Sut Lovingood yarns spun by a "nat'ral born durn'd fool ; warped and wove for public wear |
DAD'S DOG-SCHOOL. |
 | DAD'S DOG-SCHOOL. Sut Lovingood |  |
DAD'S DOG-SCHOOL.
I had often laughed at an anecdote anent training a
puppy to hold fast, and doubtless so has many of my
readers, as told by the gifted W. T. Haskill.
I began to tell it one summer night at our camp-fire,
when Sut interrupted me:
“Stop, George; yu can't du jestis' tu that ar doleful
bisness. Hit happen'd ur ruther tuck place apupus, in
our famerly; hit cudn't a-been did by eny uther peopil
on this yeath but us, fur hit am plum clarified dam
fool, frum aind tu aind. Dad plan'd hit; an' him, an'
mam, an' Sall, an' Bent, an' me—oh, yas! an' the pup.
I'd like tu forgot him—we did the work, an' ef we
didn't make a purfeck finish'd cumplete durn'd momox
outen the thing, thar's no use in hevin a genus fur bein
infunel nat'ral born fools et all.
“Dad, he's es tetchy about hit tu this day, es a sore-back
hoss is 'bout green flies. Ef yu want tu see him
shed his shut, quick es a fox kin cum outen a bag, an'
fall intu getherin rocks, an' then flingin em, jis' dam
ravenus homeade cussin, yu growl like ontu a dorg
a-holdin ontu a hanketcher, ur a rag, an' yu'll mons'ous
soon see a bal'-headed man hot enuf tu fry spit. Hits a
pow'ful delikit 'speriment tu try an' git out wifout a
scab abuv yer years. Be purfeckly redy tu run es
soon es yu growl, ef yu don't, hit'll rain on yu bad.
Sures' way is tu growl arter yu hes started, an' ef yu's
mons'ous fas' on foot yu may venter tu holler, `Sick
'im Sugar!' but be keerful; I'se seed hit tried.
“Yu see when I wer 'bout sixteen, Steve Crawley
gin me a bull pup, the culler ove rich cream, white onder
the belly, an' on the lower aind ove the laigs, blue
snout, red eyes, wrinkl'd forrid, an' show'd his teef even
when he wus sleepin. Ugly as a she ho'net, an' brave es
a trap't rat. Dad tuck pow'fully tu 'im, 'caze thar naters
wer sorter like, I reckon. He wer the only critter I
ever know'd dad tu be good tu, an' narra pusson yet.
“Late one Saturday, we sot in an' kill'd a-tarin big
black an' white yearlin bull beastes, an' on Sunday
mornin, arter gittin a big bellyful ove fried liver an'
chopp't inyuns, dad sot down ontu the cabin steps, in
the sun, a-playin wif `Sugar,' that wer the pup's name.
I wer mounted ontu the fence a-shavin seed-ticks ofen
my laigs wif a barlow knife, an' mam wer in the yard
sittin ontu the half-bushel wif three ur four ove the
childers' heads in her lap, bizzy rite in the middil ove
a big still hunt arter insex. At las', sez dad—
“Sut, s'pose yu tote Sugar off wif yu down tu the
crick tu keep 'im frum follerin ove me, an' seein what
I dus. Yu cum back when yu hears me beller like
ontu a yung bull, an' I'll larn yer dorg tu hole on. I'se
jis' studied out the bes' way in creashun tu make 'im
hold tu enything ontil bunty hens sprouts tails. This
yere day's work'll be the makin ove the pup.'
“`How on the yeath, dad, will yu du hit?' sez I.
“Dad got up an' cotch a big hanful ove britches
ahine, atwixt the wais'bun an' the fork, rayther nigher
the fork tho', an' arter ginin hissef a few good holesum
scratchin rubs, sed—
“`Jis' so; I'll make yer sis Sall, thar, sow me up in
Suggins's hide, (that wer the yearlin's name, mine yu,)
an' I'll play ho'ned cattil rite squar intu Sugar's han,
while yu sicks 'im on, an' ef yu dus the sickin part like
yu orter, hit'll be the makin ove that ar pup. When
he gits a savin holt ontu the hide, yu seize his tail, an'
sorter pull 'im back, but don't yu break the holt, ef yu
dus yu spiles a dorg, an' when I cums outen the hide,
dam ef I don't spile yu.'
“Mam cracked a insex vigrusly atwixt her thumbs,
an' then wiped her nails ontu her gown along her
thighs, an' sez she—
“`Good law sakes! now fur more onanimated foolishness.
Hu ever hearn ove the likes bein dun by the
daddy ove a famerly, an' him a bal'-headed man et
that, a-shedin his har fur the grave. Lovingood, yu'll
the day ove jedgement ontu our bar heads sum night,
kerthrash, afore hits time, ur sum uther ailment—colery—measils—pollygamy,
ur sum sich like, jis' see ef
yu don't, an' then yu'll run, an' leave me tu fight hit
out by mysef, yu know yu will. Now jis' quit, an'
let that ar blasted roun-headed pup edecate hissef like
yer uther childer dus.'
“`Shet up that ar snagy feedin-hole ove yurn, yu
durn'd ole she hempbrake; yu'd 'pose my gwine tu
heaving, I raley du b'leve,' sez dad.
“`No I won't:' sez mam, shakin her head. `Yu'll
never try tu du that,' an' she peaner'd her fingers down
thru the har, along the side ove one ove the childer's
heads, clost arter a knowin ole insex, what hed been
raced before; he wer aimin fur the wrinkil onder the
year-flap, but he never got thar; he got hissef busted
like ontu a 'cussion-cap, 'bout a inch an' a 'alf frum his
den.
“`Now,' sez dad, a-turnin tu me, still a-rubbin slow
wif the hanful ove britches, `yu see, Sut, he'll git good
holts ontu the hide, smell the blood, an' larn the nater
ove the varmint he's a-contendin wif. I'll beller an'
make b'leve I'se a-tryin tu git loose't, but not ack cow
fur enuf tu tar loose't, ur dishartin 'im. Better nur
gwine tu school tu a Yankee cuttin-box 'oman, a durn'd
site; an' in a month, jis' let ole widder Bradly's cow
jump intu the cabbiges agin, ef she's fond ove freezin
time nex day, an' not quit then. Oh! I tell yu hit'll
be the makin ove the pup.'
“So dad tuck Sall off tu the loom-hous' whar the
hide wer a-hangin. I hed soltid hit good, tu keep
frum spilin, till dad cud turn hit intu whisky, an' I
whistled off Sugar. Arter I hed gone a few steps, I
hollered `Oh dad!'
“`What?'
“`S'pose Sugar gits that savin holt yu wer speakin
ove, ontu yu, what am I tu du then?'
“`Du hell!' sez dad, `du nuthin but sick 'im on.
Hu ever hearn ove a man's bein dorg-bit thru a cowhide?'
Sez I—
“`He's pow'ful fur reachin fur a pup, better mine,
dad.'
“I seed 'im begin tu hunt fur a rock, an' I struck a
peart shanghi trot fur the crick. Me an' the yung dorg
lay down amung the mint, an' listen'd tu the gurglin
ove the warter.
“Well, thinks I, my juty's a plain one enyhow.
`Jis' sick 'im on an' du nuthin else;' an' I means tu
du hit, fur hit am tu be the makin ove yu, my sweet
Sugar, I raley du 'speck.
“Torreckly I hearn dad a-bellerin jis' the bes' sampil
ove a yearlin's nise yu ever hearn, 'sceptin hit wer a
scrimpshun too coarse, an' a littil too fas'; dad wer exhited.
`Boor, woo woff—Bohua a huah'—fust rate, by
years an' bark'd.
“Dad hed fool'd the dorg. The only livin thing I
ever know'd 'im tu fool, 'sceptin a new doggery-keeper
now an' then, an' mam, she sed he fool'd her pow'ful
onst, that wer when she swore hersef tu be the mammy
ove his brats.
“Well, thar he wer in the yard ontu his all fours,
sow'd up body an' soul in the raw hide, hary side out, an'
he'd tuck off every durn'd stich ove his close. I tho't
pow'fully how my soltin the hide wer gwine tu work
arter the show begun tu be exhitin, an' dad begun tu
sweat. Sall hed sow'd his hans plum up intu the hide
ove the fore laigs, an' the loose huffs wer floppin an'
crackin about below em es he walked, ur paw'd up dus'.
“She hed turn'd the head an' ho'ns back, raw side
out, es high es dad's eye-brows, an' tied the nose tu the
naik, so he cud see the inimy. His face wer smeer'd wif
the blood an' fat, the tail trail'd arter him sorter dead
like, his sturn wer way up yander, his hine laigs bein
longer nur his fore wuns, an' takin the site altugether
hit cudn't be beat, fur a big, ruff, skeery, thing outen
hell, ur a mad-hous'.
“I seed mam a-pullin up a bean-pole in the garden,
an' arter tarin off the vines she sot hit up in the
chimbley corner wifout dad's notisin hit. I whispered
`What's yu gwine tu du wif that ar pole? gwine
a-fishin, say mam?' Sez she—
“`I'se gwine tu play `She hempbrake' wif hit ontu
that ar raw-hide, arter a while.' Then she went an'
stud in the door, wif her hans ontu her hips, an' the
childer mounted the fence.
“`Well dad,' sez I, `is yu good ready? shall I sick
'im on?'
“Dad wer fear'd Sugar'd fine out the trick, an'
wudn't speak, but jis' nodded his head, an' durn ef he
even didn't du hit like ontu a bull.
“I straddled Sugar, patted him ontu the ribs, an' sez
I `Sick 'im boy,' an' the dorg went squar in. Dad sorter
horn'd at 'im an' blow'd. Sugar flew roun, an' my
dad flew roun; the tail trail'd limber an' lazy, an'
tangled sumtimes amung dad's hine laigs. Sugar,
a-huntin fur the right spot tu bite, dad 'tendin like he
didn't want 'im tu fine hit. The pup made a gran rush,
an' got a holt ni ontu the root ove the tail, an' sot hissef
back. My dad kick'd wif bof hine laigs es quick
an' vigrus es a muel, an' 'stead ove bellerin, es he orter,
he shouted out right plain, `Oh hell-fire!' He hed
kicked the pup plum intu the hous', atwixt mam's
laigs. Sez I—
“`Dad, that won't du; that warn't cow-kickin at all,
them's rale stud-hoss licks. Yu'll never be the makin
ove the pup, ef yu pouns 'im that ar way.'
“`Make hell!' sez dad, `this hide haint es thick
'bout the tail es hit orter be fur a yearlin's, an' he tried
tu rub hissef back thar, wif his fore laig, but the loose
didn't du hit tu suit hissef much, so he backed agin
the fence, an' rubbed his rump agin the aind ove a
rail, hog fashun, up an' down wif a jerk, yu know.
“`Is Sugar's teef sharp, ole man?' sez mam, sorter
keerless like.
“`How du I know,' growled dad, `hits none ove
yure bisness, nohow, yu durn'd ole par ove warpin-bars,
what du yu know 'bout the makin ove pups?'
“Mam sorter glanced at the bean-pole, but sed nuffin.
Sugar wer sittin ontu his tail, his head an' fore laigs
stuck out frum onder mam's frock-hem, whar dad hed
sent 'im, lookin sorter like he hedn't made up his mine
adzackly what wer bes' tu du.
“I cotch 'im by the nap ove the naik, an' drug 'im
out, an' sick'd 'im on agin. Durn my shut ef he hadn't
been studyin tu sum pupus while he wer onder mam's
coatails, fur he made his rush at tuther aind this time.
Sez I—
“`Don't dodge dad, the hide's thicker 'bout the
ho'ns then hit am 'bout the tail. I'd scarcely spoke,
when I hearn Sugar's jaws snap. The yearlin's tail
warn't draggin lazy now. Hit wer stiff strait out, way
high up, an' sweepin the air clar ove insex, all roun the
yard. Jis' then I wudn't a-tuck ten dullers fur my dorg.
“`Baw aw!' sez dad.
“`Yearlin fur the yeath, adzackly Yu mocks thar
voice better nur yu dus thar kickin,' sez I.
“I wer disappinted, fur I wer listenin fur sum durn'd
plain Inglish frum dad, fur Sugar hed got hissef a steel-trap
holt ontu the pint ove his snout, an' his upper-lip.
Nose tu nose they wer, an' no yearlin skin atwixt, not
a durn'd inch es I cud see. Dad's ole warty snout wer
pull'd out tu a pint, like ontu a mad bar's, an' es taper,
an' red an' sharp es a beet. The lip wer straiched es
fur onder hit, like ontu a shovil-plow, ur a store-keeper's
tin coffee-scoop, a-ketchin red gravy frum the
snout. Great golly! how sweet hit mus' a-hurt, hit
makes my snout itch now.
“`Ka-ka-a!' sed Sugar, leanin way back, an' wallin
his eye up at me. Dad leaned way forrid, an' they
swap't sides ove the yard faster nur folks turns in a
dance, an' the tail a-keepin every durn'd fly an' gnat
outen the yard fur six foot high. Jis' then I wudn't
a-tuck twenty dullers fur my dorg.
“The childer all yell'd, an' sed `Sick 'im;' they tho't
hit wer all gwine jis' es dad wanted, the durn'd littil
fools. Sugar wagg'd his tail, an' roun they'd fly agin.
“I hearn a new soun in the thicket, an' hit bein Sunday,
I wer sorter 'spectin a retribushun ove sum nater.
I look'd that way, an' there I seed the bald aind ove
Squire Hanley's ole Sunday hoss, a-pushin hits way
thru the chinkepin bushes, the Squire hissef up on
daik, a-steerin wif wun hand, an' a-fendin off the lims
an' burrs wif tuther. Thinks I, thar, by golly! yere's
a regular two hundred an' twenty-five poun retribu
armed wif a hyme book, an' loaded tu the muzzil wif
brimstone, bilin pitch, forkid flames, an' sich uther
nicitys es makes up the devil's brekfus', an' sum ove
hit am gwine tu be ladled out tu us, rite now, ef the
Squire's face am tu be trusted es a sign. Hit looked
jis' like he'd swaller'd a terbacker-wum, dipp'd in
aquafortis, an' cudn't vomit. Even his pius ole hoss
show'd a grieved spirit frum foretop tu lip A appertite
tu run began tu gnaw my stumick, an' I felt my face
a-swellin wif shame. I wer shamed ove dad, shamed
ove mam's bar laigs an' open collar, shamed ove mysef,
an' dam, ef I minds right, ef I warn't a mossel shamed
ove the pup. But when I seed the squar, blazin look
mam met him wif, I made up my mine ef she cud stan
the storm, I cud, an' so I didn't run that time—nara
durn'd step.
“Squire Hanley wer one ove the wonderfulest men
in all my knowin. He wore a hat ten years, an' wore
a nail in the chuch wall bright, a-hangin hit on. He
wore a holler spot in the side ove his walkin-stick, wif
his finger allers tetchin the same place, an' he wore
anuther greasy holler in one ove the groanin bainches,
ni ontu the noth corner ove the pulpit, jis' like the sittin
hole in a shoemaker's stool, only hit warn't lined
wif leather. His pea-sticks wer shod wif spikes, his
fire wood wer clar ove knots es waggen timber, his
hens never laid on a Sunday, an' sot when he told em
shaved notes two days onder the skin ove weekly days,
an' allers made the feller what got shaved, wait an' git
prayed fur, an' he throw'd intu the bargin a track ur
two, about the vanity ove layin up store goods on
yeath, fur the moths et the broadcloths, an' the thieves
stole tuther things. He toted the munny-puss ove the
chuch, an' histed the tchunes an' the backsliders. He
wer secon enjineer ove a mersheen, made outen a mess
ove sturgeon-backed, sandy-heeled ole maids, devarsed
wives, ur wimen what orter been wun ur tuther; an'
uther thin minded pussons, fur the pupus, es they sed,
ove squelchin sin in the neighborhood, amung sich
domestic heathins es us, but raley fur the mindin giner'lly
ove everybody else's bisness. I forgot tu menshun
his nose, hit wer his markin fectur; no uther mortil
ever hed heart tu tote jis' sich anuther nose. The skin
ofen hit wud a-kivered a saddil, an' wer jis' the rite
culler fur the job, an' the holes looked like the bow-ports
ove a gun-boat. He waded in onst tu stop a big
fite at muster, in a Christian way, an' a feller broke a
dorg-wood hanspike ur a chesnut fence-rail, I'se forgot
which, acrost that nose, an' twenty-seven bats, an'
three kingfishers flew outen hit. The lick only made
the Squire blow hit tolabil strong, scatterin roun a peck
ove cobwebs, an' muddauber's nestes, an' he went on
a-stopin ove the fite. He wer on his way tu chuch that
mornin, an' hearin orful souns, he struck thru the
the squelchin s'ciety.
“His hoss wer ove a pius turn ove mine, ur ole
Haney wund't a-keep him a day. Nobody ever seed
him kick, gallop, jump a fence, smell uther hosses, ur
chaw a bridil. He wer never hearn squeal, belch, ur
make eny onsightly soun, an' 'side all them marks, he
hed scabs ontu his knees an' mud on his snout. Mine
yu, I speaks ove the karacter ove the hoss afore, an' up
tu arter breakfus' that Sunday mornin, nuffin more, fur
I show'd him that day tu be es durn'd a ole hiperkrit
es ever toted a saddil, ur a hyme book. His wickid
kareer ainded in a tan-vat an' the buzzards clean'd his
bones. That orful Sunday shook even the Squire's
b'lief on sum pints ove herearter. He now thinks, they
orter take folks in hell, like they dus intu chuch, six
months on trial, an' that the vartue ove the thing be
tried imejuntly on me, an' mam. He b'leves we'd
bof make 'tarnity members easy.
“He rid up tu the fence keerfully, drap't the reins,
hilt up his hans, an' sez he—
“`Furgivin Father abuv! what's am yu tormentin
them ar two varmints fur, on the Lord's Holy Sabbath?
Say, O ye onregenerits, whar' the patriark ove this depraved
famerly?'
“`Look a-yere, Squire Haney,' sez mam, `I'se hits
patriark jis' now; mos' ove the time I'se hits tail, I
knows, but one thing sure, yu'd bes' trot along tu yer
hit needs no wallin up ove eyes, nur groanin, nur
secon han low-quartered pray'rs tu make hit purfeck,
'sides, we's got no notes tu shave, nur gals ole enuf tu
convart, so yu' better jis' go way wif yer four-laig'd,
bal-faced pulpit, an' preach tu sich es yersef, sumwhat
else; go 'long Squire, that's a good feller.'
“I'd pull'd a big jimsin burr, an' hilt hit up so mam
cud see hit, a-moshunin to'ards ole Ball-eye's tail.
Mam nodded her head. So while the Squire wer
sarchin a packet ove tracks, fur one against devilmint
ove Sundays, I sneak'd up ahine 'im. Sez mam es saft
an' sweet es ef I wer a sick baby—
“`Sutty, my darlint, jis' start the Squire's hoss thar
fur 'im. I'se fear'd he'll be late fur meetin, speshully
ef he stops at Missis Givinses.' (Yere he gin mam a
look frum onder his hat-brim, what spoke dam yure ole
soul, jis' es plain es ef the cussinest man in the county
hed hollered hit.) Start him easy my son, so es not tu
jostil the ole man's breakfus', hit mout sour on his
stumick; poor ole critter, he's colikey an' ailin enyhow,
ef his looks don't lie.' I say ailin; he only pull'd down
four greasy fifty-sixes, an' ef yu'd a-twisted his sweaty
neck-hankecher intu a rope, hit 'ud burn like a torch.
“I planted the burr high up onder ole Ball-eye's tail,
an” he clamp't hit clost instantly. 'Bout the time he'd
squeezed hit tu the hurtin pint, I'd dun busted a four
foot, white-oak clap-board plum open, atwixt the root
tail warter tite atwixt his laigs, an' every sticker
on the burr wer buried tu the butt in hoss-meat, ur
hoss-tail.
“He kicked one pupendicler kick, es high es the
cabin chimly. I seed the hole laingth ove his belly
even tu the susingil buckil frum behine, an' sure enuf
I hearn the Squire's coffee sloshin his chaw'd chickin
an' hard biled aigs 'bout pow'ful.
“`Wo yu! sirr,' sez he.
“`That ar las' observashun am no use, Mister
Haney,' sez I. Anuther kick strait up at the sun.
“`Wo yu orful ole fool.' Sez I—
“`He can't wo, Squire, he's a-gittin happy, an' that's
hoss way ove shoutin.'
“Atwixt the kicks, he'd rise all fours frum the yeath,
'bout a foot, bouncin way, an' lite in the same tracks,
a-sweatin roun the eyes, wif a snort fur every bounce
an' a grunt wif every kick. Then he made a gudgeon
ove his fore laigs, an' kicked a plum suckil wif his hine
ones. Ef the air cud be printed on, yu'd a-seed a ring
ove hoss shoe marks, twenty foot acrost, eleving high,
an' jis' 'bout a han an' a half apart, heels all pintin tu
the center.
“The Squire got a good pullin holt wif wun han,
ontu the crupper, an' a-pushin wun wif tuther, in the
mane, while he sot his stirrips 'way forrid apas' Ball-eye's
bitts. Hit kep me pow'ful bizzy tu watch the
makin things happin so durnashun fas'.
“`Trus' freely in heving Squire es long es crupper
holt lasts. I think hit'll hold a hour ur so yet, fur I
see the pint ove his tail laid clost tu his belly a-tetchin
the girth,' sez mam.
“`Then pick a spot bar ove rocks fur yure profile tu
strike,' sez I. That wer a pow'ful cumfurtin remark
ove mine, an' wer soun doctrin too, warn't hit?
“`Wo! wo! sirr, (a kick) yu blasted fool, (a kick) wo!
I say, yu in—' (a kick.) Thinks I, thar that ar kick
wer a interpersision, fur hit kep the Squire frum plain
cussin. `Sum ove yu (a kick) ketch hes bitts, (a kick.)
“`Better pray fur a anvil tu cleave ontu his tail, a
sockdolagin big anvil,' sez mam. `Hit'll cum if yu ax
hit, yea verily.'
“Jis' then Ball-eye findin his inimy tu be kick-proof,
his faith gin out. He tuck a skeer, an' sot intu gittin
away, in a style no hoss ever used afore. The gait he
picked out fur the 'casion, warn't jis' the thing fur
leavin wrath, ur tribulashun wif, I don't think; thar
warn't enuf strait ahead leavin in hit, hit wer a 'sort-mint
made up ove dromedary gallop, snake slidin, side
windin, an' ole Firginey jig, tetched off wif a sprinkil
ove quadrille, step't off infunely fas' fur a pius-minded
hoss on a Sunday. 'Bout every thuty yards, he'd mix
in a kick, aimed at the back ove the Squire's head.
Es soon es he farely started, mam hollered—
“`Squire, when yu calls fur the anvil, moutent hit
be es well tu ax fur a lockchain, an' a interpersition,
too. Yu don't know what mout happen; them's orful
strange moshuns he's a-makin fur a pius hoss.'
“Ole Haney hed grabbed his bridil fur stoppin ur
steerin puposes, his hat wer jam'd fast on the back ove
his short fat naik, an' cock'd sharp up ahine his years,
red es a cock's comb, sot squar out onder the rim. His
elbows an' toes wer wide apart, like his hoss wer red
hot, an' durn'd ef I don't b'leve he wer.
“The las' words I hearn the Squire menshun es he
went outen site wer, `Now I lay me down tu sleep.'
“Thinks I, that's a clost shot fur a off-han prayer wif
wet powder, but hit am aimed at the wrong board. A
man mus' a-had a pow'ful soun conshunce tu a-slept on
es wide awake a hoss es ole Haney hed atwixt his fat
laigs—a clar fall frum grace that hoss wer.
“The engineer ove the sin squelshin mersheen wer
foun that arternoon in the lauril, amung the rocks on
the krick, an' every way fur thuty foot, the groun wer
paper'd wif tracks, an' notes ove han. He wer hauled
home ontu a ox slide; Ball-eye wer sole at public outcry
nex day at cort fur backslidin an' fallin frum grace,
an' fotch one dullar an' eighty cents, on 'count ove his
hide an' shoes. The burr wer sole an' delivered wif 'im,
still sunk onder his tail.
“The fust words I noticed cumin frum dad, arter
Squire Haney lef us in that ar mos' onnatral an' onmanerly
way, wer—
“`Oke e 'urn'd 'up 'oose,' sez dad.
“His talk wer changin frum yearlin tu human, an'
hed got 'bout half way. He ment hit fur chok the
durn'd pup loose, but I jis' minded my orders, `Sick
'im on an' du nuffin else,' an' I did hit like a man.
“Dad's tail flew frum the door tu the gate, then
Sugar's tail flew frum the door tu the gate, then frum
the gate roun back agin, a constunt swappin ove places,
an' nobody pleas'd; right peart ove dus' too. Jis' then
I wudn't a-tuck thuty dullars fur my dorg.
“`Oke 'e 'up 'od 'am yure 'oles.'
“Oh, durnashun! thinks I. I wer mistaken 'bout
a-changin ove tungs, that's good plain Inglish, wif the
trimmins, wantin nuffin but the use ove the upper lip.
I minded my fust orders—`Sick 'im Sugar.'
“The snout ove the hide what wer tied back on the
naik, worked sorter loose, an' the fold hung down
on dad's an' Sugar's snouts, an' my onregenerit dad
wer blinefolded. The ho'ns hung dolefully loose at
each side ove his head, like they were tired ove the
dorg.
“Mam kept watchin thar moshuns pow'ful clost.
Sez she—
“`Sut, that ar dorg's holt won't break, will hit?'
“`Not,' sez I, `onless dad's nose's rotten.'
“`Thar is sum onsartinty 'bout hits bein soun, he's
soaked hit so much in sperrits,' sed mam, an' she
studied a minnit, wif her finger ontu her lip. `I'll risk
mysef ef I lets this chance slip.'
“She got the bean-pole, spit in her hans, clar'd the
chips frum onder her wif her feet, an' as the two varmints
flew roun agin, she riz on her tip-toes, an' fotch
down the pole wif bof hans frum way up yander, an'
laid 'bout four foot ove the aind es strait es a line frum
the root ove the hide's tail tu the ho'ns. Hit sounded
like bustin open a dry poplar log; raised a stripe ove
dus' tu the top ove the har, four inches wide, an' hit
smoked all along thar, like hit wer afire. I jis' tho't
jewhillikins 'bout twiste.
“Dad squalled low onder hit, like a sore-back hoss
when yu'se a-mountin, an' es he flew roun agin, sez he—
“`'Ell 'ire an' 'amnashun, 'ot's 'at?' Sez I—
“`Nuffin; but yu're knock'd down the martin's
gourd-pole, an' spilt the yung'uns.'
“He tried tu rise tu the human way ove standin,
but the tassil a-hangin tu his smeller were too heavy,
an' the holt wer es tender es a sore eye. Jis' then I
wudn't a-tuck forty dullars fur my dorg. Sez he—
“`'Am 'e 'artin 'ord 'ole, an' 'e 'unyuns 'oo.'
“Then he tried sum fust rate overhanded knockin
wif fus' one fore laig, an' then tuther. He made the
loose huffs rattil over Sugar's rump, but he jis' sed
Ka! a,' an' surged back tu his snout-pullin, an' roun
an' roun they fly agin. What the devil they 'spected
tu gain by that, I can't fur the life ove me tell, but they
Sugar started, dam ef dad didn't start too, so quick yu
cudn't say which made the fus' moshun. The solt
mix'd wif sweat, wer one ove dad's reasons fur not
stayin still much, I sorter think, an' a tender nose
made 'im foller Sugar's lead quick. Now, warn't hit a
hell ove a fix fur a ill-natered cuss like dad, hu allers
wud hev his own way, tu be in? Every time that my
dad's tail cum to'ards mam, down cum the bean-pole,
sure es sunrise, cherow! soundin an' lookin like beatin
carpets, an' feelin like splittin a body's back-bone wif a
dull axe.
“Dad, bline-folded es he wer, soon larnt the place in
his sarkit whar the licks fell, an' by the jumpin Jinny
he'd cummence squattin afore he got thar.
“I dunno how hit wer adzacly, but the wind sumhow
gethered atwixt the hary side ove dad's hide, an'
the raw side ove the yearlin's; an' every lick mam
isshood tu 'im wif that ar never-tire bean-pole, hit
wud bust out at the sowin, pow'ful suddin, soundin loud
an' doleful. Mam smiled every time she hearn hit.
“`That ar yearlin mus' a-hed the colic afore hit wer
kill'd,' sed sis Callimy Jane. She's allers sayin sum
durn'd fool thing, hevin no barin on the case.
“`Oh, hush, yu littil narrer-tail'd tucky hen,' sed
brother Benton, `hits the onexpectedness ove the cumin
ove that ar bean-pole.' `Ur the tetchin sensashun
arter hit dus cum,' sed I mysef.
“Mam also tuck time tu spar Bent a fust rate tetch
wif her pole, cradlin fashun! He went flyin outen his
tracks over the fence, wif his hans flat ontu his starn.
Es he lit in the weeds, sez he—
“`I wer right, by golly! hit am the pole what dus
hit.'
“Callimy Jane, who wer a-lookin at Bent while he wer
up in the air, like she wer a-listnin, chirped out, `An'
so wer I.' I tho't mysef I hearn Bent's gallus buttons
bust off. Jis' es he started up, he shet his mouth,
jis' in time tu ketch his heart.
“Cherow! cum that eternil wollopin pole down agin,
along dad. He farely bawl'd—
“`'On't 'et up 'at 'artin' ole eny 'ore, yu 'am 'ules.'
Sez I—
“`I haint sot the martin-pole up one time. Hits
mam what keeps a-settin hit up, an' hit won't stay
up.'
“`Quit, yu 'am 'itch, an' let 'e 'ole lie,' sez dad.
“`Thar hit lies,' answered mam, es she fotch hit down
along his back anuther rale saftnin swallop. The dus'
hed quite risin now, outen that ar skin. Sez I—
“`Stan hit dad, stan hit like a man; hit may be a
littil hurtin tu yu, but dam ef hit ain't the makin ove
the pup. Stay wif that hide, Sugar, my boy, yu'se
mity ni a deplomer'd dorg.'
“Dad begun tu totter on his hine laigs; his sturn
warn't way up yander, like hit wer when he fust open'd
shoulders, an' he wer a-cumin tu his knees pow'ful fas'
behine. I seed his tail a-trimblin, a mons'ous bad
sign in ho'ned cattil. Dad ax'd ef hit wan't twelve
o'clock? Jis' then I wudn't a-tuck fifty dullers fur
my dorg. I felt like he wer ni about made.
“When Sal hed got dun sowin up dad, he started her
tu the still-hous' arter a jug ove Spanish fly whisky, tu
made happy cum arter he let out his dorg-school, an'
she jis' now got back, tuck a look at the case es hit
stood, an' got mad. Sez she—
“`Yu durn'd yaller son ove a b—h, I'll break yer
holt.' She flung down the jug, an' snatched the axe.
Sez I—
“`Mine, Sal, whatever yu du, don't yu cut the dorg.
He's 'bout made; be keerful how yu place yer licks.'
“`Aim fur the ho'ns my darter,' sed mam.
“Yere she cum, wif a vigrus overhandid splitter,
aidge foremos', aim'd tu fall atwixt Sugar's years; but
he yerk'd back a littil es the lick cum, an' hit went
thru the dubil ove the hide, skelpin a piece ove skin
ofen dad's forrid, 'bout es big es a duller, kept on an'
sliced off Sugar's two smellin holes a half inch thick.
Then hit tuck a chunk ofen dad's snout, 'bout the
size an' culler ove a black hart cherry. Then hit went
littil lower an' kerried along a new moon ofen dad's
upper lip, an' a littil ove Sugar's lower lip, an dad's
fore finger pint, kept on down, tuck one ove Sugar's
the yeath, up tu the helve, an' thar hit stop't. Sez
Sal—
“`Thar, durn yu!'
“Sugar keeled over one way, an' dad tuther. One
fainted stiff, an' tuther ruinated furever, es a dorg. I'd
a-tuck a raggid counterfit dullar on a wile cat-bank fur
him now. That wer the liveliest Sunday I ever seed
at home.
“I cried rite peart, tho', es I flung a big rock wif a
strip ove bark tied roun hit intu the ho'net hole in the
crick that night.”
“What made you cry, Sut, was it your father's condition?”
“Father's con-durnashun. I furgot tu menshun that
Sugar wer fas' tu tuther aind ove that ar strip ove bark.
Who wanted a three-footed dorg, wif no smellin holes?
I didn't. He wer the mos' pufeckly spiled pup in the
makin I ever hearn tell ove. Mout a-lookt fur a gineral
durn'd momoxin ove things tho', when dad tuck
the job wif Squire Haney tu help.
“Boys, I'se sleepy now; yere's wishin (Sut raised on
his elbow and held up his flask to the light) yu all
good dreams, an' yu, George, may yu dream ove ownin
three never-failin springs, so clost tugether yu kin lay
on yure belly an' reach em all—the biggis' wun runnin
ole whisky, the middil one strained honey, an' the
leas' an' las'—cold warter, wif nara `natral born durn'd
may yu fine hit tu be a mortal fac'.
“Es tu me, ef I kin jis' miss dreamin ove hell ur ole
Bullin's all I ax. Sum one ove yu moue that ar saddil
down yander, by the corner ove the camp, further out
en the way ove my laigs. Now le's snore sum; blow
out the light.”
| DAD'S DOG-SCHOOL. Sut Lovingood | |