Old Uncle John Rosser & the Billy Goat

On a certain Sunday morning, Uncle John has gone to his blacksmith’s shop to do a little work on a wagon which he had neglected the evening before, in consequence of the call he had to a shooting match — an innocent pastime which he much affected. He was enjoying alone his felicitations, with which he was regaling his mind at that calm period, over the good fortune he had met with in winning a quarter of beef, by a shot that had covered the cross and knocked the black out of the mark; and no doubt felt piously grateful for the success of his adventure. 

He had nearly finished the job — there being but little work to be done on the tire–fixing a nail or two, or something of the sort. As the work was lying on the ground in the shop, he had got down on his knees to it, and was bending over it, habited in his red flannel shirt which Uncle John used to wear of hot days under the idea that it was cooler — by making him perspire freely. 

Billy was, about the same time, walking leisurely around the premises, observing what was going on, and picking up such items of interest as might present themselves to his notice. Seeing the red shirt, Billy’s anger grew somewhat inflamed; for nothing so aroused William’s combative propensities as that marital color. He did not wait to see whether there was a man in it; and probably if he had, it would not have altered his purpose. So beckoning and nodding his signal to the object, and viewing only the movements of Uncle John in return, which he took to be a challenge, Billy came up within a few feet — then back a step or two, and then taking aim, came clattering on towards the object of assault. Uncle John had only time to get himself half straightened, before Billy took him a clew on the side of the head, which sent him reeling back, and would probably have knocked him senseless, but that, fortunately, his head fell into the water trough behind. Billy, seeing what he had done, bleated out his surprise, and retreated in great haste to a safe distance from his irate foe. 

As soon as the stars had ceased falling, and Uncle John had satisfied himself that it was not the devil that had come after him for breaking the Sabbath, Uncle John resolved on revenge. He was not long in putting his plan in operation, for with Uncle John action stood close to resolution. As the old hunter said of General Jackson, when it was objected to the hero that he had ordered a few Indian women and children to be shot one morning, Uncle John was “a punctil man.” As to cudgeling William — that was out of the question; for William contumaciously refused to come within cudgelling distance — but bore off, keeping a vague watch on Uncle John’s movements, but as if he were going about his business and preferred staying where he was — and was not at all alarmed or afraid of Uncle John — as many other would-be great fighters before and since have done.

After divers abortive efforts to bring Billy within striking distance, a brilliant idea illuminated John’s understanding. He had in the shop a kettle, or pot, kept there to be repaired: it just about fit his head by moving the hair from his temples; Uncle John thought if he could beguile Billy to make another butt at him, he would, by suddenly ducking his head, bring Billy’s head in contact with the iron legs of the pot and damage his countenance considerably: so covering up his face except the eyes and pulling off his red flannel shirt and hanging it before him, he got on all fours and approached his enemy. Every thing succeeded admirably. Billy came up and reconnoitred — Uncle John shook the red at him in the most provoking style: he taunted and tantalized him until no goat of spirit on earth could have stood it. Billy, like other bullies, though as brave as common, was no braver. He was a little dubious. He wanted to see whether his challenger was anxious to fight, before he concluded whether he wanted himself to fight — for there’s a great deal of human nature in a goat.

Uncle John pretended to retreat, and began backing. Billy straightaway found himself very pugnacious. He advanced —reared up—bleated—backed— and nodded and writhed his neck and put on terrible swashbuckler airs, as if he was going to tear things and do wonders. Uncle John still made pretence of backing out, and Billy, nerving himself for a vigorous onset, came charging; just in time Uncle John threw down his head and let Billy drive at the spikes a plomb. It was a dead level shot. Billy bounded back, bleated, shook his head, dropped his tail, and galloped off. But what became of Uncle John?

Unfortunately the shock knocked the pot down over his ears — the rim breaking his nose as it came down — and sent him reeling back on the ground. He tried to get up, and partially succeeded; but how to get the pot off? It wouldn’t come back any more — it was a tight fit and a fixture. He was nearly smothered. No one was near. He couldn’t see how to get away, and he couldn’t haloo. He laid there for several hours nearly dead. At length a negro came along and gave the alarm. Some of the neighbours got together; but they could not get the pot off: they stretched Uncle John’s neck until he used to say it was as long as an Indian hen’s — but it would not do. 

No farther time could be lost. So they raised him up — put his head on an anvil — and with the hammer broke the pot: but the blow knocked Uncle John into next week — at least it was then before he found himself in his senses. When he came to, he made signs for them to take the bandages off his face; they had splintered his nose — the backbone of it and some of the ribs having been broken; as soon as this was done he commenced shaking all over and laughing all over. When he had got to the first stopping place, they asked him what was the matter — what was he laughing at? Said he: “He! Haw! He! I am–he! he! I’m a laughing—haw! haw! he! —at the way—he! —the way I FOOLED that goat! He! he! haw–chehaw!  Laws-a-marcy!”

This is an excerpt from the story which first appeared in The Southern Literary Messenger in 1854.