Harper's Weekly 11/08/1862


A LETTER FROM THE COUNTRY.
To the Edditer of Harper's Weekly:
Dear Mr. Edditer—Sarah Blue is a woman,
and I bein' a person ov the same seeks, yu see it's
nateral we shouldn't allways agree.


I call myself a thorrough administratrix—I go
fur the administrashun, thet is, fur the present one.
None ov yure sham demockracys fur me!


Sarah says the same; but, between yu and me.
it ain't true. Sarah is a good administratrix jest
as long as affares go on tu suit her, but jest the
eyedentical minit things go against the grain, she's
off on the other side like a roket.


But I don't wunder at her idees bein' sumwhat
fuddled on pollytics, for her father was the greatest
turn-coat yu ever did see. He was brot up a
methodist—then turned dimmycrat, and was made
hog-reeve the same yeer, and evry one said that he
intered inter pollytical life for the sake ov gittin'
that office. Bimeby he jined the odd fellus (he
was odd enuff then, in all konshunce!), and putty
soon arter that he gut married and dyed his whisk-
ers, fur which latter offense he was expelled frum
the methodists, on the charge of pervurtin' the
Scripture, which says, thou canst not make one
hair white or black. Then he bort a small farm
(he was a blacksmith before), and settled daown
near us, and has voted reggerlarly on the dimmy-
cratic ticket ever sense, but twise—once in Harri-
son's time, and agin in Taylor's; and ef aour State
elecshun had come befour Pennsilvany, so he'd a
known old Abe was baound tu win, he'd have voted
for him.


Sense the war broke aout he's jined the Quakers,
and every time he hears ov a draft bein' spoken of
he quakes like a piece o' crab-apple jelly when yu
fust turn it ker slap aout of the mold.


Naow there's one thing where Sarah is as like
her father as two peas. She is fond ov pollytics.
She reeds the New York Herald reggerlarly, so's tu
be on all sides tu once; and don't hardly touch a
novel, except the hisstorical novels in the Sunday
papers. She don't reed menny works of fickshun,
except ockashunally storys rit by the reliable cor-
respondents of some of the newspapers. She nevver
plays whist, becawse her father was a methodist;
but she cheets awful in old maid and slap-jack,
and sumtimes tells fokeses fortunes with the kards.
But they don't many of 'em cum true. Tho' once
she told Sam Jennings thet he would be choked tu
death sum day eeting flap-jacks; and sure enuff,
one nite, jest after supper, when his mouth was full
of cakes and molasses, he slipped daown the sellar
stares and broke his neck. They had a corrow-
ner's jury on the boddy, and the verdick was he
died from flap-jacks, as he had so menny in his
maouth thet it removed the senter of gravety, and
made him top-heavy, which cawsed him tu fall
daown seller.


Wa'al, as I was goin' tu remarc, the larst con-
versashun I had with Sarah was abaout pollytics.


I was doin' aour ioning—we don't keep no hired
gurl, and I du the work mostly—when in rushed
Sarah Blue, as mad as a march hair, and sot rite
daown on my pile ov hankerchefs, thet I'd put on
the settle bench after ioning of 'em till they was
as slick as a whistle.


“Charity! what du you think?” says she, as
pail as a gost.


“Why, for the land's sake, what's the matter?”
says I.


“Matter enuff!” she ansered, looking the very
picture of skorn. “Old Abe Lincon has made a
nu proclamashun!”


“Wa'al naow,” says I, “I'm glad on't!—is it
good?”


Yu see I didn't know exackly what it was—I
didn't know but it was sum nu kind of cake he'd
maid. Yu know we hev Washingtun Cake, and
'Lecshun Cake, and why shuldn't we hev Lincun
Cake? Haowever, I didn't tell Sarah what I thort
it was, and I was glad I didn't arterwards.


“Good! there ain't no good tu it,” she replyed;
“don't yu think he's gorne and told all the niggers
tu cut sticks and run from there marsters as farst
as thay kan; and he is trying tu aggeravate aour
Southern brethren [thet's what she kalls the reb-
bels], and I'm afrade they wun't like it!”


“Du tell!” said I.

“Oh Abe, dear Abe!” says she, agoin' rite
daown on her nees tu the picture of the present
ockupent ov the White Haouse, “du evry thing
else but that! Kill the Saouth with yure bag-
onets, run 'em thro' with sords, shute 'em with
pistuls, and knock 'em over with the cannon's rore,
but spare, oh! spare thare pockets! Skin 'em
alive, but don't tutch their niggars!”


“Don't yu mind a wurd she says!” cried I, im-
pashuntly. “She don't know what she's a saying!
Go it, Farther Abraham, and I'll sustane yu!”


“Grimes and liberty!”“Glory halleuyah!”

Don't yu think, Mister Edditer, that kritter gut
so mad, she up and took one of my own flat ions
and kum at me like a wild-cat!


I immejitly seesed hold of the tongs, and we fit
thare in the kitchen till her face looked as if she'd
hed the small-pox, and mine was puffed up as 'tis
when I hev the tooth-ake, and all my kleen close
that I'd ioned hed tu be put inter the wash agin.


I hev'nt bin aout ov the haouse sence.

But I had my reevenge, fur I rit a poim—a sar-
kastical poim, ov coarse—abaout the abolishun ov
nigger slavery, and sent it tu Sarah Blue, and
sined it Trooth, so she'd know who rit it. She
hasn't spunk anuff tu anser it, tho'. Here it is,
deer reeder:


POIM.

Abram, spair the Saouth!
Tutch not a single nigger;
They'll bee daown in the maouth
Ef yu cut such a figgar!
'Twas England's forstring hand
The niggers here that brot;
Here Abram, let 'em stand!
Yure acks shall harm 'em not.

When but a pickaninny
They're wuth a lot ov tin;
Naow, good as gold frum Ginny,
A fust-rate price they'd win.
The Saouth wants mony orful,
And fites us, tooth and nale;
But oh! kan it be lorful
Tu give thare niggs leg-bail?

Who fired rite on aour flag—
Dragged freemen tu thare graves?
Who luv tu boast and brag
Thet we shall bee thare slaves?
Who cum upon aour track,
And scatter ruin threugh it?
And ef we kan strike back,
For pity's sake, let's du it!

Yes! By our martyred dead,
We'll follow Abram's plan;
On tu thare soil we'll tread,
And hit 'em whare we kan!
Charity Grimes.
[We shall be glad to hear from Mrs. Grimes
again.—Ed. Harper's Weekly.]



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