No. XX Sister Sall’s Courtship
“There goes one of them ’ere everlastin’ rottin’ poles in that bridge; they are no better than a trap for a critter’s leg,” said the Clockmaker. “They remind me of a trap Jim Munroe put his foot in one night, that near about made one leg half a yard longer than t’other. I believe I told you of him, what a desperate idle feller he was; he came from Onion County in Connecticut. Well, he was courtin’ Sister Sall. She was a real handsum lookin’ gal; you scarce ever seed a more out and out complete critter than she was—a fine figur’ head, and a beautiful model of a craft as any in the state, a real clipper, and as full of fun and frolic as a kitten. Well he fairly turned Sall’s head; the more we wanted her to give him up the more she wouldn’t, and we got plaguy oneasy about it, for his character was none of the best. He was a univarsal favourite among the gals, and tho’ he didn’t behave very pretty neither, forgetting to marry where he promised, and where he hadn’t ought to have forgot too; yet, so it was, he had such an uncommon winnin’ way with him, he could talk them over in no time. Sall was fairly bewitched.
“At last, Father said to him one evening when he came a-courtin’, ‘Jim,’ says he, ‘you’ll never come to no good, if you act like Old Scratch as you do; you ain’t fit to come into no decent man’s house at all, and your absence would be ten times more agreeable than your company, I tell you. I won’t consent to Sall’s goin’ to them ’ere huskin’ parties and quiltin’ frolics along with you no more, on no account, for you know how Polly Brown and Nancy White—’ ‘Now don’t,’ says he, ‘now don’t, Uncle Sam, say no more about that; if you knowed all you wouldn’t say it was my fault; and besides, I have turned right about, I am on t’other tack now, and the long leg, too; I am as steady as a pump bolt now. I intend to settle myself and take a farm.’ ‘Yes yes, and you could stock it too, by all accounts, pretty well, unless you are much misreported,’ says father, ‘but it won’t do. I knew your father; he was our Sargeant; a proper clever and brave man he was too; he was one of the heroes of our glorious revolution. I had a great respect for him, and I am sorry for his sake you will act as you do; but I tell you once for all you must give up all thoughts of Sall, now and for everlastin’.’ When Sall heerd this, she began to knit away like mad in a desperate hurry; she looked foolish enough, that’s a fact. First she tried to bite in her breath, and look as if there was nothin’ particular in the wind, then she blushed all over like scarlet fever, but she recovered that pretty soon; and then her colour went and came, and came and went, till at last she grew as white as chalk, and down she fell slap off her seat on the floor, in a faintin’ fit. ‘I see,’ says father, ‘I see it now, you etarnal villain,’ and he made a pull at the old fashioned sword, that always hung over the fireplace (we used to call it old Bunker, for his stories always begun, ‘when I was at Bunker’s hill’), and drawing it out, he made a clip at him as wicked as if he was stabbing at a rat with a hay fork; but Jim, he outs of the door like a shot, and draws it too arter him, and father sends old Bunker right through the panel. ‘I’ll chop you up as fine as mince meat, you villain,’ said he, ‘if ever I catch you inside my door agin; mind what I tell you, YOU’LL SWING FOR IT YET.’ Well, he made himself considerable scarce arter that, he never sot foot inside the door agin, and I thought he had gin up all hopes of Sall, and she of him; when one night, a most particular uncommon dark night, as I was a-comin’ home from neighbour Dearborne’s, I heerd some one a-talkin’ under Sall’s window. Well, I stops and listens, and who should it be near the ash saplin’, but Jim Munroe, a-tryin’ to persuade Sall to run off with him to Rhode Island to be married. It was all settled, he should come with a horse and shay to the gate, and then help her out of the window, jist at nine o’clock, about the time she commonly went to bed. Then he axes her to reach down her hand for him to kiss (for he was proper clever at soft sawder), and she stretches it down and he kisses it; and, says he, ‘I believe I must have the whole of you out arter all,’ and gives her a jirk that kinder startled her; it came so sudden like it made her scream; so off he sot, hot foot, and over the gate in no time.
“Well, I ciphered over this all night, a-calculatin’ how I should reciprocate that trick with him, and at last I hit on a scheme. I recollected father’s words at partin’, ‘MIND WHAT I TELL YOU, YOU’LL SWING FOR IT YET;’ and thinks I, friend Jim, I’ll make that prophecy come true yet, I guess. So the next night, jist at dark, I gives January Snow, the old nigger, a nidge with my elbow, and as soon as he looks up, I winks and walks out and he arter me. Says I, ‘January can you keep your tongue within your teeth, you old nigger you?’ ‘Why massa, why you ax that ’ere question? My Gor A’mity, you tink old Snow he don’t know dat ’ere yet? My tongue he got plenty room now, debil a tooth left; he can stretch out ever so far; like a little leg in a big bed, he lay quiet enough, Massa, neber fear.’ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘bend down that ’ere ash saplin’ softly, you old Snowball, and make no noise. The saplin’ was no sooner bent than secured to the ground by a notched peg and a noose, and a slip-knot was suspended from the tree, jist over the track that led from the pathway to the house. ‘Why, my Gor, massa, that’s a—’ ‘Hold your mug, you old nigger,’ says I, ’or I’ll send your tongue a-sarchin’ arter your teeth; keep quiet, and follow me in presently.’
“Well, jist as it struck nine o’clock, says I, ‘Sally, hold this here hank of twine for a minute, till I wind a trifle on it off; that’s a dear critter.’ She sot down her candle, and I put the twine on her hands, and then I begins to wind and wind away ever so slow, and drops the ball every now and then, so as to keep her downstairs. ‘Sam,’ says she, ‘I do believe you won’t wind that ’ere twine off all night, do give it to January; I won’t stay no longer, I’m e’enamost dead asleep.’ ‘The old feller’s arm is so plaguy onsteady,’ says I, ‘it won’t do; but hark, what’s that, I’m sure I heerd something in the ash saplin’, didn’t you Sall?’ ‘I heerd the geese there, that’s all,’ says she, ‘they always come under the windows at night;’ but she looked scared enough, and says she, ‘I vow I’m tired a holdin’ out of my arms this way, and I won’t do it no longer;’ and down she throw’d the hank on the floor. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘stop one minute, dear, till I send old January out to see if anybody is there; perhaps some o’ neighbour Dearborne’s cattle have broke into the sarce garden. January went out, though Sall say’d it was no use, for she knew the noise of the geese, they always kept close to the house at night, for fear of the varmin. Presently in runs old Snow, with his hair standin’ up an eend, and the whites of his eyes lookin’ as big as the rims of a soup plate. ‘Oh! Gor A’mity,’ said he, ’oh massa, oh Miss Sally, oh!’ ‘What on airth is the matter with you?’ said Sally; ’how you do frighten me; I vow I believe you’r mad.’ ‘Oh my Gor,’ said he, ’oh! massa Jim Munroe he hang himself, on the ash saplin’ under Miss Sally’s window—oh my Gor!’ That shot was a settler, it struck poor Sall right atwixt wind and water; she gave a lurch ahead, then healed over and sunk right down in another faintin’ fit; and Juno, old Snow’s wife, carried her off and laid her down on the bed. Poor thing, she felt ugly enough, I do suppose.
“Well, father, I thought he’d a-fainted too, he was so struck up all of a heap, he was completely bung fungered. ‘Dear, dear,’ said he, ‘I didn’t think it would come to pass so soon, but I knew it would come; I foretold it; says I, the last time I seed him, “Jim,” says I, “mind what I say, YOU’LL SWING FOR IT YET.” Give me the sword I wore when I was at Bunker’s hill—maybe there is life yet—I’ll cut him down.’ The lantern was soon made ready, and out we went to the ash saplin’. ‘Cut me down, Sam, that’s a good fellow,’ said Jim, ‘all the blood in my body has swashed into my head, and’s a-runnin’ out o’ my nose, I’m e’enamost smothered, be quick for heaven’s sake.’ ‘The Lord be praised,’ said father, ‘the poor sinner is not quite dead yet. Why, as I’m alive—well if that don’t beat all natur’! Why he has hanged himself by one leg, and’s a-swingin’ like a rabbit upside down, that’s a fact. Why, if he ain’t snared, Sam; he is properly wired I declare—I vow this is some o’ your doin’s, Sam—well it was a clever scheme too, but a little grain too dangerous, I guess.’ ‘Don’t stand staring and jawin’ there all night,’ said Jim, ‘cut me down, I tell you—or cut my throat and be damned to you, for I am chokin’ with blood.’ ‘Roll over that ’ere hogshead, old Snow,’ said I, ‘till I get atop on it and cut him down.’ So I soon released him, but he couldn’t walk a bit. His ankle was swelled and sprained like vengeance, and he swore one leg was near about six inches longer than t’other. ‘Jim Munroe,’ says father, ‘little did I think I should ever see you inside my door agin, but I bid you enter now, we owe you that kindness, anyhow.’
“Well, to make a long story short, Jim was so chop-fallen, and so down in the mouth, he begged for heaven’s sake it might be kept a secret; he said he would run the state, if ever it got wind, he was sure he couldn’t stand it. ‘It will be one while, I guess,’ said father, ‘afore you are able to run or stand either; but if you will give me your hand, Jim, and promise to give over your evil ways, I will not only keep it secret, but you shall be a welcome guest at old Sam Slick’s once more, for the sake of your father. He was a brave man, one of the heroes of Bunker’s hill; he was our Sergeant and—’ ‘He promises,’ says I, ‘father’ (for the old man had stuck his right foot out, the way he always stood when he told about the old war; and as Jim couldn’t stir a peg, it was a grand chance, and he was a-goin’ to give him the whole revolution from General Gage up to Independence), ‘he promises,’ says I, ‘father.’ Well it was all settled, and things soon grew as calm as a pan of milk two days old; and afore a year was over, Jim was as steady a-goin’ man as Minister Joshua Hopewell, and was married to our Sall. Nothin’ was ever said about the snare till arter the weddin’. When the Minister had finished axin’ a blessin’, father goes up to Jim, and says he, ‘Jim Munroe, my boy,’ givin’ him a rousin’ slap on the shoulder that sot him a-coughin’ for the matter of five minutes (for he was a mortal powerful man, was father), ‘Jim Munroe, my boy,’ says he, ‘you’ve got the snare round your neck, I guess now, instead of your leg; the saplin’ has been a father to you, may you be the father of many saplin’s.’
“We had a most special time of it, you may depend, all except the minister; father got him into a corner, and gave him chapter and verse for the whole war. Every now and then as I come near them, I heard Bunker’s Hill, Brandywine, Clinton, Gates, and so on. It was broad day when we parted, and the last that went was poor minister. Father followed him clean down to the gate, and says he, ‘Minister, we hadn’t time this hitch, or I’d a told you all about the evakyation of New York, but I’ll tell you that the next time we meet.’”