“That water bar’l o’ mine’s all broken up.”
“How was that?”
“I’ll tell you how it happened. The dry weather druv the field-rats to the bar’l for water, which they fetched out by dipping their tails in. Many a time I seed ’em at it, an’ it weren’t long before a ringhals spotted the performance; so what’s he do but get inter the water, tail fust, through the bung, and watch for the rats to come an’ drink. My! He guv me a schreik when I went for a drink an’ saw his eyes gleamin’ up outer the green bough I poked in the hole to cool the water an’ prevent it shakin’ out. I lef him there, for I couldn’t see how to fetch him out; but, whiles I were sittin’ quiet in the evenin’, waitin’ for him to crawl out, up came along a percession of rats, with a ole grey-whiskered chap leading. He took a look at me, movin’ his nose, but I kep’ still, and he reared hisself against the bar’l. Next rat he run up, and the next over the two of ’em, till the third got over the swell of the bar’l and scooted to the bung-hole, backed round and popped in his tail, unsuspicious of that vicious crittur inside. Nex’ minit that rat were hollering out blue murder, for the snake grabbed him by the tail, and the other rats, they jes’ lit out for hum. Well, that snake he let go, but the rat he jes’ curled up and fell down in a kickin’ fit. Then the ringhals crawled out—the ugly five feet length o’ livin’ death—and there and then gorged the rat. Well, I let him be. Snakes is bad, and rats is bad. I let him be, and three days arter there were the blamed ringhals in my bar’l again. Blow me, if the same performance didn’t happen over ag’in, and some days arter I seed that partickler tribe o’ rats was gettin’ smaller, and, believe me, sonny, that ringhals had guv the news to another snake, for one evenin’ I seed two o’ their wicked-lookin’ heads jes’ inside the bung on the twigs. I were watchin’ for the tragedy—same as us’al—when—same as us’al—up come that ole grey chap on his own hook. He came to the bar’l, and sat up on his behind legs like a hare, twiddling his moustaches and twisting his nose. Then he backed off, and give a whopping spring, which landed him on a swell of the bar’l. Well, he weren’t takin’ any water, he weren’t; oh, no! He jes’ walked on his hind legs and took a peep inter the bung-hole. I guess he seed something, for he turned a back sumersault, jes’ as a vicious head came with a hiss at him. Well, I tell you that ole chap he scooted off, squeaking like a forty-shillin’ kettle. I sat there laughin’ at the skeer of that ’ere rat, but, by gum! I soon dropped grinnin’, for up along came the ole feller ag’in with a ’ole lot o’ rats behind him. When they drew near he gave them the word to stop, whiles he examined the bar’l all round. Then he spoke a few words, and the entire gang they went to the lower side of the bar’l and began to scratch away the yearth. Yes, sir, that’s what they done. They scratched away the yearth. Then the ole chap guv another word, an’ they got roun’ on the top side o’ the bar’l. Then they begun to shuv.”
“Nonsense!”
“I tell you; them rats they jist put their backs ag’in the bar’l and shuved for all they were worth; but ’twarn’t no go. They was too light. D’ye think they guv up the job—not they! The ole chap led ’em roun’ the bottom side, and they set to scraping more yearth away till the bar’l were almost undermined. Then roun’ they came ag’in, all squeaking, and one of the snakes popped his head out ter see what the noise were about. Nex’ minute he’d a’ bin among ’em, but the ’ole parcel o’ rats, maybe one hundred, guv another mighty shuv, and ’fore I could start up to prevent it that bar’l gave a list over, and then started. Once it started it jes’ flew down the slope, and went to pieces at the bottom with a smash. The snake that were hangin’ out were flattened dead, and the way them rats fell on his body were a caution. They were tearin’ it to pieces when, bilin’ with rage an’ hissin’ most furious, up came the other riptile. The rats then scooted—that’s so!”
Chapter Twenty Five.
Abe Pike Scouting.
“Yes!” said Abe, one afternoon, after he had been helping threshin’ wheat; “these newfangled machines bin smashing up all the good old customs that were the salt of country life. This yer thresher of yours may get through the sheaves with a lot of dust an’ rattle an’ smoke, but give me the old floor, an’ the oxen tramping out the ear, an’ the neighbours coming to the supper. Oh, yes! the old customs they brought the people together and made ’em soshiable and talk. Lor’ bless you, there ain’t no talking nowadays—only grunting.”