lyin all about, every
durned wun a-holdin his head, 'sceptin Doltin, an' he
wer plum limber. Wirt hed a pow'ful fine hoss, an'
he rid 'im roun that crowd like a Cumanche Injun, ur
a suckis, es fas' es quarter racin, jis' bustin his froat
a-hollerin. Then he went fur the court-hous', rid in at
mortul buck's hine laig at the jedge's head, sayin:
“`Thar's a dried supeaner fur yu, yu dam ole cow's
paunch.'
“Es hit cum hit hit the tabil afore him, an' sent a
head ove hit, the broken glass ove a big inkstand, an' a
half pint ove ink, intu the face ove the court, then
glancin up, hit tuck a par ove specks what hed been
rared back ontu his head, outen the winder wif hit.
Ole Smarty hes a mity nice idear ove when tu duck his
head, even ef a rain-storm ove ink am cumin upwards
intu his face. Warn't that mons'ous nigh bein a case
ove contempt ove court?”
| CONTEMPT OF COURT—ALMOST. Sut Lovingood | |