"'"Willyum," he'd say that a-way when he'd notice me organizin' to go down to the village; "Willyum," he'd say."if anybody asks you what you be, an' speshul if any of them Yankees asks you, you tell 'em that you're Union, but you remember you're secesh.""'The Sterett fam'ly, ondoubted, is the smartest fam'ly in the South.My brother Jeff, who is five years older than me, gives proofs of this, partic'lar.It's Jeff who invents that enterprise in fishin', which for idleness, profit an' pastime, ain't never been equalled since the flood, called "Juggin' for Cats." It's Jeff, too, once when he ups an' jines the church, an' is tharafter preyed on with the fact that the church owes two hundred dollars, and that it looks like nobody cares a two-bit piece about it except jest him, who hires a merry-go-round--one of these yere contraptions with wooden hosses, an' a hewgag playin' toones in the center--from Cincinnati, sets her up on the Green in front of the church, makes the ante ten cents, an' pays off the church debt in two months with the revenoos tharof.
"'As I sits yere, a relatin' of them exploits,' an' Colonel Sterett tips the canteen for another hooker, 'as I sits yere, gents, all free an' sociable with what's, bar none, the finest body of gents that ever yanks a cork or drains a bottle, I've seen the nobility of Kaintucky--the Bloo Grass Vere-de-Veres--ride up on a blood hoss, hitch the critter to the fence, an' throw away a fortune buckin'
Jeff's merry-go-round with them wooden steeds.It's as I says: that sanctooary is plumb out of debt an' on velvet--has a bank roll big enough to stopper a 2-gallon jug with--in eight weeks from the time Jeff onfurls his lay-out an' opens up his game.'
"Thar's one thing," suddenly observed my aged companion, as he eyed me narrowly, pausing in the interesting Colonel Sterett's relation concerning his family, and becoming doubly impressive with an uplifted fore-finger, "thar's one thing I desires you to fully grasp.As I reels off this yere chronicle, you-all is not to consider me as repeatin' the Colonel's words exact.I ain't gifted like the Colonel, an' my English ain't a marker to his.The Colonel carries the language quiled up an' hangin' at the saddle horn of his intelligence, like a cow puncher does his lariat.An' when he's got ready to rope an' throw a fact or two, you should oughter see him take her down an' go to work.Horn or neck or any foot you says;it's all one to the Colonel.Big or little loop, in the bresh or in the open, it's a cinch the Colonel fastens every time he throws his verbal rope.The fact he's after that a-way, is shore the Colonel's.
Doc Peets informs me private that Colonel Sterett is the greatest artist, oral, of which his'try records the brand, an' you can go broke on Peets's knowin'.An' thar's other test'mony.
"'I don't lay down my hand,' says Texas Thompson, one time when him an' me is alone, 'to any gent between the Rio Grande an' the Oregon, on sizin' up a conversation.An' I'll impart to you, holdin' nothin'
back, that the Colonel is shorely the limit.Merely to listen, is an embarrassment of good things, like openin' a five-hand jack-pot on a ace-full.He can even out-talk my former wife, the Colonel can, an'
that esteemable lady packs the record as a conversationist in Laredo for five years before I leaves.She's admittedly the shorest shot with her mouth on that range.Talkin' at a mark, or in action, all you has to do is give the lady the distance an' let her fix her sights once, an' she'll stand thar, without a rest, an' slam observation after observation into the bull's eye till you'll be abashed.An' yet, compared to the Colonel yere, that lady stutters!'
"But now to resoome," said my friend when he had sufficiently come to the rescue of Colonel Sterett and given him his proper place in my estimation; "we'll take up the thread of the Colonel's remarks where I leaves off.
"'My grandfather,' says the Colonel, 'is a gent of iron-bound habits.He has his rooles an' he never transgresses 'em.The first five days of the week, he limits himse'f to fifteen drinks per diem;Saturday he rides eight miles down to the village, casts aside restraints, an' goes the distance; Sunday he devotes to meditations.
"'Thar's times when I inclines to the notion that my grandfather possesses partic'lar aptitoodes for strong drink.This I'll say without no thoughts of boastin', he's the one lone gent whereof Ihas a knowledge, who can give a three-ring debauch onder one canvas in one evenin'.As I states, my grandfather, reg'lar every Saturday mornin', rides down to the Center, four miles below our house, an'
begins to crook his elbow, keepin' no accounts an' permittin' no compunctions.This, if the old gent is feelin' fit an' likely, keeps up about six hours' at which epock, my grandfather is beginnin' to feel like his laigs is a burden an' walkin' a lost art.That's where the pop'lace gets action.The onlookers, when they notes how my ancestor's laigs that a-way is attemptin' to assoome the soopreme direction of affairs, sort o' c'llects him an' puts him in the saddle.Settin' thar on his hoss, my grandfather is all right.His center of grav'ty is shifted an' located more to his advantage.Iesteems it one of them evidences of a sooperior design in the yooniverse, an' a plain proof that things don't come by chance, that long after a gent can't walk none, he's plumb able to ride.
"'Once my grandfather is safe in his saddle, as I relates, he's due--him an' his hoss, this last bein' an onusual sagacious beast whic he calls his "Saturday hoss"--to linger about the streets, an'
collab'rate with the public for mebby five more drinks; followin'
