“Here, I’ve got your shacket—put it on,” says Jacob, lifting up the old man, and slipping his arms into the armholes of the vest.
The moment old Peter made the effort to get the garment on his shoulders, he grew livid in the face—his hair stood on end—he shivered and shook—his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked an accompaniment. “O Yacob!” exclaimed he, “help me to go home—I’m dead! I’m dead!”
“Vat’s dat you say? Ish dere nodder shnake in your preeches?” inquired the intrepid Jacob.
“Not dat—I don’t mean dat,” says the farmer, “but shust you look on me—I’m shwelt all up, pigger as an ox! my shacket won’t go on my pack. I’m dying mit de pizen. Oh! oh! oh! help me home quick.”
The hired man came to the same conclusion; and with might and main he hurried old Peter along toward the farm-house. Meantime young Peter had run home, and so alarmed the women folks that they were in a high state of excitement when they saw the approach of the good old man and his assistant.
Old man Peter was carried into the house, laid on a bed, and began to lament his sad misfortune in a most grievous manner, when the old lady, his frow, came forward and proposed to examine the bitten leg. The unhappy man opened his eyes and feebly pointed out the place of the bite. She carefully ripped up his pantaloons, and out fell—a thistle-top! and at the same time a considerable scratch was made visible.
“Call dis a shnake? Bah!” says the old lady, holding up the thistle.
“Oh! but I’m pizened to death, Katreen!—see, I’m all pizen!—mine shacket!—Oh! dear, mine shacket not come over mine pody!”
“Haw! haw! you crazy fellow,” roars the frow, “dat’s not your shacket—dat’s Peter’s shacket! ha! ha! ha!”
“Vat! dat Peter’s shacket?” says old Peter, shaking off death’s icy fetters at one surge, and jumping up: “Bosh! Jacob, vat an old fool you must be to say I vas shnake-pite! Go ’pout your pusiness, gals. Peter, give me mine pipe.”