an' hangin' on the captain's neck like the loop of a rope, an'
apol'gizes.Then the lady takes a brace, accepts them contritions, an' puts it up for her part that she can see my grandfather's a shore-enough gent an' a son of chivalry; an' with that the riot winds up plumb pleasant all 'round.'
"'If I may come romancin' in yere,' says Doc Peets, sort o' breakin'
into the play at this p'int, 'with a interruption, I wants to say that I regyards this as a very pretty narratif, an' requests the drinks onct to the Colonel's grandfather.' We drinks accordin', an'
the Colonel resoomes.
"'My grandfather comes back from this yere expedition down the Ohio a most voylent Jackson man.An' he's troo to his faith as a adherent to Jackson through times when the Clay folks gets that intemp'rate they hunts 'em with dogs.The old gent was wont, as I su'gests, to regale my childish y'ears with the story of what he suffers, He tells how he goes pirootin' off among the farmers in the back counties; sleepin' on husk beds, till the bed-ropes cuts plumb through an' marks out a checker-board on his frame that would stay for months.Once he's sleepin' in a loft, an' all of a sudden about daybreak the old gent hears a squall that mighty near locoes him, it's so clost an' turrible.He boils out on the floor an' begins to claw on his duds, allowin', bein' he's only half awake that a-way, that it's a passel of them murderin' Clay Whigs who's come to crawl his hump for shore.But she's a false alarm.It's only a Dom'nick rooster who's been perched all night on my grandfather's wrist where his arm sticks outen bed, an' who's done crowed a whole lot, as is his habit when he glints the comin' day.It's them sort o' things that sends a shudder through you, an' shows what that old patriot suffers for his faith.
"'But my grandfather keeps on prevailin' along in them views ontil he jest conquers his county an' carries her for Jackson.Shore! he has trouble at the polls, an' trouble in the conventions.But he persists; an' he's that domineerin' an' dogmatic they at last not only gives him his way, but comes rackin' along with him.In the last convention, he nacherally herds things into a corner, an'
thar's only forty votes ag'in him at the finish.My grandfather allers says when relatin' of it to me long afterwards:
"'"An' grandson Willyum, five gallons more of rum would have made that convention yoonanimous.
"'But what he'ps the old gent most towards the last, is a j'int debate he has with Spence Witherspoon, which begins with reecrim'nations an' winds up with the guns.Also, it leaves this yere aggravatin' Witherspoon less a whole lot.
"'"Wasn't you-all for nullification, an' ain't you now for Jackson an' the union?" asks this yere insultin' Witherspoon."Didn't you make a Calhoun speech over on Mink Run two years ago, an' ain't you at this barbecue, to-day, consoomin' burgoo an' shoutin' for Old Hickory?""'"What you-all states is troo," says my grandfather."But my party turns, an' I turns with it.You-all can't lose Jack Sterett.He can turn so quick the heels of his moccasins will be in front.""'"Which them talents of yours for change," says Witherspoon, "reminds me a powerful lot of the story of how Jedge Chinn gives Bill Hatfield, the blacksmith, that Berkshire suckin' pig.
'"An' whatever is that story?" asks my grandfather, beginnin' to loosen his bowie-knife in its sheath.
"'"Take your paws off that old butcher of your'n," returns this pesterin' Witherspoon, "an' I'll tell the story.But you've got to quit triflin' with that 'leven-inch knife ontil I'm plumb through, or I'll fool you up a lot an' jest won't tell it.""'Tharupon my grandfather takes his hand offen the knife-haft, an'
Witherspoon branches forth:
"'"When I recalls how this oncompromisin' outlaw," p'intin' to my grandfather, "talks for Calhoun an' nullification over on Mink Run, an' today is yere shoutin' in a rum-sodden way for the union an'
Andy Jackson, as I observes yeretofore, it shore reminds me of the story of how Jedge Chinn give Bill Hatfield that Berkshire shoat.
'Send over one of your niggers with a basket an' let him get one, Bill,' says Jedge Chinn, who's been tellin' Hatfield about the pigs.
Neyt day, Bill mounts his nigger boy, ****, on a mule, with a basket on his arm, an' **** lines out for Jedge Chinn's for to fetch away that little hawg.**** puts him in the basket, climbs onto his mule, an' goes teeterin' out for home.On the way back, **** stops at Hickman's tavern.While he's pourin' in a gill of corn jooce, a wag who's present subtracts the pig an' puts in one of old Hickman's black Noofoundland pups.When **** gets home to Bill Hatfield's, Bill takes one look at the pup, breaks the big rasp on ****'s head, throws the forehammer at him, an' bids him go back to Jedge Chinn an' tell him that he, Bill, will sally over the first dull day an'
p'isen his cattle an' burn his barns.**** takes the basket full of dog on his arm, an' goes p'intin' for Jedge Chinn.Nacherally, **** stops at Hickman's tavern so as to mollify his feelin's with that red-eye.This yere wag gets in ag'in on the play, subtracts the pup an' restores the little hawg a whole lot.When **** gets to Jedge Chinn, he onfolds to the Jedge touchin' them transformations from pig to pup.'Pshaw!' says the Jedge, who's one of them pos'tive sharps that no ghost tales is goin' to shake; 'pshaw! Bill Hatfield's gettin' to be a loonatic.I tells him the last time I has my hoss shod that if he keeps on pourin' down that Hickman whiskey, he'll shorely die, an' begin by dyin' at the top.These yere illoosions of his shows I drives the center.' Then the Jedge oncovers the basket an' turns out the little hawg.When nigger **** sees him, he falls on his knees.'I'm a chu'ch member, Marse Jedge,'
says ****, 'an' you-all believes what I says.That anamile's conjured, Jedge.I sees him yere an' I sees him thar; an', Jedge, he's either pig or pup, whichever way he likes.'
