XXV. MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP.

LETTER I.

Pineville, May 28th, 1842.

Dear Sir,

Ever sense you was down to Pineville, it’s been on my mind to rite you a letter, but the boys lowed I’d better not, ’cause you mought take me off ’bout my spellin’ and dictionary. But something happened to me t’other night, so monstrous provokin’, that I can’t help tellin’ you about it. It all came of snuffing ashes over a soft wood fire, and I reckon I’ve wished there was no sich plaguy stuff, as soft wood, more’n five hundred times sense it happened. You know the Stallinses lives on the plantation in the summer, and goes to town in the winter. Well, Miss Mary Stallins, who you know is the darlinest gal in the county, came home t’other day to see her folks. You know she’s been to the Female College, down to Macon, for most a year now. Before she went, she used to be as plain as an old shoe, and used to go fishin’ and huckelberryin’ with us, with nothin’ but a calico sun-bonnet on, and was the wildest thing you ever saw. Well, I always used to have a sort of sneakin’ notion of Mary Stallins, and so when she come, I brushed up, and was ’termined to have a rite serious talk with her ’bout old matters; not knowin’ but she might be captivated by some of them Macon fellers.

So, sure enough, off I started, unbeknowin’ to anybody, and rode rite over to the plantation, (you know ours is rite jinin’ the widder Stallinses.) Well, when I got thar, I felt a little sort of sheepish; but I soon got over that, when Miss Carline said, (but she didn’t mean me to hear her)—

“There Pinny, (that’s Miss Mary’s nick-name, you know,) there’s your bo come.”

Miss Mary looked mighty sort o’ redish when I shuck her hand and told her howdy; and she made a sort of a stoop over and a dodge back, like the little gals does to the school-marm, and said:

“Good evenin’, Mr. Jones,” (she used to always call me jest Joe.)

“Take a chair, Joseph,” said Miss Carline; and we sot down in the parlor, and I begun talkin’ to Miss Mary ’bout Macon, and the long ride she had, and the bad roads, and the monstrous hot weather, and the like.

She didn’t say much, but was in a mighty good humor and laughed a heap. I told her, I never seed sich a change in anybody. Nor I never did. Why she didn’t look like the same gal—good gracious! she looked so nice and trim, with her hair all komed down long side of her face, so slick and shiny as a mahogany burow. When she laughed she didn’t open her mouth like she used to; and she set up strait and still in her chair, and looked so different, but so monstrous pretty! I ax’d her a heap of questions, ’bout how she liked Macon, and the Female College, and so forth; and she told me a heap ’bout ’em. But old Miss Stallins and Miss Carline and Miss Kesiah, and all of ’em, kep all the time interruptin’ us, axin’ ’bout mother; if she was well, and if she was gwine to the Spring church next Sunday, and what luck she had with her crap, and all sich stuff, and I do believe I told the old women more’n twenty times that mother’s old turkey hen was settin’ on fourteen eggs.

Well, I wasn’t to be backed out that-a-way—so I kept it a goin’ the best I could, ’til bimeby old Miss Stallins let her knittin’ fall three or four times, and then begun to nod and snap back like a fishin’-pole that was all the time gitin’ bites. I seed the galls lookin’ at one another, and pinchin’ one another’s elbows, and Miss Mary said, she wondered what time it was, and said the college disciplines, or somethin’ like that, didn’t ’low late hours. I seed how the game was gwine—but howsumever, I kep talkin’ to her like a cotton gin in packin’ time, as hard as I could clip it, ’til bimeby the old lady went to bed, and arter a bit the gals all cleared, and left Miss Mary to herself. That was jest the thing I wanted.

“Well, she sot on one side of the fire-place, and I sot on t’other, snuffin’ ashes, war there was nothin’ but a lighted chunk burnin’ to give light. Well, we talked, and I know you would like to hear all we talked about, but that would be too long. When I’m very interested in anything, or git bothered ’bout anything, I always leans forred and pokes the fire, if there be any. Well, we sot thar and talked, ’bout everything a’most. I axed her if she had any bos down to Macon.

“ ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, and then she went on and named over Matthew Matin, Nat Filosophy, and a whole heap of fellers with foreign, outlandish names, that she’d been kepin’ company with ’most all her time.

“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I s’pose they’re ’mazin’ poplar with you, ain’t they, Miss Mary?’ for I felt mighty oneasy, and dug away at the fire like anything.

“ ‘Yes,’ ses she, ‘they’re the most interestin’ companions I ever had, and I am anxious to resume their pleasant society.’

“I tell you what, that sort o’ stumped me, and I poked up the fire and made it ‘flicker and flare’ like the mischief; it was a good thing it did, for I blushed as blue as a Ginny squash.

“ ‘Then I s’pose you’r gwine to forget old acquaintances,’ ses I, ‘sense you’s been to Macon, ’mong them lawyers and doctors; is you, Miss Mary? You thinks more of them than you does of anybody else, I s’pose?’

“ ‘Oh!’ ses she, ‘I’m devoted to them—I think of them day and night!’

“That was too much—it shot me right up, and I sot as still as could be for more’n a minute. I never felt so warm behind the ears afore in all my life. Thunder! how my blood did bile up all over me, and I felt like I could knock Matthew Matin into a squash if he’d only been thar. Miss Mary sot with her handkerchief up to her face, and I looked rite into the fire-place. The blue blazes was runnin’ round over the chunk, ketchin’ hold here and lettin’ go thar, sometimes gwine ’most out, and then blazin’ up a little. I couldn’t speak—and was makin’ up my mind for tellin’ her the siteation of my heart, when I gave the soft wood chunk a desperate poke, and slap it went right over, and out it went spang!

“I swar I never did feel so in all my born days. I didn’t know what to do.

“ ‘My Lord, Miss Mary,’ ses I, ‘I didn’t go to do it; jest tell me the way to the kitchen, and I’ll go and git a light.’

“But she never said nothin’, so I sot down agin, thinkin’ she’d gone to git one herself, for it was pitch dark, and I couldn’t see my hand afore my face.

“Well, I sot thar and ruminated, and waited a long time, but she didn’t come, so I begun to think maybe she wasn’t gone. I couldn’t hear nothin’, nor I couldn’t see nothin’; so bimeby ses I, very low, for I didn’t want to wake up the family, ses I:

“ ‘Miss Mary! Miss Mary!’ but nobody answered.

“Thinks I, what’s to be done? I tryed agin.

“ ‘Miss Mary! Miss Mary!’ ses I, but it was no use.

“Then I heard the gals snickerin’ and laughin’ in the next room, and I begun to see how it was; Miss Mary was gone, and left me thar alone.

“ ‘Whar’s my hat?’ ses I, pretty loud, so somebody might tell me; but they only laughed worse.

“I begun to feel about the room, and the fust thing I knew, spang! goes my head agin a dore that was standin’ open. The fire flew, and I couldn’t help but swar a little.

“ ‘Drot the dore,’ ses I, ‘whar’s my hat?’

“But nobody said nothin’, so I begun to think it war best to git out the best way I could, and never mind my hat. Well, I got through the parlor dor, after rakin’ my shins three or four times agin the chairs, and was falin’ along through the entry for the frunt dore; but somehow I was so flustrated that I tuk the rong way, and bimeby, kerslash I went, rite over Miss Stallinses spinnin’-wheel onto the floor! I hurt myself a good deal; but that didn’t make me half so mad as to hear then confounded gals a gigglin’ and laughin’ at me.

“Oh!” said one of them, (it was Mis Kesiak, for I knowed her voice) “there goes mother’s wheel! My Lord!”

I tried to set the thing up, but it seemed to have more’n twenty legs, and wouldn’t stand up nohow—maybe it was broke. I went out of the dore, but I hadn’t got down the steps, when bow! wow! wow! comes four or five infurnal grate big coon-dogs rite at me.

“Git out! git out! hellow Cato! call off your dogs,” ses I, as loud as I could.

But Cato was sound asleep, and if I hadn’t a run back into the hall, and got out of the frunt way as quick as I could, them devils would o’ chawed my bones for true.

When I got to my horse, I felt like a feller just out of a hornet’s nest; and I reckon I went home a little of the quickest. Next mornin’ old Miss Stallins sent my hat by a little nigger; but I hain’t seed Mary Stallins sense. Now you see what comes of snuffin’ ashes over a soft wood fire. No more from

Your frend, till deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER II.

Pineville, August 29th, 1842.

Dear Sir,

Jest as I spected, only a thunderin’ sight wurse! You know I said that we wer gwine to have a betallion muster in Pineville. Well, the muster has tuck place, and I reckon sich other doins you never hearn of afore.

I come in town the nite afore, with my regimentals in a bundle, so they couldn’t be siled by ridin’, and as soon as I got my breckfast, I begun rigin’ out for the muster. I had a bran new pair of boots, made jest a purpose, with long legs to ’em and a shaperdebraw, with one of the tallest kind of red fethers in it, a blu cloth regimental cote, all titivated off with gold and buttons, and a pair of yeller britches of the finest kind. Well, when I went to put ’em on, I couldn’t help but cuss all the tailors and shoomakers in Georgia. In the fust place, my britches like to busted and wouldn’t reach more’n half way to my jacket, then it tuck two niggers to git my boots on; and my coat had tail enuff for a bed-quilt, and stood rite strait out behind like a fan-tail pidgin—it wouldn’t hang rite no how you could pull it. I never was so dratted mad, specially when thar was no time to fix things, for the fellers were comin’ in in gangs and beginnin’ to call for me to come out and take the command. Eckspectation was ris considerable high, cause I was pledged to quip myself in uniformity to the law, if I was lected Majer.

Well, bimeby I went to the dore and told Bill Skinner and Tom Cullers to fix ther companys, and have ’em all reddy when I made my pearance. Then the fuss commenced. Thar wasn’t but one drum in town, and Bill Skinner swore that should drum for his company, cause it longed to that beat; and Tom Cullers swore the nigger should drum for his company, cause he longed to his crowd. Thar was the old harry to pay, and it was gittin’ wurse. I didn’t know what to do, for they was all comin’ to me bout it, and shinin’ and disputin’ so I couldn’t hardly hear one from tother. Thinks I, I must show my thority in this bisness; so says I, “In the name of the State of Georgia, I cummand the drum to drum for me. I’s Majer of this betallion and I’s cummander of the musick too!” The thing tuck fust-rate; thar was no more rumpus bout it, and I sot the niggers a drummin’ and fifin’ as hard as they could split rite afore the tavern dore.

It was monstrous diffikil to git the men to fall in; thar hain’t been none of them deformed drunkerds down here yit, and the way the fellers does love peach and hunny is ’mazin’. Bimeby Bill Skinner tuck a stick and made a long strate streak in the sand, and then hollered out, “Oh, yes! oh, yes! all you as belongs to Coon-holler beat is to git in a strate line on this trail!” Tom Cullers made a streak for his beat, and the fellers begun to string themselves along in a strate line, and in about a quarter of a ower they wer all settled like bees on a bean-pole, pretty considerable strate. Arter a while they sent word to me that they was all reddy, and I had my horse fetched up to tother side of the tavern; but when I cum to him, the bominable fool didn’t know me sumhow, and begun kickin’ and prancin’, and cavortin’ about like mad. I made the niggers hold him till I got on, then I sent word round to the drummer to drum like blazes as soon as he seed me turn the corner, and to the men to be reddy to salute. My sword kep rattlin’ agin the side of my hors, and the fool was skeered so he didn’t know which eend he stood on; and kep dancin’ about and squattin’ and rarin’ so I couldn’t hardly hold on to him.

The nigger went and told the men what I sed; and when I thought they was all reddy, round I went in a canter, with my sash and regimentals flyin’ and my red fether wavin’ as graceful as a corn tossel in a whirlwind; but jest as I got to the corner ther was a fuss like heaven and yearth was cumin’ together. Rattlebang, wher-r-r-r-r went the drum, and the nigger blowed the fife rite out strate, till his eyes was sot in his hed—harra! hey-y-y! hurra! went all the niggers and everybody else—my horse wheelin’ and pitchin’ worse than ever, rite up to the muster—and, fore I could draw my breth, bang! bang! bang! de bang! bang! bang! went every gun in the crowd, and all I knowed was, I was whirlin’, and pitchin’, and swingin’ about in the smoke and fire till I cum full length rite smack on the ground, “in all the pride, pomp, and circumstances of glorious war,” as Mr. Shakspeare ses.

Lucky enough I didn’t git hurt; but my cote was split clear up to the coller, my yaller britches busted all to flinders, and my shaperdebraw and fether all nocked into a perfect mush. Thunder and lightnin’! thinks I, what must be a man’a feelin’s in a rale battle, whar they’re shootin’ in good yearnest! Cum to find out, it was all a mistake; the men didn’t know nothing bout military ticktacks, and thought I ment a regular forth of July salute.

I had to lay by my regimentals—but I know’d my caracter was at stake as a officer, and I tarmined to go on with the muster. So I told Skinner and Cullers to git the men strate agin and when they was all in a line I sorted ’em all out. The fellers what had guns I put in frunt, them what had sticks in the rare, and them what had no shoes, down to the bottum by themselves, so nobody couldn’t tramp on ther tose. A good menny of ’em begun to forgit which was ther rite hand and which was ther left; and sum of ’em begun to be very diffikil to manage, so I termined to march ’em rite out to a old field, whar they couldn’t git no more licker, specially sense I was bleeged to wear my tother clothes.

Well, arter I got ’em all fixed, ses I, “Music! quick time! by the rite flank, file left, march!” they stood fer bout a minit lookin’ at me—“by flank mar-r-r-ch!” ses I, as loud as I could holler. Then they begun lookin’ at one another and hunchin’ one another with ther elbows, and the fust thing I know’d they was all twisted up in a snarl, goin’ both ways at both ends, and all machin’ through other in the middle, in all sorts of helter skelter fashion. “Halt!” ses I, “halt! wher upon yeath is you all gwine!”—and thar they was, all in a huddle. They knowed better, but jest wanted to bother me, I do b’lieve.

“Never mind,” ses I, “gentlemen, we’ll try that revolution over agin.” So when I got ’em all strait agin, I splained it to ’em, and gin ’em the word so they could understand it. “Forward march!” ses I, and away they went, not all together, but two by two, every feller waitin’ ’til his turn cum to step, so fore the barefoot ones got started, I couldn’t hardly see to t’other eend of the betallion. I let ’em go ahead ’til we got to the old field, and then I tried to stop ’em; but I had ’em in gangs all over the field in less than no time. “Close up!” ses I, as loud as I could holler; but they only stood and looked at me like they didn’t know what I meant. “Git into a strait line again,” ses I. That brung ’em all together, and I told ’em to rest a while, before I put ’em through the manuel.

’Bout this time out cum a whole heap of fellers with sum candidates, and wanted I should let ’em address the betallion. I told ’em I didn’t care, long as they didn’t kick up no row. Well, the men wer all high up for hearin’ the speeches of the candidates, and got round ’em thick as flies round a fat gourd. Ben Ansley—he’s the poplarest candidate down here—begun to show by gittin’ on a stump, and takin’ his hat off rite in the brilin’ hot sun.

“Feller-citizens,” ses he, “I spose you all know as how my friends is fotched me out to represent this county in the next legislater—I am posed to counterfit money and shinplasters; I am posed to abolition and free niggers, to the morus multicaulis and the Florida war, and all manner of shecoonery whatsumever! If I’s leeted your respectable representation, I shall go in for good munny, twenty cents for cotton, and no taxes, and shall go for bolishin’ prisonment for debt and the Central Bank. I hope you’ll all cum up to the poles of the lection, and vote like a patriot for your very humble servant—Amen.”

Then he jumped down and went round shakin’ hands. “Hurra for Ben Ansley! Ansley for ever!” shouted every feller. “Down with the bank—devil take the shinplasters and all the rale-roads!” ses Captain Skinner. “Silence for a speech from Squire Pettybone!” “Hurra for Pettybone!”

Squire Pettybone was a little short fat man, what had run afore, and knowed how to talk to the boys.

“Frends and feller-citizens,” ses he, “I’s once more a candidate for your sufferin’s, and I want to splain my sentiments to you. You’ve jest hearn a grate deal ’bout the Central Bank. I ain’t no bank man—I’m ’posed to all banks—but I is a frend to the pore man, and is always reddy to stand up for his constitutional rites. When the Central Bank put out its munny it was good, and rich men got it and made use of it when it was good; but now they want to buy it in for less nor what it’s worth to pay ther dets to the bank, and they is tryin’ to put it down, and make the pore man lose by it. What does they want to put the bank down for, if it ain’t to cheat the pore man who’s got sum of it? If I’s ’lected, I shall go for makin’ the banks redeem ther munny in silver and gold, or put every devil of ’em into the penitentiary to makin’ nigger shoes. I’s a hard munny man and in favor of the Vetos. I goes for the pore man agin the rich, and if you ’lect me that’s what I mean to do.”

Then he begun shakin’ hands all round. “Hurra for Squire Pettybone! hurra for the bank and the veto!” shouted some of the men—“Hurra for Ansley! down with the bank!” “Silence for Mr. Johnson’s speech!” “Hurra for Harrison!” “Hurra for the Vetos!” “Hurra for Jackson! I can lick any veto on the ground!” “Silence!” “Hurra for Ansley, no bank!” “Whar’s them vetos what’s agin Ansley—let me at ’em!” “Fight! fight! make a ring! make a ring!”—“Whoop!” hollered Bill Sweeny, “I’m the blossom—go it shirt-tail!” “Hit ’em Sweeny!”—“ ’Tention, Betallion!” ses I, but it want no use—they was at it rite in the middle and all round the edges, and I know’d the quicker I got out of that bilin’ the better for my wholsum. Thar they was, up and down, five or six in a heap, rollin’ over and crawlin’ out from under, bitin’ and scratchin’, gougin’ and strikin’, kickin’ and cussin’, head and heels all through other, none of ’em knowin’ who they hurt, or who hurt them—all the same whether they hit Ansley or veto, the blossom or Pettybone. The candidates was runnin’ about pullin’ and haulin’, and tryin’ ther best to stop it; but you couldn’t hear nothin’ but cussin’, and “bank” and “veto,” and “let me at ’em,” “I’m your boy,” “let go my eyes!” and sich talk for more’n twenty minits, and then they only kep ’em apart by holdin’ ’em off like dogs till they got dun pantin’.

It want no use to try to get ’em into line agin. Some of ’em had got manuel exercise enuff, and was knocked and twisted out of all caracter, and it would be no use to try to put ’em through the manuel in that situation. Lots of ’em had ther eyes bunged up so they couldn’t “eyes right!” to save ’em, so I turned ’em over to ther captains, accordin’ to law, and ain’t sponsible for nothin’ that tuck place after I left. No more from

Your frend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

P.S.—Miss Mary most fainted when she heard the noos ’bout my hoss throwin’ me. Don’t you think that’s a good sign?

LETTER III.

Pineville, December 20th, 1842.

Dear Sir,

It seems our folks always is in a fuss. First it was movin’, then it was hog killin’, and now everything’s topsy-turvy makin’ reddy for Crismus. I do believe the niggers is scowered every spot from the garret to the dore-steps; and every time I comes into the hous they’s all hollerin’ out: “Thar, now, Mas Joe, jist look at your tracks!” and “Don’t you spit on the herth, for it’s just redened!” and “Don’t you spit agin the jam!” and sich foolery, jist as if people’s houses wasn’t made for ’em to live in.

It really puts me out of all patience to see such nonsensical doins. And mother, she’s had all the niggers choppin’ sasage-meat to make mince-pies, and poundin’ spice and ginger, and makin’ marvels, and beatin’ eggs to make pound-cake, and all sorts of sweet doin’s for Crismus, for when she takes anything into her head, she ain’t agwine to be outdone not by nobody.

She ses Crismus don’t come but once a-year now-a-days, and she’s gwine to treat it handsum when it does cum—she’s gwine to show the Stallinses that she’s use to as good livin’ as most of folkes. Well, I glory in her spunk, but it’s monstrous expensive and unpleasant to go things on the big figer that she’s on now; it never ought to be done only to wedin’s, and it wouldn’t do then, whar ther was to be many in the same family. Do tell us what upon yearth all this talk means about the world comin’ to a eend next April. I’ve heard a great deal about Miller’s doctrine lately. Now I don’t like to believe no sich nonsense; but if it was to come out true, I wouldn’t like to be so tuck in.

Mother and old Miss Stallins, and two or three more old ladies, is in a mighty fidget about it, and mother dreamed she seed two moons t’other night, and one of ’em was all blazin’ with fire, and flyin’ about in the sky like all wrath. I don’t ’zactly know what to think about it, but ther’s one thing sartin, it’s got to begin monstrous early in the mornin’ on the third day of April, if I ain’t up to see it. If anybody was to set the woods a fire ’bout Pineville, jest at that time, I wouldn’t like to answer for the consequence among the old wimin.

But I’m not gwine to let sich matters interfere with my marryin’ spekelations. I call it spekelation, for, you know, ther’s no tellin’ how these things is gwine to turn out. In the fust place, it’s a chance if a body git’s the gall he’s courtin’, and after he’s got her all to himself for better or for worse, it’s a chance agin if she don’t turn out a monstrous site worse nor he tuck her for. But I think mine’s a pretty safe business, for Miss Mary is jest a leetle the smartest, and best, and the butifulest gall in Georgia. I’ve seed her two or three times lately, and I ain’t more’n half so afraid of her as I used to be. I told her t’other night I had a Crismus gift for her, which I hoped she would take and keep.

“What is it, Majer?” ses she.

“Oh!” ses I, “it’s something what I wouldn’t give nobody else in the world!”

“Well, but what is it—do tell me?”

“Something,” ses I, “what you stole from me a long time ago, and sense you’ve got it I want you to keep it, and give me one like it in return.”

“Well do tell me what it is, fust,” ses she and I seed her cut her eye at Miss Carline, and sort o’ smile.

“But will you give me one in return?” ses I.

“What, Majer—tell me what?”

“I’ll tell you Crismus eve,” ses I. “But will you give me yours in return?”

“Yours! eh, my ——,” then her face got as red as a poppy, and she looked down.

“You know what, Miss Mary,” ses I, “will you.”

She didn’t say nothin’, but blushed worse and worse.

“Now, mind,” ses I, “I must have a answer Crismus eve.”

“Well,” ses she—and then she looked up and laughed, and sed—“exchange is no robbery, is it, sister Carline.”

“No sis,” ses she, “but I reckon Joseph got his pay bout the same time you stole his——.”

“Stop, stop, sister, Majer didn’t say his heart——.”

“There, there!” ses Miss Carline and Miss Kesiah, clappin’ ther hands, and laughin’ as loud as they could—“there, there, little innocent sister’s let the cat out o’ the bag, at last. I told you so, Majer.”

I never felt so good afore in all my life, and Miss Mary, pore gall, hid her face in her hands and begun to cry, she felt so about it—that’s the way with the galls, they always cry when they feel the happiest; but I soon got her in a good humour, and then I went home. I’m gwine to bring her rite up to the scratch Crismus, or I ain’t here. I’ll tell you how I cum out in my next. No more from

Your friend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER IV.

Pineville, December 27th, 1842.

Dear Sir,

Crismus is over, and the thing’s ded. You know I told you in my last letter I was gwine to bring Miss Mary up to the chalk a Crismus. Well, I done it, slick as a whistle, though it come mighty nigh bein’ a serious undertakin’. But I’ll tell you all about the whole circumstance.

The fact is, I’s made my mind up more’n twenty times to jest go and come rite out with the whole business; but whenever I got whar she was, and whenever she looked at me with her witchin’ eyes, and kind o’ blushed at me, I always felt sort o’ skeered and fainty, and all what I made up to tell her was forgot, so I couldn’t think of it to save me. But you’s a married man, Mr. Thompson, so I couldn’t tell you nothing about popin’ the question as they call it. It’s a mighty grate favour to ax of a rite pretty gall, and to people as ain’t used to it, it goes monstrous hard, don’t it? They say widders don’t mind it more’n nothin’. But I’m makin’ a transgression, as the preacher ses.

Crismus eve I put on my new suit, and shaved my face as slick as a smoothin’ iron, and went over to old Miss Stallinses. As soon as I went into the parler whar they was all settin’ round the fire, Miss Carline and Miss Kesiah both laughed rite out.

“There, there,” ses they, “I told you so, I knew it would be Joseph.”

“What’s I done, Miss Carline?” ses I.

“You come under little sister’s chicken-bone, and I do b’lieve she knew you was comin’ when she put it over the dore.”

“No I didn’t—I didn’t no such thing, now,” ses Miss Mary, and her face blushed red all over.

“Oh, you needn’t deny it,” ses Miss Kesiah, “you ’long to Joseph now, jest as sure as ther’s any charm in chicken-bones.”

I knowd that was a first-rate chance to say something, but the dear little creater looked so sorry and kep’ blushin’ so, I couldn’t say nothin’ zactly to the pint, so I tuck a chair and reached up and tuck down the bone and put it in my pocket.

“What are you gwine to do with that old bone now, Majer?” ses Miss Mary.

“I’m gwine to keep it as long as I live,” ses I, “as a Crismus present from the handsomest gall in Georgia.”

When I sed that, she blushed worse and worse.

“Ain’t you shamed, Majer?” ses she.

“Now you ought to give her a Crismus gift, Joseph, to keep all her life,” sed Miss Carline.

“Ah,” ses old Miss Stallins, “when I was a gall we used to hang up our stockins—”

“Why, mother!” ses all of ’em, “to say stockins rite afore—”

Then I felt a little streaked too, ’cause they was blushin’ as hard as they could.

“Highty-tity!” ses the old lady, “what monstrous finement. I’d like to know what harm ther is in stockins. People now-a-days is gittin’ so mealy-mouthed they can’t call nothin’ by its rite name, and I don’t see as they’s any better than the old time people was. When I was a gall like you, child, I use to hang up my stockins and git ’em full of presents.”

The gals kep laughin’.

“Never mind,” ses Miss Mary, “Majer’s got to give me a Crismus gift—won’t you, Majer?”

“Oh, yes,” ses I, “you know I promised you one.”

“But I didn’t mean that,” ses she.

“I’ve got one for you, what I want you to keep all your life, but it would take a two-bushel bag to hold it,” ses I.

“Oh, that’s the kind,” ses she.

“But will you keep it as long as you live?” ses I.

“Certainly I will, Majer.”

“Monstrous ’finement now-a-days—old people don’t know nothin’ ’bout perliteness,” said old Miss Stallins, jest gwine to sleep with her nittin’ in her hand.

“Now you hear that, Miss Carline,” ses I. “She ses she’ll keep it all her life.”

“Yes, I will,” ses Miss Mary; “but what is it?”

“Never mind,” ses I, “you hang up a bag big enuff to hold it and you’ll find out what it is, when you see it in the mornin’.”

Miss Carline winked at Miss Kesiah, and then whispered to her; then they both laughed and looked at me as mischievous as they could. They spicioned something.

“You’ll be sure to give it to me now, if I hang up a bag,” ses Miss Mary.

“And promise to keep it,” ses I.

“Well, I will, cause I know that you wouldn’t give me nothin’ that wasn’t worth keepin’.”

They all agreed they would hang up a bag for me to put Miss Mary’s Crismus present in, in the back porch, and ’bout nine o’clock I told ’em good evenin’ and went home.

I sot up till midnight, and when they was all gone to bed, I went softly into the back gate, and went up to the porch, and thar, shore enuff, was a grate big meal-bag hangin’ to the jice. It was monstrous unhandy to git to it, but I was ’tarmined not to back out. So I sot some chairs on top of a bench and got hold of the rope and let myself down into the bag; but jest as I was gittin’ in, the bag swung agin the chairs, and down they went with a terrible racket. But nobody didn’t wake up but old Miss Stallinses grate big cur dog, and here he cum rippin’ and tarin’ through the yard like rath, and round and round he went tryin’ to find what was the matter. I sot down in the bag and didn’t breathe louder nor a kitten, for fear he’d find me out, and after a while he quit barkin’. The wind begun to blow ’bominable cold, and the old bag kep turnin’ round and swingin’ so, it made me sea-sick as the mischief. I was ’fraid to move for fear the rope would brake and let me fall, and thar I sot with my teeth ratlin’ like I had a ager. It seemed like it would never come daylight, and I do b’lieve if I didn’t love Miss Mary so powerful I would froze to deth; for my hart was the only spot that felt warm, and it didn’t beat more’n two licks a minit, only when I thought how she would be sprised in the mornin’, and then it went in a canter. Bimeby the cussed old dog come up on the porch and begun to smell about the bag, and then he barked like he thought he’d treed something.

“Bow! wow! wow!” ses he. Then he’d smell agin, and try to git up to the bag.

“Git out!” ses I, very low, for fear they would hear me.

“Bow! wow! wow!” ses he.

“Be gone! you ’bominable fool,” ses I, and I felt all over in spots, for I ’spected every minit he’d nip me, and what made it worse, I didn’t know whar ’bouts he’d take hold.

“Bow! wow! wow!”

Then I tried coaxin’:

“Come here, good feller,” ses I, and whistled a little to him, but it wasn’t no use. Thar he stood and kep up his eternal whinin’ and barkin’, all night. I couldn’t tell when daylight was breakin’, only by the chickens crowin’, and I was monstrous glad to hear ’em, for if I’d had to stay thar one hour more, I don’t b’lieve I’d ever got out of that bag alive.

Old Miss Stallins come out fust, and as soon as she saw the bag, ses she:

“What upon yeath has Joseph went and put in that bag for Mary? I’ll lay it’s a yearlin’ or some live animal, or Bruin wouldn’t bark at it so.”

She went in to call the galls, and I sot thar, shiverin’ all over so I couldn’t hardly speak if I tried to—but I didn’t say nothin’. Bimeby they all come runnin’ out.

“My lord, what is it?” ses Miss Mary.

“Oh, it’s alive!” ses Miss Kesiah, “I seed it move.”

“Call Cato, and make him cut the rope,” ses Miss Carline, “and let’s see what it is. Come here, Cato, and git this bag down.”

“Don’t hurt it for the world,” ses Miss Mary.

Cato untied the rope that was round the jice, and let the bag down easy on the floor, and I tumbled out all covered with corn meal, from hed to foot.

“Goodness gracious!” ses Miss Mary, “if it ain’t the Majer himself!”

“Yes,” ses I, “and you know you promised to keep my Crismus present as long as you lived.”

The galls laughed themselves almost to deth, and went to brushin’ off the meal as fast as they could, sayin’ they was gwine to hang that bag up every Crismus ’til they got husbands too. Miss Mary—bless her bright eyes—she blushed as butiful as a morninglory, and sed she’d stick to her word. She was rite out of bed, and her hair wasn’t komed, and her dress wasn’t fixt at all, but the way she looked pretty was rale distractin’. I do b’lieve if I was froze stiff, one look at her charmin’ face, as she stood lookin’ down to the floor with her rogish eyes, and her bright curls fallin’ all over her snowy neck, would fotch’d me too. I tell you what, it was worth hangin’ in a meal-bag from one Crismus to another to feel as happy as I have ever sense.

I went home after we had the laugh out, and set by the fire till I got thawed. In the forenoon all the Stallinses come over to our house and we had one of the greatest Crismus dinners that ever was seed in Georgia, and I don’t b’lieve a happier company ever sot down to the same table. Old Miss Stallins and mother settled the match, and talked over every thing that ever happened in ther families, and laughed at me and Mary, and cried ’bout ther ded husbands, cause they wasn’t alive to see ther children married.

It’s all settled now, ’cept we haint sot the weddin’ day. I’d like to have it all over at once, but young galls always like to be engaged a while, you know, so I spose I must wait a month or so. Mary (she ses I musn’t call her Miss Mary now,) has been a good deal of trouble and botheration to me; but if you could see her, you wouldn’t think I ought to grudge a little sufferin’ to git sich a sweet little wife.

You must come to the weddin’ if you possibly kin. I’ll let you know when. No more from

Your frend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER V.

Pineville, January 5th, 1842.

Dear Sir,

Ther’s been a awful catasterfy in Pineville sense I rit my last letter to you. Little did I think then what was a comin’, though I always thought some cussed thing would turn up jest to spile my happiness.

Last nite I was over to old Miss Stallinses, talkin’ long with Mary and the gals, and in makin’ calculations about the weddin’ and hous-keepin’, and sich things, when all at once ther was a terrible shakin’ and rackin’ like the house was gwine to tumble down a top of us. The gals all squalled out as loud as they could holler, and cotched rite hold of me, and hugged close to me ’til they almost choked my breth out of me, and old Miss Stallins fainted away into a fit of the highstericks. The shakin’ didn’t last more’n a minit, but it had a monstrous curious feelin’ while it did last.

When it was over the gals fell to rubin’ the old woman’s hands, and I poured a gourd of water in her face to bring her too. Bimeby she got better, but I do b’lieve the yeath-quake has shuck all her sense out of her, for she ses she knows the world is cumin’ to a eend now, shore enuff, and she ses me and Mary musent git married not ’til after next April. She ses she didn’t dream bout them two moons for nothin’, and that the yeath shakin’ so is a sure sign that sumthing’s gwine to happen. Mary was skeered monstrous too, but she soon got over it, and so did Miss Kesiah, and Miss Carline, but old Miss Stallins has been talkin’ bout nothin’ else but the world comin’ to a eend ever sense. She ses nobody ought to think bout anything else but gittin’ reddy to die, and that it’s wicked to think bout weddins and such like, now. I told her, what if the world was to come to a eend, ses I, if we was married her daughter wouldn’t be left a widder, and I never could die contented no way, without I was married fust.

But it ain’t no use to argy with her, for she b’lieves in parson Miller now like a book, and won’t listen to no sort of reasonin’. She ses it was jest so when old Mr. Noah bilt the ark—no body didn’t b’lieve him till the water was up to ther chins, and then they couldn’t help themselves.

So you see what a fix I’m in—after all my trouble, and jest when I thought I was gwine to be the happiest man in Georgia, a yeath-quake must come jest to upset my calculations. I haint no notion of puttin’ off the weddin’ so long, but I spose I might wait if I can’t do no better. I’m in hopes though, old Miss Stallins will git over her skeer, and come to her senses long afore April. I’ll be sure to let you know. No more from

Your frend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER VI.

Pineville, February 2nd, 1843.

Dear Sir,

Ever sense I writ my last letter to you, things is gone on jest as strate as a shingle, and the only thing what troubles me is, I’m afraid it’s all too good to last. It’s always ben the way with me ever sense I can remember, whenever I’m the happyest sum blamed thing seems to turn up jest to upset all my calculations, and now, though the day is sot for the weddin’, and the Stallinses is gittin’ everything reddy as fast as they can, I wouldn’t be s’prised much if some ’bominable thing was to happen, some yeath-quake or something, jest to bust it all up agin, though I should hate it monstrous.

Old Miss Stallins red that piece in the Miscellany ’bout the mistake in Parson Miller’s figers, and I do b’lieve she’s as glad about it as if she was shore she would live a whole thousand years more herself. She ses she hain’t got no objections to the weddin’ now, for me and Mary’ll have plenty of time to make a fortin for our children and rais ’em up as they ought to be. She ses she always wondered how Mr. Miller could cipher the thing out so strait, to the very day, without a single mistake, but now he’s made sich a terrible blunder of a whole thousand years, she ses she knows he ain’t no smarter nor other people, if he was raised at the north.

It’s really surprisin’, how ’mazin’ pop’lar it does make a body to be engaged to be married to a butiful young lady. Sense the thing’s leaked out, everybody’s my pertickeler frend, and I can’t meet nobody wherever I go, but what wants to congratilate me on my good fortin, ’cept Cousin Pete and two or three other fellers, who look sort o’ like they wanted to laugh and couldn’t. Almost every night Mary and me is invited to a party. T’other night we went to one to old Squire Rogerses, whar I got my dander up a little the worst I’ve had it for some time. I don’t b’lieve you have ever hearn of jest sich a fool trick as they played on me. Ther was a good many thar, and as the Squire don’t ’low dancing they all played games and tricks, and sich foolishness to pass away the time, which to my notion’s a ’bominable site worse than dancin’.

Cousin Pete was thar splurgin’ about in the biggest, and with his dandy-cut trowsers and big whiskers, and tried to take the shine off everybody else, jest as he always does. Well, bimeby he ses:

“S’pose we play Brother Bob—let’s play Brother Bob.”

“Yes, let’s play that,” ses all of ’em; “won’t you be Brother Bob, Majer?”

“Who’s Brother Bob?” ses I; for I didn’t know nothing ’bout it, and that’s the way I cum to be so ’bominably tuck in.

“I’ll tell you,” ses he; “you and somebody else must set down in the chairs and be blindfolded, and the rest must all walk round and round you, and keep tappin’ you on the head with sumthing ’til you gess who bob’d you.”

“But how bob me?” ses I.

“Why,” ses he, “when any one taps you, you must say, ‘Brother, I’m bob’d!’ and then they’ll ax, ‘Who bob’d you?’ and if you gess the rite one, then they must take your place and be bob’d ’til they gess who bob’d ’em. If you’ll be blindfolded I will,” ses he, “jest for fun.”

“Well,” ses I, “anything for fun.”

And Cousin Pete sot out two chairs into the middle of the room, and we sot down, and they tied a hankercher round my eyes tite as the mischief, so I couldn’t see to gess no more’n if I had no eyes at all.

I hadn’t sot no time fore, cawhalux! some one tuck me rite side o’ the hed with a dratted big book. The fire flew out o’ my eyes in big live coals, and I like to keeled over out of the chair. I felt my blood risin’ like a mill-tail, but they all laughed mightily at the fun, and after a while, ses I:

“Brother, I’m bob’d.”

“Who bob’d you?” ses they.

I guessed the biggest-fisted feller in the room, but it wasn’t him.

The next minit, spang went the book agin Cousin Pete’s head.

“Whew!” ses he, “brother, I’m bob’d.”

“Who bob’d you?” ses they.

But Cousin Pete didn’t gess rite nother, and the fust thing I knowed, whang they tuck me agin. I was dredful anxious to gess rite, but it was no use, I missed it every time, and so did Cousin Pete, and the harder they hit the harder they laughed. One time they hit me a great deal softlier than the rest.

“Brother, I’m bob’d!” ses I.

“Who bob’d you?” ses they.

“Miss Mary Stallins,” ses I.

“No, I never,” ses she; and they all roared out worse than ever.

I begin to git monstrous tired of sich fun, which seemed so much like the frogs in the spellin’ book—for it was fun to them but it was deth to me—and I don’t know what I would done if Mary hadn’t come up and ontied the hankercher.

“Let’s play something else,” ses she, and her face was as red as fire, and she looked sort o’ mad out of her eyes.

I seed ther was something wrong in a minit.

Well, they all went on playin’ “pawns,” and “ ’pon honour,” and “Here we go round the gooseberry bush,” and “Oh, sister Feby, how merry we be,” and sich nonsense ’til they played all they knowed, and while they was playin’ Mary told me all how cousin Pete bob’d me himself.

This was the most audacious take in I ever hearn of. Do you think the cus didn’t set rite down beside me, and never blindfolded himself at all, and hit me every lick himself, and now and then hittin’ his knee with the book, to make me b’lieve he was bob’d too. My bed was a singin’ with the licks when she told me how he done me, and I do b’lieve if it hadn’t been for her I’d gin Cousin Pete sich a lickin’ rite thar in that room as he never had afore in his born days. Blazes! but I was mad at fust. But Mary begged me not to raise no fus about it, now it was all over, and she would fix him for his smartness. I hadn’t no sort of a ide how she was gwine to do it, but I know’d she was enuff for Cousin Pete any time, so I jest let her go ahed. Well, she tuck the ’bominable fool off to one side and whispered to him like she was gwine to let him into a grate secret. She told him ’bout a new play what she learned down to Macon when she was at the college, called “Interduction to the King and Queen,” what she sed was a grate deal funnyer than “Brother Bob,” and ’swaded him to help to git ’em all to play.

After she and him made it all up, Cousin Pete put out three chairs close together in a roe for a throne, and Mary she put a sheet over ’em to make ’em look a little grand. Bill Byers was to be King and Mary was to be Queen.

“Now you must all come in t’other room,” ses Cousin Pete, “only them what belongs to the court, and then you must come in and be interduced, one at a time.”

“I ain’t gwine,” ses Tom Stallins, “for ther’s some trick in it.”

“No ther ain’t,” ses Cousin Pete, “I’ll give you my word ther ain’t no trick, only a little fun.”

“Well,” ses I, “I’s had fun enough for one nite.”

Mary looked at me and kind o’ winked, and, ses she:

“You’re one of the court you know, Majer, but jest go out till the court is sumonsed before the throne.”

Well, we all went out, and bimeby Bill Byers called out the names of all the lords and ladys what belonged to the court, and we all went in and tuck chairs on both sides of the throne.

Cousin Pete was to be the first one interduced, and Samuwell Rogers was to be the feller what interduced the company. Well, bimeby the dore opened, and in come Cousin Pete, bowin’ and scrapin’ and twistin’ and rigglein’ and puttin’ on more ares nor a French dancin’ master—he beat Crotchett all to smash. The King sot on one side of the throne and the Queen on t’other, leavin’ room in the middle for some one else. Sam was so full of laugh at Cousin Pete’s anticks that he couldn’t hardly speak.

“Doctor Peter Jones,” ses he, “I interduce you to ther Majestys the King and Queen.”

Cousin Pete scraped about a while and then drapt on one knee, rite afore ’em.

“Rise, gallant knight,” ses Bill Byers, “rise, we dub you knight of the royal bath.”

Cousin Pete got up and bowed and scraped a few more times, and went to set down between ’em, but they ris up jest as he went to set down, and the fust thing he knowd, kerslosh he went, rite into a big tub full of cold water, with nothing but his hed and heels stickin’ out.

He tried to kiss Mary as he was takin’ his seat, and if you could jest seed him as he went into that tub with his arms reached out to her, and his mouth sot for a kiss, I do b’lieve you’d laughed more’n you ever did afore in your life. The fellers was all so spicious that some trick was gwine to be played, that they left the dore open, and when the thing tuck place they all run in shoutin’ and laughin’ like they would bust ther sides.

Pete got out as quick as he could, and I never seed a feller so wilted down in all my life. He got as mad as a hornet, and sed it was a drotted mean trick to serve ennybody so, specially in cold wether. And he went rite off home by himself to dry.

Mary made the niggers take out the middle chair and put the tub of water thar when we was all in t’other room. Pete didn’t spicion the trick was gwine to turn out that way—he thought the queen was gwine to sentence every feller what didn’t kiss her as he sot down, to do something that would make fun for the rest, and he was jest gwine to open the game. I felt perfectly satisfied after that, and I don’t think Cousin Pete will be quite so fond of funny tricks the next time.

But I like to forgot to tell you, my weddin’ is to take place—pervidin’ ther ain’t no more yeath-quakes nor unaccountabel things to prevent—on the 22 of this month, which you know is a famous day what ought to be celebrated by every genewine patriot in the world. I shall look for you to come, and I hope you will be sure to be thar, for I know you wouldn’t grudge the ride jest so see Miss Mary Jones what is to be. We’s gwine to have a considerable getherin’, jest to please the old folks, and old Miss Stallins see she’s gwine to give us a real Georgia weddin’ of the old time fashion. No more from

Your frend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

P.S.—I went over t’other nite to see ’em all, and they was as busy as bees in a tar-barrel sowin’ and makin’ up finery. Mary was sowin’ something mighty fine and white with ruffles and jigamarees all round it.

“What kind of a thing is that?” ses I.

The gals looked at one another and laughed like they would die, and my poor little Mary (bless her soul) kep getherin’ it up in a heap and blushin’ dredful.

“Tell him, sis,” ses Miss Carline, but Mary looked rite down and didn’t say nothin’.

“I’ll tell him,” ses Miss Kesiah—“It’s a——.”

“No, you shan’t now—stop, stop,” ses Mary, and she put her pretty little hand rite on Miss Kesiah’s mouth, and looked like she’d cry for a little. I felt so sorry for her, I told ’em I didn’t want to know, and they put the things away, and bimeby I went home, but I kep thinkin’ all the way what upon yeath it could be. I s’pose I’ll find out some day.

LETTER VII.

Pineville, February 24th, 1843.

Dear Sir,

I am too happy and no mistake—the twenty-second of February is over, and the “consumation so devotedly to be wished for” is tuck place. In other words, I’s a married man! I ain’t in no situation to tell you all how the thing tuck place, not by no means, and if it wasn’t for my promis, I don’t b’lieve I could keep away from my wife long enough to rite you a letter. Bless her little sole, I didn’t think I loved her half so good as I do; but to tell you the rale truth, I do b’lieve I’ve ben almost out of my senses ever sense nite afore last. But I must be short this time, while the gals is plagin’ Mary in t’other room. They are so bad.

I had the licens got more’n a week ago, and old Mr. Eastman brung home my weddin’ suit jest in time. Mother would make me let Cousin Pete wait on me, and Miss Kesiah was bridesmaid. Mother and old Miss Stallins had everything ’ranged in fust rate style long afore the time ariv, and nothing was wantin’ but your cumpany to make everything complete.

Well, ’bout sun-down Cousin Pete cum round to my room whar we rigged out for the ’casion, and I don’t b’lieve I ever seed him look so good; but if he’d jest tuck off them ’bominable grate big sorrel whiskers of his, he’d looked a monstrous site better. I put on my yaller britches and blue cloth cote, and white satin jacket, and my new beaver hat, and then we druv round to old Squire Rogerses and tuck him into the carriage, and away we went out to Miss Stallinses plantation. When we got thar ther was a most everlastin’ getherin’ thar waitin’ to see the ceremony afore they et ther supper. Everybody looked glad, and old Miss Stallins was flyin’ about like she didn’t know which eend she stood on.

“Come in, Joseph,” ses she, “the galls is in the t’other room.”

But I couldn’t begin to git in t’other room for the fellers all pullin’ and haulin’ and shakin’ the life out of me to tell me how glad they was.

“Howdy, Majer, howdy,” ses old Mr. Byers, “I give you joy,” ses he: “yer gwine to marry the flower of the county, as I always sed. She’s a monstrous nice gal, Majer.”

“That’s a fact,” ses old Mr. Skinner, “that’s a fact, and I hope you’ll be a good husband to her, Joseph, and that you’ll have good luck with your little—”

“Thank ye, thank ye, gentlemen; come along, Cousin Pete,” ses I, as quick as I could git away from ’em.

The dore to t’other room was opened, and in we went. I never was so struck all up in a heap afore—thar sot Mary with three or four more gals, butiful as a angel and blushin’ like a rose. When she seed me she kind o’ looked down and sort o’ smiled, and sed “good evenin’.” I couldn’t say a word for my life, for more’n a minit. Thar she sot, the dear gal of my hart—and I couldn’t help but think to myself what a villain a man must be that could marry her and then make her unhappy by treatin’ her mean; and I determined in my sole to stand atween her and the storms of the world, and to love her, and take care of her, and make her happy, as long as I lived. If you could jest seen her as she was dressed then, and you wasn’t a married man, you couldn’t help but envy my luck, after all the trubble I’ve had to git her. She was dressed jest to my likin’, in a fine white muslin frock, with short sleeves, and white satin slippers, with her hair all hangin’ over her snow-white neck and shoulders in butiful curls, without a single brest-pin or any kind of juelry or ornament, ’cept a little white satin bow on the side of her hed. Bimeby Miss Carline cum in the room.

“Cum, sis, they’s all reddy,” ses she, and ther was grate big tears in her eyes, and she went and give Mary a kiss rite in her mouth, and hugged her a time or two.

We all got up to go. Mary trembled monstrous, and I felt sort o’ fainty myself, but I didn’t feel nothin’ like cryin’.

When we got in the room whar the cumpany was, old Squire Rogers stopt us rite in the middle of the flore and axed us for the licens. Cousin Pete handed ’em to him, and he red ’em out loud to the people, who was all as still as deth. After talkin’ a little he went on:

“If ennybody’s got ennything to say why this cupple shouldn’t be united in the holy bands of wedlock,” ses he, “let ’em now speak, or always afterwards hold ther peace—”

“Oh, my lord! oh, my darlin’ daughter! oh, dear laws a massy!” ses old Miss Stallins as loud as she could squall, a clappin’ her hands and cryin’ and shoutin’ like she was at a camp-meetin’.

Thunder and lightnin’! thinks I, here’s another yeath-quake. But I held on to Mary, and was ’termined that nothin’ short of a real bust up of all creation should git her from me.

“Go ahed, Squire,” ses Cousin Pete. “It ain’t nothin’.”

Mary blushed dredful, and seemed like she would drap on the flore.

Miss Carline cum and whispered something to her, and mother and two or three more old wimmin got old Miss Stallins to go in t’other room.

The Squire went through the rest of the bisness in a hurry, and me and Mary was made flesh of one bone and bone of one flesh before the old woman got over her highstericks. When she got better she cum to me and hugged and kissed me as hard as she could rite afore ’em all, while all the old codgers in the room was salutin’ the bride as they called it. I didn’t like that part of the ceremony at all, and wanted to change with ’em monstrous bad.

After the marryin’ was over we all tuck supper, and the way old Miss Stallinses table was kivered over with good things was uncommon. After playin’ and frolickin’ till ’bout ten o’clock, the bride’s cake was cut, and sich a cake was never baked in Georgia afore. The Stallinses bein’ Washingtonians, ther wasn’t no wine, but the cake wasn’t bad to take jest dry so. ’Bout twelve o’clock the cumpany begun to cut home, all of ’em jest as sober as when they cum.

I had to shake hands agin with ’em all, and tell ’em all good nite.

“Good nite, Cousin Mary,” ses Pete, “good nite, Majer,” ses he, “I ’spose you ain’t gwine back to town to-nite,” and then bust rite out in a big laugh, and away he went.

That’s jest the way with Peter, he’s a good feller enough, but he haint got no better sense.

Mary ses she’s sorry she couldn’t send you no more cake, but Mr. Mountgomery’s saddle-bags wouldn’t hold half she rapped up for you. Don’t forgit to put our marriage in the Miscellany. No more from

Your frend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER VIII.

Pineville, March 28th, 1843.

Dear Sir,

I really owe you a apology for not writin’ to you so long; but the fact is, I’ve been too happy ever sense I was married, to think about writin’ or ennything else much. Besides I use to have time to write nites; but now my time is tuck up with so many things, receivin’ cumpany and payin’ visits, and goin’ to quiltens and partys of one kind another, that I haint no time for nothing; and as for writin’ letters, when my wife’s all the time lookin’ over my shoulder, pullin’ my ears, and tickelen me, and disputin’ bout my spellin’, it aint no kind of use to try. She’s gone over to mother’s this afternoon with her sisters, and her mother’s out in the gardin, lookin’ if the frost is killed the peas, so I thought I’d rite you a few lines jest to let you know how we was all cumin’ on.

We’s all pretty well, ’cept the old woman, who’s been in a monstrous flustration ’bout the comet, and the yeathquakes, and the harrycanes, and snowstorms, and sich things, for more’n a month, and I’ve had a most bominable sore throat, which I got lookin’ at the comet jest to please her; but Mary soon cured that with some sage tea and turpentime. I’m livin’ with Mary’s mother for the present; but that makes mother monstrous jealous, and to satisfy both the old wimin, Mary and me is gwine to housekeepin’ next fall to ourselves.

I don’t know what to make of the weather—the months is eather got mixed up and January’s swapped places with March this time, or that bominable grate big comet is got ’tween our yeath and the sun, and is soakin’ all the sunshine up in its everlastin’ big tail, which the newspapers say is more’n two thousand miles long. We planted sum corn most a month ago, but it’s all rotten or froze to deth; and if the weather don’t get no better I don’t know when we’ll plant enny more; and if cotton’s gwine clean down to nothing, I don’t mean to put a sead in the ground this year.

Old Miss Stallins reads the Bibel most all the time, and ses she’s jest as sure as she wants to be that sumthing’s gwine to turn up. She ses that comet’s sent to let us know the judgment day’s a cumin’, and these yeathquakes and harrycanes is signs that it ain’t far off. She’s all the time lookin’ out, and she’s got a grate big cow-bell fixed rite by her bed, so the least tetch will make it ring, so she can tell when the yeath-quake cums next time. T’other nite old Sooky, the cook, who’s ’bout as big as a cow, slipped up in the snow on the porch, and shuck the whole house and made the bell ring. The old woman jumped out of bed and lit a candle in a minit, and had us all up with her hollerin’ about the yeath-quake; and last nite, when it lightened so, I thought she’d die shore enuff. She sed t’other eend of the world was a fire, and we’d all be burnt into cracklins afore mornin—she shouted and clapped her hands, and prayed, and bid good-by to us all; and I do b’lieve if it hadn’t thundered as soon and as loud as it did, she would’ve kick’d the bucket shore enuff. Jest hearin’ so much about that dratted old Miller, has played the wild with the old woman’s senses. It’s a grate pity ther ain’t sum way to stop that old feller’s goins on. He ought to be put in the penetentiary for tryin’ to make people b’lieve he’s sich a monstrous sight smarter than the Lord ever intended him to be, that he can tell when the world’s gwine to cum to a eend. The Bibel ses that thing was to be kep a grate secret and nobody in heaven or yeath should know anything about it. Well, ain’t it most oudacious insurance, then, for him to cum and say he’s found it out—that he knows all about it? And if he did know it, he ought to have principle and good breedin’ enuff not to go and blab it all about, jest to scare fokes to deth. He ought to be brought to the eend of a rope jest for his meanness.

For my part I hain’t no notion of the world bustin’ up yit, though things does look kind of skeery jest now. It would jest be my luck if sum ’bominable thing like a war or a coleramorbus, or a starvation was to cum along now that I’ve got the hansomest and smartest gall in Georgia for a wife. They say ther is no sich thing as cumplete happiness on this yeath, and that makes me think so more, for nothing short of sum monstrous grate calamity could rumple my feathers now. But I do hope it will all blow over. I do b’lieve Mary grows hansomer every day, and if things could stay jest as they is now, I’d like to live ’til I was old enuff to be grandaddy to Methusla. But it’s time I was gwine over to mother’s to bring her home. So no more from

Your frend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER IX.

Pineville, June 19th, 1843.

Dear Sir,

Everything’s went on pretty smooth sense I writ my last letter to you. Mary soon got over her skare, but the way she’s mad at Cousin Pete won’t wear off in a coon’s age. She ses he musent never put his foot in our house, if he don’t want to get his old red whiskers scalded off his fool face. She ses she always thought Pete had some sense, but now, she ses, she don’t know whether he’s a bigger rascal than he is a fool.

Wimmin’s monstrous curious critters, now ’tween you and me, and it takes more hed than I’ve got to manage ’em without some diffikilties now and then. It seems to me Mary’s gittin’ curiouser every day. I don’t know what upon yeath to make of her sometimes, she acts so quar. Lord knows, I does everything in my power to please her—I gits everything she wants—I always lets her have her own way in everything, and I stays home with her more’n half my time—but every now and then she takes a cryin’ spell, jest for nothin’. Now, I’ll jest tell you one little circumstance, jest to let you see how curious she does do me sometimes.

Two or three months ago little Sally Rogers gin her one of the leetlest dogs I reckon you ever did see. It’s a little white curly thing ’bout as big as my fist, with little red eyes and a little bushy tail screwed rite over its back so tite that it can’t hardly touch its hind legs to the floor, and when it barks it’s got a little sharp voice that goes rite through a body’s hed like a cotton gimblet. Well, Mary and the galls is all the time washin’ and comin’, and fixin’ it off with ribbons on its neck and tail, and nursin’ it in ther laps till they’ve got the dratted thing so sasy that ther ain’t no gittin’ along with it.

Whenever I go ’bout Mary it’s a snarlin’ and snappin’ at me, and when ennybody comes in the house, it flies at ’em like it was gwine to tare ’em all to pieces, and makes more racket than all the dogs on the place. It’s bit my fingers two or three times, and if I jest tetch it, it’ll squall out like its back was broke, and run rite to the wimmin and git under ther chairs, and then the very old harry’s to pay.

If ever I say anything about it, then they all say I’m “jealous of poor little Tip,” and that I ought to be ashamed of myself to be mad at “the dear little feller.” Well, I always laugh it off the best way I can, but I reckon I’ve wished some rat would catch “poor little Tip” more’n a thousand times, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was to be tuck suddenly sick and die some of these days, ’thout enybody knowing the cause. But I jest want to tell a instance of the devilment he kicks up sometimes.

Last night we was all settin’ in the parlour—the galls was sowin’, and Mary and me was playin’ a game of drafts, and I was jest about to pen her with three kings, when one of the checks happened to drap off the board rite down by Mary’s foot. I stooped over to pick it up, when the fust thing I knowd, snap the little devil of a dog tuck me rite by the finger, and then set up a terrible barkin’ and run rite behind Mary’s foot.

I never wanted to hit nothin’ so bad in my life, and I leaned over to tap him on the head, but Mary put her little foot out before him, and I missed Tip’s nose about an inch, and he snapped agin. I leaned over further and further, and tried to hit him, but Mary’s foot was always in the way every time, and the last time when I was reachin’ jest as fur as I could, and her foot was in the way, and the little cus was squealin’ and snappin’ as hard as he could, I got sort o’ out of patience tryin’ to hit him, and ses I:

“Don’t put your foot in the way!”

Jest then down went the “History of England” and all the checks on the floor, and Tip run under Mary’s chair, clear out of sight, squallin’ like he was killed, when ther wasn’t a hair of him tetched. When I ris up my face was a little red, and I would gin a five dollar bill jest to tramp that infernal dog out of his hide. Well, what do you think? the fust thing I knowed Mary was a cryin’ like her hart was gwine to brake.

“Why,” ses I, “Mary, what’s the matter with you? I didn’t touch Tip.”

She didn’t say nothing but jest went on cryin’ worse and worse, and told Miss Carline to hand her the colone water; and ther she sot and cried and snuffed the colone and sighed, and nobody didn’t know what the matter was.

“Why, Mary,” ses I, “what upon yeath ails you? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Y-e-s, you-oo-did. I-didn’t-think-you-oo-would-speak-so to-oo me, Joseph. I didn’t think you’d git mad at me-e-e, so I didn’t.”

“Why, lord bless your dear soul, I ain’t mad at you, Mary!” ses I, “what makes you think I could git mad at you?”

“ ’Cause I didn’t want you to hurt poor little Tip—poor little feller, he didn’t know no better.”

“But, Mary, I wasn’t mad at you at all,” ses I, “what makes you think so?”

“ ’Cause you never said don’t so cross to me before—you said it jest as cross as you could.”

“But I wasn’t mad, honey—it was reachin’ over so fur made me speak sort o’ quick,” ses I, “I never was mad at you in my life.”

But in spite of all I could say or do I couldn’t git her in a good humour the whole evenin’, jest ’cause I said “don’t” to her when she kep’ puttin’ her foot in my way. It’s all over now, but I dasn’t look sideways at Tip for fear he’ll kick up another fuss. It’s monstrous curious. I know Mary loves me, and ther ain’t a sweeter tempered nor a better gall in Georgia, but they all have such curious ways sometimes. Old Miss Stallins say it’s always so at first, but she ses Mary’ll git over all them little childish notions one of these days. Ther’s one thing certain, I wish ther was no little dogs in our family.

I never was so supprised in my life as when I heard ’bout them oudacious bank robbers. I think they better alter the law about jurys, so that when they want to try criminal cases hereafter, they can jest send to the Penitentiary and git twelve fellers at once to come and be jurymen. They’d answer the purpose jest as well, and then honest men wouldn’t be put to no trouble to go to court jest to be objected to by the lawyers on account of ther good charaters. Besides it’s a insult to a decent man to be put on a jury now, in a criminal case.

Ther was a trial in our county not long ago of a feller what had killed a man and robbed him of a heap of money. Ther was lots of lawyers here in his favour, and when they come to pick out the jury ther was hardly twelve men in the county that the lawyers thought mean enough to set on the case. They was two days a gittin’ a jury, and every time they called up a decent lookin’ man, the prisoner’s lawyers would look at him and say, “give him the book,” and if he sed he hadn’t formed and expressed no opinion as to the gilt of the prisoner, (which most every man that cared anything about law or justice had done,) they’d look at him close, and then whisper to one another, and if they hadn’t never heard of his robin’ anybody’s hen-roost or stealin’ anything, they’d say, “object.”

Mose Sanders was called up, and Mose ain’t a very good-lookin’ feller, though he’s a honest man as ever lived. They looked at Mose awhile, and he felt sort o’ bashful I s’pose, and looked sort o’ mean, and they said “content.” Well, the case was tryed, and it was such a perfect open and shut bisness that they couldn’t help bringin’ the feller in guilty in spite of the lawyers. But ther ain’t a man in the county that is got any confidence in Mose Sanders after that—his character is completely ruined, cause everybody thinks the lawyers wouldn’t tuck him on that jury if they didn’t know he was a rascal. For my own part I would jest as leav be s’picioned of stealin’ a sheep, as to be put upon a criminal jury by the lawyers now-a-days. No more from

Your frend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER X.

Pineville, Ga., March 21st, 1844.

Dear Sir,

You mustn’t think hard cause I hain’t rit you a letter for so long a time. Sense the arrival of the little stranger, my time what I’ve had to spare from the plantation is been pretty much tuck up with nussin’ and gwine to town after doctor stuff for it.

Babys is wundrous supprisin’ things, Mr. Thompson, as you know, and when one thinks how much trouble they give a body, we almost wunder what makes us so anxious to have ’em. You mustn’t think I’m beginnin’ to git tired of mine. No indeed, not by no means. I wouldn’t give my little Harry Clay for all the niggers and plantations in Georgy, as much trouble and worryment as he gives me. Ain’t it curious what store we do set by the little creeters, even before we’ve had ’em long enuff to know anything about ’em. It seems like a new fountin of happyness is opened in our harts, a new value given to everything we’ve got, and a new purpose to our lives, when for the fust time we look upon a little helpless bein’ that is born of our love, and is dependent on us for support and protection. How anxious we is to do everything we can for ’em! What pleasure we find in the pains we take to make ’em happy. But you is a man of experience in these matters, Mr. Thompson, and I needn’t tell you nothin’ abou’ it. I must tell you though, what a terrible skeer we had t’other night with the baby.

I had been down to Tom Stallinses mill, to see about gittin’ out some lumber to bild me a new gin-house, and had been ridin’ and workin’ hard all day in the wet, and cum home monstrous tired, late in the evenin’. Mary and the baby was all well, and I went to bed pretty early, thinkin’ to git a good nite’s rest for the fust time in a month. Well, how long I’d been sleepin’, I can’t tell, but the fust thing I know’d was Mary pullin’ my hair to make me wake up.

“Joseph!—Joseph!” ses she.

“Ha! what’s the matter?” ses I, when I seed her leanin’ over in the bed with the lamp in her hand, and her face as pale as the gown she had on.

“Oh, Joseph, do git up,” ses she, “something’s the matter with the baby.”

That was enuff for me, and in a twinklin’ I was settin’ up in the bed, as wide awake as if I hadn’t been asleep in a week.

“Look at him, Joseph—he acts so curious,” ses she, as she tuck the little feller out of his crib, and laid him down in the bed between us.

For ’bout two minits we both sot and looked at the baby, ’thout drawin’ a breth. Thar it lay on its back, with its little hands down by its side. Fust it would spread its mouth like it was laughin’ at something—then it would roll its eyes about in its bed and wink ’em at us—then it would twitch all over, and ketch its breth—then it would lay right still and stop breathin’ for a second or two, and then it would twitch its little lims agin, and roll its eyes about the strangest I ever seed anything in my life, and then it would coo, so pitiful, like a little dove, two or three times, till it would kind of smuther like, and stop breathin’ agin.

I could hear Mary’s hart beat quite plain, and I felt the cold blood runnin’ back to mine like a mill-tail. I looked at Mary, and she looked at me, and such a expression as she had in her eyes I never seed in any human.

“Joseph!” ses she.

“Mary!” ses I.

“Oh, dear!” ses she, the big tears fillin’ her butiful eyes. “Oh, dear! the baby is dyin’—I know it is. Oh, what shall we do?”

“Oh no, Mary, don’t get skeered,” ses I, with what little breth I could summons up for the effort.

“Oh yes, I know it is. I know’d something was gwine to happen, I had sich a dreadful dream last night. Git up, Joseph, and call muther and the galls, quick as you can. Oh dear me, my poor little baby!”

“Don’t take on, Mary—maybe ’taint nothin’ bad,” ses I, tryin’ to compose her all I could, though I was scared as bad as she was, and put my trowsers on wrong side before in my hurryment.

In a minit I had all the fam’ly up, and by the time I got the fire kindled, here cum old Miss Stallins and the galls, all in ther nite clothes, skeered almost out of ther senses.

“Dear me, what upon yeath’s the matter?” ses old Miss Stallins.

“Oh, the baby! the baby!” cried Mary.

“What is happened?” ses all of ’em, getherin’ round the bed.

“I don’t know what ails it,” ses Mary, “but it acts so strange—like it was gwine to dy.”

“Mercy on us!” ses the galls.

“Don’t take on so, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins. “It mought be very bad for you.”

But poor Mary didn’t think of anything but the baby.

“What’s good for it, muther? what’ll cure it?” ses she.

The old woman put on her specticles, and looked at it, and felt it all over, while Mary was holdin’ it in her lap by the fire.

“Don’t be skared,” ses she. “Don’t be skared, my child, maybe it’s nothing but the hives, or the yaller thrash, or some other baby ailment, what won’t hurt it.”

“Oh, it’ll dy—I know it will,” ses Mary.

“Maybe its only sick at its little stummick, muther,” ses sister Carline, “and some sut tea is the best thing in the world for that, they say.”

“And if it’s the thrash, some catnip tea will drive it out in half a ower,” ses the old woman. “Prissy, make some catnip tea, quick as you can.”

“And have some water warmed to bathe its little feet in,” ses sister Kesiah; “for maybe its spasomy.”

“Oh dear, see how it winks its eyes!” ses Mary.

“That ain’t nothing uncommon, dear,” ses her muther.

“Now it’s twitchin’ its little lims again. Oh, it will dy, I know it will.”

“Wouldn’t some saffron tea be good for it?” ses Miss Carline. “Poor little dear!”

“Yes, and a musterd poultice for its little bowels,” ses the old woman.

By this time all the niggers on the place was up gettin’ hot-baths, and teas, and musterd poultices, and ingun-juice, and Lord knows what all, for the baby. Muther and the galls was flyin’ about like they was crazy, and I was so tarrified myself that I didn’t know which eend I stood on. In the hurryment and confusion, Aunt Katy upsot the tea-kittle and scalded little Moses, and he sot up a yell in the kitchin loud enuff to be heard a mile, and I knocked the lamp off the table, and spilled the oil all everything, tryin’ to turn round three ways at the same time. After breakin’ two or three cups and sassers, and settin’ Mary’s night-cap afire with the candle, old Miss Stallins made out to git a tea-spoonful of sut tea in the baby’s mouth, hot enuff to scald its life out, and then ther was such another to-do as nobody ever did hear before.

“Wa!—wa-ya!—ke-wa!—ke-wa-ah!” went the baby.

“Good gracious! mother, the tea’s bilin’ hot,” ses sister Carline.

“My lord! Prissy, hain’t you got no better sense? What upon yeath did you give it to me so hot for?” ses the old woman when she put her finger in the cup.

“Miss Kesiah tell me pour bilin’ water on it,” ses Prissy, with her eyes as big as sassers.

“Wa-ya! ke-wa-ah! ke-wa!” ses the baby, kickin’ and fistin’ away like all rath.

“Whar’s the draps, Joseph? Git the draps, it must be colicky,” ses old Miss Stallins.

I got the parrygorrick as quick as I could, and tried to pour out five draps, as she told me. But my hand trimbled so I couldn’t drap it to save me.

“Give it to me, Joseph,” ses she; “you’s too agitated.”

And she tuck the vial, and poured half of it on her lap, tryin’ to hit the spoon—the poor old woman’s eyes is so bad. Then she told sister Carline to drap it—but both the galls was ’fraid they mought pour too much. So Mary had to do it herself. Then the next difficulty was to git it in the baby’s mouth, and when they did git it thar, it liked to choke it to deth before it could swaller it.

Pretty soon after that it got quiet, and went sound to sleep in Mary’s lap, and we all begun to feel a good deal better. Old Miss Stallins sed she know’d what it wanted as soon as she had time to think, and she wondered she didn’t think of it before. Lord only know’d what mought happened if we hadn’t the parrygorrick in the house. We all felt so good after we got over our skare, that we sot thar and congratulated one another a little while before gwine to bed agin.

While we was all chattin’ and old Miss Stallins was beginnin’ to nod, I noticed Mary was watchin’ the baby monstrous close, and her eyes was beginnin’ to git bigger and bigger, as she looked at its face. Bimeby it groaned one of the longest kind of groans.

“Oh dear!” ses Mary, “I do b’lieve it’s dyin’ agin!”

We all jumped up and run to her, and shure enuff, it looked a heap worse than it did before, and kep’ all the time moanin’ like it was breathin’ its last gasp.

“Oh, mother, its gwine! It’s jest as limber as a rag, and it’s got sich a terrible deth look. Send for the docter, quick,” ses Mary, trimblin’ all over, and lookin’ as if she was gwine to faint in her cheer.

Miss Carline tuck hold of its little hands, and moved ’em, but they was jest like a ded baby’s, and staid anywhar she put ’em.

Ned was sent to town for Doctor Gaiter, as hard as the hoss could go—Mary and the galls all fell a-cryin’ like they was at a funerel, and I felt so fainty myself that I couldn’t hardly stand on my feet. Old Miss Stallins would give the baby some ingin-juice, and have it put in a warm bath all over; but nothing we could do for it done it any good, and we jest had to wait in a agony of suspense ’til the doctor cum.

It ain’t only three miles to town, and Selim’s one of the fastest hosses in Georgia, but it seemed like the docter would never cum.

“Poor little thing!” ses Mary; “I know’d my hart was sot on him too much—I know’d it was too pretty and sweet to live. Oh, dear!”

“How it does suffer—poor little angel,” ses Miss Carline; “what kin ail the child?”

“I wish the docter would cum,” ses all of ’em.

Sich thoughts as I had in that ower, I never want to have agin, as long as I live. A coffin, with a little baby in its shroud, was all the time before my eyes, and a whole funeral procession was passin’ through my hed. The sermon was ringin’ in my ears, and I could almost hear the rumblin’ of the fust shovelful of yeath on the grave boards of my little boy, as I walked round and round the room, stoppin’ now and then to take a look at the pore little thing, and to speak a word of incouragement to Mary. It was a dredful feelin’ Mr. Thompson, and I do b’lieve I’ve felt ten years older ever sense.

Bimeby we heard the hosses feet—all of us drawed a long breth, and every face brightened up at the sound. In a minit more the docter laid his saddle-bags on the table.

“Good evenin’, ladies,” ses he, jest as pleasin’ and perlite as if nothing wasn’t the matter. “Good evenin’, Majer; how are you this—”

“The baby! the baby!” ses all of ’em. “Docter, can’t you cure the baby?”

“Yes, docter,” ses Mary, “our only hope is in you, docter.”

“And Providence, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins.

It seemed like the docter never would git all his grate-coats, and gloves, and hankerchers off, though the wimmin was hurryin’ him and helpin’ him all they could. Bimeby he drawed a cheer up to whar Mary was sittin’ to look at the baby.

“What’s the matter with yer child, Mrs. Jones?” ses he, pullin’ away its gown and feelin’ its pulse.

“I don’t know, docter; but it’s dredful sick,” ses Mary.

“When was it tuck sick, and what is its simptoms?” ses the docter.

All of ’em begun to tell at once, ’til the docter told ’em he could understand ’em better if they’d only talk one at a time, and then Mary told him all about it.

“And how much parrygorrick did you give it?” ses Docter Gaiter.

“Five draps,” ses old Miss Stallins, “I wanted to give it more, but the children was all so skeery.”

“Let me see your parrygorrick,” ses the docter.

He tuck it and smelled it, and tasted it, and then, says he:

“You’re sure you didn’t give it only five draps, Madam?”

“No, no more’n five,” ses Mary, “for I poured it out myself.”

Then the docter looked monstrous wise at the baby, for ’bout a minit, and if you could jest seed the wimmin lookin’ at him. None of us breathed a single breth, and poor Mary looked rite in the docter’s face, as if she wanted to see his very thoughts.

“Doc—”

“Is—”

“Don’t be ’larmed, Madam,” ses he, “ther ain’t no danger!”

Sich a change as cum over the crowd! The room seemed to git lighter in a instant. It was like the sunlight breakin’ through a midnight sky.

Mary cried like a child, and hugged her baby to her bussum, and kissed it a dozen times, and talked baby talk to it; and the galls begun puttin’ the room to rights, so it would be fit for the docter to see it.

“Is you sure ther ain’t no danger, docter?” ses old Miss Stallins.

“None in the least, Madam,” ses he. “Ther’s nothing in the world the matter of the child, only it had a little touch of the hives, what made it laugh and roll its eyes about in its sleep. In your fright, you burnt its mouth with yer hot teas, till it cried a little, and then you’ve doctered it with hot baths, ingin-juice, and parrygorrick, till you’ve stupified it a little. That’s all, Madam. By mornin’ it’ll be well as ever it was, if you don’t give it no more big doses of parrygorrick.”

“I sed so,” ses old Miss Stallins. “I told the child ther was no use in takin’ on so ’bout the baby. But young people is so easy skeered, you know, docter.”

“Yes, and old grandmothers too, sumtimes,” ses he, laughin’.

The baby soon quit moanin’ so bad, and Mary laid it in the bed and kiver’d it over with kisses.

“Bless it, mudder’s tweetest ’ittle darlin’ baby—its dittin’ well, so it is—and dey sant dive it no more natty fisies, and burn its tweet ’ittle mouf no more, so dey sant,” ses she; and the galls got round, and sich a everlastin’ gabblement as they did keep up.

By this time it was most daylight, and after drinkin’ a cup of strong coffee what old Miss Stallins had made for him, and laughin’ at us for bein’ so skared at nothing, the good old docter bundled on his clothes, and went home to charge me five dollars for routin’ him out of his bed and makin’ him ride six miles in the cold. But I ain’t sorry we sent for him, for I do b’lieve if he hadn’t cum, we would dosed poor little Harry ded as a door nail before mornin’. The little feller is doin’ prime now, and if he was to have another attack of the hives, I’ll take monstrous good care they don’t give him no more dratted parrygorrick. So no more from

Your frend, ’til deth,

Jos. Jones.

LETTER XI.

Pineville, Ga., April 10th, 1844.

Dear Sir,

I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout ritin’ a letter one of these days, but the fact is, sense last Febuary, I hain’t had much time for nothing. The baby’s been cross as the mischief, most all the time sense it had the hives, and Mary, she’s beep ailin’ a good deal, ever sense she got that terrible scare last month—and then you know this time of year we planters is all as bissy as we can be, fixin’ for the crap.

Nothin’ very uncommon hain’t took place down here sense I rit my last letter to you, only t’other day a catasterfy happened in our family that come monstrous nigh puttin’ a eend to the whole generation of us. I never was so near skeered out of my senses afore in all my born days, and I don’t b’lieve old Miss Stallins ever will git over it, if she was to live a thousand years. But I’ll tell you all about it.

Last Monday mornin’ all of us got up well and harty as could be, and I sot in our room with Mary, and played with the baby till breckfust time, little thinkin’ what was gwine to happen so soon. The little feller was jumpin’ and crowin’ so I couldn’t hardly hold him in my arms, and spreadin’ his little mouth, and laughin’ jest like he know’d everything we sed to him.

Bimeby, Ant Prissy cum to tell us breckfust was reddy, and we all went into t’other room to eat, ’cept sister Kesiah, who sed she would stay and take care of little Henry Clay, till we was done. Mary’s so careful she won’t trust the baby with none of the niggers a single minit, and she’s always dredful oneasy when Kesiah’s got it, she’s so wild and so careless.

Well we sot down to breckfust, and Kesiah, she scampered up stairs to her room with the baby, jumpin’ it up, and kissin’ it, and talkin’ to it as hard as she could.

“Now, sis, do be careful of my precious little darlin’,” ses Mary, loud as she could to her, when she was gwine up stairs.