Mr. Porter—when I got to old Miss Basses bars, jist after nite, sich streaks and cold fits cum over me worse than a feller with the Buck agur, the furst time he goes to shute at a dear. My kneas got to trimblin’, and I could hardly holler “get out” to Miss Basses son Siah’s dog, old Troup, who didn’t know me in my new geer, and cum out like all creashun a barkin’ amazin’. Ses I to myself, ses I, what a fool you is—and then I thort what Squire Britt’s nigger man, Tony, who went to town last week, told me about a taler there, who sed that jist as soon he got thru a makin’ a sute of close for a member of assembly to go to Rawley in, he ’spected to come out a cortin’ of Miss Barbry. This sorter raised my dander—for he’s shockin’ likely, with black wiskurs ’cept he’s nock-nead—with his hare all comded to one side like the Chapel Hill boys and lawyers. Then I went in, and after howdying and shakin’ hands, and sorter squeasin’ of Barbry’s, I sot down. There was old Miss Bass, Barbry and Siah Bass, her brother, a monstrus hand at possums—old Kurnel Hard, a goin to cort and stopp’d short to rite old Miss Basses will, with Squire Britt and one of the nabors to witness it all rite and strate. This kinder shock’d me—till Kurnel Hard, a mighty perlite man, sed, ses he:
“Mr. Warrick, you are a lookin’ oncommon smart.”
“Yes,” ses I, “Kurnel, (a sorter cuttin’ my eye at Barbry) middlin’ well in body—but in mind—”
“Ah, I see,” ses he, (cuttin’ of my discoorse) “I understand that you are”—(Mr. Porter, I forget the dixonary words he sed but it were that I were in love). If you could have seed my face and felt it burne, you would a tho’t that you had the billyous fever; and as for Barbry, now want she red as a turkey-cock’s gills—and she gump’d up and said, “Ma’am,” and run outer the room, tho’ nobody on yearth that I heerd on called her; and then I heerd Polly Cox—drot her pictur!—who is hired to weeve—a sniggrin’ at me.
Arter a while, Squire Britt and the nabor went off—and Siah he went a coonin’ of it with his dogs, but driv old Troup back, for he’s deth on rabbits; and old Miss Bass went out, and Kurnal Hard, arter taken a drink outen his cheer-box, he got behin’ the door and shuck’d himself and got into one of the beds in the fur eend of the room.
Arter a while, old Miss Bass cum back, and sot in the chimbly corner and tuck off her shoes, and then tuck up her pipe and went to smokin’—the way she rowl’d the smoke out was astonishin’—and ev’ry now and then she struck her head and sorter gron’d like, what it were at I don’t know, ’cept she were bothered ’bout her consarns—or thinkin’ ’bout her will which she had jist sined. Bimeby Barbry cum back, and sot on a cheer clost by me. She was a workin’ of a border that looked mity fine.
Ses I, “Miss Barbry, what is that that you’re seamstring so plaguy putty?”
Ses she, “It teent nothin’.”
Up hollered old Miss Bass:
“Why,” ses she, “Mr. Warrick, it’s a nite-cap, and what on the Lord’s yearth young peple now-a-days works, and laces, and befrils nite-caps fur, I can’t tell—it beets me—bedizinin’ out their heads when they’re gwain to bed, just as if anybody but their own peple seed ’em; and there’s young men with wiskurs on there upper lip; it want so in my day, but young people’s got no sense—bless the Lord! oh me—”