(we used to call it old Bunker, for his stories always begun, “when I was at Bunker’s hill,”) and drawing it out, he made a clip at him as wicked as if he was stabbing at a rat with a hay fork; but Jim he outs of the door like a shot, and draws it too arter him, and father sends old Bunker right through the panel.  I’ll chop you up as fine as mince meat, you villain, said he, if ever I catch you inside my door agin; mind what I tell you, “You’ll swing for it yet.”  Well, he made himself considerable scarce arter that, he never sot foot inside the door agin, and I thought he had ginn up all hopes of Sall, and she of him; when one night, a most particular uncommon dark night, as I was a comin home from neighbor Dearborne’s, I heerd some one a talkin under Sall’s window.  Well, I stops and listens, and who should be near the ash saplin, but Jim Munroe, a tryin to persuade Sall to run off with him to Rhode Island to be married.  It was all settled, he should come with a horse and shay to the gate, and then help her out of the window, jist at nine o’clock, about the time she commonly went to bed.  Then he axes her to reach down her hand for him to kiss, (for he was proper clever at soft sawder) and she stretches it down and he kisses it; and, says he, I believe I must have the whole of you out arter all, and gives her a jirk that kinder startled her; it came so sudden like it made her scream; so off he sot hot foot, and over the gate in no time.

Well, I cyphered over this all night, a calculatin how I should reciprocate that trick with him, and at last I hit on a scheme.  I recollected father’s words at partin, “Mind what I tell you, you’ll swing for it yet;” and thinks I, friend Jim, I’ll make that prophecy come true yet, I guess.  So the next night, jist at dark, I gives January Snow, the old nigger, a nidge with my elbow, and as soon as he looks up, I winks and walks out and he arter me—­says I, January can you keep your tongue within your teeth, you old nigger you?  Why massa, why you ax that are question? my Gor Ormity, you tink old Snow he don’t know dat are yet; my tongue he got plenty room now, debil a tooth left, be can stretch out ever so far; like a little leg in a big bed, he lay quiet enough, Massa, neber fear.  Well, then, says I, bend down that are ash saplin softly, you old Snowball, and make no noise.  The saplin was no sooner bent than secured to the ground by a notched peg and a noose, and a slip knot was suspended from the tree, jist over the track that led from the pathway to the house.  Why, my Gor, massa, that’s a —–.  Hold your mug, you old nigger, says I, or I’ll send your tongue a sarchin arter your teeth; keep quiet, and follow me in presently.  Well, jist as it struck nine o’clock, says I, Sally, hold this here hank of twine for a minute, till I wind a trifle on it off; that’s a dear critter.  She sot down her candle, and I put the twine on her hands,