“ ‘Becky,’ ses I, ‘what in natur are you doin’ thar? Why don’t you come along out?’
“Ses she, ‘I can’t—don’t you see how I’m fixed?’
“Then I looked more pertickler, and seed how ’twas. The horse had stopped to drink, and Becky had let go the bridle, and when she tried to git it agin, the bag slipped furder over to the side she warn’t a settin’ on—so when I got thar, she had let all go but the bag, and she was a settin’ on one eend o’ that, leanin’ forward, and with her hands behind her, one to each side o’ the bag, a pullin’ agin the weight of the big eend, ’twell her face was as red as a gobbler’s snout. ’Twas a reg’lar dead strain—the weight of Beck and the little eend of the bag, agin the big eend—and, I tell you, she had to lean well forward to keep from goin’ over backwards!
“I bulged into the crick and got purty close to Becky; but it was so funny, I couldn’t fetch myself to help her, but tho’t I’d devil hur a little, as she set. So ses I, making a fine bow:
“ ‘My honey, my love,
My turkle-dove,
Will you take it amiss,
Ef I give you a kiss?’
“But I hadn’t no idee of kissin’ of her—but only wanted to devil her a little. At last, I seen an old mustard-bottle stickin’ from out her bosom; and ses I, Miss Becky, will you give your Uncle Kit a pinch of snuff?’ Ses she, ‘help me for the Lord’s sake—I’m mighty nigh gin out’—and Squire, she was on a tremenjus strain! But I tho’t I’d plague her some: and after cutting of some few shines, I made a motion to snatch at the bottle o’ snuff! She gin a little jerk back!—the big eend got a start!—still she hilt her grip with both hands!—and the next thing, somethin’ riz in the air, like a small cloud of calico and dry corn-stalks! and the durndest ca-slosh on t’other side o’ the horse, that ever you heerd! A—waugh! What sloshin’!”
“ ‘Horraw, Becky! rise gall! I was lookin’ t’other way!’ ses I, for I knowed she was ’shamed!! I laughed, however, and she mighty nigh cussed!