A frolic in Arkansas
In the book Tall Tales of Arkansaw (1938), James R. Masterson¹ collected native lore from the state’s early days. Here I’m reproducing a tale related by Col. Charles Fenton Mercer Noland, supposedly narrated to him by his friend Col. Pete Whetstone. The story originally appeared in the periodical Spirit of the Times² in 1839.
According to Masterson, “here, as elsewhere, the line between fiction and fact is not easily distinguished” (p. 40). Masterson says that Whetstone was supposedly a real person, and a quick check on Ancestry.com does show records for a Peter Whetstone who married in Arkansas in 1816.
I’m less interested in the question of Whetstone’s existence, and more amazed by the vernacular attributed to him.
I’m not amazed, and not surprised, that the story includes the word koon, a racist slur I heard growing up in Arkansas. It’s not clear whether it has that meaning here, or if it means only “a rustic; fool,” but I’m assuming the racist usage. I censored it in the story itself.
Masterson introduces the story this way: “Pete was invited to a ‘frolic’ south of the Rock. [Little Rock.] Having worn out his clothes, he bought a pair of red broadcloth breeches, which he found to be much too large. . . . He entered the house with misgivings, and found an inconspicuous place in a corner.” Here is Peter Whetstone’s telling:
Presently some gentleman asked a lady to sing; so up she gits, and he leads her to something in the corner, that looked like the nicest kind of a chest. Well, she opened the lid, and it was right chuck full of horse-teeth; she just run her hand across them, and I never heard such a noise in all my life. I whispered to the next fellow to me and asked what sort of a varmint that was? “Why, Kurnel,” says he, “that is a pe-anny.” Well, the young lady commenced, and I never heard such singing. I forgot my britches, and started to walk close to the pe-anny, when I heard them tittering. . . . So I feels my dander rising, and began to get mad; I walked right up, bold as a sheep. There was a sort of a dandy looking genius standing by the pe-anny—Says he “Now do, Miss favor us with that delightful little ditty—my favorite—you know it.” Then she commenced,
“When the Belly-aker is hearn over the sea,
I’ll dance the Ronny-aker by moonlight with thee.”
That is all I recollect. When she got through, up steps Maj. Green, and introduces me to her. Says she, (and I tell you she looked pretty,) “Col. Whetstone, what is your favorite?” Says I, “Suit yourself, and you suit me.” And that made her laugh. Well, right at that, up steps a fellow that looked as if het had been sent for and couldn’t go. Says he, “Miss, will you give me ‘the last link is broken?’”—“Why,” says she, “indeed, sir, I have the most wretched cold in the world.” —“Why, Miss,” says I, “you wouldn’t call yours a bad a cold if you had seen Jim Cole arter he lay out in the swamp and catched cold.” “Why,” says she, (and lord, but she looked killing,) “how bad was his cold?” “Why, Miss,” says I, “he didn’t quit spitting ice till the middle of August.” That made her laugh. “Well,” says she, “Kurnel Whetstone, that cures my cold.” So she commenced—
“The last link is broken that binds you to me,
The words you have spoken is sorry to I.”³
Well, arter the lady was over, they all went in to supper; lots of good things. I sat next to a young lady, and I heard them saying, “Miss, with your permission, I’ll take a piece of the turkey,” and so on. I sees a plate of nice little pickles.— “Miss, with your permission, I’ll take a pickle,” and she said I might do so. I reached over and dipped up one on my fork--it was small, and I put the whole of it in my mouth. Oh, lordy! but it burnt;—well, the more I chawed the worse it was. Thinks I, if I swallow, I am a burnt k--n. Well, it got too hot for human nater to stand; so says I, “Miss, with your permission, I’ll lay this pickle back,” and I spit it out. Oh, lordy! What laughing. “Excuse me, ladies, if I have done wrong,” says I, “but that pickle is too hot for the Devil’s fork.” Everybody seemed to take the thing in good part, but one chap; says he, “I never seed such rude behavior in all my life.” At that I turns round to him: says I, “Look here, Mister, if you don’t like the smell of fresh bread, you had better quit the bakery.” Well, I tell you, that shot up his fly-trap quicker. After supper the party broke up.”⁴
Notes
Information on James Raymond Masterson at first appeared nonexistent, but I had assumed he was from Arkansas. As it turns out, he was born in Michigan and educated at Harvard. After working as a professor he began work in Washington, D.C., as a historian. What prompted him to write about Arkansas? Did he ever even set foot there? See his obituary here: https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/local/1981/04/06/james-raymond-masterson-edited-historical-bibliography/98eac0ee-1a0e-414a-bb0b-71a3bdcc5b01/. His book is James R. Masterson, Tall Tales of Arkansaw (Boston: Chapman and Grimes, 1943).
Spirit of the Times 9:20 (March 16, 1839). In Masterson.
This song, “The Last Link Is Broken,” can be viewed here: https://digitalcommons.conncoll.edu/shower/34/. I haven’t yet identified the first song in the story.
Masterson, 46–47. Author’s punctuation and spelling retained. Masterson likely transcribed these faithfully from the original periodical.