The Forks and the famous old home of Jas. Jackson. He imported Glencoe and owned many famous racers.
“‘When Rube goes er-furragin’ you’d think we’d done struck de valley ob de Nile.’
“Wal, Sherman wuz keepin’ us purty hot, an’ grub wuz hard ter fin’. In our marchin’ one day I seed a mighty fine mud-lark ober in a farmer’s orchard.
“What’s a mud-lark,” I asked.
“Wal, a mud-lark in wah times,” said Uncle Rube, “is a fatt’nin’ shote, an’ I wanted dis one, but I wanted to tote fair wid Torm, an’ dat ebenin’ I ’proached ’im on de subjec’ uv gwine in partnership wid me an’ dervidin dat hawg up ’twixt our messes. Now, I knowed Torm w’u’d steal de repertashun ob er guvment mule, but when I proached ’im, you jes orter seed ’im git indignant an’ ’low he wuz er genl-mun an’ w’u’dn’ steal no hawg an’ er Christian, an’ all dat. Wall, sur, wheneber er man ’gins to fall back on his ’ligion, I know he’ll do ter watch. ’Sides dat, I nurver did b’lieve in bein’ too active in ercomplishin’ er thing when and gib you de proceeds. Somepin’ in Torm’s talk made me know he wuz gwine at dat berry hawg, so dat night I hid out in de bushes whar he hed ter pass, an’ sho nuff, ’bout midnight heah he come wid dat mud-lark on his back, all done scraped an’ cleaned fer de mess. When he got close ernuff I riz up an’ sez:
“‘Halt! Who goes dar?’
“I seed he thort he’d run inter er Yankee picket, an’ I pulled my gun—bang! bang! bang! Lord, you orter seed ’im drap dat hawg an’ come out’n de woods lak de ole gray hoss a-tearin’ down de wilderness. I tuck de hawg an’ put ’im in our chist, an’ de naix day Torm got me off, lookin’ mighty mournful, an’ ’lowed he wuz mouty nigh starved. Sez he, sheepishly.
“‘Brer Rube, arter I lef’ you, I prayed ober de thing, an’ de angel tole me whar I’d fin’ a fat mud-lark. I bagged ’im in good fashion an’ wuz comin’ home wid ’im when I run inter de whole Yankee army an’ come mouty nigh bein’ kilt, an’ den an’ dar I drapt de purties’ mud-lark dat ever sung in de cane-brakes.’
“Sez I: ‘Brer Torm, arter I lef’ you, I prayed ober de situation too, an’ I tole de angel I wuz crippled an’ c’u’dn’ do much myse’f, but dat I wuz mouty hungry an’ wanted a mud-lark. De righteous am nurver fursaken,’ sez I, ’an’ dat night he made a fool nigger go out an’ fotch me one to my very door.’
“I gin Torm a shoulder,’ laughed the old man, ’an’ he nurver talked no mo’ ’ligion ter me dat yeah.