High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of ConnecticutStephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
General
High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of Connecticut
Stephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century
I rode through the trainers full chisel arter the President, and the
colt, he cum a kickin up his heels amongst the wimmen and children as
crazy as a bed bug. I pushed in close up tu the captin, and he and I and
the rest on 'em rode along afore the sogers as crank as you please. But
the mare, she didn't seem tu like the way they pinted them guns at her,
and once in a while she'd kick up and grow a leetle sarcy, and snort
right in their faces like a tin toot-horn about dinner time. When we'd
got about half way through the sogers--and it seemed as if all creation
had got intu regimentals jest then--the mare she got anxious about the
colt, and sot up a whinner that a'most shook me off from her back. I
tried tu make her git along, but she only bust out in a new spot, dug
her hoofs close tu the ground and backed into the crowd till I got
wrathy as all natur with her; but the more I paid the gad on, the worse
she got, till by-am-by she stood stock still, a shakin her head, a
stompin with her fore foot, and a yellin arter the colt like a lovesick
gal.
The President he was a gitting ahead, and the darn'd coots all around,
begun to larf and poke fun at us, when the colt he cum a scampering
through the trees, and a scattering hull squads of wimmen, and boys, and
babies, every jump, till he ended off in a crazy caper, all around the
mare and me. This pacified the critter, and arter whinnering over the
colt a leetle, she jogged on as meek as a cosset lamb, and the colt he
follered close tu, till I came up with the captin agin, and then he'd
stop every once in a while, and face about, look right into the sogers'
eyes, so arnest, that they couldn't help but bust out a larfin, if the
President and I was a lookin at 'em.
It was about the greatest show that I ever sot eyes on. The Battery is
one of the harnsomest spots on arth, all kivered with grass, and chuck
full of trees, and a hull army of sogers, some in brown regimentals,
some in green, with yaller feathers, and some in red, yaller, blue, and
all sorts of colors, a wheelin round under the trees, was enough to make
a feller proud of his country.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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