Newspaper Page Text
1852.]
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
mutton in brambletown.
by PAUL CREYTON.
In those regions where wolves are nu
merous, it usually follows that mutton is
proportionately scarce. In Brambletown,
before the Legislature of the State passed
the present law relating to bounties on
the slaughter of these disagreeable ani
m#ls, it frequently happened that nothing
in the shape of sheep or lamb could be
obtained for love or money. All attempts
to produce sufficient mutton to supply
the demand for it, were complete failures,
and it was always with the greatest diffi
culty that even a single lamb designed
for Christmas or Thanksgiving could be
raised and fattened in farmer’s kitchens.
The care taken to keep silly sheep within
sight of human habitations during the
day, and in pens at night, w r as of little
consequence. The wolves were sure to
come in for their share, which was usual
so exorbitant, that there was nothing left
for the farmers.
Mr. Bellamy, an enterprising agricul
turist, and one of the most influential
men in Brambletown, made repeated at
tempts to raise sheep, well satisfied that
moderate profits in wool and mutton
would richly recompense him for devo
ting a portion of his land to pasturage.
But Mr. Bellamy had been no more suc
cessful than his neighbours, and at last his
entire flock became reduced to a solitary
i sheep. All the rest had been so unfor
unate as to excite the desire of rapacious
wolves; and, instead of arriving at the
dignity of “chops” and “roast,” they
found wretched graves in the maws of
their ferocious enemies.
The “cosset” remained. Luckily for
him he had been brought up “by hand,”
and never trusted out of the narrow door
}nrd, within the limits of which no wolf,
however hungry, had ever ventured to
inti ude by daylight; and every night he
hnd been shut in Deacon Bellamy’s wood
house, where nothing could disturb him.
knowing no fear, and having, I suppose,
vague dreams of the wolf, the peace-
J l and lamb grew fat; and even before it
la d reached maturity, its plump propor-
Jns > Beautiful fleece delighted the
| e ye of the farmer.
*' SOWj niany children, this stupid
J was often sadly inclined to indulge
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
in prohibited pleasur es, which every sen
sible person knows to be hurtful. Having
long learned to jump, and at a later day
enjoyed a taste of grass beyond the lim
its of his narrow pasture, it required con
tinual care on the part of the Bellamy’s
to keep him at home.
“He’s more trouble than he’s worth !”
exclaimed the Deacon, his patience being
at length exhausted. “I would like to
keep you till Thanksgiving,” patting the
lamb on his head, “but I see you will
continue to jump, until some day you will
jump into the maw of a wolf, and that
will be the last of you. You are your
worst enemy, poor fellow, for you com
pel me to butcher you.”
The young cosset had also contracted
a bad habit of butting, which had grown
with his growth, and strengthened with
his strength, until the younger Bellamy’s
could not come into the yard without be
ing knocked down by the ungrateful
wretch ; and even the Deacon and his
oldest son frequently, on getting over the
fence, received unwelcome assistance from
behind.
Thus the cosset persisted in his wrong
actions, until he compelled his patron to
cut off the thread of his existence, (with
a butcher knife) just under his chin ; a
sad fate, which should serve as a warning
to all bad boys who disobey their parents
without considering that the latter know
a great deal better what is good for them
than they know themselves.
The Deacon chose a cool afternoon in
August, to perform the last act in the
tragedy of the pet lamb. I pass over
in silence the butchering, as I wish to
avoid lacerating the feelings of the read
er with the sad details of the scene, which
only due necessity and a loin of mutton
could have induced the Deacon and his
son to enact. After the cosset had ceased
struggling and gasping, he was laid out
on a board, raised about three feet from
the ground, and then a group of Bellamy’s
was gathered about him.
The younger children, with water in
their mouth, if not in their eyes, held the
legs of the cosset, while the deacon and
his eldest son skinned them scientifically.
These last duties to an old friend, I am
compelled to admit, were cheerfully per
formed by all parties; not that they
loved cosset less, but that they loved
mutton more. “W hen the Deacon had
finished skinning the hind legs, the car
case was suspended in the usual fashion
upon a gambrel, and the rest of the skin
ning accomplished. Other necessary mat
ters having been attended to, the Deacon
proceeded to divide the flesh. There was
nothing like narrow selfishness about
Deacon Bellamy. He had said to his
wife—
“l think we can get along with a hind
quarter of the lamb, and as a taste of
mutton will be very acceptable to our
neighbours, suppose we divide the rest
among them as equally as we can.”
“That is just like you, dear,” replied
the good-hearted woman. “Do as you
like, butallow me to suggest, that a whole
quarter should be sent to the minister.”
“To Mr. Nolley—to be sure ! a good
idea !” said the Deacon.
Accordingly, the excellent man sent
the two fore quarters, in pieces as nearly
equal as possible, to half a dozen of his
nearest neighbours, reserving for the cler
gyman a portion quite as large as his
own. It was dark, however, before the
boys had accomplished their first half
dozen errands; and the way to the cler
gyman’s house, lying through the woods,
it was thought best not to send him his
mutton until morning. The Deacon fear
ed the wolves might smell the meat, and
enraged that so small a portion should
have fallen to their share, make up for
the deficiency by eating the boys. The
quarter in question was accoidingly wrap
ped up in the skin, and deposited in the
wood-house, on a board erected directly
over the bed so lately oot upied by the
living cosset.
On the following morning the whole
family breakfasted on mutton; and the
boys Charley and George having finally
had satisfaction of the Jamb which had
butted them so often with impunity, pre
pared to carry the minister's portion.
A long, covered basket was brought
for the purpose, and Mrs. Bellamy went
to the wood-house herself to see the mut
ton nicely packed, in order that it might
look as inviting as possible to the eyes of
the clergyman’s family. Then, what was
the consternation of the kind-hearted
lady on discovering that the quarter of
mutton had disappeared!
“George!” she said, “call your father
at once. Tell him the lamb is gone !”
And while George ran out in great
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