Oh this cough--it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.
What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and backing, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (_Coughs._)
But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day--and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood--you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.
I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out--as it was a raining at the time--but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face ain't well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. (_Coughs._) Oh, dear! but that ain't all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes--and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar janders." (_Coughs._)
[This sweetly mournful refrain, should be delivered with sad earnestness; as though the speaker was describing the fate of his own family.]
They grew in beauty side by side, They filled our home with glee; Their graves are severed, far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight, Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream is laid,-- The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, but none O'er his low bed may weep.