 | Sam Lawson's Oldtown fireside stories |  |
THE BULL-FIGHT.
IT was Saturday afternoon, — time of
blessed memory to boys, — and we were
free for a ramble after huckleberries;
and, with our pails in hand, were making
the best of our way to a noted spot
where that fruit was most abundant.
Sam was with us, his long legs striding over the
ground at a rate that kept us on a brisk trot, though
he himself was only lounging leisurely, with his
usual air of contemplation.
“Look 'ere, boys,” he suddenly said, pausing and
resting his elbow on the top of a rail-fence, “we
shall jest hev to go back and go round by Deakin
Blodgett's barn.”
“Why so?” we both burst forth in eager tones.
“Wal, don't ye see the deakin's turned in his
bull into this 'ere lot?”
“Who cares?” said I. “I ain't afraid.”
“Nor I,” said Harry. “Look at him: he looks
mild enough: he won't hurt us.”
“Not as you knows on,” said Sam; “and then,
agin, you don't know, — nobody never knows, what
one o' them 'ere critters will do: they's jest the most
contrary critters; and ef you think they're goin' to
do one way they're sure to do t'other. I could tell ye
a story now that'd jest make yer har stan' on eend.”
Of course we wanted to have our hair stand on
end, and beset Sam for the story; but he hung off.
“Lordy massy! boys, jest let's wait till ye've got yer
huckleberries: yer granny won't like it ef ye don't
bring her none, and Hepsy she'll be in my har, —
what's left on't,” said Sam, taking off his old torn
hat, and rubbing the loose shock of brash and grizzled
hair.
So we turned and made a détour, leaving the bull
on the right, though we longed amazingly to have a
bout with him, for the fun of the thing, and mentally
resolved to try it when our mentor was not round.
It all comes back to me again, — the image of that
huckleberry-pasture, interwoven with fragrance of
sweet-fern, and the ground under our feet embroidered
with star-moss and wintergreen, or foamy patches of
mossy frost-work, that crushed and crackled delightfully
beneath our feet. Every now and then a tall,
straight fire-lily — black, spotted in its centre — rose
like a little jet of flame; and we gathered it eagerly,
though the fierce August sun wilted it in our hands.
The huckleberry-bushes, bending under their purple
weight, we gathered in large armfuls, and took them
under the shadow of the pine-trees, that we might
strip them at our leisure, without being scorched by
the intense glare of the sun. Armful after armful
we carried and deposited in the shade, and then sat
down to the task of picking them off into our pails.
It was one of those New-England days hotter than
the tropics. Not a breath of air was stirring, not a
bird sang a note, not a sound was heard, except the
drowsy grating of the locusts.
“Well, now, Sam, now tell us that story about
the bull.”
“Lordy massy, how hot 'tis!” said Sam, lying
hands folded under his head. “I'm all in a drip of
sweat.”
“Well, Sam, we'll pick off your berries, if you'll
talk.”
“Wall, wall, be kerful yer don't git no green
ones in among 'em, else Hepsy 'll be down on me.
She's drefful partikelar, she is. Every thing has to
be jest so. Ef it ain't, you'll hear on't. Lordy
massy! boys, she's always telling me I don't do nothin'
for the support of the family. I leave it to you
if I didn't ketch her a nice mess o' fish a Tuesday.
I tell her folks can't expect to roll in money, and
allers to have every thing jess 'z they want it. We
brought nothin' into the world with us, and it's
sartain we ken carry nothin' out; and, having food
and raiment, we ought to be content. We have
ben better off'n we be now. Why, boys, I've seen
the time that I've spent thirty-seven cents a week
for nutmegs; but Hepsy hain't no gratitude: such
folks hez to be brought down. Take care, now, yer
ain't a-putting green ones in; be yer?”
“Sam, we sha'n't put in any at all, if you don't
tell us that story.”
“Lordy massy! you young ones, there ain't never
no contentin' yer, ef a fellow was to talk to the millennium.
Wonder now if there is going to be any
millennium. Wish I'd waited, and been born in
them days, 'spect things would a sorter come along
easier. Wall, I shall git through some way, I
s'pose.”
“Sam,” said I, sitting back, “we're putting all our
berries into your pail; and, if you don't begin to tell
us a story, we won't do it.”
“Lordy massy! boys, I'm kind o' collectin' my
idees. Ye have to talk a while to git a-goin',
everybody does. Wal, about this 'ere story. Ye
'member that old brown house, up on the hill there,
that we saw when we come round the corner?
That 'are was where old Mump Moss used to live.
Old Mump was consid'able of a nice man: he took
in Ike Sanders, Mis' Moss's sister's boy, to help him
on the farm, and did by him pretty much ez he did
by his own. Bill Moss, Mump's boy, he was a contrairy
kind o' critter, and he was allers a-hectorin'
Ike. He was allers puttin' off the heaviest end of
every thing on to him. He'd shirk his work, and git
threw it up at him that he was eatin' his father's
bread; and he watched every mouthful he ate, as if
he hated to see it go down. Wal, ye see, for all that,
Ike he growed up tall and strong, and a real handsome
young feller; and everybody liked him. And Bill he
was so gritty and contrairy, that his own mother and
sisters couldn't stan' him; and he was allers a-flingin'
it up at 'em that they liked Ike more'n they did him.
Finally his mother she said to him one day, `Why
shouldn't I,' sez she, `when Ike's allers pleasant to
me, and doin' every thing he ken fur me, and you
don't do nothin' but scold.' That 'are, you see, was
a kind o' home-thrust, and Bill he didn't like Ike a
bit the better for that. He did every thing he could
to plague him, and hector him, and sarcumvent him,
and set people agin him.
“Wal, ye see, 'twas the old story about Jacob and
Laban over agin. Every thing that Ike put his
hand to kind o' prospered. Everybody liked him,
everybody hed a good word for him, everybody
helped grease his wheels. Wal, come time when
he was twenty-one, old Mump he gin him a settin'-out.
he gin him a good cow, and Mis' Moss she knit
him up a lot o' stockings, and the gals they made him
up his shirts. Then, Ike he got a place with Squire
Wells, and got good wages; and he bought a little
bit o' land, with a house on it, on Squire Wells's
place, and took a mortgage on't, to work off. He
used to work his own land, late at night and early
in the mornin', over and above givin' good days'
works to the squire; and the old squire he sot all
the world by him, and said he hedn't hed sich a man
to work since he didn't know when.
“Wal, a body might ha' thought that when Bill had
a got him out o' the house, he might ha' ben satisfied,
but he wasn't. He was an ugly fellow, Bill Moss
was; and a body would ha' thought that every thing
good that happened to Ike was jest so much took
from him. Come to be young men, growed up together,
and waitin' on the gals round, Ike he was
pretty apt to cut Bill out. Yer see, though Bill was
goin' to have the farm, and all old Mump's money,
he warn't pleasant-spoken; and so, when the gals
got a chance, they'd allers rather go with Ike than
about the handsomest girl there was round, and
she hed all the fellers arter her; and her way was
to speak 'em all fair, and keep 'em all sort o' waitin'
and hopin', till she got ready to make her mind up.
She'd entertain Bill Saturday night, and she'd tell
Ike he might come Sunday night; and so Ike he was
well pleased, and Bill he growled.
“Wal, there come along a gret cattle-show.
Squire Wells he got it up: it was to be the gretest
kind of a time, and Squire Wells he give money
fur prizes. There was to be a prize on the best
cow, and the best bull, and the best ox, and the
best horse, and the biggest punkins and squashes
and beets, and there was a prize for the best loaf o'
bread, and the best pair o' stockin's, and the handsomest
bed-quilt, and the rest o' women's work.
Wal, yer see, there was a gret to-do about the
cattle-show; and the wagons they came in from all
around, — ten miles; and the gals all dressed up in
their best bunnits, and they had a ball in the evenin'.
Wal, ye see, it so happened that Bill and Ike each
on 'em sent a bull to the cattle-show; and Ike's bull
He was jest about as much riled as a feller could be;
and that evenin' Delily she danced with Ike twice as
many times ez she did with him. Wal, Bill he got
it round among the fellers that the jedges hed been
partial; and he said, if them bulls was put together,
his bull would whip Ike's all to thunder. Wal, the
fellers thought 'twould be kind o' fun to try 'em, and
they put Ike up to it. And finally 'twas agreed that
Ike's bull should be driv over to old Mump's; and
the Monday after the cattle-show, they should let
'em out into the meadow together and see which
was the strongest. So there was a Sunday the bulls
they were both put up together in the same barn;
and the 'greement was, they wasn't to be looked at
nor touched till the time come to turn 'em out.
“Come Sunday mornin', they got up the wagon to
go to meetin'; and Mis' Moss and the gals and old
Mump, they was all ready; and the old yaller dog he
was standin' waitin' by the wagon, and Bill warn't
nowhere to be found. So they sent one o' the girls
up chamber to see what'd got him; and there he was
a-lyin' on the bed, and said he'd got a drefful headache,
the second bell was a-tollin', and they had to drive
off without him: they never mistrusted but what
'twas jest so. Wal, yer see, boys, 'twas that 'are kind
o' Sunday headache that sort o' gets better when the
folks is all fairly into meetin'. So, when the wagon
was fairly out o' sight, Bill he thought he'd jest go
and have a peek at them bulls. Wal, he looked and
he peeked, and finally he thought they looked so
sort o' innocent 'twouldn't do no harm to jest let 'em
have a little run in the cow-yard aforehand. He
kind o' wanted to see how they was likely to cut up.
Now, ye see, the mischief about bulls is, that a body
never knows what they's goin' to do, 'cause whatever
notion takes 'em allers comes into their heads so
kind o' sudden, and it's jest a word and a blow with
'em. Wal, so fust he let out his bull, and then he
went in and let out Ike's. Wal, the very fust thing
that critter did he run up to Bill's bull, full tilt, and
jest gin one rip with his horns right in the side of
him, and knocked him over and killed him. Didn't
die right off, but he was done for; and Bill he gin a
yell, and run right up and hit him with a stick, and
“He bethought him of old Mump's gun.”—Page 187.
[Description: 703EAF. Illustration page. Image of a bull in a room. The bull is bucking and is knocking over a chair. A man is peering around a door with a shotgun aimed at the bull.]
I tell you, Bill he turned and made a straight coat-tail,
rippin' and peelin' it towards the house, and the
bull tearin' on right arter him. Into the kitchen he
went, and he hedn't no time to shut the door, and
the bull arter him; and into the keepin'-room, and
the bull arter him there. And he hedn't but jest
time to git up the chamber-stairs, when he heard the
old feller roarin' and tearin' round there like all natur.
Fust he went to the lookin'-glass, and smashed
that all to pieces. Then he histed the table over,
and he rattled and smashed the chairs round, and made
such a roarin' and noise, ye'd ha' thought there was
seven devils there; and in the midst of it Bill he
looked out of the window, and see the wagon
a-comin' back; and `Lordy massy!' he thought to
himself, `the bull 'll kill every one on 'em,' and he
run to the window and yelled and shouted, and they
saw him, and thought the house must be afire.
Finally, he bethought him of old Mump's gun, and
he run round and got it, and poked it through a
crack of the chamber-door, and fired off bang! and
shot him dead, jest as Mis' Moss and the girls was
comin' into the kitchen-door.
“Wal, there was, to be sure, the 'bomination o'
desolation when they come in and found every thing
all up in a heap and broke to pieces, and the old
critter a-kickin' and bleedin' all over the carpet, and
Bill as pale as his shirt-tail on the chamber-stairs.
They had an awful mess on't; and there was the two
bulls dead and to be took care uv.
“`Wal, Bill,” said his father, “I hope yer satisfied
now. All that comes o' stayin' to home from
meetin', and keepin' temporal things in yer head all
day Sunday. You've lost your own bull, you've got
Ike's to pay for, and ye'll have the laugh on yer all
round the country.'
“`I expect, father, we ken corn the meat,' says
Mis' Moss, `and maybe the hide'll sell for something,'
sez she; for she felt kind o' tender for Bill,
and didn't want to bear down too hard on him.
“Wal, the story got round, and everybody was
a-throwin' it up at Bill; and Delily, in partikelar,
hectored him about it till he wished the bulls had been
in the Red Sea afore he'd ever seen one on 'em.
Wal, it really driv him out o' town, and he went off
out West to settle, and nobody missed him much;
to better, till now they own jest about as pretty
a farm as there is round. Yer remember that white
house with green blinds, that we passed when we
was goin' to the trout-brook? Wal, that 'ere's the
one.”
| Sam Lawson's Oldtown fireside stories | |