“The Lord ha’ mercy on our sinful sowls! then whar is he?” cried the widow, breaking out afresh. “Is he run away to Orleans—or gone to Californey? Yes, that’s it! and the poor boy’ll be eaten’ up by them ‘diggers’ that they say goes rootin’ round that outlandish country, like a set of mean stinkin’ ground-hogs. Poor Joe! he was a fine little fellow, an’ it was only the other day last year, when you was on your rounds, that he eat all my little bo——.”
“No, he ain’t gone to Californey as I know,” interrupted his brother.
“Then, for mercy’s sake! do tell a body what’s become on him!” rather tartly inquired the old lady.
“Why, you see, Mrs. Harris,” replied Mr. Meriweather, still keeping the same position, and interrupting the narrative with several bursts of grief, (which we’ll leave out). “You see, Mrs. Harris, Joe and I went up airly in the spring to get a boat load of rock from Boone county, to put up the foundation of the new houses we’re buildin’, fur there ain’t no rock down in them rich sily bottoms in our parts. Well, we got along pretty considerable, fur we had five kegs of blast along, and what with the hire of some niggers, we managed to get our boat loaded, an’ started fur home in about three weeks. You never did see anythin’ rain like it did the fust day we was floatin’ down, but we worked like a cornfilled nigger ov a Crismus week and pretty near sundown we’d made a matter ov nigh twenty mile afore we were ashore and tied up. Well, as we didn’t have any shelter on the flat, we raised a rousin’ big fire on the bank, close to whar she was tied up, and cooked some grub; and I’d eaten a matter of two pounds of side, and half of a possum, and was sittin’ on a log, smokin’ a Kaintuck regaly, and a talkin’ to Brother Joe, who was a standin’ chock up agin the fire, with his back to it. You recollex, Mrs. Harris, Brother Joe allers was a dressy sort of a chap—fond of brass buttons on his coat and the flaim’est kind of red neckerchers; and this time he had buckskin breeches, with straps under his boots. Well, when I was a talkin’ to him ov the prospect fur the next day, all ov a sudden I thought the little feller was a growin’ uncommon tall; till I diskivered that the buckskin breeches, that wur as wet as a young rooster in a spring rain, wur beginning to smoke and draw up kinder, and wur a liftin’ Brother Joe off the ground.
“ ‘Brother Joe,’ sez I, ‘you’re a goin’ up.’
“ ‘Brother Bill,’ sez he, ‘I ain’t a doin’ anythin’ else.’
“And he scrunched down mighty hard; but it warn’t ov no use, fur afor long he wur a matter of some fifteen feet up in the air.”
“Merciful powers,” interrupted the widow.
“ ‘Brother Joe,’ sez I.
“ ‘I’m here,’ sez he.