FullReads

Did you ever see a real, true, unadulterated specimen of Down East, enter a store, or other place of every-day business, for the purpose of “looking around,” or dicker a little? They are “coons,” they are, upon all such occasions. We noted one of these “critters” in the store of a friend of ours, on Blackstone Street, recently. He was a full bloom Yankee –it stuck out all over him. He sauntered into the store, as unconcerned, quietly, and familiarly, as though in no great hurry about anything in particular, and killing time, for his own amusement. Absalom, Abijah, Ananias, Jedediah, or Jeremiah, or whatever else his name may have been, wore a very large fur cap, upon a very small and close-cut head; his features were mightily pinched up; there was a cunning expression about the corner of his eyes, not unlike the embodiment of–“catch a weazel asleep!” while the smallness of his mouth, thinness and blue cast of his chin and lips, bespoke a keen, calculating, pinch a four-pence until it squeaked like a frightened locomotive temperament! His “boughten” sack coat, fitting him all over, similar to a wet shirt on a broom-handle, was pouched out at the pockets with any quantity of numerous articles, in the way of books and boots, pamphlets and perfumery, knick-knacks and gim-cracks, calico, candy, etc. His vest was short, but that deficiency was made up in superfluity of dickey, and a profusion of sorrel whiskers. Having got into the store, he very leisurely walked around, viewing the hardware, separately and minutely, until one of the clerks edged up to him:

“What can we do for you to-day, sir?”

Looking quarteringly at the clerk for about two full minutes, says he–

“I’d dunno, just yet, mister, what yeou kin do.”

“Those are nice hinges, real wrought,” says the clerk, referring to an article the “customer” had just been gazing at with evident interest.

“Rale wrought?” he asked, after another lapse of two minutes.

“They are, yes, sir,” answered the clerk. Then followed another pause; the Yankee with both his hands sunk deep into his trowsers’ pockets, and viewing the hinges at a respectful distance, in profound calculation, three minutes full.

“They be, eh?” he at length responded.

“Yes, sir, warranted,” replied the clerk. Another long pause. The Yankee approached the hinges, two steps–picks up a bundle of the article, looks knowingly at them two minutes–

“Yeou don’t say so?”

“No doubt about that, at all,” the clerk replies, rather pertly, as he moves off to wait upon another customer, who bought some eight or ten dollars’ worth of cutlery and tools, paid for them, and cleared out, while our Yankee genius was still reconnoitering the hinges.

“I say, mister, where’s them made?” inquires the Yankee.

“In England, sir,” replied the clerk.

“Not in Neuw England, I’ll bet a fo’pence!”

“No, not here–in Europe.”

“I knowed they warn’t made areound here, by a darn’d sight!”

“We’ve plenty of American hinges, if you wish them,” said the clerk.

“I’ve seen hinges made in aour place, better’n them.”

“Perhaps you have. We have finer hinges,” answered the clerk.

“I ‘spect you have; I don’t call them anything great, no how!”

“Well, here’s a better article; better hinges–“

“Well, them’s pooty nice,” said the Yankee, interrupting the clerk, “but they’re small hinges.”

“We have all sizes of them, sir, from half an inch to four inches.”

“You hev?” inquiringly observed the Yankee, as the clerk again left him and the hinges, to wait on another customer, who bought a keg of nails, etc., and left.

“I see you’ve got brass hinges, tew!” again continued the Yankee, after musing to himself for twenty minutes, full.

“O, yes, plenty of them,” obligingly answered the clerk.

“How’s them brass ‘uns work?”