“Oh, you're huffy, are you?” continued the old man. “Well, I guess you can stay so, till you give in,” and on he jogged, in a silently jealous mood. On arriving at the farm, he called to a negro to lift the old woman off, but Sam, the nigger, stood gazing at him in silent astonishment.
“Lift her oft', you Sam, do you hear?—and do it carefully., or some of her wrath'll bile out. In spite of the Major's sweetenin' she's mad as thunder.”
“Why, de lor', massa, de ole 'oman aint dar,” replied Sam, his eyes standing out of his countenance. “Jest turn round, massa, and satisfy you'self dat de ole 'oman clar gone an missin—de lor'!”
And sure enough, on a minute examination by the old man, she was “found missing.” The Major was charged at once with abduction, instant measures were taken for pursuit, and a party despatched to scour the roads. On proceeding about two miles on the road to the Major's, the party were suddenly halted at the small rivulet, by finding the Missus with her head lying partly in the little stream, its waters laving her lips, and softly murmuring—“Not a drop more, Major, unless it's sweeten'd!”
NETTLE BOTTOM BALL; OR, BETSY JONES' TUMBLE IN THE MUSH PAN.
Well, it are a fact, boys,” said Jim Sikes, “that I promised to tell you how I cum to git out in these Platte diggins, and I speculate you mout as well have it at onst, kase its bin troublin' my conscience amazin' to keep it kiver'd up. The afarr raised jessy in Nettle Bottom, and old Tom Jones' yell, when he swar he'd 'chaw me up,' gives my meat a slight sprinklin' of ager whenever I think on it.
“You see, thar wur a small town called Equality, in Illimse, that some speckelators started near Nettle Bottom, cos thar wur a spontaneos salt lick in the diggins, and no sooner did they git it agoin' and build some stores and groceries thar, than they wragon'd from Cincinnate and other up-stream villages, a pacel of fellers to attend the shops, that looked as nice, all'ays, as if they wur goin' to meetin' or on a courtin' frolic; and 'salt their picters,' they wur etarnally pokin' up their noses at us boys of the Bottom. Well, they got up a ball in the village, jest to interduce themselves to the gals round the neighborhood, and invited a few on us to make a contrary picter to themselves, and so shine us out of site by comparison. Arter that ball thur wran't any thin' talked on among the gals but what nice fellers the clerks in Equality wur, and how nice and slick they wore their har, and their shiny boots, and the way they stirrupp'd down their trowsers. You couldn't go to see one on 'em, that she wouldn't stick one of these fellers at you, and keep a talkin' how slick they looked. It got to be parfect pizen to hear of, or see the critters, and the boys got together at last to see what was to be done—the thing had grown parfectly alarmin'. At last a meetin' was agreed on, down to old Jake Bents'.
“On next Sunday night, instead of takin' the gals to meetin', whar they could see these fellers, we left 'em at home, and met at Jake's, and I am of the opinion thur was some congregated wrath thar—whew wan't they?