X. WHERE JOE MERIWEATHER WENT TO.

“I do believe that’s Bill Meriweather,” said the old lady hostess of the sign of “The Buck” tavern, as attracted by the noise of a horse’s hoofs, she raised her eyes from her occupation of stringing dried slips of pumpkin, and descried, this side of the first bend in the road, a traveller riding a jaded horse towards the mansion.

“I do believe that’s Bill Meriweather. It’s about time for him to be round agin a buyin’ shoats. But whar’s Joe? Phillisy Ann,” continued Mrs. Harris, raising her voice, “catch a couple of young chickens, and get supper ready soon as ye can, you dratted lazy wench you, for here comes Bill Meriweather. But whar’s Joe? How do you do, Mr. Meriweather,” concluded the old lady, as the stranger arrived in front of the porch.

“Lively,” replied that individual as he proceeded to dismount and tie his horse. “How do you come on yourself, old ’omen.”

“Pretty well, Bill; how’s craps down in your parts?”

“Bad, uncommon bad,” replied Bill, “there’s a new varmint come around in our country, that’s got a mortal likin’ fur the tobacker crap. They looks a good deal like a fox, but are as big as a three year old nigger, and kin climb a tree like a squearl, and they steals a dozen or so ‘hands’ every night, and next mornin’ if you notice, you’ll see all the tops of the pine-oaks around the plantation kivered with them a dryin’, and the infernal chawtobacks—that’s what we call ’em—a settin’ up in a crotch, a chawin’ what is cured, and squirtin’ ambeer all over the country. Got any on ’em up here yet?”

“The goodness, Lord ha’ mercy, no, Bill! But whar’s Joe?” Up to this time Mr. Meriweather had been as pleasant and jovial a looking Green River man, as you might find in a week’s ride along the southern border of Kentucky, and had finished his lecture on the natural history of the chawtoback, and the unsaddling his horse at the same time; but no sooner had the old lady asked the question, “Whar’s Joe?” than he instantaneously dropped on the bench alongside the questioner, gave her an imploring look of pity and despair, let his head fail into his open palms, and bending down both until they nearly touched his knees, he uttered such a sigh as might a Louisville and New Orleans eight boiler steam-packet in the last stage of collapsed flues.

“Goodness, gracious, Bill! what’s the matter?” cried the old lady, letting her stringing apparatus fall. “Hev you got the cramps? Phillisy Ann, bring that bottle here outen the cupboard, quick, and some pepper pods!”

“Ah—h! no!” sighed the sufferer, not changing his position, but mournfully shaking his head, “I ain’t got no cramps.” However, Phillisy Ann arriving in “no time” with the article of household furniture called for, that gentleman, utterly disregarding the pepper pods, proceeded to pour out into a tumbler, preparatory to drinking, a sufficient quantity of amber coloured fluid to utterly exterminate any cramps that might, by any possibility, be secretly lingering in his system, or fortify himself against any known number that might attack him in the distant future; and having finished, immediately assumed his former position, and went into most surprisingly exact imitations of a wheezy locomotive on a foggy morning.

“Merciful powers! what can the matter be?” exclaimed the widow, now thoroughly excited, as Mr. Meriweather appeared to be getting no better, but was rocking himself up and down, “like a man who is sawing marble,” groaning and muttering inarticulate sounds, as if in the last extremity of bodily anguish. But Mr. Meriweather was for some time unable to make any reply that could be understood, until at length, at the conclusion of a very fierce paroxysm, the widow thought she could catch the two words, “Poor Joe!”

“Is there anything the matter with Joe?” asked the old lady. If it were possible for any one man to feel and suffer, as far as appearances went, all the agony and misery that a half dozen of the most miserable and unfortunate of the human family ever have felt and suffered, and yet live, Mr. Meriweather certainly was that individual, for he immediately went off into such a state of sighs, groans, and lamentations, mingled with exclamations of “Poor Joe!” “Poor Brother Joe!” that the widow, aroused to the highest state of sympathy and pity, could do nothing but wipe her eyes with her apron, and repeat the question.

“Whar is Joe, Mr. Meriweather, is he sick?”

“Oh—h—no!” groaned his mourning brother.

“Is he dead then? poor Joe!” faintly inquired the old lady.

“I don’t know that,” was the broken reply.

“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.

“ ‘Catch hold ov the top ov that black-jack,’ sez I.

“ ‘Talk!’ sez Brother Joe, and he sorter leaned over and grabbed the saplin’, like as maybe you’ve seed a squ’el haul in an elm switch ov a June mornin’. But it warn’t ov no use, fur, old ’omen, ef you’ll believe me, it gradually begun to give way at the roots, and afore he’d got five foot higher, it jist slipped out er the ground, as easy as you’d pull up a spring reddish.

“ ‘Brother Joe!’ sez I agin.

“ ‘I’m a list’nin’,’ sez he.

“ ‘Cut your straps!’ sez I, for I seed it was his last chance.

“ ‘Talk!’ sez Brother Joe, tho’ he looked sort a reproachful like at me fur broachin’ such a subject; but arter apparently considerin’ awhile, he outs with his jack-knife, an’ leanin’ over sideways, made a rip at the sole of his left foot. There was a considerable deal ov cracklin’ fur a second or two, then a crash sorter like as if a waggon-load of wood had bruck down, and the fust thing I know’d, the t’other leg shot up like, and started him; and the last thing I seed ov Brother Joe, he was a whirlin’ round like a four-spoked wheel with the rim off, away overclost toward sundown!”