p397-013 STOKE STOUT, OF LOUISIANA.

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BY THORPE AND PATTERSON, OF THE “CONCORDIA INTELLIGENCER.”

The original “character” now introduced to the reader, first made his
appearance in the columns of the “Concordia Intelligencer,” a capital weekly journal published in a beautiful village opposite the city
of Natchez, on the western “coast” of the Mississippi river. Whether the creation of Thorpe, or Patterson his partner, this deponent
saith not: but each has written so much and so well, as to care very
little whether we or the public “put the saddle on the right horse.”
Mr. Stout's first letter was addressed to Thorpe, “the author of Tom
Owen the Bee Hunter,” immediately upon his leaving New Orleans
to establish himself at Vidalia, and is to the following effect:—

STOKE STOUT, OF LOUISIANA,
ON “THE WAY TO KILL WILD TURKEYS AND RHEUMATISM.”

Bi-o Chuck-a-luck,
june the 14 teenth, 18 hundred & 43
In the Stait ov loozy-anne.

Well, Kernul, I sees as how youve kwit Orleens
and tuck up bout Videllai, but your nevver sed nuthin
bout it to noboddy. Well Ime sorry fur your kwitten
the cittee, but Ime glad youve jined that uther Bobb
who is zactly thar with a kwil, and you ma sai “howdy”
tu him fur me. Well I thot az that I might az well
kill the roomeytiz by tellin you how I kill turkis, az to
grunt fur nuthin. So hears fur a hunt.

Well now fust you must have a rifel az iz zactly to
the spec. Bout the fust ov Octobur we ginerally takes

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to huntin rigler in the scratchins—an mine you must
hav a turky hown az iz bout 3 parts Dear Hown and
the tother pinter, tho sumtimes haf and haf will doo.
I knowd won wonst that wer a haf hown an ½ dog az
wer purty good, an a man cum along heer goin on 2
weez now az said az that he had wun az wur all dog, an
that he wer fust raght; but, az I sed at fust, a tuch of
hown with a leetle pinter, maks a turki huntin dog sartin.
As I was sain, you taks yur hown in the woods and you
skeers up the turkis in the trees, an you pokes and
kreeps sow az if you seed wun all the time. The fust
thing you heer, you see the turkis goin in a streek off,
then you must go on furder, an when you gits right, you
must put sum bushes on a big logg and git behin it,
an yelp on yur kwil, whitch must be of kane, or a wing
bowne of a turki, az yelped coarse afor you killed it,
will do. Wel you must hav a flint lok, an then yu la
low, an snap an flash as much as you pleas, but the fust
cap as yu hexploads with a precushing gun the turkis
they put and wawks Sphanish, which means a turki
trot, an then to catch em yu must go on furder besides
makin turkis wilde. Iv seen bad huntin make turkis
so wild that they would run wen they heerd anybody
yelpt, and they would run every time they gobbled. A
feller down on Big Kooney sez az that heez seed em
so wild az that they would cluck an put rown his tree
an when the old wun cum up they would fly off an wait
to kno for sartin it was her, an that he has seen em
put their heds in swamp hols, an hollar logs afore they
gobbled. But I cant certifi to this fellers tails, but sartin
turkis kno what yu want an aint thar wen yu pokes

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yur hed rown a tree for em. Well, this kind of huntin
continus tu about the Middel of febberry, an then yu
must leav yur turki hown at home, az the hens begin
tu lai thar egs, an no rale hunter wil kil any more until
the fust of Octobure cums agin. Well, yu goz on
mornins and evenins, an yu pokes an kreeps bout like
snaix (you kno how snaix goz) an this wa sumtims yu
gits wun an sumtims yu dont git wun; whil this iz goin
on yu haz rale sport, and yu uze your kane or kwil so
as to attrak the gobblers az iz now struttin an a gobblin
off sum of that sort a feelin az iz purty kommon to
awl the awnymals bout this seezen o' the year. Sum
peeple murder the turkis this time o' year by roosten
em (finding their roosts) an buckshooten on em, but no
rale hunter wil do that, less he haz cumpenny az wants
gaim, or sum ladi wants a turki tale for a phan, or sum
sich want.

Thar, I'm got a nu twinge in mi fute, an feal kinder
sleepy 2, and maybee the romeytis aint jist about got
me treed, but that diseease duz yerk a feller an mak
him vank an wurm, but it is lait an ile kwit.

[Old Stoke Stout is one of the genuine turkey hunters
of Louisiana, and we are glad that the “roomeytis”
has driven him from necessity to use his “kwil” in the
literary, as well as in the “turki huntin”' line. He is

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unquestionably one of the best letter writers of the day,
and would probably cut Willis out of the “National
Intelligencer,” if he would make proposals to Messrs.
Gales and Seaton. We hope to hear from him often,
and we send our respects.]—Eds. “Intelligencer.”

STOKES'S ADVENTURE WITH MR. STIGGINS'S BULL.

In the following letters, Mr. Stout details what we conceive to be one
of the most extraordinary cases of Mesmerism on record, not excepting
Miss Martineau's. As this “science” is attracting considerable
attention at this time, we presume the case of Stoke Stout will be
hailed with favour by the “sucking philosophers” of the day. As
Stoke discovers an individuality in whatever he writes, like Carlyle,
Sydney Smith, Macauley, and other eminent belles-lettres scholars,
we give “the direction” of his communication to the “Intelligencer”—

“Concordee Intelliggincer.

“Videllai, Loozzanny,

“Close to Natches, on tuther side.”

[In the corner, was the following:]—

“One Male Letter.”

The letter itself should be included in D'Israeli's next
edition of his “Curiosities of Literature.” Here it
is:—

Stait of Loozzyanny,
On Bio Chuc-a-luch, Close on to Crismus, Dec. twenty-4th.

Mistur Eddyturs,—Thar cum a tchap upp frum
Bigg Koony las weake, askin arter Old Stoke Stout!
an' I'me jist a gwine to lett yu no az that peeple is
tu bizzy bout peeple. Now I'me thru that part. I've
gott a sirkumstanse to relawt wat tuk plase 2 mee.

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Well! the Bioz ar awl riz now, an' Chuc-a-luch is mor
nor riz an' I'me upp in the hills, tho' I awllers date
frum hum. Well! tuther dui I went owt a huntin'
with that yere other feller frum Koony, an' I maid
owt tu kil won turki, twix mi gunn, an' two or 3
stix, an' mi dogg, an' a harde runn. Arter I got threw,
what with klimin the hils, an' roomytis, I wur sort a
drowzey, an' putt offe mediately fur watur that I node
waz klose down the holler. I diddent pull a bai leefe
too drink out ov as fur kommon, but jist drapt mi gunn
by the pathe, an' tuck upp the holler a pease, an' sot
downe on mi kneas an' pawz, an' I mout an' I moutent
ov tuck 2 or three swollers, wen I heerde sumkin
sai, “Phfo-o-o!” loud nor I can rite it, an' specktin
what it wer, I sez to miself, “I'ze back owt,” an'
I jist peept az I sott, an' thar wur Old Mister Stiggins'
bull, thot old yaller feller yu kno, what haz the
karracktur ov the ternest down, an' moast dangersummest
bull in the raynge. He lookt kinder puzzled,
an' I wer bent on keepin him in the dark, ov what I
wer—fur I node him an' his trix ultimately fur the last
10 yer. So I krept thru the mudd an' water a lookin'
fur a hole to skrew intu, but the fust won I seed wer
ockkypide bi 2 snaixs az wer wide wake, an' I wer
kumpeled to traval furder, an' at laste fownd won
crosst bi 2 rutes, an' sum how or nuther I put miself
in.

Well, I waunted my gunn, but the bull stood rite
furnenst whar it war, an' then I lockt up fur a plase to
krawl out at, but seed no chanse az I wur hemed in bi

bluffs 'bout 8 foot hi. In this fix I stared the bull in
the fase, an' twixt the horns, an' thout how mutch he
mit way, an' seed how strong he lookt, an' felt I wur
a fool for not killin' him 2 yer afore; an I lookt sharp,
an' stared, an' grind mi teath, an' winct, an' maid
mowths at him, but he only lookt fearser an' fearser.
An' then I wisht him sich gude grasse, an' sitch gude
wawter, an' sitch gude every ting, az I node he would
finde in a field, I thot ov, a half ov a mile offe; an' I
wished this harde awl the tyme, an' I buggun to swett
powurfullye, an it drapt offe ov mee.

Well, sum how, whil I stared at the bull, an' wisht
him every whar ruther than whar he wur, “Old Tony,”
that wus his nayme, lookt sleeplike, an' I wundered
if he mout be gettin' asleepe shure a nuff, but I wur
afeered to try an' sea; but he stude so purpendicklar,
that I thout I wur gawn fur sartin. So I prayde what
littell I node how, an' kept starin' the bull in the face all
the tyme. Directly, for I'me unabell to maike any kawlkalashun
of the tyme, (now min', this iz a fac,) I tell
yu fur sartin, that old Mr. Stiggins' old yaller bull,
“Toney,” turned hisself rown, an' maide rite far the
very plase I'de been wishin' him at. I gott out ov the
hole, gathured mi gunn, maide trax up the nex hil, tu
whar my kreeter wer hitcht, an' I kwit them “scratchins”
fur the laste time, kwicer nor I never maide owt
ov any woodst yit. When I kum 2 like, an' kood
brethe a little, I buggun to thinck, an' I wer pestured
mitily; an' az soon az I gott tu the howse, I tells Mister
Adverb, the skool teecher, 'bout it, an' he saide to mee,

“Yu mesmerized the bull, an' then maide him gow
tu the phield yu wisht him att.” It may be so, but I
shall nuver furget the jogriphy ov that hollar in which
the bull kawt me.