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diff --git a/old/55042-0.txt b/old/55042-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 459f2df..0000000 --- a/old/55042-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1693 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Tar-Heel Tales in Vernacular Verse, by John E. P. Doyle - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Tar-Heel Tales in Vernacular Verse - -Author: John E. P. Doyle - -Illustrator: Bonar - -Release Date: July 4, 2017 [EBook #55042] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TAR-HEEL TALES IN VERNACULAR VERSE *** - - - - -Produced by MFR, Paul Marshall and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -Transcriber's Notes: - - Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate - _italics_ in the original text. - Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals. - Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved. - Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other - variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered. - In TOC, page no. for "Bob Munn of Cape Cod" was corrected - from 14 to 16. - - - - - Tar-Heel Tales IN VERNACULAR VERSE. - - [Illustration] - - BY _MAJOR JEP JOSLYNN_. - - NEW YORK: - - M. DOOLADY, 98 NASSAU STREET. - - 1873. - - “LITTLE BOOTS.” - - MY RERLIGION. - - THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS. - - BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD. - - - - - Tar-Heel Tales IN VERNACULAR VERSE. - - [Illustration] - - _BY MAJOR JEP JOSLYNN_. - - ILLUSTRATED BY BONAR. - - NEW YORK: - - M. DOOLADY, 98 Nassau Street. - - 1873. - - Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1873, - BY J. E. P. DOYLE, - In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. - - - - -AUTHOR’S PREFACE. - - -The author of this little volume, in presenting it for the amusement of -the reader, and the criticism of his co-laborers on the press, feels -it proper that he should state the circumstances of its production. -While serving as a staff officer with Sherman’s army in North Carolina, -often has he listened for hours to the recitals of adventures on the -part of the Tar-Heel refugees from the pineries, who crowded our camps -in search of food. Having studied with interest the habits and quaint -dialect of this poor, but honest class, the author has created Major -Jep Joslynn, and permitted him to weave some of these “Tales” into -verse. The incident described in “The Buzzin’ Bees of Berks” were -actually witnessed by him while on the advance of Hambright’s brigade -of the Fourteenth corps, assisting in the prevention of pillage. Two -or three of these Tales have been published in the press over Major -Joslynn’s signature. With these explanations the author will take a -back seat and request silence from pit to dome while the veracious -Tar-Heel entertains you with his Vernacular Verses. - - -HORACE GREELEY. - -BY JEP JOSLYNN. - - Hush! a nation’s pulse stands still! - Through it is flashed a thrill - Of genuine grief! - Grief for the Great and Good— - Grief for the one who stood - In strong relief, - And half a century braved - Opinion for the enslaved, - To find his name engraved - On Life’s clear leaf! - - A rustic child of ours, - Who in Green Mountain bowers - Was born to earth, - Attained a giant life - ’Mid scenes of bitter strife - That prov’d his worth! - And, dying, leaves behind him, - In hearts that have enshrined him - Affection’s links that bind him - To every hearth! - - Let the solemn church bell toll - For the passing of a soul - To peaceful rest: - Let tender tears be shed - For the illust’rous dead - Who’s hand we’ve prest! - For hearts to-day are riven— - A LIGHT went out at even - To glow anew in Heaven - Among the Blest! - - —New York Evening Telegram. - - To - - FREDERIC HUDSON, - - THE TALENTED JOURNALIST AND COURTEOUS GENTLEMAN, WHOSE - - FRATERNAL INTEREST IN YOUNG WRITERS, AND WHOSE - - CONSIDERATE AND PATIENT TREATMENT OF ALL WITH - - WHOM HE HAS HAD BUSINESS RELATIONS, HAVE - - ENDEARED HIM TO THEM, THIS VOLUME IS - - DEDICATED, BY HIS LATE SUBORDINATE AND SINCERE ADMIRER, - - The Author. - - [Illustration] - - - - - CONTENTS. - - PAGE. - THE CURSE OF PEDERGOGUE SCOTT 9 - BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD 16 - MY RERLIGION 24 - LITTLE BOOTS 32 - THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS 39 - THAT LITTLE BLACK PET OF OUR’N 49 - OLD TOM GIN 57 - THE SIGN OF JOE BALL 66 - - - ILLUSTRATIONS. - - PLANTING THE THISTLES 13 - BOB MUNN’S TRANSFIGURATION 21 - DEACON SPARLING’S DEVOTION 26 - THE TAR HEEL’S RETURN 35 - A MULE’S BAPTISM 46 - JONAH’S LANDLORD 50 - -[Illustration] - - -THE CURSE OF PEDERGOGUE SCOTT. - - That’s a question I don’t like ter speak of: - How these pesky thistles come here; - But, boys, if ye will listen attentervely, - I will breathe a strenge tale in yer ear. - - But afore I bergin I would warn ye, - Ye may fix yer faces ter blush; - So jist let thar be silence all around - And I’ll spin the yarn with a rush. - - Ha! ha! ha! I larf when I think of it— - The days when a youngster I sat - On a rough pine bench in the lorg school house, - And din’d orf the rim of my hat! - - The other boys war bigger than I war, - And studied thar lesson right well, - While I ermus’d myself as I wish’d ter - In quar tricks on which I’ll not dwell. - - I war ter young ter learn my letters,— - They let me ’tend school for all that; - And then when I run short of ermusement - I jerk’d at the tail of the cat! - - As I increas’d in years and mischief, - Sich as hazin’ our neighbor’s pig, - Pourin’ ink on the floor, or applyin’ - Powder’d chalk ter the master’s wig— - - Richard Scott—that war the pedergogue’s name— - Declar’d in wrath he’d be killin’ - Me, if I did not be quiet and sit - Bertween ter gals—I war willin’! - - Young as I war I lik’d that ye may swar - On the hilts of yer bowie knives; - And though but eight years I bergun ter sigh - For a plurality of wives! - - Now, Tip Tracey, ye may smile over thar - At the picter I’ve painted you; - But that gal-punershment of Richard Scott - War a pleasure ter them gals, too! - - By-an’-by I had master’d my letters, - And bergun on my _b i bi’s_; - From that I prergress’d to somethin’ better— - Admirin’ my companions’ eyes. - - Nearly every day I got the ferule - Jist for winkin’ at Sue Minals; - But very soon I had so far prergress’d - I war plighted ter sev’ral gals! - - I had not been ter school quite a twelvemonth - When I’d whal’d each boy in the class, - Kiss’d and hugg’d every gal, eaten Scott’s lunch, - And ten rivals had sent ter grass! - - I put toads in Scott’s pockets, and dead mice - Scatter’d everywhar in his desk, - Till he froth’d at the mouth in his madness, - And cuss’d me for a little pest. - - All this tuk place over in Canada, - Whar my gov’ner had gone ter preach - The Gospel of Jesus ter them sinners, - As successor ter Elder Beech. - - But don’t tire at th’ length of my story: - I’m drawin’ erlong ter the close, - Whar I gather’d the seeds that have blarsted, - And fill’d a whole nation with woes. - -[Illustration] - - One day when I’d been worse than usual,— - Put snuff in the master’s whistle— - _Old Scott tuk me out berhind the rear wall, - And sot me down on a thistle!_ - - An hour and a half he held me thar, - While the barbs pen’trated the skin! - Havin’ planted the crop, the pedergogue, - With my trousers harrer’d it in! - - That harrerin’ event I can’t forget, - For it fairly set me rantin’: - I wood not car’d had the agricult’rist - Chosen higher soil ter plant in! - - But that war cruel, and for months I felt - Them bull thistle seeds takin’ root, - And creepin’ about in the tender flesh - From hat crown ter toe of my boot. - - After that I went back on old Dick Scott, - And lit out for York State ye bet; - But each Spring I war sowin’ the thistles, - No rest anywhar could I get. - - I have toted them thistles all over, - And planted ’em in every field, - Whar I’ve halted ter rest; but dog on it! - Thar seems a ter bounterful yield! - - Now, neighbors, that is a right true story - I’ve told ye, and is it not queer - That I cannot get shut of ’em? That is - How Canada thistles reached here! - - So whenever ye cut down yer thistles - Don’t cuss me ter strong. May I rot - In a roadside ditch if I can help it! - _They are the curse of Richard Scott!_ - -[Illustration] - - -BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD. - - I berlieve it’s cornceeded on all sides - That of all the cute bipeds made - Since the world war created, the Yankee - Allers gets the best in a trade! - - It’s a boast that no race can match ’em - In expedients sure ter win: - And all others must get up right early - If they would n’t be taken in! - - As a proof of this ere declaration - They tell of one up at Cape Cod, - Who’s so all-fir’d smart he endeavor’d - Ter play a trump kerd at his God! - - He’s a fisherman by occerpation, - Is this feller they call Bob Munn; - And ter dry his fish he ask’d _mandamus_ - Ter sercure more light from the sun! - - The court would not listen ter the motion, - But this action did not appall: - He fix’d up a merchine ter uterlize - The rerfulgent rays of old Sol. - - With powerful glasses he center’d - The rays on his cargoes of cod, - And chuckl’d right smart at his success - In stealin’ the smiles of his God! - - For a time his merchine work’d ter a charm, - And his sackerlege war endur’d; - While his rivals in trade war astonish’d - At the many quintals he cur’d. - - But Bob Munn, he grew bold in his averice, - And the splendid march he had stole - Upon his Creator and his rivals, - E’en at the expense of his soul. - - He had read in the Scripters of Lot’s wife - Who ter salt war chang’d in a night, - As a punershment for diserbedience - And exercizin’ wimin’s right— - - (A right ter pry inter other’s affa’rs - By evesdroppin’ if she’s inclin’d, - For which each one of ’em should be treated - As Lot’s mistress what look’d berhind.) - - But, endin’ he aposterphe, I must - Return ter the exploits of Munn, - Who ignor’d the bounty of Jerhover, - And corntiner’d ter steal the sun! - - The story of Lot’s wife impress’d him - With a more avericious wish— - The diskivery of arter-fish-al means - For ter salt his catches of fish. - - On the shores of Cape Cod in them days - Many old maids sigh’d alone - For the lips of a man ter caress ’em, - And the means ter sercure a home. - - They had been doom’d ter sore diserpointment, - The girlish bloom had diserpear’d, - Leavin’ a shad-er of thar lost beauty - On the features so dry and sear’d. - - Bob Munn, he long ponder’d on the subject - Of testin’ that ere recerpe, - What work’d ter a charm at old Gomorrer, - And set a poor hen-peck’d man free! - - God had smil’d upon his undertakin’s, - And he felt he might tempt him still, - With a more ingenious expererment, - Ter bring a fresh grist ter his mill. - - Then he sent out many invertations— - Corlected the maids at his board, - And while they war gossippin’ o’er thar tea - In his chamber he ask’d the Lord— - - Ter merakerlously chenge ’em ter salt - The cheaper ter cure his fresh cod; - Then in faith he erose from his marrers, - And his sinful tamp’rin’ with God! - - Now Bob Munn in his folly expected - On rejinin’ his guests ter find - The work he’d mapped out for the Master, - Perform’d by His Infernite mind. - -[Illustration] - - But not so. On reachin’ the tea-drinkers, - Whar he trusted ter git his wish, - No pillars of salt war thar; but _harf of - Munn’s carcass war cheng’d ter a fish_! - - Bob Munn soon diskiver’d it war wrongful, - And, chagrin’d tuk ter the water: - Becomin’ an amphibious anermal, - The first mermaid war his daughter. - - Two centuries have pars’d away since then; - The mermaids have multerplied, - And, old mariners say, it all comes from - Lovin’ fish premerturely dri’d! - - And, although I won’t vouch for it, they say - This is why the Yankees like cod, - Car’fully season’d, and salted and cur’d - By the means pervided by God. - - BUT THE MORAL—ye see it war sinful - Ter tempt the Almighty ter fast! - And this story will show ye how _He got_ - _The best of that Yankee at last_! - - Whenever ye hear tell of a mermaid - Be warn’d by the sin of poor Bob, - Who attempted ter stock the kerds upon - His Maker, but—botch’d the job! - -[Illustration] - - -MY RERLIGION. - - - I do not gamble much on Rerligion, - Nor show a sanctermonious look - Down here under my hat when they mention - The Bible—that spiritu’l book— - - What’s a guide-board ter every stray traveler - In the pathway leadin’ ter God; - I do not clasp my hands in dervotion, - And at the church minister nod,— - - Extollin’ his favorite utterances; - Nor jine in the fervent “Amen,” - That the folks in the meetin’ may think me - One of them most pious laymen. - - Nor go down on my marrers durin’ pr’ar, - Raise my eyes ter Heaven and cry - Ter God ter pour out His Holy Spirit, - And bless me with grace from on High! - - In meetin’ I do not yell out “Glory!” - “Bless the Lord who died for sinners!” - “Come down, dear Jesus; I’ll clasp ye right here!” - Nor ’nvite the parson ter dinners. - - I’ve sarch’d from Gen’ses ter Reverlation - For a precerdent, but I can’t - Find that Christ and His Erpostles have spent - The Sabbath in boisterous rant! - - The knees of my Sabbath mornin’ trousers - May not show same ermount of war’ - As those of Deacon Horatio Sparling, - Who’s worn holes in his’n at pra’r. - -[Illustration] - - _I may not show the white of my eyes, like - The Deacon who looks for rerward - For countin’ the number of the rarfters, - When they pars the cup of the Lord!_ - - I am not in the habit of tellin’ - Sinners they’ll be left in the lurch, - In the last great day when Jerhover comes, - If thar not members of the church! - - Or skeerin’ ’em with brimstone and fire, - And the vengeance of thar Maker, - If they turn thar backs on the Pascal Lamb, - And fail ter be a pertaker! - - I do not prerclaim ter all my neighbors - Who’ve not bow’d down in corntrition - And jin’d the meetin’, that they’ve cartenly - A through ticket ter perdition! - - That when the Lord shall come in His glory, - If thar not as pure as snow, - He will hurl His hot bolts of wrath at ’em, - And tell ’em ter git up and go! - - That when the ran’som’d have enter’d in, - With the Lord ter thar final rest - In Heaven, and have put on the white robes - Emblermatical of the Blest— - - The guilty sinner will be shunted orf - Ter lakes of sul-furious fires - Whar murderers, burgulars and drunkards - Pursue thar unlicens’d desires. - - It is true I do not wrench from the poor - Part of the proceeds of thar sweat, - That my name may look large on subscriptions, - And that I may complerments get! - - And be known as a great pherlanterpist - When they pars the corlection plate, - _That receives money wrung from a brother, - Or filch’d from his orphan’s erstate_! - - O, no! I will freely own up ter it: - This sort of Rerligion don’t meet - My views of what’s right—what Jesus rerquires - Of all what come near ter His seat. - - My idea of Christianity - Is of quite a different type, - And all them supercillious ranters - Who think for the Harvest thar ripe, - - That, through thar pra’r and thar false prerfession, - They have been cleans’d of all thar sin, - Will find, when they apply for admission, - They have a slim chance ter get in! - - My Rerligion is not a prerfession - That “I am holier than thou!” - That a man can not serve his Creator - If he don’t make a saintly bow! - - The follerers of the Blessed Jesus, - Who war cradl’d in a menger, - Will strive ter love thar neighbor as themselves, - And gladden the lonely strenger— - - With kindnesses what go home ter the heart - In hour of his greatest need, - And act the part of the Sermaritan, - Of whom we all derlight ter read. - - I may be a sinner, and I doubt not - Have done heaps of things that war wrong; - But I love the example of the Lord, - And in secret pour out in song— - - My acknolergements for His great bounty; - And I strive ter keep His commands, - What war written on tablets by Moses, - When Jerhover guided his hands! - - _In them, Commandments ye get the essence - Of the Truth as given ter man; - And if a poor sinner lives up ter ’em, - And labors the best that he can— - No matter if he is out of the church, - Whar the wicked ones are cryin’ - For mercy! He’ll not be with the Deacon - Blubb’rin’ at the gates of Zion!_ - -[Illustration] - - -LITTLE BOOTS. - - Wal, neighbor, ye have got me right sure - When ye put a question like that: - The age of my youngster—“Little Boots,” - So frolicksome, funny and fat? - - The year and the day he war cradl’d - By the nurse what waited about; - And stood watch over Polly jist thar, - And heer’d his first inferntile shout? - - He’s a brilliant pearl in our cabin— - Is “Little Boots”—that’s cartenly true: - But durn me if I know he _war born_! - Maybe—like Miss Topsey—he grew! - - Come, strenger; bring yer cheer ter the fire. - Here’s some juice of the grape. Maybe - Ye’ll not stand upon manners jist now, - For I’ve no great larnin’, ye see. - - So I’ll tell ye the story of “Boots”— - Dog on’d strenge as ’t may seem ter _you_;— - But may my ha’r be cheng’d ter black snakes - If it is not Scripterly true! - - Ye see, we come down ter Car’lina - Five years ago, comin’ next Fall,— - Polly and me, and our setter dorg: - Without a mule or beast ter haul. - - Here I knock’d up a little cabin, - And skeer’d up a nigger or so, - At odd times ter jine in the plantin’, - And a startin’ the crop ter grow! - - Wal, for a time we prosper’d right smart— - Long afore “Little Boots” war born— - But we fretted in vain for a somethin’, - Though harvestin’ cotton and corn. - - But the drought spil’d the crops, and one day— - Leavin’ Polly ter boss the help— - I kissed her good bye, and dug out - Ter rough it a while by myself! - - Three years I work’d hard in the gold mines— - ’Way out in the mountains, ye see, - Whar a feller don’t have sich comforts - As a wife and a boy on the knee! - - Wal, at last I grew rather homesick, - And, ’thout writin’ Polly a word, - I ti’d up my kit for a journey, - And—slop’d for the home I prerferr’d? - -[Illustration] - - Forty days I war comin’ ter Clark’s: - A week brought me here ter the door, - _When I peek’d through a hole in the wall:_ - _“Little Boots” war squat on the floor_! - - The supper war spread on the table, - And Polly war pourin’ the tea - For Tom Smart, who had dropp’d in jist then - Ter hear if she’d got word from me. - - Now, Tom Smart war an old friend of our’n, - Who had shown much friendly corncern - In Polly and me, and, heaps of times, - Had render’d a neighborly turn! - - But, ter come ter the pint; I cornfess, - I chuck’d my rerligion erside! - And when they decla’r’d this boy war mine, - I cussed ’em, and told ’em they lied! - - For, strenger, I’d been away three years - From Polly and home, yet, forsooth, - The youngster they tried ter palm on me, - Had only jist cut his first tooth! - - But Polly, she kiss’d me so kind-like, - And prertested that she had been true, - That I tuk “Little Boots” ter my arms,— - Why, strenger, what else could I do? - - Since then I’ve been thinkin’ it over: - How this youngster chanc’d inter life,— - Durn me, if I don’t fear it’s the fault - Of Tom Smart and Polly, my wife! - - I don’t like ter suspicion my Polly - Who’s jist now appearin’ in view; - But, somehow, I don’t think it’s nat’ral - That our “Boots” should come thus. Do you? - - However, I’ll not fret erbout it: - Say nothin’; my wife’s at the door: - But one thing take note on:—_We’re happy_, - And—Tom Smart don’t come here no more! - - Now that is the whole histry of “Boots,” - A plaguey quar case. It’s not clear! - How this boy can be mine I can’t guess, - Or how in the world he reach’d here! - - But he’s Polly’s, that’s carten and sure, - And I admit him inte my heart, - Although he bars a strikin’ rersemblance - Ter that Tar-heel known as Tom Smart! - -[Illustration] - - -THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS. - - Boys, ye ask me ter spin ye a story - Of adventer by flood or field, - Or stand for licker ter bits at the bar,— - Ter the former, of course, I’ll yield; - For I’m rather short of greenbacks jist now, - Havin’ been out of work some time. - So, hear goes for a yarn, but ye must not - Make sport of my effort at rhyme— - - For in youth I had no eddercation, - ’Cept crumbs pick’d up by the way, - A scratchin’ figgers on the old school house - Of our pedergogue, Milton Gray. - Of course, ye know I war one of them chaps - What with Sherman march’d ter the sea, - From Atlanter, the stronghold we’d captur’d, - Ter the forts down on the ’Gechee. - - It war in Nervember we burn’d the place: - On the seventeenth we cut loose - From our base of surplies, and started orf - Ter exercute Sherman’s _ruse_, - That he war playin’ on Hood, the rebel, - Who’d unkiver’d his flanks ter soon, - For he left the way cl’ar for us ter raid - Ter Servanner or ter the moon! - - It war on that march the ervent tuk place - Of which I am goin’ ter tell, - Of how I ran inter a nest ef bees, - And thar got a foretaste of hell! - On the sixth day out we had got well down - In Berks county, n’ar the borders, - And on that ere raid, ye may bet yer pile, - We did not car’ much for orders! - - But each man dug out upon his own hook, - And rush’d for the front and plunder: - N’arly all of ’em got thar full of it, - But some of the boys went under; - For, ye see, thar war stray rebels erbout, - Who would swing ’em up by the necks, - When they cetch’d ’em totin’ erway the grub— - And hundreds parsed in thar checks! - - In them days I war not at all skeery— - Impressin’ a mule, I lit out - For the front, whar the bummers war raidin’ - And scourin’ the country erbout— - Stealin’ chickens, or killin’ hogs by day, - (Or goin’ through a trunk, perchance;) - Then at night they would camp for ter eat ’em, - With pickets thrown out in advance. - - They would coral thar mules in the forest, - Unsling knapsacks and build a fire, - Of pine logs, dry knots, or rails from the farms; - Then, chuck full of pork, they’d rertire - Ter slumbers disturb’d by the dyin’ squeals - Of swine they had slaughter’d for tea, - ’Til they thought the devils had come back from - Those Jesus druv inter the sea! - - As I have told ye, I jin’d the bummers - With my mule, my gun and canteen, - And the days that I roam’d about with ’em - War the jolliest I have seen; - But as we pars’d out of Berks one mornin’, - Far erhead of the “acorn” corps, - We soon diskiver’d a fine old homestead, - And a fair young gal in the door. - - Now while I did not do any stealin’, - And paid cash for all I seized, - If thar’s one thing I love it is wimin, - And, if thar pretty, I am pleas’d; - And when I saw more than a dozen bee hives - Lercated right thar in the yerd, - And the boys goin’ quickly terwards ’em, - I felt that it war mighty hard. - - I spurr’d up my mule, and then prertested - Not one should be tak’n from thar; - But the fellers jist snickered right out, - And told me ter go comb my ha’r— - And dry up, for they would have them hives - If they had ter eat bees berside, - And if I did not like it I could jist - Crawl out of my pesky old hide. - - Objections war no use erbout them days; - And, like a cornsumate old fool, - I drew rein at the gate ef the house, and - Watch’d ’em from the back of my mule. - Then them soldiers made a sortie on the bees - With thar ponchos, and tuk ’em quick - Ter the stream near by whar they drowned them, - And lifted the hives from the creek. - - While this war doin’ I sat on that mule, - Till Dick Mullens upset a hive, - And a swarm of mad bees came tearin’ out, - And, soarin’ around, made a dive - Right squar for my mule; they lit on his flanks, - And his neck, his ears and back:— - He rear’d and snorted, threw his head in air, - Then quickly tuk a le’ard tack! - - And erway on a fearful race he broke - Over fences, lorgs, ditches and rocks, - Headin’ for the water under the hill— - He near shook me out of my socks! - On his break-neck race for that brook berlow - It war needless ter pull on the rein, - For that ugly mule war dead set upon - Gittin’ rid of his bitin’ pain! - - With me the siteration war quite bad— - That mule’s hide war thicker than mine; - And when they lit on me I fit a while: - Then foller’d the mule’s bee line! - We reach’d the creek—ye may not berlieve it— - But that mule went down on his knees - In that ere stream, and roll’d over on me, - Jist ter rid himself of the bees! - -[Illustration] - - The muddy water war full four feet deep, - And I came quite n’ar bein’ drown’d, - _As with the old mule I battl’d thar, - With the bees what war buzzin’ ’round_! - I shall never forget that frisky brute, - What flounder’d erbout and shook - Them ere buzzin’ insects from orf his ears, - And danced like mad in the brook,— - - One minute he lay flat upon his back— - _The next balanced, on his fores,_ - _With his tail stuck out, and kickin’ like mad,_ - _As the bees fell on him by scores_! - Wal, while this battle war ergoin’ on - ’Twixt the bees and the valiant mule, - I had a chance ter crawl up ter the bank— - Don’t say that my action war cru’l— - - For the critter war much better prepar’d - With his tail ter banish his foes, - While I had not a durn’d thing erbout me - Ter aid him the battle ter close. - I had had quite ernough of that skirmish, - And erway up the hill I run - As quickly as my shanks would carry me, - In sarch of my knapsack and gun. - - When I had found them I war satersfied, - And did not rernew the ertack - On them wild bees; but, boys, I’m not carten - _But that mule still lies on his back - Erway down thar in Berks county, fightin’ - The dercendents of them mad bees - What that day swarm’d out of that broken hive! - That’s the yarn!_—Who’s treat is it, please? - -[Illustration] - - -THAT LITTLE BLACK PET OF OUR’N. - - Elder, quite a good story is that - Ye read from the Bible ter-day, - Of how that truant, surnam’d Jonah, - Succeeded in findin’ his way - Ter the mouth of that erbligin’ whale, - What tuk him in out of the wet, - And entertain’d him three days and nights, - Whar thar’s free erpartments ter let! - - ’Pears ter me, that whale war kind-hearted - Ter render sich an act; I’m sure - Most lan’lords would jist tell him ter git - Mighty quick away from thar door— - If he’d not the spondulicks ter pay - For his meals, his washin’ and bed; - But this generous whale surplied all, - And never tax’d Jonah a red! - -[Illustration] - - Do ye think ye could find a lan’lord - In these days as kind as that whale, - _What opened his mouth and ax’d him in - When the sea war runnin’ a gale_! - I guess ye’d look a long while, Elder, - Ter find one in this ere big State, - Who would not a cuss’d right smart at him, - And left Mr. J. ter his fate. - - Elder, I’ve been thinkin’ it over, - And, dog on it! I cannot see - How that story can be at all true; - But as _you_ say so, it must be: - For ye teech us ter berlieve each word - What is writ for our edderfecation, - Ter turn poor sinners ter Jesus Christ, - And rescue ’em from damnation! - - I’ll take the yarn, as the whale tuk in - Mr. Jonah, without any doubt; - But, years ago, an ervent tuk place, - What I will tell ye all erbout— - And if ye don’t say, it matches your’n - My name is not Pherlander Lee: - It tuk place when I war rarftin’ lorgs, - Years ago, upon the Suanee,— - - With Ashley Cole, Will Starks and Ed. Flynn, - And a dozen or more, maybe, - Of lumbermen, who work’d all day at - Ermanuel labor with me. - We anchor’d our rarft n’ar Cedar Keys, - And squatted down berside the stream - One evenin’, and after supper dropp’d orf - Ter slumber, ter rest and dream— - - Of wives and children we’d left erbove - In the pineries days berfore; - And now, worn out with lerborious toil, - We quickly bergan for ter snore. - Ter keep the flies orf we built a fire, - And Fanny, my little black dorg, - That I thought a mighty sight of, sir, - Doubl’d up ter snooze on a lorg— - - A few yards from the fire. A sharp yelp - Woke me from my dreams, and, springin’ - Right out of my cot, I hurried orf - Whar the cries of my Fanny war ringin’ - On the air, as an allergater - In his jaws had cru’lly caught her, - And war makin’ right orf with my pet, - Ter his young ’ns in the water! - - Seizin’ a club, I feller’d right fast - After the stealthy, thievin’ brute; - But the night war dark, and the critter - Successfully baffled pursuit! - My dorg war gone: ’twar no use frettin’ - O’er raid of that allergater, - What had sneak’d my pet from orf that lorg, - And, I doubted not, had ate her! - - She did not come back ter tell the tale - Of how she had been sneak’d away, - And I mourn’d her as lost ter me forever, - And—had not a word ter say. - But, Elder, that war n’t the last I saw - Of that little black pet of our’n, - For two months later, when we’d come down - Agin, and one day war scourin’— - - Erbout for game, in a swamp n’ar by - The slimy thief I once more saw! - Liftin’ my rifle, I lodg’d a ball - Right under his uplifted jaw. - In them days I war reckon’d a shot, - And, ye may bet, the critter died: - Then over on his back we turn’d him, - And bergun ter rermove his hide. - - While this war doin’ I heer’d a bark - Of a dorg, what appear’d quite near! - ’Twar so much like Fanny’s, with my sleeve - I—jist brush’d from my cheek a tear! - Wal, when we had cut the varment open— - Ye won’t berlieve it, but it’s true - As any story I’ve ever told, - My Fanny jump’d squar inter view! - - Then, arter her came three pretty purps— - Exact picters of thar mother! - We ply’d our knives agin in the flesh, - And then unkiver’d another! - Ye see, I had rerkiver’d my pet, - What brought back a numerous crop - Of young dogs; now if I hain’t match’d ye, - Why, Elder, I’ll gen’rously stop! - - But, wait a bit; a few more inches - We come ter somethin’ kinder hard, - That our sharpest blades would not go through, - And then old Samuel Bard - Pick’d up a hatchet and whack’d erway - _Until he came ter some spruce lorgs,_ - _That, bein’ unkiver’d, dersplay’d ter view_ - _The kennel of them little dorgs_! - -[Illustration] - - -OLD TOM GIN. - - A “smile” is it, Hank Rowland, - Ye invite me ter take, - At the bar of Pete Moody, - Jist for the old time sake, - And ter keep me erwake? - A smile of th’ distillation - Of hell that is call’d Gin,— - The nectar of the devils! - The vile parent of sin, - What many waller in? - - I don’t like ter ’pear ’fensive, - My friend Hank, but jist think - The temptation ye set me - When ye ax me ter drink! - No, no! from it I shrink! - Time war when a poor toper - I reel’d erbout the place, - A wretched victim of rum, - That so many embrace - Ter thar lastin’ disgrace! - - Hank, I’ll tell ye a story - What’s call’d ter my mind - When I come any whar n’ar - This great curse of mankind - With which stomachs are lin’d! - It makes me blush for the past, - The ’nebriate I’ve been, - When I think of the enemy— - The inciter ter sin— - They have christen’d “Tom Gin.” - - When I war marri’d, Hank Rowland, - A likelier young chap - Ye couldn’t find anywhar - This side Cumberland Gap, - For I tuk no “night cap.” - My wife, she war a Christian, - And a true wife war she; - And God rain’d down His blessin’s - On Malinder and me, - With a hand that war free. - - She bore me three fine children— - Two fair gals and a boy— - Whose soft chirrupin’ voices - Fill’d the cabin with joy - And love without erloy. - When the honeymoon pars’d - And love seem’d ter grow cold, - I stray’d down ter the tavern,— - Thar squander’d my gold, - And nerglected the fold— - - Whar my sunny-ha’r’d treasurs - Gather’d ’bout my wife’s side, - As she teech’d ’em of the Lord - Who on Calvary died, - And for orphans pervide. - As she told them of Heaven, - And repeated that pra’r - Of the Sevior of the world— - So erquented with car’— - They never saw me thar! - - Hank Rowland, I’m ershem’d - Ter admit it; but, still, - It may do another good - Ter warn him of what’ll kill, - And I swow that I will; - For, ye see, thar is many - Jist like me ’round here - Turnin’ erway from thar homes - When the smiles diserpear, - ’Cause thar wedded ter beer! - - Wal, down here ter the tavern, - As a matter of course - I found many good fellers - Who’d not any rermorse, - And did not seem advarse - Ter a toddy or a smoke, - A yarn or a story, - Of Ingen fights on the Plains, - And conflicts quite gory, - In sarch of mere glory. - - Hank, them times war attractive, - And I drank like the rest; - As months pars’d it grew on me, - Till I swigg’d with the best— - Pour’d it down with a zest. - Then reelin’ home late at night - The little ones would creep - Erway ter Merlinder’s room - With thar mother ter weep - In vain effort ter sleep! - - As years pars’d I grew keerless— - My farm went ter the duce— - And I hurl’d at my treasures— - Thinkin’ I had excuse— - Vile curses and erbuse! - One night I went home much later - And prepar’d ter rertire; - In my drink I upset the lamp— - Then the house war afire, - And my terror war dire! - - I stagger’d out ter the yard - And call’d for help. Ter late! - They got out all my children - But baby—little Kate— - Who met a dreadful fate! - The next mornin’, when sober’d, - I found my infant dead,— - Her body charr’d and blackened— - Her death war on my head! - My love for whisky fled? - - Berside that rough pine coffin - I knelt me down and wept, - And register’d a vow thar, - Whar little Katey slept, - Hank Rowland, I have kept! - ’Twar this: never ter touch it— - This stuff they have nam’d Gin, - What’s draggin’ others ter whar - I, findin’ out my sin, - Rerfus’d ter suck it in! - - A smile is it, Hank Rowland, - Ye invite me ter take, - At the bar of Pete Moody, - Jist for the old time sake, - And ter keep me erwake? - No, Hank, none of it for me! - ’Twould make the engels groan - Ter see me touch it. I pars! - (Rather be cheng’d ter stone) - Jist run the hand alone! - - -THE SIGN OF JOE BALL. - - Ed Colby, yer noted for yer stories - What are marvelous, while thar true, - And I know ye’ll relish a good one, - So I will rercite it ter you. - - A few nights ago I kinder crav’d for - A small morsel of sassage meat, - And, jist seizin’ my hat from the mantel, - I hurri’d out inter the street. - - At the shop of Joe Ball I diskiver’d - Some what look’d superbly nice; - The stamps war put down, and them sassages - War mine at a nomernal price. - - I carri’d them ter my house in triumph, - Without gettin’ scratch’d in the least, - And, sev’rin’ some, waited for daylight - Ter enjoy a savory feast. - - I war up with the crow of the rooster, - And went for my sassages straight. - I be gol durn’d if one wasn’t purrin’, - And rubbin’ himself ’gin the gate! - - Another had crawl’d ter the parlor, - Whar he crouched down and purr’d, - And wistfully watch’d a wire cage - Whar slumber’d my favorite bird! - - Two others I found in the coal cellar, - Anxiously layin’ for rats: - While another had her head in a pitcher - Whar wife kept the milk for the cats! - - I next look’d erbout for the balance, - And, an oath I thar gave vent ter. - Though thar tails war tied they war creepin’ - Erway from a common center! - - I survey’d ’em, and they look’d at me - From out thar harf-closed eyes, - As one of ’em told me that thar mother - Had been chopp’d up inter pies. - - The poor little orphans implor’d me - Thar infantile lives ter spar’; - But I had sich a feline mernagerie, - That I flatly rerfus’d thar pra’r. - - That mornin’ I miss’d my fav’rite rerpast - Of fried sassages, ter be sure; - But I had the satersfaction ter see - The whole lot drown’d in the sewar! - - Whenever ye see the sign of Joe Ball, - Be car’ful not ter enter his lair, - For he prides himself upon his choice stock - Of kitten spic’d sassage and hair. - -[Illustration] - - - “THE TABLE,” - - BARRY GRAY, EDITOR, - - A MONTHLY MAGAZINE, - - _Devoted exclusively to subjects connected with the - Pleasures of the Table, the Science of Cooking, and - the Art of Good Living_. - - PLAN AND CHARACTER OF THE WORK. - - THE TABLE _will contain short essays on Breakfasts, - Dinners & Teas, Wines, Fruits & Confections_. - - _It will have its Breakfast Table Chat, its Dinner - Table Talk, and its Tea Table Gossip._ - - _Housekeepers and Cooks will find in it recipes for - the making of new, rare and savory dishes. A Bill - of Fare, appropriate for the season, will appear in - each number. Accounts of Public Banquets, Dinner - Parties, etc., will be recorded in its pages._ - - _The form of_ THE TABLE _will be a large octavo, - twenty pages to each number_. - - TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION: - - One Copy for One Year, $1.00 - Single Copies, 10 - - M. DOOLADY, Publisher, - _98 Nassau Street_. - - - A New, Revised, Corrected, and Illustrated Edition - - OF THE - - OLD MERCHANTS - - OF - - NEW-YORK CITY. - - By WALTER BARRETT, Clerk. - - In 3 Vols., Crown 8vo, Cloth Extra. Price, $7.50. - - Of this work it is truly said “that no more interesting - reading can be found for the growing MERCANTILE - mind of the United States than a history of the LEADING - MEN who have laid the foundations of the wealth and - prosperity of its great METROPOLIS.” - - “Valuable as a book of reference.” - - THIS BOOK CAN NOT FAIL TO BE - - INTERESTING TO EVERY BUSINESS MAN. - - IT CONTAINS - - UPWARD OF 2000 PROMINENT NAMES. - - Agents wanted to Sell in all parts of the Country. - - M. DOOLADY, Publisher, - _98 Nassau Street_. - - The most interesting and thrilling Book of the day. - - PERILS OF THE PERIOD! - - A THRILLING BOOK OF FACTS! - - By JOSEPH HERTFORD. - - Price, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00. - - CONTENTS. - - At Niblo’s by Gaslight. Grace Church Morality. - In a Villain’s Toils. Crime in Pantalets. - Temptations of Hotel Life. Striking Pen Portraits. - A Bust for Ten Cents. A Private Post-Office. - The Perils of Beauty. The Amorous Epistle of a Judge. - A Meeting by Appointment. A Woman in Man’s Attire. - Fashionable Society. Fifth Avenue Belles. - From the Heights of Morality to the Rocks of Death. - -These are some of the subjects and incidents treated in this startling -record of facts. They are unpleasant examples of vice, error, and -criminal guilt, leading souls from the pinnacle of morality to the -degrading depths of sin and ruin; and a complete _exposé_ of some of -the pernicious characters which stalk through this great city by day -and night alike. Fathers, Mothers, Brothers, all should read it. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tar-Heel Tales in Vernacular Verse, by -John E. P. 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