 | Sut Lovingood |  |
PREFACE.
“You must have a preface, Sut; your book will then be ready.
What shall I write?”
“Well, ef I must, I must; fur I s'pose the perducktion cud no
more show hitsef in publick wifout hit, than a coffin-maker end wif
out black clothes, an' yet what's the use ove either ove em, in pint ove
good sense? Smells tu me sorter like a durned humbug, the hole
ove hit—a littil like cuttin ove the Ten Cummandmints intu the rine
ove a warter-million; hits jist slashed open an' the inside et outen
hit, the rine an' the cummandmints broke all tu pieces an' flung tu
the hogs, an' never tho't ove onst—them, nur the 'tarnil fool what
cut em thar. But ef a orthur mus' take off his shoes afore he goes
intu the publick's parlor, I reckon I kin du hit wifout durtyin my
feet, fur I hes socks on.
“Sumtimes, George, I wishes I cud read an' write, jis' a littil; but
then hits bes' es hit am, fur ove all the fools the worild hes tu contend
wif, the edicated wuns am the worst; they breeds ni ontu all the
devilment a-gwine on. But I wer a-thinkin, ef I cud write mysef,
hit wud then raley been my book. I jis' tell yu now, I don't like the
idear ove yu writin a perduckshun, an' me a-findin the brains. 'Taint
the fust case tho' on record by a durned site. Usin uther men's
brains is es lawful es usin thar plunder, an' jis' es common, so I
don't keer much nohow. I dusn't 'speck this yere perduckshun will
a holesum fear ove the devil, an' orter hev hit, by geminey. Now,
fur thar speshul well-bein herearter, I hes jis' this tu say: Ef yu ain't
fond ove the smell ove cracklins, stay outen the kitchin; ef yu is
fear'd ove smut, yu needn't climb the chimbley; an' ef the moon
hurts yer eyes, don't yu ever look at a Dutch cheese. That's jis' all
ove hit.
“Then thar's sum hu haint much faith in thar repertashun standin
much ove a strain; they'll be powerful keerful how an' whar they
reads my words. Now, tu them I haint wun word tu say: they hes
been preached to, an' prayed fur, now ni ontu two thousand years
an' I won't dart weeds whar thuty-two poun shot bounces back.
“Then thar's the book-butchers, orful on killin an' cuttin up, but
cud no more perjuce a book, than a bull-butcher cud perjuce a bull.
S'pose they takes a noshun tu stick, skin, an' cut up this yere one.
Ef they is fond ove sicknin skeers, I advises em tu take holt tu onst;
but fust I begs tu refer em respectively tu the fate ove three misfor
tinit pussons menshun'd inside yere—Passun Bullin, Dock Fabin, an
Sheriff Dollon. Read keerfully what happened tu them afore yu
takes eny ove my flesh ontu yer claws, ur my blood ontu yer bills, an'
that I now is a durnder fool then I wer in them days, fur I now considers
mysef a orthur. I hes tuck my stan amung the nashuns ove
the yeath, fur I, too, hes made me a book, so ef enybody wants dish
rags, I thinks hit wud be more healthy fur em not tu tare em ofen
my flag.
“Mos' book-weavers seem tu be skeery folks, fur giner'lly they
cums up tu the slaughter pen, whinin an' waggin thar tails, a-sayin
they `knows they is imparfeck'—that `yu'd seace 'speak one ove my
ge,' an' so forth, so on, so along. Now ef I is a-rowin in that boat, I
breedin skeers amung durned fools, an' then I hes a trustin reliance
ontu the fidelity, injurance, an' speed ove these yere laigs ove mine
to tote me an' my sins away beyant all human ritribushuns ur revenge.
Now, 'zamin yer hans, ole ferrits an' weazels, an' ef yu don't hole bef
bowers an' the ace, yu jis' `pass' hit.
“Ef eny poor misfortinit devil hu's heart is onder a mill-stone,
hu's raggid children am hungry, an' no bread in the dresser, hu is
down in the mud, an' the lucky ones a-trippin him every time he
struggils tu his all fours, hu hes fed the famishin an' is now hungry
hissef, hu misfortins foller fas' an' foller faster, hu is so foot-sore an'
weak that he wishes he wer at the ferry—ef sich a one kin fine a
laugh, jis' one, sich a laugh as is remembered wif his keerless boyhood,
atwixt these yere kivers—then, I'll thank God that I hes made
a book, an' feel that I hev got my pay in full.
“Make me a Notey Beney, George. I wants tu put sumwhar
atween the eyebrows ove our book, in big winnin-lookin letters. The
sarchin, meanin words, what sum pusson writ ontu a 'oman's garter
onst, long ago—”
“Evil be to him that evil thinks.”
“Them's em, by jingo! hed em clost apas' yu, didn't yu? I want
em fur a gineral skeer—speshully fur the wimen.
“Now, George, grease hit good, an' let hit slide down the hill hit
own way.”
| Sut Lovingood | |