\nThe picture, with the music, is to be had of Cleaves & Vaden, Main street. The following is the story.<\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/01\/arkansaw-travelor.jpg\")
\n[Little Rock] Arkansas True Democrat, May 26, 1860<\/p>\n
The receipt, says the Memphis Enquirer, by Messrs. Cleaves and Vaden, of a new supply of this famous picture of a phase of life in Arkansas, some forty years ago, reminds us of a promise we had made to our readers, upon first noticing it, to publish the story of which this picture is the faithful and spirited illustration. To appreciate the whole thing, and enjoy it to the full, it must be seen and heard (the story, together with “the balance of that chune on the fiddle”) as rendered by Col. Sandy Faulkner, to whom the picture is dedicated, and whose life-like portrait adorns it,–and as no one but himself can render it. A sad interest has been added to this picture, of late, by the death of young Washborne, the talented, self-taught artist, a native of Arkansas, whose pencil produced it.
\nThe picture, with the music, is to be had of Cleaves & Vaden, Main street. The following is the story.<\/p>\n\n
The Arkansaw Traveler.<\/strong> [Little Rock] Arkansas True Democrat, May 26, 1860 The receipt, says the Memphis Enquirer, by Messrs. Cleaves and Vaden, of a new supply of this famous picture of a phase of life in Arkansas, some forty years ago, reminds us of a promise we had made to our readers, upon first noticing it, to publish […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":21,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[24],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-84492","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-news-of-the-day"},"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/84492","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/21"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=84492"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/84492\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=84492"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=84492"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.cw-chronicles.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=84492"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nA lost and bewildered Arkansas traveler approaching the cabin of a squatter, about forty years ago, discovered the proprietor seated on an old whisky barrel near the door, partly sheltered by the eaves, playing a fiddle, when the following dialogue ensued\u2014the squatter still continuing to play the same part over and over:
\nTraveler.\u2014Halloo, stranger?
\nSquatter\u2014Hello yourself.
\nT.\u2014Can I get to stay all night with you?
\nS.\u2014You kin get to go to h_ll.
\nT.\u2014Have you any spirits here?
\nS.\u2014Lots of ’em. Sal saw one last night by that thar old holler gum and it nearly skeered her to death.
\nT.\u2014You mistake my meaning\u2014have you any liquor?
\nS.\u2014Had some yesterday, but Ole Bose he got in and lapped all uv it out’n the pot.
\nT.\u2014You don’t understand, I don’t mean pot liquor. I’m wet and cold, and want some whisky. Have you got any?
\nS.\u2014Oh, yes,–I drank the last this morning.
\nT.\u2014I’m hungry, havn’t had a thing this morning, can’t you give me something to eat?
\nS.\u2014Han’t a d____d thing in the house. Not a mouthful of meat, or a dust of meal here.
\nT.\u2014Well, can’t you give my horse something?
\nS.\u2014Got nothin’ to feed him on.
\nT.\u2014How far is it to the next house?
\nS.\u2014Stranger, I don’t know. I’ve never been thar.
\nT.\u2014Well, do you know who lives here?
\nS.\u2014I do.
\nT.\u2014As I’m so bold then, what might your name be?
\nS.\u2014It might be Dick, and it might be Tom; but it lacks a d____d sight of it.
\nT.\u2014Sir! will you tell me where this road goes to?
\nS.\u2014It’s never been anywhar since I’ve lived here; its always thar when I git up in the mornin.
\nT.\u2014Well, how far is it to where it forks?
\nS.\u2014It don’t fork at all, but it splits up like the d___l.
\nT.\u2014As I’m not likely to get to any other house to-night, can’t you let me sleep in yours, and I’ll tie my horse to a tree, and do without anything to eat or drink?
\nS.\u2014My house leaks; thar’s only one dry spot in it, and Sall sleeps on it. And that thar tree is the ole woman’s persimmon; you can’t tie to it, ‘cose she don’t want um shuk off. She ‘lows to make beer out’n um.
\nT.\u2014Why don’t you finish covering your house and stop the leaks?
\nS.\u2014It’s been raining all day.
\nT.\u2014Well, why don’t you do it in dry weather?
\nS.\u2014It don’t leak then.
\nT.\u2014As there seems to be nothing alive about your place but children, how do you do here any how?
\nS.\u2014Putty well, I thank you, how do you do yourself?
\nT.\u2014I mean what do you do for a living here.
\nS.\u2014Keep tavern and sell whisky.
\nT.\u2014Well, I told you I wanted some whisky.
\nS.\u2014Stranger, I bought a bar’l mor’n a week ago. You see me and Sall went shars. Arter we got it here we only had a drink betweenst us, and Sall, she did’nt want to use hern fust, nor me mine. You see, I had a spiggin in one eend, and she in tother. So she takes a drink out’n my eend, and pays me the bit for it; and then I’d take un out’n hern, and give her the bit. Well, we’s gitting along fust-rate, till Dick, d____d skulking skunk, he bourn a hole on the bottom to suck at, and the next time I went to buy a drink, they wurnt none thar.
\nT.\u2014I’m sorry your whisky’s all gone; but, my friend, why don’t you play the balance of that tune?
\nS.\u2014It’s got no balance to it.
\nT.\u2014I mean you don’t play the whole of it.
\nS.\u2014Stranger, can you play the fidul?
\nT.\u2014Yes, a little sometimes.
\nS.\u2014You don’t look like a fiddlur, but ef you think you can play any more onto that thar chune, you kin just git down and try.
\n(The traveler gits down and plays the whole of it.)
\nS.\u2014Stranger, take a half dozen cheers and sot down. Sall, stir yourself round like a six- horse team in a mud hole. Go round in the holler, where I killed that buck this mornin’, cut off some of the best pieces, and fotch it and cook it for me and this gentleman, directly. Raise up the board under the head of the bed, and git the ole black jug I hid from Dick, and give us some whisky; I know thar’s sum left yit. Til, drive old Bose out’n the bread-tray, then clime up in the loft, and git the rag that’s got the sugar tied in it. Dick, carry the gentleman’s hoss round under the shed, give him some fodder and corn, much as he kin eat.
\nTil.\u2014Dad, they ain’t knives enouff to sot the table.
\nS.\u2014Whar’s big butch, little butch, ole case, cob-handle, granny’s knife and the one I handled yesterday? That’s enuff to set any gentleman’s table, without you’ve lost um. D__n me, stranger, ef you can’t stay as long as you please, and I’ll give you plenty to eat and drink. Will you have coffee for supper?
\nT.\u2014Yes, sir.
\nS.\u2014I’ll be hanged ef you do tho’, we don’t have nothin’ that way here, but Grub Hyson, and I reckon its mighty good with sweetnin’. Play away, stranger, you can sleep on the dry spot to-night.
\nT.\u2014(After about two hour’s fiddling.) My friend, can’t you tell me about the road I’m to travel to morrow?
\nS.\u2014To morrow! Stranger, you won’t git ou’n these diggins for six weeks. But when it gits so you kin start, you see that big sloo over thar? Well, you have to git crost of that, then you take the road up the bank, and in about a mile you’ll come to a two acre and a half cornpatch, the corn’s mitely in the weeds, but you needn’t mind that, jist ride on. About a mile and a half, or two miles, from thar you’ll come to the d___dest swamp you ever struck in all your travels, its boggy enuff to mire a saddle blanket. Thar’s a first rate road about six feet under thar.
\nT.\u2014How am I to get at it?
\nS.\u2014You can’t git at it nary time, till the wether stiffens down sum. Well, about a mile beyant, you come to a place whar thur’s two roads. You kin take the right hand ef you want to, you’ll foller it a mile or so, and you’ll run out; you’ll then have to come back and try the left, when you git about two miles on that, you may know you are wrong, fur they ain’t any road thar. You’ll then think you are mighty lucky ef you kin find the way back to my house, whar you kin come and play on that chune as long as you please.
\nMr. John E. Reardon, of this city, has this superb picture for sale.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"