“Did you see,” asked Uncle Kit, “that old snuff-bottle and them nasty breshes, stickin’ in the cracks of the logs? Well, it’s on the ’count of sich, that Becky got in the crick, that time. I’ll tell you ’bout it myself, ’long as we didn’t see her. “See, I had allers ’cused Becky of snuff, but the lyin’ heifer never would own to it. So one day, as I was ridin’ ’long the road, t’other side of the crick, I hearn a noise betwixt the bray of the jack and the squeal of the pea-fowl, and in a minit I knowed it was somebody in distress—so I hurried on. When I got to the crick, what should it be but scrawny Becky Kent, settin’ on a bag o’ corn, on her old blind horse, and him a standin’ stock-still in the middle of the ford.” “‘Becky,’ ses I, ‘what in natur are you doin’ thar? Why don’t you come along out?’ “Ses she, ‘_I can’t_—don’t you see how I’m fixed?’ “Then I looked more pertickler, and seed how ’twas. The horse had stopped to drink, and Becky had let go the bridle, and when she tried to git it agin, the bag slipped furder over to the side she _warn’t_ a settin’ on—so when I got thar, she had let all go _but the bag_, and she was a settin’ on one eend o’ that, leanin’ forward, and with her hands behind her, one to each side o’ the bag, a pullin’ agin the weight of the big eend, ’twell her face was as red as a gobbler’s snout. ’Twas a reg’lar _dead strain_—the weight of Beck and the _little_ eend of the bag, agin the _big_ eend—and, I tell you, she had to lean _well_ forward to keep from goin’ over backwards! “I bulged into the crick and got purty close to Becky; but it was so funny, I couldn’t fetch myself to help her, but tho’t I’d devil hur a little, as she set. So ses I, making a fine bow: “‘My honey, my love, My turkle-dove, Will you take it amiss, Ef I give you a kiss?’ “But I hadn’t no idee of kissin’ of her—but only wanted to devil her a little. At last, I seen an old mustard-bottle stickin’ from out her bosom; and ses I, Miss Becky, will you give your Uncle Kit a pinch of snuff?’ Ses she, ‘help me for the Lord’s sake—I’m mighty nigh gin out’—and Squire, she _was_ on a _tremenjus_ strain! But I tho’t I’d plague her some: and after cutting of some few shines, I made a motion to snatch at the bottle o’ snuff! She gin a little jerk back!—the _big eend_ got a start!—still she hilt her grip with both hands!—and the next thing, _somethin’ riz in the air, like a small cloud of calico and dry corn-stalks_! and the durndest _ca-slosh_ on t’other side o’ the horse, that ever you heerd! A—WAUGH! _What sloshin’!_” “‘Horraw, Becky! rise gall! I was lookin’ t’other way!’ ses I, _for I knowed she was ’shamed!_! I laughed, however, and she _mighty nigh_ cussed! “‘Oh! you’re a sweet little _mare-maid_ now,’ ses I. “‘You’re a drotted old hog,’ ses she.