Read Ebook: La mandragore by Lorrain Jean Pille Marcel Illustrator

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BURL.

HOW BIG BLACK BURL FIGURED IN THE PARADISE.

Six feet six he stood in his moccasins, yet seemed not tall, so broad he was and ponderously thick. He had an elephantine leg, with a foot like a black-oak wedge; a chimpanzean arm, with a fist like a black-oak maul; eyes as large and placid as those of an ox; teeth as large and even as those of a horse; skin that was not skin, but ebony; a nose that was not a nose, but gristle; hair that was not hair, but wool; and a grin that was not a grin, but ivory sunshine. Such was the outward man of Big Black Burl.

Brave as a lion, deliberate as a bear, patient as an ox, faithful as a mastiff, affectionate as a Newfoundland dog, sagacious as a crow, talkative as a magpie, and withal as cheery and full of song as a sky-lark. Such was the inward man of Big Black Burl.

Built up and limbed as just described, our hero, as you may well imagine, must have been a man of prodigious bodily strength. To be sure, a tall, supple, well-knit, athletic white man like Simon Kenton, for example, might, in a wrestling-match and by some unexpected sleight of foot, have kicked his heels from under him and brought him flat on his back with ease. But keeping him there would have been an altogether different matter. That would have taken Simon Kenton, Daniel Boone, and Benjamin Logan, all men of uncommon bone and muscle, and all upon him at once; and even then he would have tumbled and tousled them so lustily as at last to force them from sheer loss of breath to yield the point and let him up.

The station, in and around which our colored hero was wont to figure, was one of the most exposed points along the northern border, and, being the rendezvous of many of Kentucky's boldest hunters, was looked upon by the more interior settlements as their bulwark of defense against incursions of the Indians. Now, be it known that in the numerous skirmishes which took place in that quarter between the Reds and the Whites, Big Black Burl played a rather conspicuous part; proving himself for deeds of warlike prowess a signal illustration of African valor--a worthy representative, indeed, of his great countryman Mumbo Jumbo, the far-famed giant-king of Congo. In testimony whereof, there were the scalps of his enemies taken by his own hand in secret ambush and in open fight, and which, strung together like pods of red pepper, or cuttings of dried pumpkin, hung blackening in the smoke of his cabin.

Scalps! Your pardon, Christian reader; but the truth must be confessed, bald as it is, and worse than bald. It was the fashion of the day: the Reds took scalps and the Whites took scalps. It were, then, hardly fair in us to find fault with the Blacks for doing the same, especially as they could neither read nor write nor cipher, nor had been taught the absolute truths of any creed whence, as a natural consequence, proceeds that profound fixedness of belief which needs must make itself manifest in the persistent exemplification of every Christian virtue. Had they enjoyed these inestimable advantages, the Blacks--depend upon it--would have denied themselves so barbarous a luxury, and set a more Christian example to the unchristian Whites then dwelling in the Paradise. The glory of such a manifestation was reserved to the nineteenth century, when the lovers of the great brotherhood of man should discover and proclaim to the listening earth the latent saint inherent in the nature of ebony, from Ham, the favorite son of Noah, down to Uncle Tom, the best man that ever lived.

In the corn-field, barefooted and shirt-sleeved, Burl was like the patient, plodding, slow-paced ox; but let the alarm-cry of "Indians! Indians!" ring along the border, and in a trice, with moccasins on feet, war-cap on head, rifle on shoulder, tomahawk and limiting-knife in belt, he was out upon the war-path--a roaring lion, thirsting for scalps and glory. Indeed, so famous did he in time become for his martial exploits as to win for himself among Whites a distinguished title of "The Fighting Nigger;" while among the Reds, by whom he was regarded as a sort of Okeeheedee--half man and half devil--he grew to be known as "The Big Black Brave of the Bushy Head." When out on his "Injun" hunts, the Fighting Nigger usually chose to be alone. His instinct told him--and that monitor rarely spoke to Big Black Burl in vain--that he must not presume too far upon that fellowship into which, in virtue of his great achievements, the White hunters had condescended to admit him; lest familiarity, which breeds contempt, might incur him the risk of being snubbed, or thrust out altogether as an impertinent intruder, who had forgotten where he stood in the social scale. Whereas, by the general observance of this prudent policy, not only should he win additional commendations from his White superiors for additional deservings, but secure to himself the undivided honor of the scalps--the trophies of victory--taken by his own hand in battle. For, colored though he was, with a nose inclining neither to the Roman nor Grecian, our hero showed that he cherished a genuine, therefore jealous, love of glory. In this respect, we may liken the Fighting Nigger to such godlike specimens of our race as Alexander the Great; to Napoleon the Great; or, perhaps more fitly still, to Mumbo Jumbo the Great, the far-famed giant-king of Congo.

But if there was one thing in the Paradise that Big Black Burl loved more than scalps and glory, it was his little master, Bushie--or, as the name had been written down in the Good Book, some eight or nine years before, Bushrod Reynolds, jr. Bushrod Reynolds, sr., the father, and Jemima Reynolds, the mother, were natives of the Old Dominion, whence they had migrated but a few months prior to the birth of their little son; Bushrod, with his whole worldly estate across his shoulder, in the shape of rifle and ax; Jemima, with her whole paternal inheritance close at her heels, in the shape of an unshapely, gigantic negro youth, destined in after years to win for himself among the Red warriors of the wilderness the high-sounding title of "The Big Black Brave of the Bushy Head." With brave and cheerful hearts, which the pioneer must maintain, or sink, they had gone to work, and cutting out a broad green patch from the vine-inwoven forest, had erelong, in the midst of the sunshine thus let in, built them a rustic home. Here, in the due course of nature, a playful little pioneer made his appearance, whom they bundled up in red flannel and christened Bushrod, and called Bushie--Burl's household idol.

Now, as a hunter and Indian fighter, Bushrod Reynolds had few equals, even in the Paradise--a land prolific beyond precedence of the heroic in that line. Hence it naturally followed that he should take the lead of the other pioneers, who made Fort Reynolds--as in compliment to him the station was called--their place of refuge from the incursions of the Indians, or their rallying-point for repelling the invaders. Thus on a certain day it so befell that an Indian chase was started near Fort Reynolds--a band of the Red marauders having made a bloody, burning pounce upon the settlements the previous night, and now, loaded with booty and scalps, were making all speed for the Ohio River, to throw that broad barrier between themselves and danger.

The chase had been kept up for several miles, and the pursuers as yet had failed to catch a glimpse of the fugitives. Swifter of foot than his comrades, Captain Reynolds had imprudently, perhaps unconsciously, pushed on far in advance, when on a sudden he found himself waylaid and set upon by four or five of the savages, who, bolder than their fellows, had dared to be the hindermost and cover the retreat. These, having caught sight of their foremost pursuer, and marking that he ran quite alone, had agreed among themselves to waylay and capture him; a prisoner being a more coveted prize than a scalp, since, while yet alive, he could be both scalped and roasted. But he resisted so desperately, dealing about their heads such ugly blows with the butt of his rifle, as quickly to convince them that he was not to be taken alive; and aware that the rest of their pursuers should soon be upon them, and exasperated by the bruises he had given them, they shot him down on the spot--nor turned to renew their flight till they had scalped him, though still alive and conscious. The Red dastards were yet in sight when the other hunters gained the spot, where they found their leader wounded and dying. With a commanding gesture, he sternly bid them forward, nor mar the chase for him, who had but a few moments to live. Fortunately, it so chanced that on the present occasion Big Black Burl was with the White hunters; therefore they left him to minister to his dying master, and again pushed on in hotter, fiercer pursuit.

For many a weary mile of bush-entangled forest and grass-entangled glade, of rocky dell and precipitous hill, the chase for life and death went on--nor ceased till it had brought pursued and pursuer to the banks of the broad Ohio. Here they who had dared to be the hindermost found themselves reduced to desperate straits, whether to fight or swim--their comrades, unmindful of them, having pushed off in all the canoes, and being by this time far out upon the river. Needing but a glance to tell them where their chances lay, with a loud yell of defiance, they leaped from the high bank into the deep stream and swam for dear life. The instant after, the rifles of the White hunters rang out from among the trees along the shore: there was a stain of blood upon the water, and the next moment they who but now had stemmed the current with desperate sinews floated lifeless with it--all who dared to be the hindermost.

Meanwhile, the faithful Burl had borne his wounded master to the banks of a forest brook which ran hard by, and had set him down, reclined against the trunk of a tree. Then he took his powder-horn, having emptied its contents into his ammunition-pouch, and filling it from the stream, gave his master to drink--the clear, cool, sparkling water, so refreshing to the tired and thirsty, but to the wounded man sweet and grateful beyond expression. When he had drained the flask and revived a little, that hapless hunter thus addressed his slave: "Burl, you have ever been faithful to me. Have I been as kind to you?"

A big sob was the only answer, but it came from the depths of the heart, and said "Yes" a hundred times.

"Then, be faithful still. You have a brave heart and a strong arm, and to your support and protection must I, in some sort, leave my poor wife and child. Then give me your word, your solemn promise, that you will be as faithful to Miss Jemima as you have been to me; and that you will take good care of her fatherless boy, till he be old and strong enough to shift for himself and for his mother, too. Do you give me your promise?"

"O master!" Burl at length sobbed out, "it ain't much a pore nigger kin do fur White folks in dat way; but what I kin do I will do, an' won't never stop a doin' it." Here, with a blubbering expression of grief, the poor fellow broke down.

"Your hand upon it, my good old boy," whispered the dying hunter, his breath now almost gone. "Bid Miss Jemima and dear little Bushie good-by for me, and carry them my dying blessing."

In pledge of the promise, never to be broken, Burl took the hand that was now powerless to take his, and held it till death had fixed its answering grasp and the hunter was gone to find another paradise. Then he laid his master's body upon the streamlet's brink, to wash away the blood. How gently the huge hand laved the gory locks and dashed the soft water into the dead, pale face! It was a stern, rugged, weather-beaten face; but the light of the last loving thoughts still lingered upon it, lending it a beauty in death which it had never known in life. This part of his pious duty duly done, then tenderly in his mighty arms he took up the precious burden and laid it across his shoulder to bear it to the distant home. Through the fast lengthening shadows of sunset, through the glimmering shades of twilight, through the melancholy starlight, through woods, woods, woods, he bore it, till the lamp that always burned at the little square window, when the hunter was abroad in the night, was spied from afar, telling that the faithful, loving heart was waiting and watching as she should never wait and watch again.

Burl stepped softly over the low rail-fence into the yard and laid his master's body upon a puncheon bench which stood under a forest-tree directly in front of the cabin. Having composed the limbs of the dead, he stole with noiseless tread across the porch to the cabin door, at which he softly knocked with his knuckles, but holding it fast by the latch-handle, lest it should be too suddenly opened. Straightway a quick step was heard approaching the door from within. The wooden bolt slid back with a thump, the wooden latch went up with a click, but the door remained shut.

"It's nobody but me, Miss Jemimy; nobody here but me. You's awake, is you?"

"Yea, Burl, I'm awake," answered a gentle voice within; and again the latch went up with a click.

"Not yit, Miss Jemimy, not yit. I said dare's nobody here but me; but didn't 'zacly mean what I said. You's awake, now, is you--wide awake?"

"Yes, Burl, I am wide awake, and have been all night long. But why do you ask? And why do you hold the door so fast?" And now there was a tremor of alarm in the gentle voice.

"Den, put out de light, Miss Jemimy; O put out de light!" and the great sob which shook the door told the rest.

In sweet pity we shall refrain from dwelling further upon the scene. But as Burl stood out there in the night and witnessed the widow's anguish, and heard the wail of her fatherless child, from that heart whence had ascended to heaven the promise never to be broken there rose a terrible oath that never from that day forward, while he had life in his heart and strength in his arm, should an opportunity for vengeance slip his hand. How faithfully that oath was kept full many a Red man's scalp, which hung blackening from his cabin beams, but too plainly attested.

HOW LITTLE BUSHIE FIGURED IN THE PARADISE.

"No, Bushie, my boy, you can't go to the corn-field to-day," said Mrs. Reynolds to her son of nine years old, one fine May morning, about two years after the sad event recorded in the foregoing chapter. The little fellow had been teasing his mother for two or three hours to let him go to the field where Burl was plowing corn, knowing full well, as every only child does, the efficacy of importunity.

"But, mother, Burl is singing so big and glad out there, and I should so love to be with him. And I should so love to watch the squirrels running up and down the trees and along on top of the fence; and the little ground-squirrels slipping from one hollow log to another; and the little birds building their nests; and the big crows flopping their wings about the limbs of the old dead trees. And then, too, Burl would be--"

"Let Burl go on with his singing," interrupted the mother; "and let the squirrels go on with their playing; and the birds with their nest-building; and the crows with their idling about the limbs of the old dead trees. All this is very nice, I know, but hardly worth the risk you must be at in getting there to enjoy it."

"But, mother," urged Bushie, "Burl would be so glad to see me sitting up there, on top of the fence, just where he and old Cornwallis would be coming out at the end of the row. I know just 'zacly what he'd say, the minute he sees me: 'I yi, you dogs!'"

"Yes, and somebody else might be glad to find a little white boy sitting up there on top of the fence," rejoined the mother, with a warning look. "Somebody who would steal up from behind, as soft as a cat upon a bird, and before knowing it, there! you would find a big red hand clapped over your mouth to keep you from screaming for help. Then, hugged tight in a pair of red arms, cruel and strong, off you'd go through the woods and over the hills and across the Ohio to old Chillicothe, there to be made a wild Indian of, for the rest of your days, if not roasted alive at once. Only this morning, Captain Kenton, on his way from Limestone to Lexington, dropped in at breakfast-time, and told us that he had seen fresh Indian signs in the woods not more than five miles from the fort. And, Bushie, my boy, have you forgotten that only this spring Burl shot a panther in the woods between here and the field? And that only last winter he knocked a bear in the head with his ax, at the big sink-hole spring in the middle of the field? And that only last fall he trapped and killed that terrible one-eyed wolf in the black hollow just beyond the field?" And seeing her little son opening his mouth and fetching a breath for a fresh effort, the mother, with more decision, added: "No, Bushie, no! Play about the fort as much as you please, but go to the field to-day you must not, and you shall not. There!" And with this she clapped his little coon-skin cap upon his head, and ramming it down to his ears, bid him go and hunt up the other children and play at home, like mother's good boy.

Now, Bushie loved his mother dearly, even tenderly, for a juvenile pioneer, especially at meal-times and at nights; the fort, too, in bad weather, he liked well enough. But on Burl, between meals, and on the woods and fields, in fine weather, he fairly doted. The weather on the present occasion was as fine as the heart of a healthy, growing, adventurous boy could wish for recreation under the open sky--it being, indeed, the last day of May, which, as nobody ever makes a holiday of it, is always perfectly delightful. Therefore was he strongly tempted to give a snapping pull at the apron-strings and make for sweet liberty--a thing he was in the habit of doing about once a week, when the keenest switching and the liveliest dancing that one could wish to witness would follow, sure as fate. To do our urchin hero justice, however, he rarely yielded to the temptation without making some considerable effort to resist it; efforts such as older transgressors are apt to set down largely to their own credit in their private accounts between self and conscience, vaguely hoping thereby to bamboozle somebody besides themselves--perhaps the recording angel. So, this morning, he hunted up the other children, as his mother had bidden him, and made a manful--nay, desperate--effort to be sportive at home; but the little fort, within the shelter of whose wooden walls had been their home ever since that melancholy night two years ago, had never seemed to him so dull and lonesome. The hunters and field-laborers, belonging to the station, were all abroad, and the other children seemed as little inclined to play as himself.

Finding that quiet amusement was not likely to come of its own accord, Bushie was minded to draw it out by a little gentle persuasion, and to this intent challenged the tallest boy of the company--taller than himself by a head, though not so broad--to cope with him in a boxing match. Having already tried that game several times and invariably come off with a savage griping in the pit of the stomach, the tall boy made it a point just then to hear his mother's call--though heard by no one else--which answering, he walked off briskly, under press of filial obedience, to see what was wanted. As if hoping to force what would not come of its own accord, or by persuasion, Bushie now laid unauthorized hands on Grumbo's tail, and giving it a cracking pull, got his finger bitten; ditto, then, on Tom's tail, and giving it a cracking jerk, got his leg scratched. Evidently, quiet amusement at home to-day was a consummation quite out of the question, however devoutly to be wished. So, he gave it up as a moral achievement beyond his present resources, and with the feeling of a boy who though he had failed in the discharge of duty had yet endeavored well, he went and stood in the gate-way of the fort, which, as it directly faced the distant field, was just the place to give the Tempter a fair chance at him.

The sky--how sunny and blue it bent above him! The woods--how shady and green they rose before him! The little log fort--how dull and lonesome it lay behind him! The little log grist-mill down there on the banks of the river at the foot of the hill--how tiresomely it went on creaking and humming and droning, forever repeating, "What a pity! what a pity! what a pity!" or, "Clip it, Bushie! clip it, Bushie! clip it, Bushie!" according to the tune one's fancy might chance to be singing at the moment. The Tempter was creeping upon him apace. The melodious strains of that powerful voice--how cheerily, sweetly they come resounding through the echoing woods, growing more and more distinct as the singer neared the hither end of his furrow! The distance was too great for Bushie to distinguish the words of the song; but to his longing ears, the burden of it seemed to be something very much to this effect:

"Come, come, come, Bushie, come! Burl a' plowin' in de fiel', A singin' for his little man to come."

Here the Tempter crept up close to him and whispered in his ear: "Don't you hear him Bushie? He's singing for you. Clip it! Panthers, bears, wolves, Indians! Pshaw! They'll never dare to come a-nigh you, with that voice ringing in their ears. Clip it! Ain't he singing for his little man to come? Clip it! I say. To be sure your mother will switch you well for running away, but who minds that? It's all over in the shake of a sheep's tail, and by the time you've rubbed your back and legs a little, eaten your supper, and said your prayers, you'll be feeling just as comfortable as ever. Clip it, I say; clip it!"

Gaining the covert of the woods unobserved, he struck into a bridle-path which ran winding amongst the trees and grape-vines toward the field, where he soon subsided, first into a dog-trot, then into a brisk walk, which he maintained for the rest of the way with long and guilty strides. When he was come to the fence which divided the woods from the field, with squirrel-like nimbleness he climbed up and perched himself on the rider, or topmost rail, just where his black chum and old Cornwallis should be coming out at the end of the furrow.

Perhaps it were well to take advantage of the present moment, while we have him so conspicuously before us, to draw a life-size portrait of our little hero--which, however, at first glance may seem somewhat larger than life, the subject being uncommonly well grown for a boy of his age. His body and limbs are as round, smooth, tight, and hard as those of a buckskin doll; the materials used in their construction being of the most substantial description, and consisting chiefly of Johnny-cakes, hominy, venison and other wild meat, with as much milk, maple molasses, and pumpkin-pie as the unsettled nature of the times would admit. His eyes are blue and bright, large and wide open--such as can look you full in the face, yet without boldness or impertinence. One would naturally suppose that a boy who was in the weekly habit of breaking away from apron-string control, and getting a whipping for it, ought to have long, narrow, half-shut eyes, of some uncertain color, which, though they can stare boldly enough at your boots, buttons, or breastpin, can never look you full in the face, like those big blue ones we have up there before us. His hair does not fall in clustering ringlets over his ears and around his neck, as we usually find it in nice, interesting little boys who figure in story-books; but it is pretty enough, being of a dark, rich brown, as glossy as watered silk. His nose is a good one, though at its present stage of development showing rather too much of the pug to look well on canvas; but it will gradually ripen into the Roman as the owner ripens into years and experience, and comes to a full knowledge of his own importance in the world. The mouth, too, is a good one; not a rosebud mouth, such as we sometimes see in fancy pictures of the boy Washington, with his little hatchet; of the boy Napoleon, with his little cannon; or of the boy Samuel, at his perpetual devotions; but a large mouth, handsomely formed, and capable, with the help of dimples in the cheeks and the shine in the eyes, of as bright and loving a smile as heart of fond mother could wish.

The outfit of our little hero is in keeping with the rustic simplicity of the times, consisting of but three garments--an outside shirt, an inside shirt, and a hairy coon-skin cap: the latter having no visor, but being in lieu adorned behind with the ringed tail, just as it grew on the living animal. The cap conceals one of his best features--a forehead bold, broad, round, and white, which, could it be seen, would much improve our portrait. The inside shirt, as may be seen by the collar, is of homespun cotton; the outside shirt of fair, soft buckskin, secured at the waist by a belt of the same material, and falling a little below the knees. Saving the buckskin of mother nature's own providing, the sturdy young legs are without covering--a deficiency which admits of plausible explanation. In those days of simple living and simple thinking, parents, going from cause to effect by shorter cuts than they do at the present time, were much more strict and direct in the training of their children; and breeches softening, as needs must, the severity of the switch, hence the moral efficacy thereof, boys, for the first ten years of their travels in the Paradise, were seldom allowed to wear them--buckskin breeches especially. Nor should we be surprised if just here were to be looked for the reason why our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were so much more energetic, manly, and upright than their grandsons and great-grandsons, and so many more of them broad-backed, clean-limbed, and six feet high.

The background to our portrait is a forest, lofty, shaggy, and dense, and the home of a thousand wild things, which, being invisible at this moment, could not, with due regard to fidelity, be introduced into our picture. The foreground is a cultivated clearing of about one hundred acres, with woody walls, unbroken in their leafy density, hemming it in on every side. Directly in front is a field of corn, the dark and thrifty green of which may well bespeak the deep, rich soil of the Paradise. Farther in are several other inclosures, either white with clover or brightly green with blue-grass, or darkly green with the yet unripened wheat. In the midst of all, and forming the central feature, stands a cabin, deserted and lowly since that unhappy night two years ago.

Scattered about the clearing, singly or in clumps, or even in small groves, are to be seen the giant survivors of the primeval forest, which, rearing high aloft their green heads and flinging afar their mighty arms, yield pleasant shade to the horses, sheep, and cattle grazing about them. But more numerous are to be seen those that are not survivors, though still standing, drained of their sap of life by the woodman's ax, which hacked those jagged girdles around their huge trunks. Standing there leafless, rigid, and gray, they remind us, in their branching nakedness, of the antlered elk, and in their gigantic unsightliness of the monstrous mastodon, that thing of grisly bone which, as a thing of life, no son of Adam ever beheld. Hard by stands an enormous oak, whose main bough, scathed and deadened by lightning, is thrust from out its ragged green robe like the extended, unsleeved arm of a giant, leaving a broad gap in the foliage open to the sky.

Upon this blasted limb of the oak, as if met there to hold an indignation meeting relative to the scare-crows posted about the field, or to the objectionable nature of the plowman's music, or to some real or fancied cause of grievance, have congregated a large assembly of sober-feathered, sober-visaged, but noisy, wrangling, turbulent crows, who, like many unfeathered bipeds on the like occasions, seem to have left their good breeding and good sense at home. Crows and their ways have always excited much interest in the minds of philosophic men, and the maneuvers of these before us have been watched with lively curiosity by our little friend Bushie ever since we began drawing his portrait.

HOW BIG BLACK BURL AND BUSHIE FIGURED IN EACH OTHER'S EYES.

I spied a jay-bird on a tree, A ridin' on a swingin' lim'; He cocked his eye an' winked at me, I cocked my gun an' winked at him; An' de jay-bird flew away-- De jay-bird flew away-- An' lef' de lim' a-swingin'-- A-swingin'.

And glad Burl was, for as the plow, with the pleasant smell of fresh earth and growing herbs floating about it in the air, ran out of the furrow into the fence corner, he said, looking up with huge complacency at his little master: "He's come out to de fiel' to see his ol' nigger, has he? Well, me an' Corny's a little tired, so we'll take a little blow here in de shade uf de woods, an' hab a little good soshyble talk wid our little marster."

So saying, he threw his plow-line over the plow-handle, and mounted the panel of the fence next to the one on which Bushie was sitting, and squared himself for the confab, which the little master opened thus; "Burl, just look at them crows up there on the dead limb of that big acorn-tree; what are they doing?"

"Dey's holdin' a pra'er-meetin', I 'spec'. No, not dat--camp-meetin', dey's so noisy. Or, may be, now"--eyeing his black brethren with close attention--"may be dey's holdin' a kunvintion, like Gener'l Wilkerson an' t' other big guns, to hab ol' Kaintuck stan' 'pon her own legs, so she kin lay off lan' as she please, an' fight de Injuns on her own hook."

"But why do they make so much noise?" inquired Bushie.

"Beca'se dey likes to hear 'emselves talk--eb'rybody wantin' to do all de talkin', an' nobody wantin' to do none uf de list'nin'--jes' like people."

"Don't you wish you had Betsy Grumbo out here, Burl? How she'd make their black feathers fly! And the woods are alive with squirrels. Just see how they are running up and down the trees and along the top of the fence."

"Ef I had Betsy Grumbo out here, de woods wouldn't be alive wid squirrels, an' dem black rogues up dar wouldn't be so near by--so easy an' sassy."

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