“But, as I was sayin’ afore, the dogs they smelt bar sine, an’ wouldn’t budge a peg, an arter Ike had almost cussed the bark off’n a dogwood saplin’ by, he lent his old flint-lock rifle up agin it, and then he pealed off his old blanket an’ laid her down, too. I diskivered mischief was er cumin’, for I never see a critter show rathy like he did. Torectly I see him walk down to the creek bottom, ’bout fifty yards from where his gun was, and then he ’gin pickin’ up rocks an’ slingin’ um at the dogs like bringer! Cracky! didn’t he linkit into um? It minded me of David whalin’ Goliath, it did! If you’d er seed him, and hearn them holler, you’d er thought he’d er knocked the nigh sites off’n every mother’s son of ’em!
“But that ain’t the fun yet. While Ike was er lammin’ the dogs, I hearn the allfiredest crackin’ in the cane, an’ I looked up, and thar was one of the eternalist whollopin’ bars cummin’ crack, crack, through the cane an’ kerslosh over the creek, and stopped right plumb slap up whar Ike’s gun was. Torectly he tuck hold er the ole shooter, an’ I thought I see him tinkerin’ ’bout the lock, an’ kinder whistlin’, and blowin’ into it. I was ’stonished, I tell you, but I wanted to see Ike outdone so bad that I lay low and kep’ dark, an’ in about a minit Ike got done lickin’ the dogs, an’ went to git his gun. Jeemeny, criminy! if you’d only been whar I was! I do think Ike was the maddest man that ever stuk an axe into a tree, for his har stuck rite strait up, and his eyes glared like two dogwood blossoms! But the bar didn’t seem to care shucks for him, for he jist sot the old rifle rite back agin the saplin’, and walked off on his hind legs jist like any human. Then, you see, I gin to git sorter jelus, and sez I to myself, ‘Mister Bar,’ sez I, ‘the place whar you’s er stanin’ ain’t prezactly healthy, an’ if you don’t wabble off from thar purty soon, Mizis Bar will be a widder, by gum!’ With that, Ike grabbed up ole Mizis Rifle, and tuk most pertickler aim at him, and by hokey, she snapped! Now, sez I, ‘Mister Bar, go it, or he’ll make bacon of you!’ But the varmint didn’t wink, but stood still as a post, with the thumb of his right paw on the eend of his smeller, and wiglin’ his t’other finger thus,” (and Mike went through with the gyration). “All this time Ike he stood thar like a fool, er snappin’ and her snappin’, an’ the bar he lookin’ kinder quare like, out er the corner o’ his eye, an’ sorter laffin’ at him. Torectly I see Ike take down the ole shooter, an’ kinder kersamine the lock, an’ when he done that, he laid her on his shoulder, and shook his fist at the bar, and walked toward home, an’ the bar he shuk his fist, an’ went into the cane brake, and then I cum off.”
Here all the Yazoo boys expressed great anxiety to know the reason why Ike’s gun didn’t fire.
“Let’s licker fust,” said Mik, “an’ if you don’t caterpillar, you can shoot me. Why, you see,” concluded he, “the long and short of it is this, that the bar in our neck o’ woods has a little human in um, and this feller know’d as much about a gun as I do ’bout preachin’; so when Ike was lickin’ the dogs, he jest blowed all the powder outen the pan, an’ to make all safe, he tuk the flint out too, and that’s the way he warn’t skeered when Ike was snappin’ at him.”
III.
COUSIN GUSS.[[7]]
“Well, how de dew? I’m right glad to see you, I swow. I rather guess I can say suthin’ about the Revolution business, purty good varsion, tew, by jingo. My father, old Josh Addams, had his fist in it: any on you know him? Old Josh Addams, as well known as the Schuylkill water-works. He was born in Boston: he didn’t die there, ’cause he died in Philadelphia. He used to wear an old genuine ’76 coat, little cut down to suit the fashion, made it a razee. One might have known the old man a mile off. If it hadn’t been for Cousin Guss, he’d have been livin’ to this ere day. You may see Guss in Chestnut Street—any of you know him?—dressed like a peacock, and got whiskers big enough to stuff a sofa bottom. He went down t’other day to see the wild beasts in 5th street; jest as he was comin’ away, he met a hull squad of little children a comin’ in: when they saw Cousin Guss, if they didn’t squeal like ten thousand devils. The old man says, what’s the matter, young ones? Oh dear, papa, see, they’ve let one of the monkeys loose. Cousin Guss didn’t show his face in Chestnut Street for a week. Guss telled the old man he must have his coat cut again, and altered to the fashion; so he coaxed old Josh to let him take it down to his artist, as he called him, down in 3rd street. Well, the good-natured old critter said he might: when he got it back, sich a lookin’ thing as it was, you might have fallen down and worshipped it, without breaking the ten commandments. When we saw it, we all larfed; sister Jedide, she snickered right out. The old man looked at it for about a minute, didn’t say a word, by jingo—the tears rolled out of his eyes as big as hail-stones. He jest folded it up, put it under his pillow, laid himself down on the bed, and never got up again: it broke his heart: he died from a curtailed coat.
“The old man used to tell sich stories about the Revolution. I rather guess he could say a leetle more about that affair than most folks. ’Bout six years ago he went to Boston, when La Fayette was there; they gave a great dinner at Fanueil Hall. When the Mayor heard old Josh Addams was in Boston, he sent him a regular built invitation. The old man went, and wore the ’76 coat,—that is, before it was cut down, though. Bimeby they called upon the old man for a toast. Up he got, and, says he:
“ ‘Here’s to the Heroes of the Revolution, who fought, bled, and died for their country, of which I was one.’
“When old Josh said that, they all snickered right out.
“There’s one story the old man used to tell about Boston, that was a real snorter: he always used to laugh afore he begun.