CHAPTER I.

WARRICK IN DISTRESS. Piney Bottom, in Old North State, Jinuary this 4, 1844. Mr. Porter,

Sir:—Bein’ in grate distrest, I didn’t know what to do, till one of the lawyers councilled me to tell you all about it, and git your apinion. You see I are a bin sparkin’ over to one of our nabors a cortin’ of Miss Barbry Bass, nigh upon these six munse. So t’other nite I puts on my stork that cum up so high that I look’d like our Kurnel paradin of the milertary on Gin’ral Muster, tryin’ to look over old Snap’s years—he holds sich a high hed when he knows that he’s got on his holdsturs and pistuls and his trowsen and sich like, for he’s a mity proud hoss. I had on a linun shurt koller starched stif that cum up monstrus high rite under my years, so that ev’ry time I turn’d my hed it nigh saw’d off my years, and they are so sore that I had to put on some Gray’s intment, which draw’d so hard, that if I hadn’t wash’d it in sope-suds I _do_ bleve it would a draw’d out my branes. I put on my new briches that is new fashon’d and opens down before, and it tuck me nigh a quarter of a hours to butten ’em, and they had straps so tite I could hardly bend my kneas—I had on my new wastecoat and a dicky bussam with ruffles on each side, and my white hat. I had to be perticlar nice in spittin’ my terbaccer juce, for my stork were so high I had to jerk back my head like you have seed one of them Snapjack bugs. Considrin’ my wiskurs hadn’t grow’d out long enuff, as I were conceety to think that I look’d middlin’ _peart_, and my old nigger ’oman Venus said I look’d nice enuff for a Bryde.

It tuck one bale of good cotting and six bushils of peese to pay for my close. Dod drot it, it went sorter hard; but when I tho’t how putty she _did_ look last singin’ school day,—with her eyes as blue as indiger, and her teath white as milk, and sich long curlin’ hare hanging clear down to her belt ribbun, and sich butiful rosy chaeks, and lips as red as a cock Red-burd in snow time, and how she squeased my hand when I gin her a oringe that I gin six cents for—I didn’t grudge the price.

Mr. Porter—when I got to old Miss Basses bars, jist after nite, sich streaks and cold fits cum over me worse than a feller with the Buck agur, the furst time he goes to shute at a dear. My kneas got to trimblin’, and I could hardly holler “get out” to Miss Basses son Siah’s dog, old Troup, who didn’t know me in my new geer, and cum out like all creashun a barkin’ amazin’. Ses I to myself, ses I, what a fool you is—and then I thort what Squire Britt’s nigger man, Tony, who went to town last week, told me about a taler there, who sed that jist as soon he got thru a makin’ a sute of close for a member of assembly to go to Rawley in, he ’spected to come out a cortin’ of Miss Barbry. This sorter raised my dander—for he’s shockin’ likely, with black wiskurs ’cept he’s nock-nead—with his hare all comded to one side like the Chapel Hill boys and lawyers. Then I went in, and after howdying and shakin’ hands, and sorter squeasin’ of Barbry’s, I sot down. There was old Miss Bass, Barbry and Siah Bass, her brother, a monstrus hand at possums—old Kurnel Hard, a goin to cort and stopp’d short to rite old Miss Basses will, with Squire Britt and one of the nabors to witness it all rite and strate. This kinder shock’d me—till Kurnel Hard, a mighty perlite man, sed, ses he:

“Mr. Warrick, you are a lookin’ oncommon smart.”

“Yes,” ses I, “Kurnel, (a sorter cuttin’ my eye at Barbry) middlin’ well in body—but in mind—”

“Ah, I see,” ses he, (cuttin’ of my discoorse) “I understand that you are”—(Mr. Porter, I forget the dixonary words he sed but it were that I were in _love_). If you _could_ have seed my face and felt it burne, you _would_ a tho’t that you had the billyous fever; and as for Barbry, now want she red as a turkey-cock’s gills—and she gump’d up and said, “Ma’am,” and run outer the room, tho’ nobody on yearth that I heerd on called her; and then I heerd Polly Cox—drot her pictur!—who is hired to weeve—a sniggrin’ at me.

Arter a while, Squire Britt and the nabor went off—and Siah he went a coonin’ of it with his dogs, but driv old Troup back, for he’s deth on rabbits; and old Miss Bass went out, and Kurnal Hard, arter taken a drink outen his cheer-box, he got behin’ the door and shuck’d himself and got into one of the beds in the fur eend of the room.

Arter a while, old Miss Bass cum back, and sot in the chimbly corner and tuck off her shoes, and then tuck up her pipe and went to smokin’—the way she rowl’d the smoke out was astonishin’—and ev’ry now and then she struck her head and sorter gron’d like, what it were at I don’t know, ’cept she were bothered ’bout her consarns—or thinkin’ ’bout her will which she had jist sined. Bimeby Barbry cum back, and sot on a cheer clost by me. She was a workin’ of a border that looked mity fine.

Ses I, “Miss Barbry, what is that that you’re seamstring so plaguy putty?”

Ses she, “It teent nothin’.”

Up hollered old Miss Bass:

“Why,” ses she, “Mr. Warrick, it’s a _nite-cap_, and what on the Lord’s yearth young peple now-a-days works, and laces, and befrils nite-caps fur, _I_ can’t tell—it beets me—bedizinin’ out their heads when they’re gwain to bed, just as if anybody but their own peple seed ’em; and there’s young men with wiskurs on there upper lip; it want so in my day, but young people’s got no sense—bless the Lord! oh me—”

“Lord, mammy,” ses Barbry, “do hush.”

Ses old Miss Bass, “I shaan’t—for it’s the nat’ral truth.”

Miss Barbry then begun a talkin’ with me ’bout the fashuns, when I were in town, but old Miss Bass broke in, and ses she:

“Yes, they tells me that the gals in town has injun-rubber things blowed up and ties aroun’ there wastes, and makes ’em look bigger behin’ than afore—for all the world like an ’oman was sorter in a curous way behind.”

Thinks I, what’s comin’ next—when old Miss Bass, knockin’ the ashes outer her pipe, gethered up her shuse and went off. Then Barbry blushed and begun talkin’ ’bout the singin’ meetin’, and kinder teched me up ’bout bein’ fond of sparkin’ Dicey Loomis—jist to see how I’d take it.

“Well,” ses I, “she’s ’bout the likeliest gal in this settlement, and I rekon mity nigh the smartest; they tells me she kin spin more cuts in a day, and card her own rolls, and danse harder and longer, and sings more songs outer the Missunary Harmony, than any gal in the country.”

You see, Mr. Porter, I tho’t I’d size her pile.

Ses she, sorter poutin’ up and jist tossin’ her head, “If them’s your sentiments why don’t you cort her? For my part, I knows sev’ral young ladies that’s jist as smart, and can sing as many songs, and dance as well, and as for her bein’ the prettiest, Laws a mersy! sher—you shouldn’t judge for me sposin’ _I_ was a man!”

I thot I’d come agin, but was sorter feard of runnin’ the thing in the groun’. Then I drawd up my cheer a leetle closer, and were jist about to talk to the spot, when I felt choky, and the trimbles tuck me oncommon astonishin’.

Ses Barbry, lookin’ rite up in my face, and ’sorter quiv’rin’ in her talk, ses she, “Mr. Warrick, goodness gracious! _what does_ ale you?”

Ses I, hardly abel to talk, “It’s that drotted three-day agur I cotch’d last fall a clearin’ in the new grouns; I raly bleve it will kill me, but it makes no odds, daddy and mammy is both ded, and I’m the only one of six as is left, and nobody would kear.”

Ses she, lookin’ rite mornful, and holdin’ down her bed, “Billy, what _does_ make you talk so? you auter know that there’s _one_ that would kear and greve too.”

Ses I, peartin’ up, “I should like to know if it ar an ’oman; for if it’s any gal that’s ’spectable and creddittable, I could love her like all creashun. Barbry,” ses I, takin’ of her hand, “ain’t I many a time, as I sot by the fire at home, all by my lone self, ain’t I considered how if I _did_ have a good wife how I could work for her, and do all I could for her, and make her pleasant like and happy, and do ev’rything for her?” Well, Barbry she look’d up to me, and seem’d so mornful and pale, and tears in her sweet eyes, and pretendin’ she didn’t know I held her hand, that I could not help sayin’: “Barbry, if that sumbody that keared was only _you_, I’d die for you, and be burry’d a dozen times.”

She trimbl’d, and look’d so pretty, and sed nothin’, I couldn’t help kissin’ her; and seein’ she didn’t say “quit,” I kissed her nigh on seven or eight times; and as old Miss Bass had gone to bed, and Kurnel Hard was a snorin’ away, I want perticillar, and I spose I kiss’d her too loud, for jist as I kissed her the last time, out hollered old Miss Bass:

“My lord! Barbry, old Troup is in the milk-pan! I heard him smackin’ his lips a lickin’ of the milk. Git out, you old varmint!—git out!”

Seein’ how the gander hopped, I jumped up, and hollered: “Git out, Troup, you old raskel!” and opened the door to make bleve I let him out.

As for Barbry, she laffed till she was nigh a bustin’ a holdin’ in, and run out; and I heerd Kurnel Hard’s bed a shakin’ like he had my three-day agur. Well, I took tother bed, after havin’ to pull my britches over my shuse, for I couldn’t unbutton my straps.

Next mornin’ I got up airly, and Siah axed me to stay to breakfast, but I had to feed an old cow at the free pastur, and left. Jist as I got to the bars, I meets old Miss Bass, and ses she, “Mr. Warrick, next time you see a dog a lickin’ up milk, don’t let him do it loud enuff to wake up ev’rybody in the house—perticerlar when there’s a stranger ’bout.”

And Barbry sent me word that she’s so shamed that she never kin look me in the face agin, and never to come no more.

Mr. Porter, what shall I do? I feel oncommon sorry and distrest. Do write me. I seed a letter from N. P. Willis tother day in the Nashunal Intelligensur where he sed he had a hedake on the top of his pen; I’ve got it at both eends, for my hands is crampped a writin’, and my hart akes. Do write me what to do.

No more at pressence, but remane Wm. Warrick.