Lightnin’ couldn’t knocked me off my seat quicker! Down went the coffee, and over went the table and all the vittles. Mary screamed, and old Miss Stallins fainted rite away in her cheer. I was so blind I couldn’t hardly see, but I never breathed a breth ’til I grabbed it up in my arms and run round the house two or three times, ’fore I had the hart to look at the poor little thing, to see if it was ded.
By this time the galls was holt of my coat tail, hollerin’ “April Fool! April Fool!” as hard as they could, and when I cum to look, I had nothing in my arms but a bundle of rags with little Henry Clay’s clothes on. I shuck all over like I had the ager, and felt a monstrous sight more like cussin’ than laughin’.
“April Fool, dingnation!” ses I: “fun’s fun; but I’m dad blamed if ther’s any fun in any sich doin’s,” and I was jest gwine to blow out a little, when I heard Mary screamin’ for me to cum to her mother.
When we got in the dinin’ room, thar the old woman was, keeled over in her cheer, with her eyes sot in her hed and a corn muffin stickin’ in her mouth. Mary was takin’ on at a terrible rate, and all she could do was jest to clapp her hands and holler.
“Oh, mother’s dyin’! mother’s dyin’! whar’s the baby? Oh, my poor mother! Oh, my darlin’ baby!”
I tuck Mary and splained it all to her and tried to quiet the poor gall, and the galls got at the old woman; but it tuck all sorts of rubbin’, and ever so much assafedity, and campfire and hartshorn, and burnt hen’s feathers to bring her too; and then she wouldn’t stay brung too more’n a minit ’fore she’d keel over agin, and I do b’lieve if they hadn’t brung little Henry Clay to her, so she could see him and feel him, and hear him squall, she never would got her senses agin. She aint more’n half at herself yit. All the gals kin do they can’t make her understand the April Fool bisiness, and she won’t let nobody else but herself nuss the baby ever sense.
As soon as I had time to think a little, I was so monstrous glad it wasn’t no worse, that I couldn’t stay mad with the galls. But I tell you what, I was terrible rathy for a few minits. I don’t b’lieve in this April foolin’. Last year the galls deviled me almost to deth with ther bominable nonsense, sowin’ up the legs of my trowsers, punchin’ holes in the water gourd, so I wet my shirt busom all over when I went to drink, and heatin’ the handle of the tongs, and cuttin’ the cowhide bottoms of the cheers loose, so I’d fall through ’em when I went to set down, and all sich devilment. I know the Bible ses there’s a time for all things; but I think the least a body has to do with fool bisiness at any time the better for ’em. I’m monstrous tired of sich doin’s myself, and if I didn’t think the galls had got ther fill of April foolin’ this time, I’d try to git a almynack next year what didn’t have no fust day of April in it.
No more from your frend ’til deth,
Jos. Jones.