XII. TAKING THE CENSUS.

Our next encounter was with an old lady, notorious in her neighbourhood for her garrulity and simple-mindedness. Her loquacity knew no bounds; it was constant, unremitting, interminable, and sometimes laughably silly. She was interested in quite a large Chancery suit, which had been dragging its slow length for several years, and furnished her with a conversational fund, which she drew upon extensively, under the idea that its merits could never be sufficiently discussed. Having been warned of her propensity, and being somewhat hurried when we called upon her, we were disposed to get through business as soon as possible, and without hearing her enumeration of the strong points of her law case. Striding into the house, and drawing our papers:

“Taking the census, Ma’am,” quoth we.

“Ah, well, yes! bless your soul, take a seat. Now do! Are you the gentlemen that Mr. Fillmore has sent out to take the censis? I wonder—well, good Lord, look down! how was Mr. Fillmore and family when you seed him?”

We told her we had never seen the President; didn’t know him from a piece of sole-leather; “we had been written to to take the census.”

“Well now, there agin! love your soul! Well, I s’pose Mr. Fillmore writ you a letter, did he? No! Well, God be praised, there’s mighty little here to take down; times is hard, God’s will be done! but looks like people can’t get their rights in this country, and the law is all for the rich, and none for the poor, praise the Lord! Did you ever hear tell of that case my boys has got agin old Simpson? Looks like they will never get to the end on it, glory to His name! The children will suffer, I’m mighty afeard, Lord give us grace! Did you ever see Judge B.? Yes! Well, the Lord preserve us! Did you ever hear him say what he’s agwine to do in the boys’ case agin Simpson? No! Good Lord! Well, Squire, will you ax him the next time you see him, and write me word, and tell him what I say? I’m nothing but a poor widow, and my boys has got no larnin’, and old Simpson tuk ’em in. It’s a mighty hard case, and the will ought never to a been broke, but—”

Here we interposed, and told the old lady that our time was precious—that we wished to take down the number of her family, and the produce raised by her last year, and be off. After a good deal of trouble, we got through with the description of the members of her family, and the “statistical table,” as far as the article “cloth.”

“How many yards of cotton cloth did you weave in 1850, Ma’am?”

“Well now, the Lord have mercy! less see. You know Sally Higgins that used to live in the Smith settlement? Poor thing! her daddy drove her off all on the ’count of Jack Miller, poor creetur! poor gal! she couldn’t help it, I dare say. Well, Sally she come to stay ’long wi’ me when the old man druv her away, and she was a powerful good hand to weave, and I did think she’d help me a power. Well, arter she’d bin here awhile, her baby hit took sick, and Old Miss Stringer she undertook to help it. She’s a powerful good hand, old Miss Stringer, on roots and yearbs and sich like! Well, the Lord look down from above! she made a sort of a tea, as I was a tellin’, and she gin it to Sally’s baby; it got wuss—the poor creetur—and she gin it tea, and looked like the more she gin it tea, the more—”

“My dear Madam, I’m in a hurry—please tell me how many yards of cotton you wove in 1850. I want to get through and go on.”

“Well, well, the Lord have mercy! who’d a thought you’d a bin so snappish! Well, as I was a sayin’, Sally’s child it kept gittin’ wus, and old Miss Stringer she kept a givin’ it the yearb tea, till at last the child hit looked like hit would die anyhow. And ’bout the time the child was at its wust, Old Daddy Sikes he come along, and he said if we git some nightshed berries and stew them with a little cream and some hog’s lard. Now Old Daddy Sikes is a mighty fine old man, and he giv the boys a heap of mighty good counsel about that case.

“ ‘Boys,’ said he ‘I’ll tell you what you do; you go and—’ ”

“In the name of goodness, old lady,” said we, “tell about your cloth; and let the sick child and Miss Stringer, Daddy Sikes, the boys, and the law-suit, go the Old Scratch. I’m in a hurry!”

“Gracious, bless your dear soul! don’t git aggravated. I was jist a tellin’ you how it come I didn’t weave no cloth last year.”

“Oh, well you didn’t weave any cloth last year. Good! We’ll go on to the next article.”

“Yes; you see the child hit begun to swell and turn yaller, and hit kept a wallin’ its eyes, and a moanin’, and I know’d—”

“Never mind about the child—just tell me the value of the poultry you raised last year.”

“Oh, well—yes—the chickens, you means. Why, the Lord love your poor soul; I reckon you never in your born days see a creetur have the luck that I did—and looks like we never shall have any good luck agin; for ever since old Simpson tuk that case up to the Chancery Court—”

“Never mind the case, let’s hear about the chickens, if you please.”

“God bless you, honey! the owls destroyed in and about the best half that I did raise. Every blessed night that the Lord did send, they’d come and set on the comb of the house, and hoo, hoo; and one night in particklar I remember, I had just got up with the nightshed salve to ’int the little gal with—”

“Well, well, what was the value of what you did raise?”

“The Lord above look down! They got so bad—the owls did—that they tuk the old hens as well as the young chickens. The night I was a tellin’ ’bout, I heard somethin’s s-q-u-a-l-l! s-q-u-a-l-l! and says I: ‘I’ll bet that’s old Speck, that nasty awdacious owl’s got, for I see her go to roost with the chickens up in the plum-tree, forenenst the smoke-house.’

“So I went to whar old Miss Stringer was sleepin’, and says I:

“ ‘Miss Stringer! oh, Miss Stringer! sure’s you’re born, that owl’s got old Speck out’n the plum-tree.’

“Well, old Miss Stringer she turned over ’pon her side like, and says she:

“ ‘What did you say, Miss Stokes?’

“And says I:—”

We began to get very tired, and signified the same to the old lady, and begged her to answer us directly, and without circumlocution.

“The Lord Almighty love your dear heart, honey, I’m tellin’ you as fast I kin. The owls they got worse, and worse; after they’d swept old Speck and all her gang, they went to work on t’others; and Bryant (that’s one of my boys), he ’lowed he’d shoot the pestersome creeturs. And so one night arter that we hearn one holler, and Bryant he tuk the old musket and went out, and sure enough there was owley (as he thought) a sittin’ on the comb of the house, so he blazed away, and down come—what on airth did come down, do you reckon, when Bryant fired?”

“The owl, I suppose.”

“No sich thing; no sich thing; the owl warn’t thar. ’Twas my old house cat came a tumblin’ down spittin’, sputterin’, and scratching and the fur a flyin’ every time she jumped, like you’d busted a feather-bed open. Bryant he said the way he come to shoot the cat, instead of the owl, he seed somethin’ white—”

“For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Stokes, give me the value of your poultry, or say you will not. Do one thing or the other.”

“Oh, well, dear love your heart, I reckon I had last year nigh about the same as I’ve got this.”

“Then tell me how many dollars’ worth you have now, and the thing’s settled.”

“I’ll let you see for yourself,” said Widow Stokes; and taking an ear of corn between the logs of the cabin, and shelling off a handful, she commenced scattering the grain, all the while screaming or rather screeching: “Chick! chick! chick! chickee! chickee! chickee-ee!”

Here they came, roosters, hens, pullets, and little chicks; crowing, cackling, chirping, flying, and fluttering against her sides, pecking at her hands, and creating a din and confusion altogether indescribable. The old lady seemed delighted, thus to exhibit her feathered “stock,” and would occasionally exclaim:

“A nice passel! ain’t they a nice passel!”

But she never would say what they were worth, and no persuasion could bring her to the point. Our papers at Washington contain no estimate of the value of the Widow Stokes’s poultry, though, as she said herself, she had a “mighty nice passel.”