Post by MartyB on Feb 19, 2022 21:20:21 GMT
No rogue moderators here.
Lets try to get by without any rules.
If your going to bash someone, sign your name to it.
Heaven According to Old Gabe
Is thar a hell? Is thar a heaven? This hoss don’t know. Howsomever, if this paw’s child had his wish, Id make ye a proper heaven, wagh! Not one of ‘em state fixin’s heavens whar folks sit on clouds in thar nightshirts a-playin’ harps. That kind of heaven ain’t the holler tree fur this beaver nohow. It don’t shine. This child’s heaven is like Brown’s Hole, the Popo Agie, an’ the Bayou Salade, all rolled into one at rendeevoo time, wagh!
This child’s heaven is akin to a valley, with grass ass-high, green as em’rals, with a river plumb across, an’ its water pure awardente fur the fellers to dip thar tincups into, agin an’ agin an’ be joyful. An’ no matter how much they swaller, that Ole Touse never quits a-flowin’. An’ close by thar’s a mountain, nigh upon a mile high, an’ sculp me, if it ain’t made up totally of twists of ‘baccer, an’ it never gits smaller an’ the pilgrims can have as many chaws as they want, in all eternity. Wagh!
An’ buffler’s by the thousands, an’, doggone, no matter how many of ‘em you shoots down, the herd’s never gittin’ less. As soon as one is down, thar’s ‘nuther comin’ up weedlike, by ned! An’ ev’ry one of them fellers has his Jack Hawken fuse, an’ they all shoot plumb center, whoopee! Thar’s funeverlastin’ runnin’ meat an’ no one’s ever hungry, but ev’ry pilgim has his meatbag full-nothing fat cow, an’ tender buffler tongues, an’ sweet roasted boudins to tickle a man’s ribs. Wagh!
Thar’s never any hard doin’s an’ beaver hats never go out of style, an thar’s beaver a-plenty, fightin’ each other fur a chance to git themselves trapped, an’ it’s ten dollars a plew, old-un or kitten, prime plews all. An’ no matter how many of the critters ye trap, thar’s allus more a-waitin’ thar turn. An’ longside that Tangleleg River thar’s tepees ‘sfar as the eye kin see, full o’ squaws awaitin’ the mountain men’s pleasure-wanton like minks, Shyan, an’ Sioux, an’ Pache, an’ Yute- all plump an’ pretty, with that lovin’ look in thar eyes, whoopee! They’re virgins, all of ‘em, an’ hang me up fur b’ar meat, et they’re not turnin’ back into virgins, agin an’ agin’, arter ev’ry set-to, hurraw! An’ ef a feller gits plumb tired of all them squaws , thars the Mexican senoritas-“Ay, bonita, mi Corazonm let’s you an’ me fandango.” I tellee, old pard, that’s heaven fur sure. Wagh!
An’ ev’ry day thar’s a rendevoo, makin’ all other rendevoos prior tharto look like Sunday school doin’s. Whoopee! Nigh upon a thousand beaver men, mountain men, pilgrims, bushways, traders, mangeurs de lard, Injuns, squaws an’ squawmen, hosses, mules, dawgs—all a yellin’, singing’, barkin’, neighin’, hollerin’, screechin’ like the devils! The fellers all in thar finest beaded an’ quilled outfits, the squaws in all thar foofaraw—I tellee, no beter sight fur sore eyes, “enfant de grace!” as the Frogs say. Thar’s nothing too rich fur my blood, wagh!
An’ ev’rywhar boys swappin’ stories, takin’ horns of red up-risin’, chawin on thar ‘baccer, sweet-talkin’ Injun gals, tradin’ plews fur gold an’ silver. Thar no vide poches. All are rich. They gamble—all honest games, not a kyardsharp among ‘em!
“Ho, boy, hyar’s the deck an’ hyar’s the beaver. Who war’ set his hoss? Wagh!
Some mountaineers gratify their dry; papoose-makers with squaw fever are are a-gropin’ an’ a-squeezin, makin’ thar sloe-eyed partners squirm an’ giggle. Others take a shine to hagglin’ over foofaraw, or indoolge in a game of Injun poker. But most, like this hoss, have a hankerin’ fur sports. I tellee, this coon loves to cut his wolf loose, by ned!
An’ what’s the greatest sport? I tellee. It’s fightin’. Us trappers love it. The Injuns love it, The Coureurs de Bois love it. So we grabs our weapons, an’ the bucks put on thar war paint, an’ at it we go! This hoss is a man-killer, never curried below his knees, a two legged airthquake an’ prime specimen of chain-lightnin’. I tellee, stranger, this beaver’s the champeen eye-gouger an’ hair-lifter of the Rockies, whoopee! So we lift topknots an’ whip out our butcher knives an’ wade into the liver up to the Green River. So we cuts throats, an’ shoot, an’ stab, an’ hack with tommyhawks, an’ arrers, an’ pistols, but it’s all friendly-like, an’ no hard feelin’s. Jest good fun, doee hyar? Come evenin’, those who have gone under, git up agin, eyeballs pop back into thar socets, teeth spout agin, skulps grow back on bleedin’ skulls. Trappers an’ Injuns set around the fire, smoke the pipe, take a swig of snakehead whiskey, an’ brag about thar great deeds. Come mornin’, all start fightin’ agin, wallowin’ in blood up to thar armpits, amoosin’ themselves with manly sports. It shines, wagh!
I tellee, stranger, arter this hoss has chewed his last plug of ‘baccer, that’s the kind o’ heaven he’d take a shine to, not to a psalm-singin’, hippercrit preacherman’s paradise, but a real man’s heaven, wagh!
~Legends and Tales of the American West~
-Richard Erdoes-
Lets try to get by without any rules.
If your going to bash someone, sign your name to it.
Heaven According to Old Gabe
Is thar a hell? Is thar a heaven? This hoss don’t know. Howsomever, if this paw’s child had his wish, Id make ye a proper heaven, wagh! Not one of ‘em state fixin’s heavens whar folks sit on clouds in thar nightshirts a-playin’ harps. That kind of heaven ain’t the holler tree fur this beaver nohow. It don’t shine. This child’s heaven is like Brown’s Hole, the Popo Agie, an’ the Bayou Salade, all rolled into one at rendeevoo time, wagh!
This child’s heaven is akin to a valley, with grass ass-high, green as em’rals, with a river plumb across, an’ its water pure awardente fur the fellers to dip thar tincups into, agin an’ agin an’ be joyful. An’ no matter how much they swaller, that Ole Touse never quits a-flowin’. An’ close by thar’s a mountain, nigh upon a mile high, an’ sculp me, if it ain’t made up totally of twists of ‘baccer, an’ it never gits smaller an’ the pilgrims can have as many chaws as they want, in all eternity. Wagh!
An’ buffler’s by the thousands, an’, doggone, no matter how many of ‘em you shoots down, the herd’s never gittin’ less. As soon as one is down, thar’s ‘nuther comin’ up weedlike, by ned! An’ ev’ry one of them fellers has his Jack Hawken fuse, an’ they all shoot plumb center, whoopee! Thar’s funeverlastin’ runnin’ meat an’ no one’s ever hungry, but ev’ry pilgim has his meatbag full-nothing fat cow, an’ tender buffler tongues, an’ sweet roasted boudins to tickle a man’s ribs. Wagh!
Thar’s never any hard doin’s an’ beaver hats never go out of style, an thar’s beaver a-plenty, fightin’ each other fur a chance to git themselves trapped, an’ it’s ten dollars a plew, old-un or kitten, prime plews all. An’ no matter how many of the critters ye trap, thar’s allus more a-waitin’ thar turn. An’ longside that Tangleleg River thar’s tepees ‘sfar as the eye kin see, full o’ squaws awaitin’ the mountain men’s pleasure-wanton like minks, Shyan, an’ Sioux, an’ Pache, an’ Yute- all plump an’ pretty, with that lovin’ look in thar eyes, whoopee! They’re virgins, all of ‘em, an’ hang me up fur b’ar meat, et they’re not turnin’ back into virgins, agin an’ agin’, arter ev’ry set-to, hurraw! An’ ef a feller gits plumb tired of all them squaws , thars the Mexican senoritas-“Ay, bonita, mi Corazonm let’s you an’ me fandango.” I tellee, old pard, that’s heaven fur sure. Wagh!
An’ ev’ry day thar’s a rendevoo, makin’ all other rendevoos prior tharto look like Sunday school doin’s. Whoopee! Nigh upon a thousand beaver men, mountain men, pilgrims, bushways, traders, mangeurs de lard, Injuns, squaws an’ squawmen, hosses, mules, dawgs—all a yellin’, singing’, barkin’, neighin’, hollerin’, screechin’ like the devils! The fellers all in thar finest beaded an’ quilled outfits, the squaws in all thar foofaraw—I tellee, no beter sight fur sore eyes, “enfant de grace!” as the Frogs say. Thar’s nothing too rich fur my blood, wagh!
An’ ev’rywhar boys swappin’ stories, takin’ horns of red up-risin’, chawin on thar ‘baccer, sweet-talkin’ Injun gals, tradin’ plews fur gold an’ silver. Thar no vide poches. All are rich. They gamble—all honest games, not a kyardsharp among ‘em!
“Ho, boy, hyar’s the deck an’ hyar’s the beaver. Who war’ set his hoss? Wagh!
Some mountaineers gratify their dry; papoose-makers with squaw fever are are a-gropin’ an’ a-squeezin, makin’ thar sloe-eyed partners squirm an’ giggle. Others take a shine to hagglin’ over foofaraw, or indoolge in a game of Injun poker. But most, like this hoss, have a hankerin’ fur sports. I tellee, this coon loves to cut his wolf loose, by ned!
An’ what’s the greatest sport? I tellee. It’s fightin’. Us trappers love it. The Injuns love it, The Coureurs de Bois love it. So we grabs our weapons, an’ the bucks put on thar war paint, an’ at it we go! This hoss is a man-killer, never curried below his knees, a two legged airthquake an’ prime specimen of chain-lightnin’. I tellee, stranger, this beaver’s the champeen eye-gouger an’ hair-lifter of the Rockies, whoopee! So we lift topknots an’ whip out our butcher knives an’ wade into the liver up to the Green River. So we cuts throats, an’ shoot, an’ stab, an’ hack with tommyhawks, an’ arrers, an’ pistols, but it’s all friendly-like, an’ no hard feelin’s. Jest good fun, doee hyar? Come evenin’, those who have gone under, git up agin, eyeballs pop back into thar socets, teeth spout agin, skulps grow back on bleedin’ skulls. Trappers an’ Injuns set around the fire, smoke the pipe, take a swig of snakehead whiskey, an’ brag about thar great deeds. Come mornin’, all start fightin’ agin, wallowin’ in blood up to thar armpits, amoosin’ themselves with manly sports. It shines, wagh!
I tellee, stranger, arter this hoss has chewed his last plug of ‘baccer, that’s the kind o’ heaven he’d take a shine to, not to a psalm-singin’, hippercrit preacherman’s paradise, but a real man’s heaven, wagh!
~Legends and Tales of the American West~
-Richard Erdoes-
