Hill's New Hampshire Patriot

Miscellaneous.

From the Great
RATTLESNAKE BITE.

"So glistened the dire snake
Subtle beast of all the field."
Par. Lost.

Twenty-one years ago the goodly town of Chambersburg, in Pennsylvania, wore a different aspect from what it does at the present day. In this brief period a mighty change has taken place in the condition of things around it. Railroads were, as yet, things unknown—the rushing of the steam-horse with his long train, rivalling the speed of the wild pigeon, had not yet disturbed the echoes of the mountain valleys of Franklin county.

In those days might be seen, in all their glory, those renowned Pennsylvania teams that now only live in the memories of men. They have passed away, and have given place to the swift car, or the slow ungainly canal-boat. A grand sight it was to see sometimes a dozen of those great teams in one long string, drawn by five and six stout horses, moving steadily along at the rate of twenty miles a day, and headed by a wagon whose linen cover was whiter bleached and whose body was painted a brighter hue than the rest, and whose horses and housings trimmed with gay red fringe, and strings of bells on iron arches above their collars, that made merry music as they moved along.

How proudly stepped the horses, and with what an air did the driver twist himself in his saddle and crack his whip and cry "wo hoy!"

In this pleasant all the merchandise for supplying the far Western country was then transported to Pittsburgh. "Going over the mountains" was a very different affair from the easy three days' journey of the present time. And the taverns along the great turnpike, are changed as sadly as the means of locomotion.

Every petty town did not then boast of its Washington or American "House," with a paltry imitation at table of the etiquette of the lordly Astor or Tremont. The good old names of the "Green Tree," the "Spread Eagle," and the "Rising Sun," were then in vogue.

There were large yards around these taverns for the accommodation of the teamsters, and there might often be seen ten or twelve wagons halted around, with a long trough fastened to the tongue, and five or six horses standing up to each, quietly munching their oats for the short journey of the day. An air of comfort reigned within the house, and at the table profusion was more plainly discernible than style. Who knew better than the Pennsylvania landlady of that day how to stew a chicken and make a cup of coffee? Or who better than she could bake the crisp brown waffle-cake, and bring it to the table smoking hot and swimming in butter?

, : · or Bypast (s al) their fame; the very spot where once in pride they flourished, is erased."

On a bright, warm evening in June 1825, at the sign of the "Cross Keys," in Chambersburg, the landlord was talking to some Ohio merchants who had been to Philadelphia to purchase goods, and were thus far on their return home, travelling on horseback.

Around the door were various people and mechanics of the town, who had dropped in to have an hour's chat and to hear the news from the city, brought by the teamsters—for the people then contrived to live without the eager haste for news that characterizes the present generation; and however we may smile at their simplicity and ignorance, such a thing never entered their heads as killing horses and breaking the necks of their riders for the sake of getting intelligence a few hours sooner than by regular course of mail. By degrees their discourse turned to politics, and the Presidential election, and the inauguration of John Quincy Adams, that had taken place a few months previous, was the theme. The anti-administration party was most numerous on this occasion. Joe Stimmel, the blacksmith, was loud in his dissatisfaction, at the result, and little Tom Pierce, the white barber, roundly asserted that Gen. Jackson had been cheated out of his election. "But look out, boys," said he, "and if we don't make him President next time, you may hang me for a false prophet."

On the turnpike, three quarters of a mile west of Chambersburg, lived a good substantial farmer by the name of Peter Bonawitz. Each returning year added to his wealth; he had the tallest horses and the fattest cattle that could be seen in all Franklin county, when he had a team on the turnpike, and his farm was all fenced in with locust posts and chestnut rails. Of the durability of this mode of enclosure, his hired man, Jake Hoover, had the most exalted idea; he declared that "locust posts and chestnut rails would last forever, for Peter Bonawitz had tried them twice." He had only one child, a daughter, fair and rosy as the summer clouds, when the sun went down behind the Cove mountain. Kate Bonawitz was eighteen years old, but, most sentimental reader, she had not been educated at a fashionable boarding school, and at that age, I am sorry to say, she was not a proficient in modern accomplishments. She could not play on the piano, nor thrum on the guitar—she could not paint in water colors, nor perform experiments in Natural Philosophy.

But who could spin a finer flax thread than she, and weave it with her own hands?—who could bake a whiter, lighter loaf?—who could send sweeter butter to market?—or whose voice went up so clear and melodious in Old Hundred, in the good old Lutheran church of Chambersburg? Not one. I will not pretend to say that being sole heiress to her father's broad acres, might not have been a large ingredient in the admiration that was felt by all the young men in the region round about Chambersburg; but without this expectancy, Kate was still a desirable sweetheart. To a blooming complexion, and a form that had not been spoiled by the milliner, she added modesty and a large share of good sense, and Kate was well fitted to make that much talked of thing, a good wife. No wonder she caused the hearts of the young men to flutter.

In the borough lived a young house carpenter, a scion of the ancient family of the Smiths, named John, with a good manly face and black curly locks, with broad shoulders and industrious habits. He was foremost in all the country frolics of the time; he took the lead in the bass at the singing school, and no quilting or sleighing party was complete without John Smith.

Oh! these jolly sleighing parties in the country! To be wrapped up in the same buffalo robe with your partner, and speed away a dozen miles to a dance! Oh! the music of the bells and the occasional accompaniment of a tilt-over into a snow bank—and the delightful task of picking up your companion and brushing the snow from her, and then start after your horse, just to show her how fast you can run, and meeting every few rods with a fragment of your sleigh! You go on to the next farm-house, where you find your horse frightened half to death; you borrow another sleigh and then proceed on your journey. Oh, these jolly sleigh-rides in the country!

It was at a party that went out to Loudon that John was first fairly smitten with Kate Bonawitz. He had known her long before this; he had admired her at church; he had sighed when he heard her sweet voice at the singing school; but not till now did he give himself wholly up to love's sweet dream. But it would have taken a heart much less susceptible than John's to resist after riding fifteen miles in the same sleigh, and dancing half a dozen times with her.

After this it happened that he often turned down the lane to old Peter Bonawitz's, and it also happened that Kate never gave him any cause to believe his visits unwelcome. Indeed there was much to admire in his bold, free character, and by degrees, and without her being aware of it, Kate was smitten too. But say in what clime, under what sky, comes there not disappointment. The great poet has declared that,

"For aught that ever he could learn,
Could ever read by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth."

Old Peter began to remark the increasing frequency of his visits, but he had no idea that his Kate should be carried off in such a hurry. And besides, who was this John Smith? He had but served out his apprenticeship and began business on his own account a year before, and tried in a balance, Kate's expected wealth would make John's worldly possessions kick the beam in a trice. So reasoned old Peter in Pennsylvania Dutch. He had not arrived at that pitch of refinement to despise him for being a mechanic, it was purely a consideration of dollars and cents. So the old man shook his head and forbade him the house. Great was the tribulation of John and Kate. But "love laughs at locksmiths," and many an old man has been cheated out of his daughter. It so fell out that Peter went off on a journey to Carlisle, and John was not slow to take advantage of his absence. On the bright evening in June before mentioned, he dressed himself in his Sunday suit, and was soon down at the farm, and in the kitchen by the side of Kate. I dare not tell the many sweet words that passed between them, but

"The minutes winged their way with pleasure."

And John's chair had gotten very close to Kate's—and (entirely by accident) his arm had encircled her waist, and he was gazing right into her eyes, when, tramp tramp! in the long porch was heard the heavy footstep of Peter Bonawitz! He had come home a day sooner than was expected. John knew that footstep—he started up with a look of agony, and without even allowing himself time for a farewell kiss, he sprang out of an open window into the garden, and running along a narrow walk, he cleared the fence at the bottom at a single bound. "Misfortunes never come singly," the greatest evil was yet to befall him. At the foot of the garden lay a meadow which bordered on the turnpike, and he hurried across this to regain the highway, and so get back to the town. He had but taken a few strides after his leap, when he felt a convulsive movement under his feet, then there was a clear, sharp rattle, something darted suddenly against his leg, and he felt a stinging pain. The dreadful thought flashed across his mind, he had stepped on a rattlesnake, and it had bitten him. Filled with horror, he ran, he flew, fear lent him wings, and ghastly pale with anguish and affright, he rushed into the bar-room of the Cross Keys just as Tom Pierce had uttered his patriotic prophecy in favor of Gen. Jackson. (To

"Why what's the matter, John?" asked Tom, terrified in turn by his friend's blanched countenance.

"Oh, I'm bitten by a rattlesnake!" said he.

"Bit by a rattlesnake!" was repeated in dismay by everyone in the room. All was instantly confusion.

"Run for the doctor!" roared the landlord.

"Cut it out with a razor," cried Tom Pierce the barber.

"Burn it with a red hot poker!" shouted Joe Stimmel the blacksmith.

"Lord have mercy on me!" groaned poor John Smith.

They led him to a bed room, and upon examination, a small puncture of the skin was discovered a little below the knee, surrounded by a faint blue circle, and from which a few drops of blood had exuded.

"Goody-gracious! how it's swelling!" exclaimed the landlady, darting out of the room. She had always on hand a specific for the cure of every ache, or pain, or disease under the sun. It was composed of the leaves of green sage pounded to a pulp, and mixed with the scrapings of fat bacon. (Brandreth's Pills were as yet unknown to fame.) She quickly returned with a jar of her invaluable salve, and spreading a portion of it on a linen rag, she applied it to the wound. "That will draw the pizen out," said she. "There was Bill Davis that cut off his big toe with a broad axe, and it made him so powerful weak that he couldn't walk, and we put on some sage and bacon, and it cured him all up in two weeks. And there was neighbor Klinger's son Mat, that was bit in the arm by dandy Jack, the monkey that rode the Shetland pony when the many-jury (menagerie) was in town, and we put on some of this salve, and it cured him in ten days; and there was"

Just then the doctor entered, out of breath: all eyes were turned to him; all ears were stopped for hearing any more of the landlady's wonderful cures. The doctor went up to the bed-side, and he straightway showed his respect for the sage and bacon by tossing it out of the window. He was one of those men who never let pass an opportunity for giving a lecture. On this occasion he made a careful survey of the wound, and looking around over the tops of his spectacles, on the anxious group that encircled the bed, he began, "My friends, there are three classes of poisons—mineral vegetable, and animal.—This wound was evidently inflicted by some serpent—it therefore belongs to the latter class, and from its exceedingly inflamed appearance, I pronounce it a bite of the Crotalus horridus, or banded rattlesnake. The generic character of this species is, scuta on the abdomen, scuta and scales beneath the tail, rattle at the end of the tail.

"There are five species, all natives of America. The rattle is composed of dry and hollow bones, nearly of the same size and form, and is considered by most naturalists as being designed to warn other animals of their danger, and the sound of that instrument often impresses them with such a degree of terror as to wither every energy of their frames—and incapable of motion, they become an easy prey to their dreadful enemy. Their bite is not only poisonous, but rapidly fatal, and has been known to kill a man in a few minutes—and—"

"Lord have mercy on me!" groaned poor John Smith.

"Yes, fix the bite first, and give us the speech afterwards!" cried Tom Pierce.

At this sudden interruption of his half finished description, the doctor frowned terribly, then he gazed around on his audience with a sneer of contempt for their want of appreciation of science; and then he turned to the poor sufferer, and cutting away a small portion of the flesh surrounding the wound, he applied a glass cup to draw out the poisonous fluid implanted there by the fangs of the scaly reptile, and as an indispensable adjunct, he administered a copious dose of olive oil.

John now felt a little relief, and he described the spot minutely where the horrid thing lay coiled in the grass, and how he trod upon it and was bitten. It was proposed that a party should start immediately and endeavor to destroy him, as it was not likely he would move far after nightfall. A party of five, including the blacksmith and Tom Pierce at their head, and armed with long clubs procured at a neighboring wood pile, set off instantly on this bold and dangerous enterprise. They soon reached the vicinity of the dreadful serpent—they began to stir in the high grass with their clubs, when suddenly they saw a movement, rapidly followed by that clear, sharp rattle heard by John—they started back a step with horror; Tom, bolder than the rest, raised aloft his club to give the death blow—but his arm was palsied in mid-air, his weapon fell harmless to the earth.

Was he charmed by the snake? No—before him in the bright light of the moon he saw—a poor hen sitting on a nest of eggs! Such a shout as went up from the bottom of Peter Bonawitz's garden!

"Who ever heard of a rattlesnake with feathers?" cried the blacksmith.

"That beats the doctor's snake with scutæ in the abdomen!" shouted Tom.

They captured the unconscious hen, and hurrying back to the tavern, marched in a body to John's room. The anxious group with solemn faces was still around the bed, and the doctor was yet at his post anxiously watching the effect of the suction of his cupping-glass.

"Did you kill him, Tom?" asked the landlord with breathless haste.

"No!" said Tom, "we have got him alive, and there he is!" and he flung the poor hen, uttering a piteous squall, on the bed in their midst.

"Hillo!" cried the landlord, "and John was only bit by a chicken!"

And such another scene at this unexpected termination of their lamentations—such roars of laughter—and John laughed too, and he jumped nimbly from the bed, and kicked off the doctor's cupping-glass, breaking it in a hundred pieces, and then he danced a Pennsylvania quickstep for joy at his happy deliverance! In the height of the hubbub the doctor sloped out of the back way, wisely reserving the remainder of his description of the Crotalus horridus for a future occasion.

The story spread, and even old Peter laughed and was glad that John was not bitten by a real snake.

And there was good cause for his imagination to conjure up such horrors—chased by the old man—jumping out of the kitchen window—and his breast racked by thwarted love!

Say, was it any wonder he was frightened?

But he soon recovered from his fright; and as for being laughed at thought those may laugh who win.

And old Peter finding that Kate was like all other girls—the more he opposed the more she would have him—gave his consent, as a sensible old man should, and after another year's probation they were married. She made him the best of Mrs. Smiths—and nevermore, in after life, was John Smith Henpecked!

W. S. M.